a shy smile. Looking at her like that, Scratch thought, it was almost impossible to believe that she was a bloodthirsty outlaw.
Luckily, Scratch recalled how she’d tried to slice him up with that razor a few days earlier, so he didn’t let his guard down. It would take more than a pretty face to get him to do that.
CHAPTER 19
The night passed peacefully. The overcast remained in place, and as Brubaker studied the gray, leaden skies the next morning, he commented, “Looks like there might be some snow in those clouds.”
Charley Graywolf shook his head.
“I don’t think so, Forty-two,” he said. “It’s been mighty dry down in these parts for months now. We haven’t had any rain or snow to speak of in a long time. I hear it’s even worse down in Texas, where you’re headed.”
Brubaker snorted. “It’s always dry in Texas,” he said.
“This is worse than usual. There’s a real drought down there, and it’s spreading north.”
“Well, it can hold off rainin’ until we get where we’re goin’, as far as I’m concerned. This wagon’s pretty heavy. I don’t want it boggin’ down on muddy roads.”
Bo agreed with that sentiment. If the wagon were to get stuck, that would make them sitting ducks for Gentry’s gang or for the vengeance-seeking Staleys, if either of those bunches should happen to catch up to them then.
As they got ready to move out, Graywolf said, “I’d still like to go with you to the border, Forty-two, especially since you gave us a hand like that, but our orders were to deal with Kinlock and then get back to Tahlequah as soon as we can. The Lighthorse has a lot of ground to cover, and we’re stretched pretty thin.”
“I know that,” Brubaker said. “Don’t worry about it, Charley.” He held out a hand. “Good luck to you.”
“And to you fellas, as well,” Graywolf said as everyone shook hands all around.
Earlier, after breakfast, Brubaker had chained the prisoners’ hands behind their backs again. Lowe and Elam had complained bitterly about that, but Cara had taken it in stony silence. She seemed to have gotten tired of raising a ruckus about everything. There was a look of dull acceptance on her face ... not only about the chains, but about her ultimate fate as well.
Before the Cherokee Lighthorsemen headed back east, Brubaker warned them, “Keep your eyes open for Hank Gentry and his gang. I know they’ve got to be lookin’ for these three. Gentry’s liable to gun down anybody who gets in his way.”
“Don’t worry, Forty-two,” Graywolf said from the back of his horse. “If we run into them, they won’t find out from us that we’ve seen you.”
“Never crossed my mind that they would,” Brubaker said.
He got the wagon rolling westward along the narrow trail again. Bo took the lead, and Scratch rode behind the vehicle to keep an eye on their back trail. Bo was none the worse for being dunked in the frigid creek the day before, other than the fact that his bones maybe ached a little more than they usually did.
At his age, a multitude of aches and pains was normal, though, so he didn’t think anything about it.
Charley Graywolf proved to be better at predicting the weather than Brubaker. The gray clouds hung stubbornly in the sky, but they didn’t produce any snow or rain. The day passed uneventfully. Late that afternoon the travelers came to a crossroads, although giving it that name was probably an overstatement. A dim, narrow trail running north and south intersected the westerly one they were on.
Brubaker swung the wagon onto the southern trail and announced, “We’ll head south to the Red River. There’s a good crossing there above Gainesville. Once we’re in Texas we’ll cut back east to Dallas and then Tyler. Be there in about a week ... if folks stop shootin’ at us and slowin’ us down.”
Bo wasn’t going to count on having that much luck, and neither was Scratch.
The trail angled to the southwest. Brubaker followed it for a couple of miles and then called a halt for the day.
After they had made camp and eaten supper, Brubaker opened the door of the wagon to feed the prisoners. Lowe asked, “Are you gonna move our chains back to the front again?”
“Not hardly,” Brubaker answered. “We had those Cherokee Lighthorsemen with us last night to help out if any of you got rambunctious. Now things are back to the way they were before.”
“It was sure a lot more comfortable the other way,” Cara said.
Brubaker let out a snort of disdain.
“It ain’t my job to keep you comfortable,” he said, “just to get you to Tyler so Judge Southwick can deal with you as he sees fit.”
“Listen, Forty-two,” Scratch said. “We’ve got us a pretty good routine down by now. I don’t see that it’d hurt anything if we made things a mite easier on these folks.”
“Blast it, don’t get taken in by ’em, Morton!” Brubaker exclaimed angrily. “They never made it any easier on the innocent people they killed in their robberies, now did they?”
Scratch shrugged.
“I reckon not. But it seems like it’d be less trouble for us, too. For one thing, we wouldn’t have to feed ’em. They could do that themselves. And if we kept on coverin’ em all the time the wagon is open, I don’t see how they could get away.”
Brubaker frowned in thought for a moment, then asked Bo, “What do you say, Creel?”
“Scratch is right,” Bo said. “I don’t see how chaining their hands in front of them is going to make any difference. It sure won’t while they’re riding and chained to the floor, too.”
What Bo said was true. He couldn’t argue with Scratch’s claims.
But he did wonder just why Scratch was taking the side of the outlaws. That was very unusual for him. It had to be because of the soft spot Scratch had for womenfolks. If all three prisoners had been hardbitten male owlhoots, he wouldn’t have worried about whether they were comfortable or not.
Scratch was just too much of a Southern gentleman. It was bred in him to be chivalrous to a woman ... even when that woman was a killer.
Bo resolved to keep an eye on his old friend. He wouldn’t let Scratch do anything foolish.
After both Texans had weighed in with their opinions, Brubaker gave a reluctant nod and said, “All right. We’ll try it for a day or two. But if anything happens, I’m holdin’ you two responsible.”
“That’s fine,” Bo said. He didn’t really expect any trouble. And if it arose, they would deal with it.
One by one, while the Texans covered them, Brubaker switched the chains on the prisoners. When he was finished with that and Lowe and Elam were padlocked to the rings in the floor again, the deputy said, “All right, Creel, take the woman into the trees. Morton and I will watch these two.”
Cara pouted. “Mr. Morton’s been takin’ me,” she said.
“It don’t matter who takes you,” Brubaker snapped, “just go get your business done.”
“Come on, miss,” Bo said. He, too, had been raised to be a gentleman, although it wasn’t ingrained as deeply in him as it was in Scratch.
Cara seemed to have gotten used to the lack of privacy and didn’t let it bother her anymore. She went into the brush and hoisted her skirts without argument. While she was doing that, she asked, “Has Mr. Morton ever been married?”
“Why in the world would you want to know that?” Bo said.
“I’m just curious, that’s all. He seems like such a nice man. I figure some woman must’ve hooked him at one time or another.”
“Well, you’d be wrong there,” Bo said. “He’s never been married. Never even come close, as far as I know, although he’s talked about it a few times when he met some widow woman he particularly liked.”
Bo didn’t say anything about his own tragedy-shortened marriage. Cara hadn’t asked about that, and he wasn’t just about to volunteer the information. It wasn’t that he tried not to think about what he had lost, all those years ago. It was so far in the past that the pain had almost receded to nothing. Almost. But it didn’t have any bearing on what went on now.
Instead he asked, “Why do you want to know about Scratch? Seems like I remember you trying to cut him
