“What about us?” Dayton Lowe asked. “Don’t we get to come out?”
“In a few minutes,” Brubaker said. “I want to find out who these blasted troublemakers were.”
“I can tell you that,” Scratch said. “I’ve been talkin’ to the fellas on the porch. These gunnies are local boys.”
“Is that so?” Brubaker asked with a frown.
The justice of the peace spoke up.
“I’m Judge Theodore Hopper, Marshal,” he said. “You’re one of Judge Parker’s men?”
“I am.”
“Well, then, I extend my apologies for this unpleasant incident. I had no idea what those Staley boys and their no-account friends were planning to do ... or why, for that matter.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea as to why,” Brubaker said. He toed the wounded shoulder of the unconscious Jink Staley. “Wake up, you polecat.”
Jink winced and groaned. His eyes fluttered open.
“Don’t ... don’t do that,” he begged. “I’m hurt awful bad.”
“You’ll feel worse in a minute if you don’t tell me what I want to know.” To reinforce his words, Brubaker rested the sole of his boot on Jink’s shoulder. The marshal didn’t put any weight on it, but the threat was unmistakable.
“Marshal ...” Bo began.
“Stay out of it, Creel,” Brubaker snapped. “I’m handlin’ this my way.” To Jink, he went on, “Why’d you fellas try to jump us?”
“We ... we heard about those prisoners ... you’re takin’ to Texas.” Jink had to force the words out through pale, tightly clenched lips. “We’ve always wanted to ... ride with somebody like Hank Gentry. Figured that if we ... turned these three loose ... Hank would have to ... let us in the gang.”
Bo and Scratch glanced at each other. The wounded man’s words held the ring of truth as far as the Texans were concerned.
Brubaker seemed to agree. He nodded and said, “All right. Can’t say as I’m surprised.” He looked up at the men on the porch. “Is there a doctor around here? Anywhere closer than Fort Smith?”
“There’s a midwife who does a fair job of patchin’ up bullet wounds,” the storekeeper said.
“Good. Somebody can fetch her for this boy. And you can either plant the dead ones or throw ’em in a hog pen somewhere, it don’t make no never mind to me which way you do it.”
Brubaker looked down at Jink and leaned a little on the young man. Jink screamed at the pressure on his shattered shoulder.
“Got your attention?” Brubaker asked. “Listen to me, Staley. I ought to arrest you, but I’ve got places to go and things to take care of, so here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna let you go. But if I ever see you again, around here or up in Fort Smith or over in the Territory, I’m not gonna ask what you’re doin’ there. I’m not gonna even speak to you. I’m just gonna shoot you dead right then and there, you understand?”
Jink whimpered but didn’t answer. Brubaker bore down with his boot again.
“I understand!” Jink screamed. “I understand! You won’t n-never see me again, Marshal, I swear it.”
“Good.” Brubaker looked up at the storekeeper. “Got any hot food in there?”
“Yes, sir, we sure do,” the man answered nervously. “Some nice roast beef.”
“Bread?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Slap some beef between bread, then, enough for the three of us. We’ll get it when we’re ready to pull out again.”
Bo asked, “What about the prisoners?”
Grudgingly, Brubaker nodded and told the man in the apron, “Enough for them, too, I suppose. And some coffee, if you’ve got it. I promised ’em something to eat and drink. Now let’s all get busy. The sooner we’re back on the road again, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
CHAPTER 10
It took a while to get Lowe and Elam in and out of the privy. By that time the storekeeper had made the sandwiches. Bo, Scratch, and Brubaker ate first, then Scratch and the deputy covered the prisoners while Bo fed them and gave them sips of coffee from a wide-mouthed jug. The three outlaws were cooperative for a change, and Cara didn’t even cuss at any of her captors.
Bo figured that hunger and thirst had gotten the best of their natural-born orneriness.
Finally Brubaker climbed to the seat and unwrapped the reins from the brake lever. He had his black hat resting on the back of his head so that it wouldn’t rub against the welt where the bullet had grazed him. He had refused medical attention for the injury, insisting that it would be fine.
“If that slug had been a few inches to one side, it would’ve blown my brains out,” he said. “But it didn’t, so that tells me I ain’t fated to die from it.”
That seemed like pretty shaky reasoning to Bo, but Brubaker was in charge, so he didn’t argue.
The wagon continued rolling southward all afternoon, with occasional stops so the team of horses pulling it could rest. Late in the day, which ended fairly early at this time of year, Bo asked Brubaker, “Are we going to try to find a settlement with a jail so we can lock up those three for the night?”
Brubaker shook his head.
“This wagon is sturdier than any back-country jail we’re liable to find. They can stretch out on the floor to sleep. Judge Parker just said to get ’em there. He didn’t say anything about keepin’ ’em comfortable along the way.”
“You’re a pretty hard-nosed hombre, aren’t you, Marshal?”
Brubaker snorted. “Try keepin’ the peace in Indian Territory for a while,” he suggested. “You’ll learn right quick that gettin’ sentimental is a good way of windin’ up dead.”
Bo couldn’t dispute that. He had seen firsthand evidence of it over the years. There were plenty of bad men in the West who would stop at nothing, including cold-blooded murder, to get what they wanted. If you misjudged the wrong man, it usually meant a bullet. It was a hard land, and it took hard men to live in it, and trust was a rare commodity.
As they set up camp in a clearing where Brubaker had pulled off the road, Bo said to the deputy, “We’ll be taking turns standing guard?”
“That’s right,” Brubaker said. “Think you can stay awake and alert enough to handle it?”
“We’ve stood many a night watch,” Scratch said. “You can depend on us.”
“Good. Because it’s your lives at stake, too, not just mine. Hank Gentry and his men would kill you without ever blinkin’ an eye.”
Bo didn’t doubt it. He had seen the sort of men who rode with Gentry.
And the sort of woman.
There was no outhouse around here, of course, so before it got dark, Bo and Brubaker took Cara into the bushes near the camp and let her tend to her business. Brubaker warned her to stay where he could see her head, and he kept his Colt trained on her the whole time.
When they got back to the wagon, Cara pouted and said, “Why can’t Mr. Morton take me when I have to go? He’s nicer than you two.”
“He’d keep you covered just like I do,” Brubaker said. “At least he would if he’s got any sense.”
“Yeah, but I’ll bet he wouldn’t leer at me.”
“Dadgum it, I didn’t leer—” The deputy stopped short for a second, then went on, “You’re just tryin’ to put a burr under my saddle. It’s not gonna work.”
Cara laughed. Bo figured she already had a burr under the deputy’s saddle, and she knew it, too.
Scratch volunteered to do the cooking. He fried some bacon and cooked cornbread and beans to go with it. The meal was simple but good. After everyone had eaten and Bo and Scratch had checked on the horses one more time, Brubaker said, “I’ll take the first watch. You fellas get some sleep.”
