“And saved our lives,” Bo said. He pointed his gun at the old man. “I’ll keep him covered just in case, while you check the other two.”
Scratch nodded and waded along the creek to check carefully and make sure that both Nat Kinlock and the fugitive called Chester were dead. When he was certain, he looked back and gave Bo a grim nod.
“The old-timer is, too,” Bo reported. “It’s a shame, if he really was mostly an honest man, like Charley said.”
“An honest man don’t let thieves and cold-blooded killers hide out with him, family or no family,” Scratch said. “And if he was just scared of his grandson and didn’t have no choice in the matter, he wouldn’t have tried to blow us to hell and gone with a scattergun.”
Bo couldn’t argue with that logic.
“Creel! Morton!” The shout came from Jake Brubaker. “Are you down there?”
“Yeah!” Scratch called back. “Is it safe to come up?”
“Come ahead!” Brubaker replied. “We’ve cleaned out the rest of this rat’s nest!”
The Texans holstered their guns. Scratch took hold of Bo’s arm and said, “Let me give you a hand gettin’ up that creek bank.”
Bo was about to pull away and tell his old friend that he could take care of himself, but then the shakes hit him again and he was glad for the firm grip Scratch had on his arm.
“
“
They climbed up the bank, and by the time they were back on level ground, Brubaker, Charley Graywolf, Walt Moon, and Joe Reeder were gathered around the burning cabin. A couple of bodies were sprawled facedown on the ground near the cabin. Those had to be the other members of Nat Kinlock’s gang.
The heat coming from the leaping flames felt wonderful to Bo. As long as he was standing within reach of it, that kept the bone-numbing cold at bay. In fact, his clothes were already starting to dry a little.
“Are you two all right?” Brubaker asked.
“We will be, once we ain’t half-frozen,” Scratch said. “Our horses are about half a mile upstream. We’ve got dry clothes in our warbags.”
“Walt, can you go fetch those horses?” Graywolf asked.
Moon nodded and said, “Sure, Charley. Be back in a few minutes.”
He swung up on one of the horses they had brought with them from the knob and rode away.
Bo used a thumb to point over his shoulder and said, “Nat Kinlock and a man called Chester are in the creek. So is an old man who tried to use a shotgun on us. I’m guessing one of you hombres shot him?”
Charley grinned and nodded toward Brubaker.
“That was Forty-two here. And a heck of a shot it was, too.”
“Darn right it was,” Scratch agreed. “Saved our bacon, for sure.”
“The old man was Kinlock’s grandfather?” Bo asked.
Graywolf nodded. “Yeah. If he had come out of there empty handed and not threatened anybody, he’d still be alive. So I’m sorry for what happened to him, but he brought it on himself.”
“Most people do, one way or another,” Brubaker said.
Bo had warmed up considerably by the time Walt Moon got back with the Texans’ horses, but it felt mighty good anyway to get out of the wet clothes and into dry duds. After pulling on fresh socks, both he and Scratch set their boots aside to dry.
Brubaker said, “The way those flames shot up so high, I’m thinkin’ that was more than just the roof catchin’ fire.”
“We sort of had to help it along,” Scratch admitted with a smile.
“I thought I caught a glimpse of my jug sailin’ through the air. I’m not gettin’ it back, am I?”
“Afraid not, Forty-two. But it went for a good cause.”
Brubaker sighed. “I suppose so. When we get south of the Red River, we’ll pick up another one at some tradin’ post. You know, for medicinal purposes. Just in case.”
Bo and Scratch nodded solemnly, and Bo repeated, “Just in case.”
Since it took all afternoon to bury the dead outlaws, it made sense to camp there on George Kinlock’s farm that night, although they put some distance between themselves and the smoldering, stinking rubble of the cabin. By evening, Bo and Scratch had warmed up and were back to normal as they sat beside the campfire Charley Graywolf had built.
“I just hope you don’t catch the grippe,” Scratch said. “My ma always said that if you got wet and cold, you’d come down with it, sure as shootin’.”
“Your ma said a lot of things that weren’t necessarily right,” Bo replied.
“Yeah, but she could cook a mighty fine apple pie.”
Bo nodded and said, “Yeah, I have to give her credit for that. I could do with a hot slice of your ma’s apple pie right now.”
Scratch sighed, since his mother had been gone for many, many years.
“So could I, Bo,” he said. “So could I.”
Walt Moon took over the cooking chores that night. The frybread he made was delicious. Brubaker set aside a portion of the food for the prisoners, and when everyone else had finished eating, he unlocked the door at the back of the wagon.
“Damn well about time you tended to us,” Dayton Lowe said.
“They was too busy pow-wowwin’ with their redskin friends,” Jim Elam added with a sneer on his face and in his voice.
Cara was unusually quiet. She sat with her head down and her shoulders slumped.
“I wouldn’t advise tryin’ anything,” Brubaker warned the prisoners. “We’ve spent the day killin’ outlaws, and nobody’s in a very good mood. Give us an excuse to do some more shootin’, and you might regret it.”
“Just give us somethin’ to eat,” Lowe snapped. “I’m just about starved in here. I’m a big man! I can’t live on two little meals a day.”
“You won’t starve to death. Not where you’re headed.”
It was clear what Brubaker meant. Once they reached Tyler, the trial would be a speedy one, and none of the prisoners would live long enough to starve to death.
After they had eaten, Brubaker unlocked their chains and took them out of the wagon one at a time. Cara said, “My arms are gettin’ mighty stiff from being pulled back like this all the time. Don’t you think you could chain them in front of us for a while, Marshal?”
Brubaker rubbed his jaw as he thought it over. Then he surprised Scratch by saying, “Well, I suppose if I was gonna do somethin’ like that, tonight would be the time to do it, since we’ve got three other lawmen here.”
“Injun lawmen,” Lowe said. “They ain’t allowed to shoot white folks.”
“We’ll make a special exception in your case, happen you try to get too smart with us,” Brubaker assured him. “As far as anybody will ever know, me or one of these temporary deputies will be the fella who ventilated you. Got that, Lowe?”
The big man lowered his shaggy head and growled, but he didn’t argue anymore.
When Brubaker took Cara out of the wagon, he told her, “Stand there. Don’t try anything. You boys keep her covered, understand?”
Five guns were pointed at Cara while Brubaker unlocked the shackles holding her wrists behind her back. As the chains came loose and she was able to move her arms in front of her again, she closed her eyes and said, “Aaahh!” in obvious relief.
Brubaker slapped the shackles right back on her. She didn’t seem to mind. She rolled her shoulders to ease the stiffness in those muscles.
When she looked up, she asked, “What about the other two?”
“Fine,” Brubaker said. “But in the mornin’, the hands go behind the back again.”
“I don’t care. Right now I’m just grateful for a little break.”
Scratch went along with Brubaker while Cara visited the woods. When they came back into the circle of light from the campfire the Cherokee Lighthorsemen had built, she glanced over at the silver-haired Texan and gave him
