“There wasn’t any need for that,” Perley told the two wounded men. “You shoulda gone and left us alone when I told you to. I’m sorry about your brother, but he didn’t give me any choice. He was fast, and he meant business. It was either him or me, but there wasn’t any sense in killin’ all three of you, if I could help it. We’ll get you on your horses, so you can ride outta here, but I’m gonna have to hold onto your weapons—pistols and your rifles, too—just in case you get any ideas about comin’ back.” He looked at Possum. “Come on and help me load ’em up.”
Still at a loss for words, Possum dutifully helped Perley pick Zeb up, and they laid him across his saddle. Cal and Peewee sat stunned as they watched them do it. Then Perley helped the two wounded men into their saddles and handed Peewee the reins on Zeb’s horse. “Reckon you’d best hold onto these, since your brother’s got a bad shoulder. Any place near here where you can get some doctorin’ on those wounds?”
Still in a shocked stupor, Peewee said, “Holden’s,” referring to a trading post about six miles farther up that creek.
“All right,” Perley said. “You’d best get goin’. You’re gonna need to stop that bleedin’ pretty quick.” Both brothers stared at him, still uncertain about what had just happened, feeling they had just been hit by a tornado. “Which way to Holden’s?” Perley asked. Cal made no response, but Peewee pointed west. Perley took hold of the bridle and turned the horse in that direction. “Like I said, that’s a terrible thing, your brother gettin’ killed, but both of you are still alive. That’s the way things happen sometimes. Best you bury him and forget about robbin’ and killin’ innocent folks.” He gave the horse a slap on its rump and stood back to watch them leave. When they had disappeared through the oak trees past the far side of the clearing, he turned around to face the two gaping faces of his fellow travelers. “I expect we’d best eat that meal Emma fixed and then hitch up and find us another camp for the night.”
“Reckon so” was all Possum replied, but he was still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. He glanced at Emma to be met with the same astonishment. After a few long moments, when Perley walked down by the creek to bring Buck back close to the camp, Possum finally turned to Emma. “I never saw that comin’,” he muttered. “He ain’t as tame as he looks.”
“No, I reckon he ain’t,” Emma said. “And I guess we oughta be thankin’ our lucky stars he ain’t.” She paused a few moments to watch Perley walking back from the creek, the big bay horse following along behind him. She turned to Possum then. “You reckon those two he wounded will be comin’ back?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t think so. It’d be my guess they’ll wanna get to the doctor as soon as they can.” He turned to watch Perley. “He’s right, though, ain’t no use takin’ the chance. We’d best eat a little somethin’ and get goin’ again.” Perley was struck by the chain-lightning reactions of the seemingly mild-mannered young man. He thought about the money in the canvas sacks, underneath a stack of quilts in the wagon, and couldn’t help wondering if Perley had an evil side that matched his innocent bearing. Maybe he suspected that they were hiding something in the wagon. “Nah,” he suddenly drawled. He’d decided from the first meeting with Perley that he was as honest as a silver dollar. When Emma gave him a questioning look, he said. “Let’s eat that food you cooked up before them biscuits cool off.”
* * *
They wasted little time eating, and soon they were all hitched up and on the move again. The horses did not get as long a rest as Perley would have liked, but under the circumstances, he and Possum judged it best to push them a little farther than normal. For that reason, he was glad to see the banks of the North Wichita River on the horizon a good bit sooner than expected. He estimated they had ridden no more than five miles. Still, that offered a small sense of a buffer between themselves and the two wounded outlaws, since they had headed in the opposite direction. “I don’t think we’ll see those two tonight,” Perley speculated.
“Me neither,” Possum spoke up. “They’d be crazy if they did show up here again.” He glanced at Emma, then back at Perley. “I know I wouldn’t come back for a second helpin’ of that kind of lightnin’.” He studied the self-effacing young man for a serious moment, thinking that Perley looked embarrassed by talk of how fast he was with a handgun. “You sure you were named for your grandpappy? Maybe you was really named that ’cause any man wantin’ to draw down on you is headed for the Pearly Gates.”
“No, sir,” Perley replied. “I was named for my grandpa.” He pointed to a group of trees on the other side of the river. “That looks like a good spot to camp for the night. Does that suit you?”
Possum laughed, amused by Perley’s reluctance to talk about his speed with a handgun. “That looks like a good spot to me. How ’bout you, Emma?” She agreed, even though she wished they could have kept on going, but she knew it would be too hard on their horses. So they crossed over the river and pulled the wagon into the small clump of trees that Perley had pointed out. There was an open meadow about thirty-five yards wide between that stand of trees and the river bank. Beyond the trees, there was nothing but open prairie for as far as you could see, so it looked to be a defensible campsite. While the men took care of the horses, Emma gathered some wood for a fire, thinking some coffee would be appreciated, even though they had eaten a hasty supper only about five miles back. Maybe this time they would have time to enjoy their coffee.
“Just based on what you and Dan have told me about that place we’re lookin’ for, I expect we oughta be gettin’ pretty close,” Possum said as they sat by the fire. “Any of this country look familiar to you?” he asked Emma.
“I don’t know,” she answered, hesitating to hazard a guess. “When Dan and I left, it was the first time I had been more’n two or three miles outta Butcher Bottom since I was a little girl. Anyway, you said this was the Wichita River. Butcher Bottom is on the Brazos.”
“That’s a fact,” Possum said, “I think it’s the North Wichita to be exact, but we oughta strike the place where it meets with the south fork of the river pretty soon, and that ain’t very far from the Brazos.”
The night passed peacefully enough, and they were on the move early the next morning on a course Possum figured would lead them closer to the confluence of the two forks of the Wichita, and consequently, closer to the Brazos. He guessed that river to be east of the Wichita, running north and south. His plan was to strike the Brazos and search up and down it until they found Butcher Bottom. When he told his traveling companions that, Emma apologized again for not knowing how to get home. “Ain’t your fault,” Possum said. “We’ll find it and get you there safely.” He looked at Perley and winked, figuring Perley was as anxious to get this mission over with as much as he.
“This country all looks the same to me,” Emma said, “but this trail we’ve been following does look kinda familiar.” She paused to remember, then said, “If we come to one place I remember, then I’ll know it for sure, and it would lead us right to Butcher Bottom.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series The Mountain Man, Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, The Frontiersman, Savage Texas, The Kerrigans, and Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal. His thrillers include Black Friday, Tyranny, and Stand Your Ground. Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone. He began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western history library, as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J. A. worked hard—and learned. “Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytell
ing. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’ ”
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