Bo smiled and nodded.
“I’ll be glad to, Forty-two. And you can call me Bo.”
Brubaker just made that noise in his throat again, as if being friendly pained him.
He followed the narrow trail for several miles before hauling back on the reins and bringing the team to a halt.
“I reckon we can stop here long enough to rustle up some grub,” he said.
“Sounds mighty good to me,” Scratch agreed with a nod. He swung down from the saddle. “I’ll get a fire going and put the coffee on to boil.”
The prisoners had been quiet this morning. Bo figured they hadn’t been able to sleep much on the floor of the wagon the night before and were tired. Regardless of the reason, the lack of cussing and yelling from the back of the wagon made for a much more pleasant journey.
After bacon, biscuits, and coffee, Cara asked—in a polite tone of voice, no less—if she could visit the bushes again. Brubaker agreed, then said, “Hell, you go with her this time, Morton. She seems to like you.”
Scratch frowned as he thumbed back his cream-colored Stetson.
“I ain’t sure I’m comfortable—” he began.
“You ain’t bein’ paid to be comfortable,” Brubaker told him. “There’s nothin’ comfortable about this whole blasted trip.”
Scratch shrugged and said, “I reckon you’re right about that. You gonna unlock that chain from the floor for her?”
“Keep all three of ’em covered,” Brubaker said as he took the key from his pocket.
As he had done before, he let the heavy chain dangle after he’d unlocked it from the ring set in the floor. He climbed out of the wagon and moved back, drawing his gun as he did so. He stood directly behind the wagon, with Bo to the right and Scratch to the left, each of them holding a Winchester.
“All right, climb out,” Brubaker told Cara.
She started down the steps hesitantly. As she did, the hanging chain swung between her ankles, and she swayed suddenly as it caused her to lose her balance. A frightened cry burst from her lips. With her hands fastened behind her back, she couldn’t do anything to catch her balance or stop herself from plowing face-first into the ground when she fell.
As she toppled off the steps, Scratch jumped forward to catch her.
“Morton, no!” Brubaker yelled, but he was too late. Scratch already had his right arm around Cara as she fell against him. He held the Winchester in his left hand. He had to take a quick step back and plant his right foot solidly on the ground to keep from losing his own balance.
Brubaker whipped up his gun and pointed it at the young woman.
“Step away from her, Morton!” he ordered. “I’ll shoot her if she tries anything!”
“Settle down, dadgummit,” Scratch told the deputy. “She ain’t tryin’ anything. She just fell, that’s all.”
“You can’t trust her, not for a second,” Brubaker warned, “and you can’t give her a damn inch!”
Cara ignored Brubaker. She looked up at Scratch, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Deputy.”
“Oh, you don’t have to call me deputy, miss,” Scratch said. “It’s just a temporary job. My name’s Scratch.”
“I know,” Cara said.
“All right, that’s enough, blast it,” Brubaker said. He grabbed the chain that linked Cara’s hands together behind her back and jerked her away from Scratch, causing her to let out a little cry of pain. “We all know what you’re tryin’ to do, and it ain’t gonna work. Come on, you, if you really got business you need to tend to.”
Cara objected, “But you said Scratch could—”
“Changed my mind,” Brubaker snapped.
He pulled and shoved her into the brush. When they were gone, Bo said to Scratch, “You know she fell into your arms on purpose, don’t you?”
“Well, she might’ve,” Scratch admitted, “but it’s hard to be sure. Havin’ a chain floppin’ around your feet really could trip a person up, I’d think.”
“I suppose,” Bo said. “But she’s got it in her head she can play up to you, no doubt about that.”
A grin stretched across Scratch’s rugged face.
“It won’t do her any good,” he declared, “but I guess she’s welcome to try.”
Bo tried not to let the worry he felt show on his face. Scratch had always had an eye for a pretty girl, and sometimes his feelings could make him do reckless things. True, Cara LaChance was young enough to be his daughter, and his taste usually ran to women closer to his own age, but that wasn’t always the case. More than once some young saloon girl had led him on and caused trouble.
More than likely none of those saloon girls were as dangerous as Cara LaChance, though, Bo thought.
“Don’t forget that a couple of days ago she tried to cut you wide open with a razor,” he reminded Scratch.
“Aw, shoot, that was before she knew me as well as she does now.” Scratch chuckled, then added, “Don’t worry, Bo. I ain’t some moonstruck kid.”
That was true, but Bo figured that a moonstruck old codger might be just as dangerous ... if not more so!
They moved on a short time later, and Brubaker pushed the horses fairly hard all day. Everybody was tired by the time the deputy called a halt to make camp late that afternoon. They were in more rugged country now, as Scratch had predicted. The hills were steep, rather than rolling, and a number of rocky bluffs cut across the landscape.
They made camp where one of those bluffs dropped off sharply into a thickly wooded valley. A little creek flowed up to and over the edge of the bluff, forming a waterfall. Bo looked over the brink and saw spray rising up from the pool that the waterfall formed at the bottom.
“This is a pretty nice place, in a wild sort of way,” he commented.
“Yeah,” Brubaker agreed. “I’ve watered my horse down there at that pool more than once, and I expect every owlhoot in these parts has, too. We’ll fill our water barrels from the creek before we pull out in the morning.”
Cara didn’t ask for Scratch to accompany her this time when she tended to her needs. He was busy fixing supper, anyway. But he saw her looking at him while Brubaker was leading her back and forth, and he smiled as he lowered his head toward the skillet full of bacon on the fire.
Sure, she was loco and as dangerous as a bag full of wildcats, but she was also mighty nice looking, and Scratch had never minded the attention of a good-lookin’ woman.
That was all it would ever amount to, of course. She was on her way to Texas to hang for her crimes, and from what he knew of her, Scratch figured it was a well-deserved fate. But it was sad, too. She had gone wrong somewhere in her life, bad wrong, and that was just a pure-dee shame.
Bo’s voice broke into his thoughts just then, saying with a note of urgency, “Riders coming.”
CHAPTER 14
Scratch straightened and stepped away from the fire, as he did so picking up the rifle he had laid aside when he started to prepare supper. Bo held his Winchester, too, and Brubaker snatched his Henry from the driver’s seat of the wagon. The deputy had just put Cara back into the vehicle and locked the door.
The hoofbeats grew louder as the riders approached. At first Bo hadn’t heard them very well because of the noise of the waterfall, and it occurred to him that maybe this wasn’t a very good place to camp after all.
From the sound of the horses, at least three or four riders were coming toward the camp, maybe more. Brubaker took cover behind the wagon and motioned for the Texans to do likewise.
The hoofbeats stopped as the three men waited tensely. A moment of silence went by before a voice called, “Hello, the camp! We’re friendly! All right to come in?”
“Do it slow and easy, with your hands in plain sight!” Brubaker shouted back. “You’ve got a dozen rifles pointed at you!”
With a steady clip-clop of hooves on the ground, four riders moved up into the circle of light cast by the fire. They wore slouch hats and long dusters. Bo saw gun belts under the coats, and each man h
ad the butt of a rifle sticking up from a saddle boot. As Brubaker had ordered, they had their hands half-lifted and well away from the weapons.
Even though the strangers were dressed like white men, their faces had a ruddy glow that didn’t come completely from the firelight, although the flames might have exaggerated the effect. Their skin color and their high cheekbones made it obvious these men were Indians.
Brubaker suddenly asked, “Charley Graywolf, is that you?”
One of the men grinned.
“I thought I recognized that growl of yours, Forty-two. All right if we put our hands down now?”
Brubaker glanced over at Bo and Scratch and nodded to indicate that these newcomers weren’t a threat. He said, “Yeah, put ’em down.”
He lowered his rifle and came out from behind the wagon. Bo and Scratch followed suit.
“This is an old friend of mine, Charley Graywolf,” Brubaker said. “I don’t know the other fellas, but I’d wager that they’re members of the Cherokee Lighthorse, too.”
“That’s right,” the man called Charley Graywolf said. He jerked a thumb toward his companions. “This is Duck Forbes, Walt Moon, and Joe Reeder.”
Brubaker inclined his head toward the Texans.
“Bo Creel and Scratch Morton,” he introduced them. “A couple of temporary deputies. What brings you boys out here?”
Graywolf didn’t answer right away. Instead he said, “I could ask the same thing of you, Forty-two.”
Brubaker slapped a hand against the side of the wagon.
“Transportin’ some prisoners down to Texas. They’re goin’ to Judge Southwick’s court in Tyler.”
“Kind of off the main road, aren’t you?” Graywolf asked with a puzzled frown.
“Yeah, and for good reason,” Brubaker replied. “We’ve got trouble doggin’ us, and we’re tryin’ to shake loose from it.”
“This is good country to throw somebody off your trail, all right,” Graywolf said with a nod. “All right if we get down and share your fire?”
Brubaker gestured toward the flames and said, “Sure. You’re welcome to coffee, too.”
Graywolf grinned as he swung down from the saddle.
“Only if you’ll let us throw in some provisions for supper,” he said.
“Not necessary,” Brubaker told him. “I know when you boys are out on the scout, you travel light.”
Graywolf shrugged. “That’s true. How’d you know we’re looking for somebody?”
“The Lighthorse don’t send out Charley Graywolf unless there’s a mighty good reason, and those fellas with you look like they’ve got plenty of bark on their hides, too.”
“It’s true,” Graywolf said with a grim nod. “We’re looking for some men who raided a farm north of here. Slaughtered the whole family who lived there and looted the place, not that there was much to steal.”
Brubaker grunted and said, “Sounds like Hank Gentry’s bunch. I’ve got three of ’em locked up in here.”
He nodded toward the wagon.
“No, these were redskinned scoundrels,” Graywolf said as he shook his head. “One of the victims managed to write the name ‘Kinlock’ in his own blood. Nat Kinlock’s a Cherokee. We’ve suspected for a while that he and some of his friends were behind a string of robberies over around Checotah. Now we’re sure of it, and we’re going to bring him in.” Graywolf paused. “Or plant him and his boys.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” Brubaker said. “We’ll share our camp tonight and go separate ways in the morning.”
“Sounds good,” Graywolf agreed.
The Cherokee lawmen began unsaddling their horses. Bo had heard of the Cherokee Lighthorse, but as far as he recalled he had never met any of them. They looked like tough, competent men. The Cherokee had their own towns and government, and as one of the so-called Five Civilized Tribes, they lived more like white men than did their nomadic cousins to the north and west. They were lawyers, doctors, teachers, farmers, and businessmen ... but the Cherokee Nation had outlaws among its members, too, and that was the reason the Lighthorse existed.
There was a friendly camaraderie between Brubaker and the Indian lawmen, and Bo and Scratch liked them as well. Tonight they could sleep a little easier, Bo mused. It was unlikely anybody would attack such a large, well-armed group. Although Hank Gentry’s gang was supposed to be even larger, he reminded himself, so it would still be necessary to remain alert and stand guard all night.
When they had finished eating, Brubaker told Bo and Scratch, “All right, we’ll feed the prisoners now.”
“Who do you have in custody?” Charley Graywolf asked.
“Cara LaChance, Jim Elam, and Dayton Lowe.”
Graywolf’s hard-planed face grew even more grim.
“That LaChance woman is said to be full of evil spirits,” he said. “And the other two aren’t much better. Gentry’s gang have robbed and killed a number of Cherokees.”
“I know,” Brubaker said, “and Judge Parker would like nothin’ more than to hang ’em for it. But the authorities down in Texas have first claim on them because of all the hell they raised down there before coming up here to the Nations. Don’t worry, they’ll get what’s comin’ to ’em.”
“As long as justice is done, that’s all that matters, I suppose,” Graywolf agreed. “I wish we could escort you all the way to the Red River to make sure you reach Texas safely, Forty-two, but we have a job of our own to do.”
Brubaker nodded. “I understand. I’m glad we ran into you, anyway. It’ll be nice not havin’ to worry as much about somebody jumpin’ us tonight.”
After the prisoners were fed and taken out of the wagon one by one to take care of their needs, the camp settled down for the night. Bo had the first watch, and Charley Graywolf told Duck Forbes to take his turn then, as well.
Bo didn’t mind having the company. It was easier to stay awake and alert if there was someone to talk to, and Duck proved to be a pleasant companion. He was short and stocky, with a round face that creased easily in a grin. He had been a member of the Cherokee Lighthorse for a couple of years, he explained to Bo as the two of them sat on rocks just outside the circle of light from the campfire.
“My father’s a teacher,” Duck said, “and he always figured I would be, too, but I just couldn’t see sitting in a classroom all day. I always liked to be out doing things.”
Bo knew that the Cherokee were maybe the only Indian tribe with a written language. The Cherokee Nation even had its own newspaper. As a people, they valued education.
But a society needed lawmen, too, so Bo thought Duck’s decision was a good one.
They sat and chatted for a while before settling down to pass the time in companionable silence. Other than a couple of trips to Fort Smith, Duck had never been anywhere except Indian Territory, so he was especially interested in hearing about all the places where the Texans’ wanderings had taken them.
“One of these days I’ll see all that for myself,” he said. “Especially the ocean. Wouldn’t it be somethin’ to stand there and look out over all that water, just goin’ on and on like it was never gonna end.”
Scratch took the second turn on guard, joined by lean, taciturn Jim Reeder. Bo said good night to Duck and rolled up in his blankets to get a few hours of sleep, knowing that Brubaker would want to be on the move again by dawn.
Dayton Lowe was in a bad mood when Brubaker awoke the prisoners while the sky was just turning gray in the east. While Lowe was out of the wagon, he glared at Charley Graywolf and the other members of the Cherokee Lighthorse.
“Filthy redskins,” the burly Lowe muttered. “I could barely sleep last night because the stink of Indians was so strong around here.”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Brubaker told the prisoner.
“Why? I ain’t worried about hurtin’ some damn buck’s feelin’s. The savages probably don’t even understand what I’m sayin’.”
Graywolf and the other men ignored Lowe. They’d prob
ably had to put up with ignorant insults like that from whites many times over the years, Bo thought.
“Are you planning to cut through Massasauga Valley?” Graywolf asked Brubaker as they were all getting ready to leave.
“That’s right,” the deputy replied.
“That’s the way the trail we’ve been following leads. Nat Kinlock has some family over that way. We think he may be figuring on hiding out with them. Since we’re going in the same direction anyway ...”
“I’d be pleased to have you ride along with us for a while,” Brubaker answered without hesitation.
That was all right with Bo and Scratch, too, although they would have gone along with whatever Brubaker decided, since he was in charge. After a quick breakfast of pan bread and coffee, the group started in a generally westward direction along the winding trail. The sun hadn’t quite risen above the eastern horizon yet, although it was already painting the sky with red and gold light. The air was still and cold, and frost lay heavy on the grass, glittering as the light grew stronger.
By midmorning the frost had melted and dried, and the sun was warmer as it washed over the rugged landscape. The going was rather slow because the trail had to twist and turn so much to avoid ridges, deep gullies, and impassible cliffs. In many places the trees crowded in close to the sides of the trail, which was barely wide enough to allow the wagon to pass. Bo, Scratch, Charley Graywolf, and Duck Forbes rode in front of the vehicle while the other Cherokee Lighthorsemen brought up the rear. There wasn’t room for them to flank the wagon.
After several miles the trees thinned somewhat and the trail widened. Up ahead to the left of the trail loomed a rocky bluff. Out of habit, Bo studied it closely, searching for the glint of sunlight on metal that would tell him someone was up there. Beside him, Duck was saying, “Something else I’d like to see one of these days is a desert. Growin’ up here in the Nations where there are trees and bushes everywhere you look, I can’t imagine a place where there’s nothin’ but sand. You and Scratch ever been to a desert, Bo?”
“Death Valley, out in California,” Bo said. “That’s about as barren a place as you’d ever want to see. And White Sands, over in New Mexico Territory. Miles and miles of sand so white and bright it’ll just about blind you when the sun shines on it.”
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