them out.”
Bo studied the layout. On the other side of the creek, open fields ran into the distance, some of them with brush fences between them. A man might be able to creep closer to the cabin from that direction by using the fences for cover, but that wouldn’t get him close enough. He would still have to cross the creek in the open, which would probably result in his painful introduction to a bullet.
On this side of the creek, next to the cabin, was a lean-to shed that was crowded with horses at the moment. Graywolf and his partners might be able to shoot those horses, although the angle wasn’t all that good, but they weren’t the sort of men to kill helpless animals unless they had to.
Farther off to one side stood a log barn with an attached corral on one side and a muddy hog pen on the other. Several massive hogs rooted happily in the mud, oblivious to the gunfire going on nearby.
“There’s too much open ground all around the place,” Graywolf said. “If we could get close enough we might be able to set the cabin on fire and smoke them out, but they’re good shots. They’d pick off anybody who tried to do that.”
“How about shootin’ some flamin’ arrows down there?” Scratch suggested.
Graywolf made a disgusted noise.
“We’re Cherokee, not Comanche. Did you see any bows and arrows among our gear?”
“Didn’t mean any offense,” Scratch said.
Graywolf shook his head.
“Don’t worry about it. Actually, I am a pretty good shot with a bow, and Walt there is even better. But we don’t have any. I thought about trying to make some torches and throwing them down there from up here, but it’s too far.”
“How deep are those creek banks?” Bo asked.
“I don’t know. Five, maybe six feet from the look of them.”
“What if a man took some torches along with him, unlit, and waded along that creek? He could get closer that way, maybe close enough to light the torches and toss them onto the roof.”
Graywolf frowned in thought. After a moment he said, “That might work. But there’s a window on that side. If any of that bunch spotted him when he raised up to throw the torches, they could cut him down without much trouble.”
“I’m willing to run the risk,” Bo said.
“And if I went with him,” Scratch added, “I could cover him in case they did see him.”
“You’d both get wet,” Graywolf warned. “That creek’s spring-fed. It runs year-round.”
Scratch grinned. “I reckon we could both do with a bath,” he said. “What do you say, Bo?”
“It was my idea,” Bo replied. “I’m willing to do a little wading.”
He knew why Graywolf was concerned. Even though the temperature was above freezing, the air was still very cold. It would feel even colder to the two Texans once they were wet. They shouldn’t have to submerge themselves completely in the water, though, Bo told himself. The creek probably wasn’t deep enough for that.
“All right,” Graywolf said. “We’ll give it a try, but only because I don’t see any other way to get them out of there. Let’s find some branches and put together a few torches.”
Bo picked out three suitable branches that were heavy enough he could throw them easily, but short enough that he could carry them under his coat if he needed to. Around one end of the branches he wrapped strips cut from a wool blanket.
“If they’re going to burn hot enough to set the roof on fire, we need to soak them in something,” he said. “I don’t suppose anybody’s got any kerosene?”
“Wait here,” Brubaker said gruffly. He went back down the slope to the wagon and rummaged in the box under the driver’s seat.
When he returned he brought with him not a bucket of kerosene but rather a jug with a cork in its neck. Graywolf grinned at him and asked, “Why, Forty-two, is that a jug of white lightnin’? I thought you marshals were supposed to track down the people who bring firewater into the Indian Nations, not smuggle it in yourself.”
“I brung it along for medicinal purposes,” Brubaker insisted. “You can ask these two Texans if they’ve seen me nippin’ at it.”
“We haven’t,” Bo said.
“But we ain’t been watchin’ for it, either,” Scratch added.
Brubaker snarled as he shoved the jug into the silver-haired Texan’s hands.
“That’s enough. Take this with you, and when you get close enough to the cabin, pour some of it on the torches. They’ll light easy and burn strong.”
“You’re right about that,” Bo told him. “Ready, Scratch?”
“Sure. Let’s get this done.”
The sky had been mostly clear that morning, but clouds had moved in during the day so that now the sky was partially overcast and the sun was hidden. That made the air seem even chillier.
Bo told himself not to worry about that as he and Scratch mounted up and rode about half a mile north. The knob had shielded them, so the men in the cabin wouldn’t have seen them depart.
They angled west and came to the creek. As they dismounted, Scratch asked, “Do we start wadin’ here?”
Bo shook his head.
“No, we’ll leave the horses here and follow the stream on foot as far as we can before we climb down the bank. No point in getting any colder than we have to.”
“That sounds good to me. My circulation ain’t what it used to be. Remind me again why we didn’t suggest that a couple of them young Indian lads do this?”
Bo laughed. “Because we didn’t think of it?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid you were gonna say. Come on.”
Bo carried the torches while Scratch brought the jug of moonshine. The creek bank was choked with brush, which made their progress slow. The shots from the lawmen on the knob continued, as well as the return fire from the cabin, but the pace of the shooting had slowed down now. A stand-off was always like that. After a while, the apparent pointlessness of it made both sides fall into a lull.
With any luck, that would be changing soon, Bo thought.
They came in sight of the area that had been cleared along both sides of the stream for the Kinlock farm. Bo motioned toward the creek. He handed the torches to Scratch and climbed down the bank first. The drop-off was steep but not sheer, so he didn’t have much trouble. When he stepped down into the water, he sank to his knees, which put his head just below the top of the bank.
The cold made him take a sharp breath. Scratch asked, “A mite chilly, is it?”
“Just be glad we only have to wade in it and don’t have to swim,” Bo said.
Scratch handed down the torches and the jug. When he was standing in the creek, too, he shivered and reached out to take the jug from Bo.
“Reckon there’s enough in here to spare a swig?” he asked. “Might help warm us up.”
Bo shook his head.
“Better not risk it.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say,” Scratch replied with a sigh.
They started trudging along the creek. The mud on the bottom sucked at their boots with every step. Their feet were already soaked and icy. Although it probably wasn’t happening yet, Bo thought he felt his toes going numb. When this was over, he’d have to be careful about warming them up again, or else he’d be risking frostbite.
The shots from the knob picked up in intensity and frequency. From that height, Brubaker, Graywolf, and the others could see the Texans making their way along the creek, even though the bank shielded them from the view of those inside the cabin. The increased shooting was by design. The lawmen wanted all the attention on them, not on the threat that was creeping up behind the outlaws.
Bo was in the lead. He had just taken a step when suddenly his foot kept sinking through the water. Just as he had fallen into that ravine, he knew instantly that he had stepped into a hole in the creek bottom. He had the torches in his left hand, and as the frigid water closed around him, he thrust that hand into the air as high as he could.
