Texas Bloodshed

CHAPTER 23

As far as Scratch could tell from the stars, he and Cara angled southwest when they rode away from the camp where they had left Bo and Brubaker pretending to be dead. Everything had gone off pretty much the way the three of them had planned during the past few days in quiet conversations out of earshot of the wagon.

Brubaker hadn’t been easy to convince when Scratch first laid out the idea. He had insisted in no uncertain terms that Scratch was plumb loco, completely out of his head, to even be considering letting Cara LaChance escape, no matter what the reason.

“She’s tellin’ the truth about that cache of loot, though, Forty-two,” Scratch had argued. “I can hear the greed in her voice when she talks about it.”

“You know she doesn’t really plan to split the money with you, don’t you?” Bo had asked.

“Oh, shoot, yeah. She’s figurin’ she’ll put a bullet in my back just as soon as it’s convenient for her. Might not be as soon as we get to the hideout, because she might need my help totin’ the loot out of there, but as soon as we’re close enough to a town so that she could make it without me, it’d be adios, José.”

“I didn’t figure you for bein’ part Mexican, Morton,” Brubaker had commented.

“It’s just an old sayin’. Anyway, I’m goin’ into this with my eyes wide open, fellas. I know she don’t aim to split the loot with me, and I know my manly charms don’t really make her heart go pitty-pat, neither. I figure she’ll do whatever she has to in order to get what she wants, though.”

Brubaker had frowned and said, “It’d be like beddin’ down with a she-panther. You couldn’t ever tell when she was fixin’ to rip you to shreds. But that ain’t none of my business.” He had studied Scratch intently. “You ain’t plannin’ to double-cross us, are you? Seems to me you might be playin’ a mighty deep game here, mister.”

Bo had shaken his head and said, “There’s no game, Forty-two. Scratch and I have been partners for more than forty years. He’d never double-cross me. Besides which, he’s a law-abiding man—”

“Most of the time,” Scratch had put in.

“Most of the time,” Bo had gone on, “and he wouldn’t let an outlaw and a killer get away. At least not permanently.”

In the end the Texans had persuaded Brubaker to go along with the idea. They had figured out how they would do it, and Bo and Scratch had decided that it would be best to wait until the party crossed the Red River into Texas before putting the plan into operation.

“We know that area where she says the hideout is pretty well,” Bo had explained. “She must mean over in Parker or Palo Pinto County, deep in the Cross Timbers. That’s rugged country, all right. Rocks and rattlesnakes and ravines, everywhere you look. And plenty of places in those hills for outlaws to hide themselves and their loot.”

“It’ll take two or three days of ridin’ to get there,” Scratch had said. “But Cara and me will have to take the back trails and try not to be seen, while the two of you can use the main roads and make better time. Even with stoppin’ off at Gainesville to lock up those prisoners, you ought to get to the area about the same time we do.”

“How will we ever find your trail once we’re there?” Brubaker wanted to know.

Scratch had grinned and said, “I’ll send up smoke signals. If Cara thinks you’re dead, she won’t be expectin’ anybody to be followin’ us. So she won’t be suspicious if I build a nice big campfire.”

“Just try not to be too obvious about it,” Bo had advised.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

And so far, he had been, Scratch thought as he rode alongside Cara through the darkness, their way lit only by a three-quarter moon and a multitude of stars glittering brightly in the cold heavens.

Knowing that she had a rifle within easy reach made his skin crawl a little. Maybe she’d been telling the truth when she claimed that she had never killed anybody, but he wasn’t going to bet his life on it.

Although, Scratch mused, that was sort of what he was doing ...

Cara had ridden hard and set a fast pace when they left the camp behind, even though she didn’t have any reason to expect pursuit. Probably that was just instinct, Scratch thought, with her wanting to get as far away from the scene of her captivity as she could.

Now she had slowed Bo’s horse to a more reasonable gait, especially considering the fact that they couldn’t always see where they were going.

If things had worked out that way, Scratch would have suggested that Cara take Early Nesbit’s horse. But when she wanted Bo’s mount, Scratch didn’t think it was reasonable to refuse her. Early’s horse was a decent one. Bo could use it, since Early wouldn’t have any need of the animal while he was locked up in the county jail at Gainesville.

“How come you don’t know this part of the country?” Cara asked as they rode. “You’re from Texas, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but from down around Hallettsville and Victoria. That’s pert near four hundred miles from here. Not only that, but Bo and me left Texas a long time ago, and we ain’t been back much since.”

That wasn’t far from the truth, Scratch thought. It had been a long time since they rode away from the Lone Star State, following the deaths of Bo’s wife and children.

But they had been back often enough that they had crisscrossed the state several times and knew all of it pretty well, from the piney woods of East Texas to the mountain desert of West Texas. Scratch knew the area they were going now, knew its thickly wooded hills and dark valleys. The Brazos River angled down across the region, and fifteen years earlier, it had marked the western boundary of civilized Texas. Beyond the river lay Comancheria, shrouded in mystery and menace, home to some of the most ruthless, dangerous warriors in the history of mankind, the Comanches.

But in that intervening decade and a half, a lot had changed. The bounds of the range controlled by the Comanches had been pushed back farther and farther, and the army had broken their power bit by bit, climaxed by the decisive Battle of Palo Duro Canyon. Since then the threat of the Comanches, while not eliminated entirely, had been reduced to sporadic raids and skirmishes. In the area where they were headed now, Scratch knew they would be in more danger from white savages than red ones.

“I’m sure I can find the place,” Cara went on. “I helped Hank pick it out. Just be glad it’s winter. During the summer, the rattlers are mighty thick out there.”

“I ain’t fond of snakes. I won’t bother them if they don’t bother me.”

“They’ll all be curled up in their holes at this time of year.”

“Like in that cave where the loot’s stashed?”

Cara laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll go in first if you’re scared.”

“Never said I was scared,” Scratch replied. “Just that I don’t like snakes.”

They rode on through the night. At one point, when they were on high ground, Scratch caught sight of some lights several miles to the east. That would be Gainesville, he thought. Bo and Brubaker would be there first thing in the morning, locking Lowe, Elam, and Early Nesbit in the jail. The county sheriff might not be too fond of the idea, but with Brubaker being a federal marshal, he woudn’t have much choice but to go along with it.

Finally Cara brought Bo’s horse to a stop in a thick stand of trees and said, “We’ll make camp here. We need to get some sleep, and then we can push on in the mornin’.”

“You sleep,” Scratch said. “I’ll stand guard. I got some sleep earlier, before Bo woke me up.”

“We’ll both sleep. Hell, Scratch, nobody’s comin’ after us. Nobody knows where we are. We’re as safe as we can be.”

Part of Scratch wanted to stay awake all the time Cara was awake, just so he’d be ready if she tried to double-cross him, but he knew that wasn’t going to be possible. Sooner or later, he’d have to trust her, at least a little, so it might as well be now, he decided.

And if she cut his throat while he was asleep ... well, he knew that Bo would catch up to her sooner or later and settle the score for him.

As he was picketing and unsaddling the horses, he realized that they had only one bedroll—his—which he’d picked up and lashed on behind his saddle before they left camp.

That would have been fine if they had taken turns sleeping, as Scratch had sort of figured they would do. But from what Cara had said, she planned on them sharing the blankets.

Under other circumstances, that might not have been so bad, although Cara was young enough that would have made Scratch a little uncomfortable. But her youth combined with the fact that she was an outlaw and quite possibly a murderer gave him the fantods for sure.

Still, he didn’t see what else he could do except play along with whatever she wanted.

She had already crawled into the bedroll when he finished with the horses. She held back the blankets for him and said, “Here.”

Scratch took off his hat and boots, then unbuckled his gun belt and coiled it around the holstered Remingtons. He set the revolvers on the ground next to the blankets, within easy reach.

He slid into the bedroll with Cara. He had put his saddle down for a pillow, and as he rested his head on it, she snuggled against him and laid her head on his shoulder. Her curly blond hair tickled his cheek as she moved closer to him.

He cleared his throat and said, “You know this, uh, this saddle of mine is older than you are, don’t you?”

“Oh, hush,” she said sleepily. “I’m tired, and it’s damned cold. I’ve just about froze every night since we left Fort Smith because I wasn’t just about to curl up with those two varmints I was locked in the wagon with. I figure with you it’s different.”

“Different, eh?” Scratch wasn’t sure if he liked the sound of that or not.

“Well, you’re older. Maybe not too old. But we’ll see about that later. Right now, I just need some sleep.”

“Me, too,” Scratch said. “Good night.”

“Night ...” she murmured as she pressed closer against him, seeking warmth.

If this didn’t beat all, Scratch thought. Curled up in his blankets with a beautiful young gal who was probably plumb loco and a killer to boot, and the two of them on their way to retrieve a small fortune in stolen money and gold from an outlaws’ cave that might be full of rattlesnakes.

Well, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, she might cut his throat before morning, but at least he wasn’t likely to die of boredom.