do.”
Brubaker nodded. “I understand. I’m glad we ran into you, anyway. It’ll be nice not havin’ to worry as much about somebody jumpin’ us tonight.”
After the prisoners were fed and taken out of the wagon one by one to take care of their needs, the camp settled down for the night. Bo had the first watch, and Charley Graywolf told Duck Forbes to take his turn then, as well.
Bo didn’t mind having the company. It was easier to stay awake and alert if there was someone to talk to, and Duck proved to be a pleasant companion. He was short and stocky, with a round face that creased easily in a grin. He had been a member of the Cherokee Lighthorse for a couple of years, he explained to Bo as the two of them sat on rocks just outside the circle of light from the campfire.
“My father’s a teacher,” Duck said, “and he always figured I would be, too, but I just couldn’t see sitting in a classroom all day. I always liked to be out doing things.”
Bo knew that the Cherokee were maybe the only Indian tribe with a written language. The Cherokee Nation even had its own newspaper. As a people, they valued education.
But a society needed lawmen, too, so Bo thought Duck’s decision was a good one.
They sat and chatted for a while before settling down to pass the time in companionable silence. Other than a couple of trips to Fort Smith, Duck had never been anywhere except Indian Territory, so he was especially interested in hearing about all the places where the Texans’ wanderings had taken them.
“One of these days I’ll see all that for myself,” he said. “Especially the ocean. Wouldn’t it be somethin’ to stand there and look out over all that water, just goin’ on and on like it was never gonna end.”
Scratch took the second turn on guard, joined by lean, taciturn Jim Reeder. Bo said good night to Duck and rolled up in his blankets to get a few hours of sleep, knowing that Brubaker would want to be on the move again by dawn.
Dayton Lowe was in a bad mood when Brubaker awoke the prisoners while the sky was just turning gray in the east. While Lowe was out of the wagon, he glared at Charley Graywolf and the other members of the Cherokee Lighthorse.
“Filthy redskins,” the burly Lowe muttered. “I could barely sleep last night because the stink of Indians was so strong around here.”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Brubaker told the prisoner.
“Why? I ain’t worried about hurtin’ some damn buck’s feelin’s. The savages probably don’t even understand what I’m sayin’.”
Graywolf and the other men ignored Lowe. They’d probably had to put up with ignorant insults like that from whites many times over the years, Bo thought.
“Are you planning to cut through Massasauga Valley?” Graywolf asked Brubaker as they were all getting ready to leave.
“That’s right,” the deputy replied.
“That’s the way the trail we’ve been following leads. Nat Kinlock has some family over that way. We think he may be figuring on hiding out with them. Since we’re going in the same direction anyway ...”
“I’d be pleased to have you ride along with us for a while,” Brubaker answered without hesitation.
That was all right with Bo and Scratch, too, although they would have gone along with whatever Brubaker decided, since he was in charge. After a quick breakfast of pan bread and coffee, the group started in a generally westward direction along the winding trail. The sun hadn’t quite risen above the eastern horizon yet, although it was already painting the sky with red and gold light. The air was still and cold, and frost lay heavy on the grass, glittering as the light grew stronger.
By midmorning the frost had melted and dried, and the sun was warmer as it washed over the rugged landscape. The going was rather slow because the trail had to twist and turn so much to avoid ridges, deep gullies, and impassible cliffs. In many places the trees crowded in close to the sides of the trail, which was barely wide enough to allow the wagon to pass. Bo, Scratch, Charley Graywolf, and Duck Forbes rode in front of the vehicle while the other Cherokee Lighthorsemen brought up the rear. There wasn’t room for them to flank the wagon.
After several miles the trees thinned somewhat and the trail widened. Up ahead to the left of the trail loomed a rocky bluff. Out of habit, Bo studied it closely, searching for the glint of sunlight on metal that would tell him someone was up there. Beside him, Duck was saying, “Something else I’d like to see one of these days is a desert. Growin’ up here in the Nations where there are trees and bushes everywhere you look, I can’t imagine a place where there’s nothin’ but sand. You and Scratch ever been to a desert, Bo?”
“Death Valley, out in California,” Bo said. “That’s about as barren a place as you’d ever want to see. And White Sands, over in New Mexico Territory. Miles and miles of sand so white and bright it’ll just about blind you when the sun shines on it.”
“That would sure be somethin’ to see, all right,” Duck agreed. “I’m gonna save my money, and after I put in a few more years in the Lighthorse, I’ll—”
Bo straightened in the saddle as he spotted the glint of sunlight reflecting off something on top of that bluff, which was now only about a hundred yards away. He opened his mouth to interrupt Duck, but before he could say anything, the flat crack of a rifle shot split the morning air.
And beside Bo, Duck Forbes grunted in pain and rocked back in his saddle.
CHAPTER 15
Bo caught a glimpse of the puff of powder smoke from the top of the bluff, but he was already turning to look at Duck. The stocky Cherokee, his eyes wide with pain, swayed back and forth in the saddle as he pressed a hand to his chest. Blood welled between his splayed-out fingers, telling Bo that Duck was badly wounded.
Everybody in the group had heard the shot and knew they were under attack. Brubaker yanked back on the team’s reins, bringing the wagon to a halt as he shouted, “Everybody spread out!”
At the same time, Charley Graywolf yelled, “Take cover!”
Both of those commands sent the riders scattering for the closest rocks or trees.
Bo leaned over and grabbed the reins of Duck’s horse. The tribal policeman had dropped them when he was shot. Clinging tightly to the reins, Bo led Duck’s mount behind him as he galloped toward a cluster of boulders. He hoped Duck could manage to stay in the saddle.
More shots came from the bluff. Bo didn’t know where the bullets went, but he reached the rocks without being hit. When he was safely behind the boulders, he dismounted almost before his horse stopped moving and sprang to the side of Duck’s horse just as the young Cherokee toppled off the animal. Bo caught him and eased him to the ground.
Duck’s mouth opened and closed several times as he looked up at Bo. He seemed to be struggling to say something. He couldn’t get the words out, though. The only sound that came from him was a cross between a wheeze and a whistle ... and that came from the hole in his chest.
Bo knew that sound meant the bullet had penetrated one of Duck’s lungs. He ripped Duck’s shirt open and saw the bullet hole still welling bright, frothy blood. Tearing off a piece of Duck’s shirt, he wadded it up and shoved it into the opening as hard as he could. That would serve two purposes. It would slow down the bleeding and also close the wound temporarily, which would help Duck breathe.
Duck’s distress seemed to ease slightly, but he still couldn’t say anything.
“Take it easy,” Bo told him. “Try not to move around any. You’ll see those oceans and deserts yet, Duck.”
Bo wasn’t sure of that at all, but he wanted to give Duck some hope to hold on to. When a man was badly wounded, despair was often fatal, but stubborn determination and a fighting spirit could bring him back from the brink of death.
Bo ran to his horse and pulled his Winchester from its sheath. The shooting still continued, and he could tell now that the members of Charley Graywolf’s posse were returning the ambusher’s fire. He figured Scratch and Brubaker were getting in on the action, too. He crawled up a huge, slanting slab of rock so he could get a look at the trail and the bluff where the hidden rifleman was located.
