Texas Bloodshed

CHAPTER 3

It was the famous Hanging Judge stalking along the street toward them, all right. Bo had seen photographs of Isaac Parker before, although he had never met the man and certainly never appeared before him in court.

Parker didn’t cut that impressive of a figure at first glance. He was a medium-size man with dark hair and a Van Dyke beard, dressed in a brown tweed suit.

You had to get close to him to see the unquenchable fire for justice that burned in his eyes.

As judge for the western district of Arkansas, which included Indian Territory, he rode herd on one of the wildest areas in the country. The tribes who had been settled on reservations in the Territory several decades earlier were peaceful for the most part, but they had their share of criminals and troublemakers just like any group will.

For the most part it was white owlhoots who made Indian Territory such a lawless, untamed region. Smugglers, bootleggers, rustlers, bank robbers, thieves, road agents, and murderers of all stripes viewed the Territory as a refuge beyond the reach of the law.

That wasn’t strictly true. The various tribes had their own police forces, such as the Cherokee Lighthorse, but those officers dealt only with Indian matters. Judge Parker employed a force of tough deputy marshals to patrol the Territory and bring in lawbreakers, but they were spread pretty thin.

Bo had heard it said that a lot of Parker’s deputies were little better than outlaws themselves, and for all he knew, that might be true. The one called Brubaker certainly looked mean enough to have broken a few laws in his time.

Parker strode up to them and said in his powerful, commanding voice, “I’m told that three prisoners in your custody have escaped, Brubaker. Is this true?”

“No, sir, it’s a dadblamed lie,” the deputy responded without hesitation. “They gave me a mite of trouble, but they’re all locked up now, Your Honor, or they will be as soon as the boys get Cara LaChance behind bars.”

Parker’s eyes flashed with interest. “You arrested the LaChance woman?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, along with Dayton Lowe and Jim Elam. The rest of Gentry’s bunch gave me the slip, but as soon as I provision up again, I’ll be headed out on their trail.”

“Not so fast,” Parker said. “I may have another job for you.” He looked over at Bo and Scratch and frowned. “Who are these men?”

Brubaker scowled and said, “They, uh, gave me a hand corralin’ them prisoners.”

“Gave you a hand?” Scratched repeated incredulously. “Why, if we hadn’t pitched in, two of ’em would’ve got away, and you durned well know it, mister.”

Brubaker was about to frame an angry response when Parker stopped him with an upraised hand. The judge looked at Scratch and asked, “Is that a Texas accent I hear?”

“Texan born, bred, and forever,” Scratch answered without any attempt to keep the pride out of his voice. Despite their years of wandering elsewhere, he and Bo had never lost the drawl that was part of their Lone Star heritage.

“I’m Bo Creel, Your Honor,” Bo introduced himself. “My pard here is Scratch Morton.”

Parker nodded and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen, and you have my sincere thanks for your assistance in this matter.” He glanced at Brubaker, whose face was flushed with anger. “Those prisoners never should have gotten loose in the first place. How did they manage that, Brubaker? Why weren’t they shackled in the back of that wagon?”

“They were, Judge,” Brubaker replied. “I put the irons on ’em myself. There ain’t no doubt about it. But when I swung open the door on the back of the wagon, Lowe jumped me and tried to get my rifle away from me. While I was tusslin’ with him, the other two jumped out and lit a shuck. They got loose somehow, but durned if I know how.”

“Did you search them before you locked them up?” Bo asked. “Some people are real good at picking locks if they’ve got a little steel bar.”

“Are you tryin’ to tell me how to do my job, mister?” Brubaker shot back hotly. “Of course I searched ’em! What kind of blasted fool do you take me for?”

“Nevertheless, the prisoners were loose when you got here and unlocked the door,” Parker pointed out.

Brubaker looked angry and miserable at the same time.

“The girl must’a had somethin’ hidden somewhere on her,” he admitted. “I ain’t gonna speculate on where, because I searched her so blamed good I was embarrassed about it for fifty miles! But if any of that bunch is tricky enough to pick some locks, it’d be Cara LaChance.”

“I agree,” Parker said with a nod. “But at least they’re still in custody. We’re fortunate about that.” He looked at Bo and Scratch again. “I repeat, we’re obliged to you gentlemen for your help. I’d offer you a reward, but the federal government doesn’t provide me with an abundance of cash to operate my court.”

“That’s all right, Your Honor,” Bo said. “We were glad to pitch in.”

“Yeah,” Scratch added. “Even if that blond hellion almost did cut me up with a razor.”

Parker’s rather bushy eyebrows rose.

“A razor?” he said. “I hadn’t heard about that. So she had a razor hidden on her person, too, eh?”

A muscle in Brubaker’s jaw jumped a little as he gritted his teeth and growled.

“I’ll make the whore talk,” he said.

“You’ve delivered the prisoners,” Parker said. “Your job is done.”

Brubaker looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t say anything.

Parker nodded to Bo and Scratch, said, “Good day, gentlemen,” and turned to walk back to the courthouse.

“I hope you don’t plan on standin’ around waitin’ for me to thank you,” Brubaker told the Texans.

“We didn’t do it for thanks or a reward,” Bo said. “Just didn’t want any outlaws getting loose to raise more hell.”

“We ain’t overfond of outlaws,” Scratch put in.

Brubaker snorted and stomped after Parker.

“Well, I reckon we can go get us a drink now,” Scratch went on. “That’s what I had in mind to start with. I remember a certain tavern on one of these hilly streets from the last time we passed through here.”

“I do, too,” Bo replied. “Why don’t we go see if we can find it?”

They found the tavern without much trouble and were glad it was still in business. The place was a dim, cavelike room in a stone building with very thick walls, built into the side of a hill. Warm in the winter, cool in the summer, it was run by a burly, redheaded Irishman named Michael Corrigan, who pointed a blunt finger at Bo and Scratch from behind the bar as they came in and declared in a loud voice, “I remember the two o’ ye! Start any more trouble and this time I’ll bust yer heads open with me trusty bungstarter!”

“We didn’t start the trouble last time, dadgum it!” Scratch protested.

“And that was years ago,” Bo added. “How do you even remember it?”

Corrigan scowled darkly at them.

“Some things ye don’t forget, boyo,” he said. “It took me nearly a week to clean up all the damage from that ruckus!”

“We’re peaceable men,” Bo insisted as the Texans came up to the bar. “All we want are a couple of mugs of beer.”

“That I can do ye for,” Corrigan said.

“And maybe some coffee later on,” Scratch said.

“Aye, that, too.”

Corrigan drew the beers and slid the mugs across the hardwood. Bo paid for the drinks, and he and Scratch carried them to a table in one of the rear corners of the tavern. The place wasn’t very busy at this hour, so it was no problem finding a place to sit.

“This is more like it,” Scratch said after he’d leaned back in his chair and taken a long swallow of the beer. “Nobody tryin’ to wallop us, stab us, or shoot us.”

“Better not get used to it,” Bo replied with a chuckle.

“Oh, I ain’t gonna. It don’t seem to matter how hard we try to steer clear of trouble, it finds us. I’m just hopin’ that little fracas was our share of it for this trip.”

Bo shared that hope, but like his old friend, he wasn’t going to count on it.

“Did you get a look at that gal I was scufflin’ with?” Scratch asked after a moment.

“I did,” Bo replied. “She was pretty good looking.”

Scratch snorted.

“Too good lookin’ to be an outlaw gal, if you ask me,” he said. “But she cussed like a bullwhacker, and she sure went after me with that razor. Reckon that just goes to show you, you can’t always tell what somebody’s like by lookin’ at ’em.”

“You should’ve figured that out a long time ago,” Bo said.

“Oh, I did. I ain’t no babe in the woods, as you well know. But when you see a gal like that ... Oh, shoot, you know what I mean.”

Bo knew what his friend meant, all right. Scratch had an eye for a pretty girl and had always been that way. He thought they all ought to be as nice and sweet as he wanted them to be.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t always the case, and sometimes Scratch had to pay a price for his idealism and romantic nature.

From time to time, Bo had been fooled by women himself, although with his practical nature that was more difficult. He had an instinctive wariness Scratch lacked.

But Scratch’s more reckless personality had gotten them out of plenty of scrapes in the past, too. They made a good team, which was one reason they were still riding together after all these years.

After a while, Corrigan brought cups of coffee over to them. As he set the cups on the table, the tavern keeper said, “I’ve got some stew in the pot. Would ye like some?”

“That sounds mighty fine, Mike,” Bo told him. “Thanks.”

Corrigan nodded and started to turn back toward the bar. He paused as the door opened and a man came inside. The newcomer closed the door behind him a little harder than was necessary.

“What’s got yer dander up, Forty-two?” Corrigan asked.

Deputy Marshal Brubaker ignored the question and strode up to the table. He glared at Bo and Scratch.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you two,” he said. “Somebody told me they’d seen a couple of Texans come in here. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Bo asked.

“We ain’t under arrest, are we?” Scratch added.

“No, you ain’t under arrest, but we’re goin’ to the courthouse,” Brubaker said. “The judge wants to see you, and I mean right now.”