his squaw and all their brats.”
“Go on and get in there, if you’re goin’ to,” Brubaker ordered.
Cara shuffled into the two-holer.
“Ain’t you even gonna close the door and give a lady some privacy?” she demanded.
“I would if there was a lady here.”
“I can’t ... Son of a ... Brubaker, this ain’t gonna work!”
The deputy heaved a sigh.
“Creel, use the barrel of your rifle to lift her skirt some,” he said.
Bo was too old to be easily embarrassed, but he felt his face warming now. He said, “I’ll give you the rifle, and I’ll cover her with my Colt.”
“All right, blast it.” Brubaker holstered his revolver and practically snatched the Winchester from Bo’s hands. Bo moved back a step and drew his Colt.
Brubaker reached into the outhouse and used the rifle barrel to hoist Cara’s dress enough that she could sit down on one of the holes. Bo wanted to avert his eyes, but he didn’t. Maybe he and Scratch should have thought about Judge Parker’s offer a little longer before they agreed to help Brubaker deliver the prisoners, he told himself. He was about as uncomfortable as he had been in a long time.
After a while Cara said, “All right, I’m done.”
“Stand up and come on out, then,” Brubaker told her.
“You’re a miserable excuse for a human bein’.”
“Leastways I never killed any innocent folks, like you and your butcherin’ crew.”
She laughed again as she stood up and started to come out of the privy.
“Hank and the boys will butcher you, all right,” she said. “Lay you wide open and show you your own innards. How’s that gonna feel to you, lawman?”
“If I was you,” Brubaker said, “I’d worry more about what it’s gonna feel like when that trapdoor drops out from under you and that hang rope tightens around your neck—”
“Marshal,” Bo said. He didn’t want to listen to the two of them fussing at each other anymore.
Besides, three men had just stepped out the back door of the trading post, and every instinct in Bo’s body was suddenly warning him that they were trouble.
CHAPTER 8
Out in front of the trading post, Scratch stood alertly, holding his Winchester and watching the two men inside the wagon.
“It just ain’t fair, the way you fellas are treatin’ us,” Jim Elam complained.
Scratch said, “From what I’ve heard of your checkered career, son, bein’ fair ain’t something you’ve ever worried about much. It ain’t fair to rob people of money and property they’ve worked hard for.”
“Hell, the gub’mint does it all the time, don’t they?”
“That don’t make it right,” Scratch said.
In his rumbling voice, Dayton Lowe said, “If you ain’t tough enough to hang on to what you got, you don’t deserve to have it.”
“Well, there might be somethin’ to that, but this here is what you call a civilized society. We ain’t barbarians.”
Lowe glared at him and said, “A man’s either a barbarian inside ... or he’s fodder for them that are.”
Scratch sighed. Danged if he knew why he was standing around arguing philosophy with a couple of outlaws and mad dog killers. He didn’t say anything else, and after a few minutes, Elam said, “I wish them other two would hurry up and get back with Cara. I need to visit that outhouse.”
“They’ll be here when they can,” Scratch said. Voices drew his attention. He stepped back and saw that a couple of roughly dressed men armed with six-shooters had come out of the trading post. They stood on the front porch, talking.
Scratch tensed. He didn’t know Hank Gentry or any of the other members of Gentry’s gang by sight. It was possible these were two of the owlhoots, and they might be planning on trying to free Elam and Lowe.
Instead, one of them took a silver flask from under his jacket and unscrewed the cap. He lifted it to his lips and took a healthy swig of whatever was inside, then offered the flask to his companion.
“Whoo-eee,” the first man said. He wiped the back of his free hand across his mouth. “That’ll sure warm you up on a cold day. Try it, cuz.”
Scratch could see a faint resemblance between the men now, so he could believe that they were cousins. Not that it was any of his business, he reminded himself, as long as they didn’t bother him or the prisoners.
The second man took a long drink from the flask, belched, and handed it back to the first man.
“You’re right, that’s prime corn,” he said.
The first man nipped at the flask again, then capped it and put it away. The two of them came down the steps, a little unsteady on their feet.
Just a pair of country boys who were drunk already, even though the sun was directly overhead, Scratch thought.
But at the same time, he continued to be wary. They could be putting on an act. They headed toward a couple of horses tied at the hitch rack, and Scratch hoped they would just mount up and ride away.
Instead, the first man hesitated and looked over at him. He nudged his companion with an elbow, then came toward Scratch with a leering grin on his face.
“You belong to a medicine show, old man?” he asked.
“What makes you say that?” Scratch said.
“Them fancy clothes you got on. Or is there a circus comin’ and I just ain’t heard about it yet?”
“You boys better just move on,” Scratch advised.
The second man stumbled after the first. He waved a hand toward the wagon and asked, “What’s in there that you’re guardin’? You got a bear or somethin’ locked up in that wagon?”
“I’ll bet it’s one o’ them tigers,” the first man said.
“Or maybe some whores,” the second man suggested. “Fella dressed that fancy could be a whoremonger.”
Scratch was getting annoyed by these fools.
“Go finish gettin’ snockered somewheres else,” he told them. “Leave a man to do his job, why don’t you?”
Suddenly, from inside the wagon, Jim Elam cried, “Help us, boys! Get us loose! Kill this old man and we’ll make it worth your while!”
Alarm bells had never stopped going off inside Scratch’s head, so he wasn’t surprised when the two strangers dropped the pretense of being drunk and swept back their coats to claw at the holstered revolvers on their hips.
Bo barely had time to exclaim, “Brubaker, look out!” before three men on the back porch had their guns drawn. He didn’t know who they were—members of Hank Gentry’s gang, come to rescue their friends, more than likely—but it didn’t matter.
Any time a man slapped leather, Bo left off wondering and commenced shooting instead.
The man on the end at Bo’s right was the fastest of the three. He had his gun out of its holster, and flame was spitting from its muzzle by the time Bo brought his rifle to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.
The Winchester cracked. The slug that flew from its barrel punched into the gunman’s chest and flung him back against the wall behind him. Before the man could even fall, Bo had already worked the rifle’s lever and swung the barrel toward the second man.
He had heard that first bullet whistle past his head and thud into the outhouse wall behind him, and he didn’t want to give the other two a chance to have better aim. He fired again before the second man could get off a shot
