Texas Bloodshed

CHAPTER 17

The Texans found a suitable spot not far from the trail and took turns digging the grave while Brubaker wrapped Duck’s body in a blanket. After they had lowered the young lawman into the ground and covered up the grave, they stood beside the mound of freshly turned dirt with their hats in their hands.

“I’ve had to bury quite a few fellas who got cut down before their time,” Brubaker said. “So unless one of you wants to say a few words ...”

“Go ahead,” Bo told him.

Brubaker nodded, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. Bo and Scratch followed suit.

“Lord, we ask that You show Your infinite mercy to this young man who was foully murdered by owlhoots. His name was Duck Forbes, or at least that’s the only name we know him by. I reckon You know all there is to know about him. He should still be here with his friends and family, but since he ain’t, please forgive him any sins he might’ve done and accept him into Your kingdom with Your blessin’s. Amen.”

“Amen,” Bo and Scratch echoed.

Brubaker clapped his hat on his head, wincing slightly at the pain from the bullet graze he had suffered during the shoot-out at the trading post with Jink Staley and the rest of that bunch.

“All right, let’s go get the skunks that done this,” he grated.

“Charley, Walt, and Joe may have taken care of them by the time we catch up,” Bo pointed out.

“Well, if they have then we can help with the buryin’ there, too,” Brubaker said.

He climbed onto the wagon seat while Bo and Scratch mounted up. All of them moved off along the trail at a rapid clip, with the Texans leading the way.

They couldn’t afford to forget about the continuing threats from Hank Gentry’s gang and the rest of the Staley clan, Bo reminded himself. Because of that, he and Scratch kept their eyes open, scanning the countryside in front of them and to the sides, as well as checking their backtrail frequently.

The ambush had taken place at midmorning. The sun was almost directly overhead by the time Bo and Scratch heard the distant pop of gunshots ahead of them.

The Texans reined in, and Scratch said over his shoulder to Brubaker, “Sounds like Charley and his pards done opened the ball without us.”

“I ain’t surprised,” Brubaker replied. “They were rarin’ to settle the score with that bunch.”

“Does this trail go through that valley where Kinlock’s grandfather has his farm?” Bo asked.

Brubaker nodded. “It does, so we shouldn’t have any trouble findin’ the place. Come on!”

He flapped the reins against the backs of the team and got the horses moving again.

The shots grew louder and began to echo as the trail twisted through some hills. After several minutes of that, it emerged into a broad valley that stretched out for probably ten miles between two rugged ridges. In summer, this would be a green, lovely place, Bo thought, but in the middle of winter it was gray and forbidding. The continuing sound of shots just made it seem more so.

The valley floor wasn’t completely flat. Some knolls and brushy knobs were scattered across it. The shots guided Bo, Scratch, and Brubaker to one of those knobs. Three horses were tied at the bottom of the slope. Bo recognized them as the mounts the Cherokee Lighthorsemen had been riding.

So did Scratch, saying, “Charley and those other two fellas must be on top of this hill. Wonder what’s on the other side?”

“Old man Kinlock’s farm, I’ll bet,” Bo said. “Those outlaws are probably forted up inside the old man’s cabin.”

“Let’s go see,” Brubaker suggested as he climbed down from the wagon seat. He brought his Henry rifle with him.

The Texans dismounted and tied their horses to saplings. The three men started climbing the slope, which was covered with brush and small trees. It was slow going, but a narrow game trail made the climb a little easier.

Before they reached the top, Brubaker called, “Charley! Hey, Charley! We’re comin’ up behind you, so don’t get trigger-happy!”

“Come on up, Forty-two!” Charley Graywolf replied. “We can use a hand.”

They finished the climb and sprawled on the ground at the knob’s crest next to Graywolf. Walt Moon lay to one side and Joe Reeder to the other. Reeder had a bloody rag tied around his left thigh as a bandage, Bo noted.

“I see one of your men got hit,” Brubaker said.

“It’s nothing,” Reeder said as he levered his rifle. “It won’t slow me down none.”

He pointed the weapon at the log cabin that was located about a hundred and fifty yards on the other side of the knob, next to a small creek, and squeezed off a shot.

“I reckon that’s the old man’s place,” Brubaker said to Graywolf.

“Yeah. His name’s George Kinlock. Honest as far as that goes, or at least so I’ve heard. But he lets Nat and the rest of the gang stay here. That puts him on the wrong side of the law as far as I’m concerned.”

“Me, too,” Brubaker agreed. “Looks like a pretty sturdy cabin.”

“Too sturdy. Nat and the others have holed up in there, and we’re going to have a devil of a time getting them out.”

Bo studied the layout. On the other side of the creek, open fields ran into the distance, some of them with brush fences between them. A man might be able to creep closer to the cabin from that direction by using the fences for cover, but that wouldn’t get him close enough. He would still have to cross the creek in the open, which would probably result in his painful introduction to a bullet.

On this side of the creek, next to the cabin, was a lean-to shed that was crowded with horses at the moment. Graywolf and his partners might be able to shoot those horses, although the angle wasn’t all that good, but they weren’t the sort of men to kill helpless animals unless they had to.

Farther off to one side stood a log barn with an attached corral on one side and a muddy hog pen on the other. Several massive hogs rooted happily in the mud, oblivious to the gunfire going on nearby.

“There’s too much open ground all around the place,” Graywolf said. “If we could get close enough we might be able to set the cabin on fire and smoke them out, but they’re good shots. They’d pick off anybody who tried to do that.”

“How about shootin’ some flamin’ arrows down there?” Scratch suggested.

Graywolf made a disgusted noise.

“We’re Cherokee, not Comanche. Did you see any bows and arrows among our gear?”

“Didn’t mean any offense,” Scratch said.

Graywolf shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it. Actually, I am a pretty good shot with a bow, and Walt there is even better. But we don’t have any. I thought about trying to make some torches and throwing them down there from up here, but it’s too far.”

“How deep are those creek banks?” Bo asked.

“I don’t know. Five, maybe six feet from the look of them.”

“What if a man took some torches along with him, unlit, and waded along that creek? He could get closer that way, maybe close enough to light the torches and toss them onto the roof.”

Graywolf frowned in thought. After a moment he said, “That might work. But there’s a window on that side. If any of that bunch spotted him when he raised up to throw the torches, they could cut him down without much trouble.”

“I’m willing to run the risk,” Bo said.

“And if I went with him,” Scratch added, “I could cover him in case they did see him.”

“You’d both get wet,” Graywolf warned. “That creek’s spring-fed. It runs year-round.”

Scratch grinned. “I reckon we could both do with a bath,” he said. “What do you say, Bo?”

“It was my idea,” Bo replied. “I’m willing to do a little wading.”

He knew why Graywolf was concerned. Even though the temperature was above freezing, the air was still very cold. It would feel even colder to the two Texans once they were wet. They shouldn’t have to submerge themselves completely in the water, though, Bo told himself. The creek probably wasn’t deep enough for that.

“All right,” Graywolf said. “We’ll give it a try, but only because I don’t see any other way to get them out of there. Let’s find some branches and put together a few torches.”

Bo picked out three suitable branches that were heavy enough he could throw them easily, but short enough that he could carry them under his coat if he needed to. Around one end of the branches he wrapped strips cut from a wool blanket.

“If they’re going to burn hot enough to set the roof on fire, we need to soak them in something,” he said. “I don’t suppose anybody’s got any kerosene?”

“Wait here,” Brubaker said gruffly. He went back down the slope to the wagon and rummaged in the box under the driver’s seat.

When he returned he brought with him not a bucket of kerosene but rather a jug with a cork in its neck. Graywolf grinned at him and asked, “Why, Forty-two, is that a jug of white lightnin’? I thought you marshals were supposed to track down the people who bring firewater into the Indian Nations, not smuggle it in yourself.”

“I brung it along for medicinal purposes,” Brubaker insisted. “You can ask these two Texans if they’ve seen me nippin’ at it.”

“We haven’t,” Bo said.

“But we ain’t been watchin’ for it, either,” Scratch added.

Brubaker snarled as he shoved the jug into the silver-haired Texan’s hands.

“That’s enough. Take this with you, and when you get close enough to the cabin, pour some of it on the torches. They’ll light easy and burn strong.”

“You’re right about that,” Bo told him. “Ready, Scratch?”

“Sure. Let’s get this done.”

The sky had been mostly clear that morning, but clouds had moved in during the day so that now the sky was partially overcast and the sun was hidden. That made the air seem even chillier.

Bo told himself not to worry about that as he and Scratch mounted up and rode about half a mile north. The knob had shielded them, so the men in the cabin wouldn’t have seen them depart.

They angled west and came to the creek. As they dismounted, Scratch asked, “Do we start wadin’ here?”

Bo shook his head.

“No, we’ll leave the horses here and follow the stream on foot as far as we can before we climb down the bank. No point in getting any colder than we have to.”

“That sounds good to me. My circulation ain’t what it used to be. Remind me again why we didn’t suggest that a couple of them young Indian lads do this?”

Bo laughed. “Because we didn’t think of it?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid you were gonna say. Come on.”

Bo carried the torches while Scratch brought the jug of moonshine. The creek bank was choked with brush, which made their progress slow. The shots from the lawmen on the knob continued, as well as the return fire from the cabin, but the pace of the shooting had slowed down now. A stand-off was always like that. After a while, the apparent pointlessness of it made both sides fall into a lull.

With any luck, that would be changing soon, Bo thought.

They came in sight of the area that had been cleared along both sides of the stream for the Kinlock farm. Bo motioned toward the creek. He handed the torches to Scratch and climbed down the bank first. The drop-off was steep but not sheer, so he didn’t have much trouble. When he stepped down into the water, he sank to his knees, which put his head just below the top of the bank.

The cold made him take a sharp breath. Scratch asked, “A mite chilly, is it?”

“Just be glad we only have to wade in it and don’t have to swim,” Bo said.

Scratch handed down the torches and the jug. When he was standing in the creek, too, he shivered and reached out to take the jug from Bo.

“Reckon there’s enough in here to spare a swig?” he asked. “Might help warm us up.”

Bo shook his head.

“Better not risk it.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say,” Scratch replied with a sigh.

They started trudging along the creek. The mud on the bottom sucked at their boots with every step. Their feet were already soaked and icy. Although it probably wasn’t happening yet, Bo thought he felt his toes going numb. When this was over, he’d have to be careful about warming them up again, or else he’d be risking frostbite.

The shots from the knob picked up in intensity and frequency. From that height, Brubaker, Graywolf, and the others could see the Texans making their way along the creek, even though the bank shielded them from the view of those inside the cabin. The increased shooting was by design. The lawmen wanted all the attention on them, not on the threat that was creeping up behind the outlaws.

Bo was in the lead. He had just taken a step when suddenly his foot kept sinking through the water. Just as he had fallen into that ravine, he knew instantly that he had stepped into a hole in the creek bottom. He had the torches in his left hand, and as the frigid water closed around him, he thrust that hand into the air as high as he could.

“Bo!” Scratch exclaimed in a half-whisper. He leaped forward to reach for Bo’s arm.

The water didn’t come all the way up over Bo’s head, but when he stopped sinking he was up to his neck in the creek. Its icy grip enveloped him, shocking him so that he wasn’t able to move. He knew better than to start floundering. That might just cause him to sink even more.

Scratch’s free hand closed around Bo’s wrist and hauled up. Bo’s boots slid in the mud, but with Scratch’s help he was able to get out of the hole. Trying to keep his teeth from chattering, he said, “B-b-b-better circle around this spot.”

“Bo, we gotta get you out of here and into some dry clothes!”

“Not yet,” Bo said. “We’re c-c-c-c-close now.”

It was true. The shots from the cabin sounded like they were only a few yards away. The Texans moved on a short distance and then Scratch pulled himself a few inches up the bank.

“I can see the roof!” he whispered to Bo.

They were back in knee-deep water now. Bo was shivering. He told Scratch, “You’ll have to light the torches. My matches are soaked.”

“Sure. Let’s get ’em ready.”

Bo held out one of the torches. Scratch used his teeth to pull the cork from the jug, then tipped it just enough to let the clear liquid inside soak into the blanket strips wrapped around the end of the branch. He got them thoroughly wet without spilling much of the whiskey. The stuff would evaporate quickly, so they didn’t waste any time as they soaked all three torches.

Then Scratch set the jug on a little shelf of earth that jutted out from the creek bank and dug a tin of matches from his shirt pocket. He snapped one of them to life with his thumbnail and held the little flame to each of the torches in turn.

That was all it took. The whiskey-soaked rags caught fire immediately and blazed up. Scratch took one of the torches from Bo and said, “Let’s go!”

They scrambled up the bank, carrying the burning torches. The cabin was about twenty feet away. The window in the wall facing them was a dark hole. Nobody was looking out.

Fighting off the terrible chills that ran through him, Bo drew back his right arm and let fly with that torch. It spun through the air and landed cleanly on the cabin’s roof. Scratch’s torch bounced and looked like it might fall off, but then it caught on the rough shakes and came to a stop. Bo’s second torch landed close to it. All three continued to burn.

But even though the wooden shakes on the roof quickly started to char and smolder, they didn’t actually catch fire. And the flames on the torches were beginning to die down. They looked like they might burn out before they caught the roof on fire.

Scratch cursed and whispered, “Now what?”

Being half-frozen hadn’t slowed down Bo’s brain any, at least not yet.

“Hand me the jug,” he said.

“What are you—Oh, hell,” Scratch said as he realized what Bo had in mind. “That ought to do it, all right, but you’d better let me heave it. We’ll only get one try, and you’re shakin’ to beat the band.”

“T-t-t-toss it good,” Bo urged.

Scratched reached back down and snagged the jug. He gave it a shake.

“Probably half full,” he said. “Ought to be enough.”

“Let it rip.”

Scratch left the cork in the neck of the jug, hooked a finger through the little handle, and drew back his arm. He swung it forward and sent the jug arching through the air toward the top of the cabin.

For a second Bo thought his old friend had thrown the jug too hard. It looked like it was going to go clear over the roof’s peak and fall on the other side.

But then it dropped, its weight carrying it down with enough force that when it struck the roof it seemed to explode, spraying moonshine in all directions, including over the still-burning torches.

With a mighty whoosh!, flames shot high into the air.