Texas Bloodshed

CHAPTER 10

It took a while to get Lowe and Elam in and out of the privy. By that time the storekeeper had made the sandwiches. Bo, Scratch, and Brubaker ate first, then Scratch and the deputy covered the prisoners while Bo fed them and gave them sips of coffee from a wide-mouthed jug. The three outlaws were cooperative for a change, and Cara didn’t even cuss at any of her captors.

Bo figured that hunger and thirst had gotten the best of their natural-born orneriness.

Finally Brubaker climbed to the seat and unwrapped the reins from the brake lever. He had his black hat resting on the back of his head so that it wouldn’t rub against the welt where the bullet had grazed him. He had refused medical attention for the injury, insisting that it would be fine.

“If that slug had been a few inches to one side, it would’ve blown my brains out,” he said. “But it didn’t, so that tells me I ain’t fated to die from it.”

That seemed like pretty shaky reasoning to Bo, but Brubaker was in charge, so he didn’t argue.

The wagon continued rolling southward all afternoon, with occasional stops so the team of horses pulling it could rest. Late in the day, which ended fairly early at this time of year, Bo asked Brubaker, “Are we going to try to find a settlement with a jail so we can lock up those three for the night?”

Brubaker shook his head.

“This wagon is sturdier than any back-country jail we’re liable to find. They can stretch out on the floor to sleep. Judge Parker just said to get ’em there. He didn’t say anything about keepin’ ’em comfortable along the way.”

“You’re a pretty hard-nosed hombre, aren’t you, Marshal?”

Brubaker snorted. “Try keepin’ the peace in Indian Territory for a while,” he suggested. “You’ll learn right quick that gettin’ sentimental is a good way of windin’ up dead.”

Bo couldn’t dispute that. He had seen firsthand evidence of it over the years. There were plenty of bad men in the West who would stop at nothing, including cold-blooded murder, to get what they wanted. If you misjudged the wrong man, it usually meant a bullet. It was a hard land, and it took hard men to live in it, and trust was a rare commodity.

As they set up camp in a clearing where Brubaker had pulled off the road, Bo said to the deputy, “We’ll be taking turns standing guard?”

“That’s right,” Brubaker said. “Think you can stay awake and alert enough to handle it?”

“We’ve stood many a night watch,” Scratch said. “You can depend on us.”

“Good. Because it’s your lives at stake, too, not just mine. Hank Gentry and his men would kill you without ever blinkin’ an eye.”

Bo didn’t doubt it. He had seen the sort of men who rode with Gentry.

And the sort of woman.

There was no outhouse around here, of course, so before it got dark, Bo and Brubaker took Cara into the bushes near the camp and let her tend to her business. Brubaker warned her to stay where he could see her head, and he kept his Colt trained on her the whole time.

When they got back to the wagon, Cara pouted and said, “Why can’t Mr. Morton take me when I have to go? He’s nicer than you two.”

“He’d keep you covered just like I do,” Brubaker said. “At least he would if he’s got any sense.”

“Yeah, but I’ll bet he wouldn’t leer at me.”

“Dadgum it, I didn’t leer—” The deputy stopped short for a second, then went on, “You’re just tryin’ to put a burr under my saddle. It’s not gonna work.”

Cara laughed. Bo figured she already had a burr under the deputy’s saddle, and she knew it, too.

Scratch volunteered to do the cooking. He fried some bacon and cooked cornbread and beans to go with it. The meal was simple but good. After everyone had eaten and Bo and Scratch had checked on the horses one more time, Brubaker said, “I’ll take the first watch. You fellas get some sleep.”

It was going to be a cold night, but these were piney woods and the Texans had made comfortable beds by spreading their bedrolls on pine boughs. Brubaker tossed some blankets into the back of the wagon that the prisoners could use for warmth.

The deputy sat on a log near the fire as it burned down, and Bo and Scratch rolled up in their blankets and dropped right off to sleep with the innate ability of frontiersmen to grab some shut-eye whenever they had a chance. After a few hours Brubaker would wake up one of them to take his place.

Bo didn’t know how much time had passed when an unearthly shriek jolted him out of his slumber. He sat up sharply with his gun in his hand, unaware that he had even drawn it from the holster and coiled shell belt beside him.

A few yards away, Scratch was awake and sitting up, too, both hands filled with his Remingtons.

“Take it easy, you two,” Brubaker said from the log where he sat. The fire was just embers now, but their faint orange glow was enough for the Texans to see him. “That was just a big cat prowlin’ around somewhere.”

“Got panthers in these parts, do you?” Scratch asked.

“That’s right. He’s probably hungry. This time of year, the huntin’s not too good. A lot of the smaller animals are denned up for the winter.”

“Well, as long as he don’t try to feast on us ...” Scratch said. He slid one of the long-barreled Remingtons back into its holster, then the other.

Bo still sat there holding his Colt. He frowned as he looked toward the area where the horses were picketed. Something was wrong, and after a second he figured out what it was.

When another panther screech ripped through the night, he was even more convinced. The sounds came from the north, and so did the wind.

That meant the scent of the panthers should have been carrying to the horses, and there was nothing like the smell of big cat to spook a bunch of horses.

The team and the saddle mounts all stood quietly with their heads down, though.

“That’s not a panther,” Bo said quietly. “Those are signals, and I reckon they mean somebody’s in position.”

“Son of a—” Brubaker burst out. “You’re right! Everybody take—”

Before he could finish the order, shots blasted out of the darkness and tongues of orange muzzle flame ripped through the curtain of shadows.