The Rattlesnake Season Read Online Free Page B

chair sat next to the bed. A pitcher with chunks of ice in it sat in a porcelain bowl with designs glazed onto it that looked like the lobby floor. A large hand-carved mirror was centered above the bowl and pitcher, reflecting a version of Josiah, and the room, back at him.
    Josiah favored his father, tall, lanky, a head full of hair the color of summer wheat, and eyes the color of blueberries. He had always walked in the shadow of his father, from his gait, to his quiet beliefs, to his perception of good old right and wrong. But he was more similar in looks than any other way he could think of.
    He did not recognize himself so much anymore. His face had gone gaunt, sunk in with grief, his eyes trail-worn, and his skin looked like it lacked elasticity, or the properties that exhibited a good diet—and that would be true. Since Lily’s death, he had taken little pleasure in food. It was only sustenance, something to burn in the fires of the daily chores.
    Josiah decided a bath and a bit of rest in a fancy hotel would do him some good.
    There was a hint of lavender in the air. The room was almost too pretty to step foot in, to muck up with his filth. Josiah was glad the window looked out over the street. He could see Feders in his spot on the roof, his Winchester propped against the false front of the dry goods store, in the direction of the jail. The Alamo was out of view, but at only a scant twenty or so steps from the Menger, it was always on the mind of even the least reverent Texans when they visited San Antonio.
    Evening was coming fast as the sun set in the west, the sky on the horizon a deep red, with pink fingers reaching into the gray sky over the hotel. Josiah was still tense, but starting to relax. He dropped his bedroll on the floor, left the beauty of the room, and headed for the bath.
    An attendant, a wiry old Mexican with hair as white as a roll of fresh cotton, nodded. “Señor Wolfe?”
    Josiah returned the nod, and the Mexican jangled a ring of brass skeleton keys, found the lock, and opened the door to the bath.
    Steam met Josiah as he walked into the small room. A tub full of hot, vaporous water sat in the middle of the room. It was a welcome sight. Just the stay in the hotel almost made the long trip worth it.
    “I will be right outside if there is anything you need,” the Mexican attendant said in English, but with a thick Spanish accent. “Here is soap, fresh towels, and a variety of sundries that are gifts of the hotel. You will need a shave afterward?”
    Josiah took a deep breath. “Yes, sí ,” he said. Using Spanish came unnaturally to him, even though Ofelia chattered away constantly at home and he understood more of the language than he cared to admit. “Thank you.”
    The Mexican stared at Josiah expectantly, and it took him a moment to realize that the man was waiting for a tip. He handed him a single bit, then waited for him to leave before he deposited his Peacemaker and Bowie knife, a gift from his father when he went off to war so long ago, on a shelf within reach of the tub. But the Mexican did not leave.
    “For the shave , señor?”
    Josiah handed the man another coin. This time the old Mexican smiled and hurried off, firmly closing the door behind him.
    The sole window in the tiny room was barely cracked open. Josiah could hear piano music from across the street. Wagons were still coming and going, but not as frequently now that evening had set in. A horse whinnied, then trotted away on the hard dirt road. Voices were dim, mostly male, and unthreatening.
    He disrobed, glad to get the dirty clothes off his skin, and climbed into the tub, gently at first, then fully, deciding to get the shock of the hot water over with as quickly as possible.
    It did not take him too long to relax. Josiah rested his head against the rim of the tub, closed his eyes, and fell asleep before the tips of his fingers began to prune.

    A loud blast woke Josiah out of his deep sleep.
    Water lapped over