Texas Bloodshed

CHAPTER 13

“What do you mean, we’re gonna cut west into Indian Territory?” Scratch asked Brubaker as he and Bo rode alongside the wagon the next morning. “Ain’t it even more uncivilized and lawless than Arkansas?”

The rest of the night had passed peacefully. In the gray light of dawn, while Brubaker was hitching up the team, Bo and Scratch had carried the dead man’s body back to the ravine and dumped it in the deep gulch. Bo shoved some loose brush down on top of it. That was all the burial they could be bothered with for a no-good bushwhacker.

While they were doing that, they also searched the ravine until Bo found the revolver he had dropped the night before. It needed to be cleaned, but other than that it was none the worse for wear.

By the time they got back to the camp, Brubaker had the wagon ready to go. No one had had any breakfast yet, and Jim Elam had called from inside the wagon, “Hey! Ain’t you gonna feed us?”

“Later,” Brubaker had replied. “Right now I want to put some distance between us and this place.”

He had done so, keeping the team moving at a good clip as the sun climbed over the eastern horizon and then rose through the sky. An hour or so had passed before the deputy marshal abruptly swung the wagon off the road and onto a narrow, rutted trail that meandered off to the west.

Bo had asked him where he was going, and Brubaker had replied that they were cutting west into Indian Territory, prompting Scratch’s question. Now, in reply to the silver-haired Texan, Brubaker said, “Yeah, the Territory may be lawless and uncivilized, but I know just about every square foot of it, and travelin’ along that main road makes us sittin’ ducks for anybody who’s on our trail.”

“I can’t argue with that, Marshal,” Bo said, “but doesn’t Gentry know this part of the country pretty well, too?”

Brubaker shrugged. “Sure, I suppose he does. And he’s got friends among the tribes, too, hard though that may be to believe about such a bloody-handed scoundrel. But I’m bettin’ those blasted Staleys won’t know all the little trails and the cut-offs as well as I do, so maybe we can shake them off our trail, anyway.”

“Can you get the wagon through?” Scratch asked. “It’s pretty rugged over there.”

“Sure I can,” Brubaker replied with conviction. “It’ll be rougher going, but we can make it through. We’ll head west a ways, cut down to one of the Red River crossings, and then swing back east to Tyler.” He paused for a moment, then went on, “Might add as much as a week to our trip, but we’ll stand a better chance of gettin’ there safe with the prisoners.”

Scratch scowled and said, “Addin’ a week makes our wages not quite as good.”

“You’re gettin’ paid by the mile, too, remember,” Brubaker reminded him.

“Yeah, but if I know ol’ Bigfoot Southwick, and I do, he’ll try to say he’ll only pay us for what would’ve been the shortest route. He’ll claim goin’ the long way around was our decision and his court oughtn’t to be out any dinero because of it.”

“If he does, I’ll ... I’ll ...” Brubaker didn’t finish his sentence.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Scratch said. “Who among us is gonna argue with a federal judge and come out a winner?”

“Let’s just worry about that when the time comes,” Bo suggested. “Right now, it seems like Deputy Brubaker’s idea is a pretty good one.”

Brubaker made a growling sound in his throat.

“You might as well call me Forty-two,” he told Bo. “If we’re gonna be travelin’ together for nigh on to two weeks, there ain’t no point to bein’ formal.”

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.”