[Texas Rangers 06] - Jericho's Road by Elmer Kelton

in. “You two need lookin’ after. Anyway, they ain’t goin’ to pay us extra for reportin’ in early.”
    Andy saw a well beside the house and led his black horse over to examine it. Looking down into the water, he saw no sign that it harbored any drowned rats or other small animals. Though the house appeared not to have been occupied in a long time, the windlass had a reasonably new rope. It was probably a gift from someone who passed this way often. Andy turned the handle and brought up a bucket of water. He poured it into a small wooden trough and brought up a second bucket so there would be enough for his horse. He cupped his hands and tentatively tasted the water to be sure it was good before he drank his fill.
    Len started to walk through the door but stopped abruptly and stepped back. Andy heard a buzzing sound that he recognized instantly as a rattlesnake’s warning. Len said, “I believe I’ll sleep outdoors tonight.” He handed his reins to Andy. “But I’ll make sure this gentleman doesn’t come out huntin’ for me.” As soon as Andy had led his and Len’s horses away, Len shot the snake.
    Holstering the pistol, he said, “Welcome to South Texas, where everything scratches, stings, or bites.”
    They searched around for sign of more snakes, then hobbled the horses. Andy built a small fire in a rock-lined hole that travelers had used before him. He let the fire burn down to red coals, then set a coffeepot on top of them.
    He said, “Indians would make supper out of that snake. It tastes a little like chicken.”
    Len grimaced. “Help yourself. I’ve been hungry lots of times. I’ve eaten mesquite beans and jackrabbit. I’ve eaten horse and mule meat, but I ain’t never been hungry enough to eat a rattler.” He went on to describe at length a couple of times when he was desperate enough that he almost ate the tops from his boots.
    Muttering to himself about liars and those who listened to them, Farley went out to gather some dry wood. He came back and dropped several dead mesquite limbs near the fire. “Riders comin’,” he said. He went to his saddle lying on the ground and pulled his rifle from its scabbard.
    Andy followed his lead by drawing his pistol. He counted seven horsemen, one a smooth-faced boy of fourteen or fifteen. The others were older and had not felt a razor in at least a couple of weeks, nor water either except to drink.
    Farley said with some relief, “At least they’re Americans.”
    Len’s right hand rested on the butt of his pistol. “That don’t guarantee nothin’. They may not like the law, so we better not tell them we’re Rangers. They’ve got us outnumbered.”
    The riders stopped a respectful distance from the Rangers’ camp. One rode forward with his right hand raised in a sign of peace. He slouched in the saddle. “Howdy. Looks like you-all have made yourselves to home.”
    Farley did not offer a welcome. “You got any quarrel with that?”
    The rider shook his head. His whiskers were coal black, a sharp contrast to the washed-out gray of his eyes. “None at’all. We’re just travelers like yourselves, lookin’ to water our horses before we ride on a ways more.”
    Farley said, “The water’s free for everybody.”
    The man said, “We come upon a bunch of Meskins back yonder. They eyed us like coyotes that found a mess of quail. I’ve got a hunch they been trailin’, waitin’ to hit us in the night when we’re asleep. It’d ease our minds if we could camp with you-all.”
    Andy saw doubt in Len’s and Farley’s eyes.
    The visitor said, “The more there is of us, the safer we’ll all be.”
    Farley was slow to lower his rifle. “Maybe. What say you-all camp over on the other side of the house?”
    The man waved his arm, and the other six rode in closer. He said, “My name is Burt Hatton. Me and the boys here, we just delivered a herd to San Antonio. There’s people that’d gladly shoot us for the money them cattle brought. Failin’