Texas Bloodshed

CHAPTER 6

Bo and Scratch were sitting on their horses in front of the courthouse the next morning when Brubaker drove up in the wagon. The air was cold enough that the breath of men and horses alike turned into plumes of steam.

The Texans’ saddlebags were full. Despite what Brubaker had said about taking along plenty of supplies, the Texans had decided that it wouldn’t hurt anything to bring extra provisions.

The sun had not yet peeked over the horizon, but it would be doing so soon. The heavens to the east were full of yellow, gold, and red light, and that brilliance turned the fleecy clouds floating in the sky pastel shades of those same colors, creating a spectacular view.

It was a view those locked up in the basement jail couldn’t see, except maybe for tiny bits visible through the small, ground-level, iron-barred holes used for ventilation. For the most part, Hell on the Border would be dark, cold, and clammy.

All the more reason not to behave like an owlhoot and get locked up, Bo thought as he shifted and eased his weight in his saddle.

He knew that not everybody who wound up behind bars had only themselves to blame for it. Genuine mix-ups could occur, and some of the things that had happened to him and Scratch were proof of that. But most people who wound up in jail or prison were there because they had it coming for something they had done.

From the sound of it, Cara LaChance, Dayton Lowe, and Jim Elam deserved to be right where they were, locked up so they couldn’t hurt anybody else.

Brubaker brought the wagon to a halt and looped the reins around the brake lever.

“I wasn’t sure you fellas would be here this mornin’,” he said. “I thought you might’ve decided to back out.”

“Once we’ve shook on somethin’, we don’t back out,” Scratch said.

“And you’re not going to get rid of us that easily, Marshal,” Bo added.

Brubaker climbed down from the wagon seat.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go get the prisoners. The jailers are supposed to have them ready to travel.”

He went down the stairs to the basement. While Bo and Scratch waited for him to return, they rubbed their gloved hands together for warmth.

A few minutes later, a whole mob of people came up the stairs, led by Brubaker, who had his revolver in his hand. Behind him came a couple of guards carrying shotguns as they backed up the steps so they could point the Greeners down into the dark basement.

Jim Elam, the skinny hombre with long black hair who Bo had scuffled with the day before, emerged next, wincing at the light. He shuffled along carefully because his hands were cuffed behind his back and a chain ran from those manacles down to the shackles on his ankles. Those shackles had just enough play in them to allow him to move up the steps.

Burly, bearded, glowering Dayton Lowe was next. He was chained up the same way. He resembled a bear, and Bo wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him growl.

That left Cara LaChance. She came up the stairs last, chained and shackled like the others, wearing a fresh dress and a shawl draped around her shoulders that left her head uncovered. Bo was struck once again by just how pretty she was. At first glance she looked like she ought to be somebody’s bride, setting out on a new course in life.

Then when he looked closer, he could see the loco fires burning in her eyes, and he had no trouble remembering that she’d been ready to carve up Scratch the day before. She would carve up anybody who got in her way, Bo thought.

Several more shotgun-toting guards followed the prisoners up from the basement and then spread out to surround them as they hobbled toward the back of the wagon, where Brubaker opened the door.

“You first, Elam,” he ordered. “Get in there and sit on that bench.”

“Ain’t you gonna chain our hands in front of us?” Elam asked with a whining note in his voice. “It’s gonna be mighty uncomfortable ridin’ with our arms pulled behind us this-a-way.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you went around robbin’ and killin’ folks all over creation,” Brubaker snapped. He prodded Elam in the back with the barrel of his revolver. “Now get in there, and don’t make me tell you again.”

Grumbling, Elam awkwardly climbed into the wagon and moved along the bench that ran down its center. Following Brubaker’s orders, he sat down at the far end. Brubaker crouched inside the enclosed wagonbed, covering Elam as one of the other deputies climbed in and looped another chain around Elam’s waist. That one led down to a sturdy iron ring bolted into the floor of the wagon bed, where it was fastened with a massive padlock.

Lowe was next, chained into place on the middle of the bench. He didn’t say anything, but his expression made it clear that he would have been glad to tear all the guards limb from limb with his bare hands.

While Lowe was being put into the wagon, Cara LaChance looked up at the Texans where they sat on their horses. Her baleful gaze fastened on Scratch. She said, “I should’ve cut you when I had the chance.”

“It weren’t for lack of tryin’ on your part, miss,” Scratch pointed out.

“Shut up,” Brubaker told Cara. “Prisoners don’t talk.”

“Go to hell!” she spat at him.

Brubaker looked like he wanted to slap her. Bo was glad when he didn’t. He didn’t hold with hitting women, even murderous hellcats like Cara LaChance, unless it was absolutely necessary. He knew from Scratch’s frown that his old friend felt the same way, despite what Cara had tried to do to him.

When the time came for Cara to climb into the wagon, she refused to do it. A couple of guards moved in to take hold of her and lift her into the vehicle. She fought furiously against them, despite the irons on her. She screamed, cursed, spat, and writhed like a snake. Curses as colorful and vile as anything a teamster or bullwhacker could come up with spilled from her mouth in a steady stream.

“Lord, it’s like she’s got a devil inside her,” Scratch muttered as he and Bo watched the spectacle. “Say, I’ve heard stories about folks bein’, what do you call it, possessed like that. You don’t think—”

“No, I don’t,” Bo said. “That’s not possession we’re seeing, it’s pure meanness.”

The officers finally got Cara inside the wagon and locked down. By then her loud, profane carrying-on had drawn the attention of quite a crowd. Bo looked over the citizens of Fort Smith who had gathered in front of the courthouse to watch the outlaws being loaded into the wagon, and he wondered if any of them were connected to Hank Gentry, Cara’s lover and the leader of the owlhoot band to which she and the other two prisoners belonged.

It would have been smarter to sneak the prisoners out in the dead of night, Bo thought, and keep their destination a secret. That way there would have been a better chance of getting them to Tyler without Gentry coming after them.

That wasn’t the way Parker had handled the matter, though, and Bo speculated that some of that could have been because of the judge’s dissatisfaction with the situation. Parker would have preferred to put the outlaws on trial here and carry out the inevitable sentence on his own gallows. But that wasn’t what was going to happen.

Brubaker checked the irons on all three prisoners, then climbed out of the wagon, slammed the door closed, and fastened it with another massive padlock.

“Satisfied?” Bo asked.

“They’re not gettin’ loose this time,” Brubaker said. “And that’s for certain sure. All three of ’em got stripped down to the skin and searched this mornin’, and they’re chained up in there so good they couldn’t get to anything to help ’em get loose, even if they had it.”

“What about when the gal has to tend to her private needs?” Scratch asked.

“She’ll have to take care of that with one of us holdin’ a gun on her.” Brubaker held up a hand to forestall any protests. “I don’t like it any better than you gents do, so don’t try pullin’ any of that Texas gallantry on me. I’m takin’ no chances, and if you don’t like it, you’re free to go on your way since you ain’t taken the judge’s money yet.”

“We’ll stick,” Bo told him. “This isn’t a one-man job, Marshal.”

Brubaker glanced at the sky and frowned.

“I figured we’d be on the road by now,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll let the judge know we’re ready to pull out.”

A few minutes later, Parker came out of the courthouse, followed by Brubaker. The judge looked at the wagon and nodded as if he could see through the sides and approved of how the prisoners were chained up. Cara must have gotten tired or lost her voice, because she had finally stopped screaming obscenities.

Parker came over to Bo and Scratch.

“Gentlemen, I believe I promised you forty dollars apiece,” he said. “I’ll pay you as soon as you’ve been sworn in.”

“Do we have to wear badges?” Scratch asked. “We don’t much cotton to wearin’ badges. Every time we’ve helped out the law, we’ve done it sort of unofficial-like.”

“No badges,” Parker said, “but if you want the two double eagles I have for each of you, you’ll have to be sworn in and sign a receipt.”

“Let’s get on with it, Your Honor,” Bo suggested. “I think Marshal Brubaker wants to get started.”

Brubaker just snorted and didn’t say anything.

The formalities were soon over with, and two double eagles apiece rested in the Texans’ pockets.

“You’re now legally appointed representatives of the United States government, gentlemen,” Parker told them. “Conduct yourselves accordingly.”

“We’ll bear that in mind, Your Honor,” Bo said.

“And we’ll try not to be an embarrassment to the gov’ment,” Scratch added.

Brubaker climbed to the wagon seat and unwrapped the reins from the brake lever.

“Are we ready now?” he asked impatiently. “The sun’s comin’ up. We’re burnin’ daylight.”

Bo nodded and said, “Ready whenever you are, Marshal.”

Brubaker slapped the reins against the backs of the mules hitched to the wagon. He backed and turned the team and started away from the courthouse. Bo and Scratch fell in behind the vehicle.

Behind them, Judge Parker called, “Good luck, gentlemen!”

“He’s sayin’ something under his breath about how we’re gonna need it, ain’t he?” Scratch asked quietly as they rode along the flagstone drive behind the wagon.

“More than likely,” Bo agreed.