He wasn’t so sure about the fourth man, who’d been shot through the body. He seemed to be breathing without too much strain, though, so maybe with luck he would pull through, too.
Scratch was glad to see that. He wasn’t just about to feel guilty for shooting any hombre who was trying to shoot him, but even so, he’d just as soon not be part of a massacre if he could avoid it.
The potential for a massacre might not be over, though. Scratch heard a door open and glanced up to see two men emerge from the Red Top. He recognized one of them as the counterman from the café and saloon, and the other man was the stocky, redheaded blacksmith.
Both of them wore grim expressions and brandished shotguns as if they intended to splatter Scratch all over the street.
CHAPTER 27
Scratch stiffened and brought up his Remingtons.
“You fellas hold it right there!” he shouted. “I don’t want to kill you!”
The two men stopped short and lowered their scatterguns. The man from the Red Top said hurriedly, “Wait a minute, wait a minute, mister! We don’t mean you any harm. We were comin’ to help you.”
Scratch frowned in confusion.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Help me how?”
“In case some of those varmints are still alive and might try to shoot you again,” the counterman said.
“Wait a minute. You ain’t on their side?”
The blacksmith snorted in contempt.
“That son of a bitch Reynolds came into the shop and clouted me on the head when I wasn’t lookin’,” he said. “Knocked me out and dragged me into the back so he could hide there and get the drop on you, mister. When I came to and realized what was goin’ on, I went out the back door and ran around to the café to get some help. Larry loaned me a Greener.”
“Then you ain’t friends with this lowdown bunch?” Scratch asked.
“Not by a long shot!” the counterman exclaimed. “They’ve been comin’ into town, gettin’ drunk, and causin’ trouble for months now. They’ve shot up the place and hoorawed folks more than once.”
“Then why didn’t you get the law on them, or do somethin’ about it yourselves?”
Both men shrugged.
“We’re not gunfighters,” the blacksmith said. “They’re probably not really good enough to call them by that name, either, but they’re slicker on the draw and better with their guns than anybody else around here.”
“And as for the law,” the counterman put in, “there’s a deputy sheriff who comes out this way from Fort Worth every now and then, but Reynolds and his friends were always on their best behavior when he was around. He wasn’t of a mind to do anything about it.”
Scratch began to see that he and Cara had done these folks a favor by gunning down Reynolds and the other three wild cowboys. This wasn’t the first time he had seen an entire town treed by a bunch of self-proclaimed badmen, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
“All right,” he said as he holstered his left-hand Remington and started reloading the other gun. “Two of these fellas are shot up but still alive. You got a doctor around here who can take a look at ’em?”
The counterman nodded and said, “Somebody’s already gone to fetch Doc Steward. He’ll be here directly.”
“The other two need buryin’.”
“We can take care of that,” the blacksmith said. “I build coffins, too.”
“I saw that you changed the shoe on that horse before Reynolds buffaloed you.”
The blacksmith nodded. “That’s right. I’d just finished up the job when the son of a bitch came in.”
“What do we owe you?”
The man shook his head.
“Not a blamed thing, mister,” he declared. “We’re square. It’s worth the cost of a horseshoe and a little labor to get that bunch cleaned up. Now O’Bar can go back to bein’ a nice, friendly place to live.”
Scratch grunted. You never could tell how things were going to work out. No matter how much you thought you knew, life still held plenty of surprises.
He supposed he wouldn’t want it any other way.
He finished reloading his guns and turned to Cara, who stood in the doorway of the blacksmith shop holding Reynolds’s rifle, still looking like she really wanted to shoot somebody.
“We’d better be movin’ on,” he told her. “And we’ll leave that rifle here.”
“Yeah, I don’t reckon we need it now,” she said as she leaned it against a wall of the shop. “But it sure came in handy for a minute.”
“It did,” Scratch agreed. He led the horses out of the barnlike building, and they both swung up into their saddles.
More of O’Bar’s citizens had emerged. Some of them were carrying the corpses over to the side of the blacksmith shop while another man set a black doctor’s bag down next to one of the wounded men and knelt beside him to check on the wound. That would be the local sawbones, Scratch thought.
He lifted a hand in farewell to the blacksmith and the counterman from the Red Top as he and Cara rode out of the settlement. The townsmen returned the wave.
Cara followed a trail that dipped down to cross a wooden bridge over the creek, then climbed to go past the church Scratch had spotted earlier.
“Where are we headed now?” he asked.
“We’ll camp between here and Weatherford,” she said. “Then tomorrow we’ll cut north of there and make for the hills where the hideout is. We ought to be there by late afternoon.” She grinned over at him. “And then we’ll be rich.”
“Can’t be soon enough to suit me,” Scratch said. He was glad to be closing in on the end of this deception.
Now all he had to do was hope that Bo and Brubaker would be able to hold up their end of the deal.
On their way to Gainesville, Brubaker had predicted that the county sheriff was going to give them trouble about locking up the prisoners, and he was right. The man had complained bitterly about having to feed and house federal prisoners out of his jail budget.
“Write a letter to Judge Parker at Fort Smith and take it up with him,” Brubaker had told the sheriff in his usual blunt manner. “Maybe he’ll reimburse you for the cost.”
The lawman had gone along with that, finally, and transferred Lowe, Elam, and Early Nesbit under heavy guard into cells. As Bo and Brubaker rode away, Bo on Early’s horse, the Texan asked, “What do you think the chances are that Judge Parker will cover those expenses for the sheriff?”
Brubaker snorted. “Slim and none,” he said. “The judge is thrifty to a fault. He’ll tell the sheriff to take it up with the Justice Department, and we know how often things actually get done in Washington. No, he’ll never get any of that county money back, but that ain’t my worry. All I’m concerned about is recapturing Cara LaChance and recovering all that stolen loot.” Brubaker shook his head. “I still say I never should’ve let you and Morton talk me into this. No good’s gonna come of it.”
“We’ll see,” Bo said.
They had left the wagon at a stable in Gainesville, since they would need it when they returned to pick up Lowe and Elam. Brubaker planned to leave Early Nesbit locked up there long enough to let him get to Tyler with his prisoners, and then the local law could let Nesbit go as far as he was concerned.
From Gainesville they rode south to Denton and spent the night there, then angled southwest toward Decatur and Weatherford.
The Cross Timbers was nice enough country in the summer, Bo thought, with its wooded hills, wide valleys, and abundance of creeks. Right now, though, in the middle of winter and with this part of Texas suffering through a terrible drought as well, all the vegetation was dead. The landscape was parched and ugly. If it was like that farther west, where the terrain was more rugged to start with, things were going to be pretty harsh.
Brubaker addressed that issue by asking, “What’s this country like where we’re goin’?”
“Rough,” Bo said. “Lots of gullies and bluffs, thick brush, rocky ground, and pl
enty of snakes and scorpions, although we shouldn’t have to worry about varmints like that at this time of year.”
Brubaker snorted and said, “What’s it good for? From the sound of it, not much.”
“Some of the valleys are fertile enough for farming, or at least they were before this drought,” Bo explained. “For the most part, though, it’s ranching country. Longhorns are hardy enough that they do well just about anywhere. There are quite a few spreads scattered through the hills. Over time there’ll be more. It wasn’t that many years ago that the Comanches represented quite a threat. Anybody who tried to settle west of the Brazos River was running a mighty big risk. Plenty of ranches were raided and burned out.”
“Folks kept moving in out there anyway, though, didn’t they?”
Bo nodded. “That’s what people do. Pioneers, anyway. They push out ahead and make their own way.”
They spent the second night in Weatherford, in a small hotel on the courthouse square, and when Bo woke up the next morning, the first thing he heard was the wind howling outside the window. Thinking that a blue norther must have blown through, he got up and pushed back the curtain, expecting to see a gray, leaden sky that held the threat of snow.
Instead he blinked at the bright sunshine that flooded in through the window. The sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue. The U.S. and Texas flags flying from a flagpole on the courthouse lawn stood straight out in the hard wind, snapping and popping as the gusts caught them.
Bo got dressed and went downstairs to the hotel dining room to find Brubaker already there, sipping coffee. The deputy nodded to him and said, “That wind’s blowin’ like a son of a bitch out there.”
Bo nodded. “It’ll do that,” he said, “especially from this time of year on through the spring. We’ll have to hold on to our hats today.”
“We’ll catch up to Morton and the LaChance woman today, that’s what we’d better do,” Brubaker said.
“That’s the plan. Scratch will find a way to signal us.”
“He damned well better. If he decides to take off with that gal and the loot, I’ll hunt him down, and you’d be wise not to try to stop me, Creel.”
“I’m not worried about that,” Bo replied with a shake of his head. “Scratch isn’t going to double-cross us.”
They ate breakfast at the hotel, then paid their bill and walked down the street to the livery stable where they had left their horses. The wind was still blowing fiercely out of the west.
The elderly hostler greeted them with a jerky nod, and Bo frowned as he sensed that something seemed to be making the man nervous.
Or someone, Bo corrected himself as three men slouched into the doorway behind him and Brubaker. Bo glanced over his shoulder at them and knew right away they seemed familiar.
A second later he understood why as the man in the lead, a white-haired hombre with a seamed, weathered face, said in a hard, gravelly voice, “I hear you two are lawmen from Arkansas. Is that right?”
Bo and Brubaker turned slowly. Brubaker glared at the three men and asked, “What business is that of yours, mister?”
“My name’s Leander Staley. You killed my boys Jink and Mort and my nephew Bob, and now that I’ve tracked you down, it’s time for you to pay.”
CHAPTER 28
As soon as Leander Staley opened his mouth, Bo recognized his voice from their previous encounter in Indian Territory. So he knew right away this was trouble, and Brubaker must have, too, because the deputy didn’t wait, didn’t try to talk Staley out of anything.
No, Brubaker just hauled his gun out and commenced to shooting.
Bo had no choice but to follow suit, since Staley and his two companions clawed their irons from leather and returned the fire. As Bo’s Colt began to roar and buck in his hand, he angled to his left, away from Brubaker, who was lunging to the right. Splitting up like that kept their three opponents from concentrating their fire.
Behind Bo, the hostler let out a screech. Bo hoped the old man was just scared and not wounded, but he couldn’t check on the hostler now. Besides, he hadn’t called this tune, Leander Staley had, and the vengeful Staley was the one ultimately responsible for whatever happened.
Staley and his partners were spreading out, too. One of them stumbled and clapped a hand to his side as a bullet ripped through him. That gave Brubaker the chance to put a well-placed slug through his head. The man went down like a puppet with its strings cut.
Bo dropped to one knee behind a post holding up the stable’s hayloft. It was meager cover but better than nothing. He ducked as a bullet smacked into the post above his head and sent a chunk of wood flying into the air. The Colt in his hand blasted again. The other younger man doubled over as Bo’s bullet punched into his belly.
That left Leander Staley still on his feet, and the vengeance-seeking old man was hit. Under his open coat, blood stood out on his flannel shirt like bright flowers in a couple of places.
But he wasn’t going down easily. The hatred he felt for Bo and Brubaker kept him upright. He was even able to stalk forward, still triggering his gun. Bo and the deputy fired at the same time, flame spouting from the muzzles of their guns, and that pair of slugs hammering into Staley’s chest was finally enough to knock him down. He went over backward.
Even when he was on the ground, though, Staley struggled to raise his gun and fire again. Brubaker, who was crouched near a parked wagon, straightened and strode over to him. Staley rasped a curse.
“You ... killed my boys!” he managed to say as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“They had it comin’,” Brubaker said. He kicked the gun out of Staley’s hand. “And so do you.”
Brubaker lined his gun on Staley’s face and clearly was about to pull the trigger again when the old man gasped and arched his back. When he relaxed a second later, the breath came out of him in a death rattle.
“You’d be wasting a bullet, Forty-two,” Bo said from behind Brubaker.
“Yeah, I know.” Brubaker let out a disgusted curse. “And now we’re gonna have to waste time talkin’ to the local law. They’d better not hold us until we can’t catch up to Morton and that gal!”
Bo didn’t think that was likely. Brubaker’s deputy U.S. marshal badge would smooth over any ruffled feelings the local star packers might have about this shoot-out in their bailiwick.
But any delay might prove costly, Bo thought, and he couldn’t forget that Scratch was risking his life just by riding along with Cara LaChance.
Scratch and Cara camped on a high ridge that gave them a view of the countryside for several miles around. Scratch built a good-size campfire that sent smoke climbing upward. He didn’t know if Bo was already in these parts, but if that was the case, he might spot the smoke and realize that was Scratch sending him a signal.
Things had changed by the next morning. The wind had been from the south the day before, continuing the warming trend, but by morning it had turned around to the west. On the ridge it was particularly strong, snatching Scratch’s Stetson from his head when he went to saddle the horses. He had to run after the hat and catch it, which made Cara laugh at him.
Scratch pulled the Stetson down tighter on his head and frowned at her.
“You won’t think it’s so funny when that dang wind blows you off your horse,” he told her.
“That’s not gonna happen,” she said. She grew more serious as she went on. “We’d better have a cold camp this morning. With the wind blowing like that and as dry as everything is, it wouldn’t take much to start a wildfire.”
Scratch knew she was right about that. The grass, the brush, and many of the trees were dead, which meant the whole countryside was tinder-dry. Charley Graywolf had warned them that the drought in Texas was bad, and obviously, the Cherokee Lighthorseman had been right.
“I’ll miss my coffee,” Scratch said, “but maybe we can find a place later where we can risk a little fire. Like inside that cave of yours where the loot’s hidden.”
&nbs
p; Cara nodded and said, “Yeah, that ought to be all right. Let’s get on the trail. We’ve still got some jerky. We’ll gnaw on that and call it breakfast.”
The wind was cold in their faces as they rode west. Not icy, as it might have been, and the bright sunshine helped warm things up a little, but Scratch felt the chill in his bones, anyway.
Cara didn’t seem to mind. She was excited at the prospect of arriving at the hideout and claiming that stash of loot before the day was over, and she wasn’t going to let some wind bother her, even a howler like the one blowing today.
By the middle of the day, the terrain had grown rougher and they had to slow down their pace as they fought their way past gullies choked with dry brush, up rocky slopes where their horses’ hooves slid on loose pebbles, and around rugged bluffs that were impossible to climb. At times they made their way along dark, narrow valleys that seemed to be trying to close in on them. Atop the ridges on either side, the bare branches of dead trees waved in the wind and reminded Scratch of skeletal fingers clawing at the empty sky. He didn’t know why such a grim thought crossed his mind, but once it did, he couldn’t shake that ghastly image from his brain.
“Is any of this startin’ to look familiar to you?” he asked Cara around midday.
“It all looks familiar to me,” she replied, “but things weren’t nearly as dry the last time I was here. Another couple of hours and we’ll be at the hideout. We’ve actually made pretty good time.”
Scratch supposed that she knew what she was talking about. He tugged his hat down, lowered his head, and rode on into the wind.
Sometime later—he wasn’t sure exactly how long—he lifted his head and sniffed. Cara, riding beside him, had her head up, too.
“You smell it, don’t you?” Scratch asked.
“Yeah,” she replied, her voice growing taut with worry. “Smoke.”
They were down in a hollow and couldn’t see very far. Scratch heeled his horse into a faster pace, and Cara did likewise. The smell of smoke grew stronger in the air as they trotted toward a rise about a quarter of a mile away.
Texas Bloodshed Page 17