Graywolf nodded. “That’s right. And he knows it, too. That’s why he set this trap for us. He figured he had to stop us. But if we move fast enough, we might be able to corner him and the others at his grandfather’s farm.”
“Then mount up and go on,” Bo said.
Graywolf shook his head.
“We have to bury Duck.”
“We’ll take care of that,” Scratch said. “Then we’ll catch up with you fellas and see if we can give you a hand.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Bo added.
Brubaker scowled. “Wait just a chicken-scratchin’ minute,” he said. “We got our own job to do. I reckon we can take the time to lay this poor young fella to rest, but after that—”
Bo interrupted by asking Charley Graywolf, “Where’s this farm you mentioned?”
“About five miles west of here,” the Cherokee lawman replied. “In a valley between a couple of ridges that run east and west. Massasauga Valley, the one I mentioned earlier.” He nodded toward Brubaker. “Forty-two knows where it is.”
“Pretty much the way we were already goin’, sounds like,” Scratch said.
Graywolf shrugged and nodded.
“Now, listen here—” Brubaker began again.
“Marshal, we promised to help you deliver those prisoners, and we will,” Bo declared. “But giving Charley and Walt and Joe a hand isn’t going to delay us very much, especially since we’re already headed in that direction.”
“We’re wasting time,” Graywolf said. “We’re much obliged to you for taking care of Duck, but we’ve got to be riding. Come after us or don’t, it’s up to you.”
With that, he and his men swung up into their saddles and galloped off along the trail. They paused at the foot of the bluff long enough to take a look at the man Bo had shot. Graywolf turned in the saddle and shouted, “It’s one of Kinlock’s men, all right!”
Bo waved a hand in acknowledgment.
Brubaker let out an exasperated sigh.
“All right,” he said. “There’s a shovel in the possum belly under the wagon. Let’s get that grave dug.”
“You’re gonna help Charley and those other fellas?” Scratch asked.
“Might as well. I’m a lawman, too, and I hate murderin’ outlaws worse than anything.” Brubaker paused. “Just don’t let Judge Parker hear about this.”
“No need to say anything to the judge,” Bo replied. He glanced at Duck’s body lying beside the trail. “Anyway, this job’s not really official.”
“Nope,” Scratch agreed. “It’s personal now.”
CHAPTER 17
The Texans found a suitable spot not far from the trail and took turns digging the grave while Brubaker wrapped Duck’s body in a blanket. After they had lowered the young lawman into the ground and covered up the grave, they stood beside the mound of freshly turned dirt with their hats in their hands.
“I’ve had to bury quite a few fellas who got cut down before their time,” Brubaker said. “So unless one of you wants to say a few words ...”
“Go ahead,” Bo told him.
Brubaker nodded, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. Bo and Scratch followed suit.
“Lord, we ask that You show Your infinite mercy to this young man who was foully murdered by owlhoots. His name was Duck Forbes, or at least that’s the only name we know him by. I reckon You know all there is to know about him. He should still be here with his friends and family, but since he ain’t, please forgive him any sins he might’ve done and accept him into Your kingdom with Your blessin’s. Amen.”
“Amen,” Bo and Scratch echoed.
Brubaker clapped his hat on his head, wincing slightly at the pain from the bullet graze he had suffered during the shoot-out at the trading post with Jink Staley and the rest of that bunch.
“All right, let’s go get the skunks that done this,” he grated.
“Charley, Walt, and Joe may have taken care of them by the time we catch up,” Bo pointed out.
“Well, if they have then we can help with the buryin’ there, too,” Brubaker said.
He climbed onto the wagon seat while Bo and Scratch mounted up. All of them moved off along the trail at a rapid clip, with the Texans leading the way.
They couldn’t afford to forget about the continuing threats from Hank Gentry’s gang and the rest of the Staley clan, Bo reminded himself. Because of that, he and Scratch kept their eyes open, scanning the countryside in front of them and to the sides, as well as checking their backtrail frequently.
The ambush had taken place at midmorning. The sun was almost directly overhead by the time Bo and Scratch heard the distant pop of gunshots ahead of them.
The Texans reined in, and Scratch said over his shoulder to Brubaker, “Sounds like Charley and his pards done opened the ball without us.”
“I ain’t surprised,” Brubaker replied. “They were rarin’ to settle the score with that bunch.”
“Does this trail go through that valley where Kinlock’s grandfather has his farm?” Bo asked.
Brubaker nodded. “It does, so we shouldn’t have any trouble findin’ the place. Come on!”
He flapped the reins against the backs of the team and got the horses moving again.
The shots grew louder and began to echo as the trail twisted through some hills. After several minutes of that, it emerged into a broad valley that stretched out for probably ten miles between two rugged ridges. In summer, this would be a green, lovely place, Bo thought, but in the middle of winter it was gray and forbidding. The continuing sound of shots just made it seem more so.
The valley floor wasn’t completely flat. Some knolls and brushy knobs were scattered across it. The shots guided Bo, Scratch, and Brubaker to one of those knobs. Three horses were tied at the bottom of the slope. Bo recognized them as the mounts the Cherokee Lighthorsemen had been riding.
So did Scratch, saying, “Charley and those other two fellas must be on top of this hill. Wonder what’s on the other side?”
“Old man Kinlock’s farm, I’ll bet,” Bo said. “Those outlaws are probably forted up inside the old man’s cabin.”
“Let’s go see,” Brubaker suggested as he climbed down from the wagon seat. He brought his Henry rifle with him.
The Texans dismounted and tied their horses to saplings. The three men started climbing the slope, which was covered with brush and small trees. It was slow going, but a narrow game trail made the climb a little easier.
Before they reached the top, Brubaker called, “Charley! Hey, Charley! We’re comin’ up behind you, so don’t get trigger-happy!”
“Come on up, Forty-two!” Charley Graywolf replied. “We can use a hand.”
They finished the climb and sprawled on the ground at the knob’s crest next to Graywolf. Walt Moon lay to one side and Joe Reeder to the other. Reeder had a bloody rag tied around his left thigh as a bandage, Bo noted.
“I see one of your men got hit,” Brubaker said.
“It’s nothing,” Reeder said as he levered his rifle. “It won’t slow me down none.”
He pointed the weapon at the log cabin that was located about a hundred and fifty yards on the other side of the knob, next to a small creek, and squeezed off a shot.
“I reckon that’s the old man’s place,” Brubaker said to Graywolf.
“Yeah. His name’s George Kinlock. Honest as far as that goes, or at least so I’ve heard. But he lets Nat and the rest of the gang stay here. That puts him on the wrong side of the law as far as I’m concerned.”
“Me, too,” Brubaker agreed. “Looks like a pretty sturdy cabin.”
“Too sturdy. Nat and the others have holed up in there, and we’re going to have a devil of a time getting
