wagon. “Gentry sets a lot of store by that girl in there, and Lowe and Elam rode with him for a long time. He has to get ’em all back, or he risks losin’ the respect of the rest of the gang.”
“Then why don’t you wait here,” Bo suggested, “while Scratch and I take a look around? We’ll scout out the crossing and come right back.”
Brubaker nodded. “Sure, go ahead. Just be careful in case there is some sort of trouble waitin’ up there.”
“We’re always careful,” Scratch said with a grin. “Sometimes what we do just
Bo chuckled and said, “Come on.”
While Brubaker sat there with the wagon, the Texans rode on toward the river.
Scratch was thinking as he rode. He figured that what Brubaker had said about Gentry’s gang getting out of Texas one step ahead of a posse of Rangers was the answer to one of the things he’d been wondering about. They had left that loot stashed in the cave Cara had told him about because they’d never had a chance to go back and get it. When they rode away from the hideout for the last time, they hadn’t known that they wouldn’t be able to return.
“See anything?” Bo asked quietly as they approached the cutbanks.
“Not so far,” Scratch replied. His keen eyes scanned the brushy bluffs overlooking the river. “You really think Gentry posted watchers at all the river crossin’s in these parts?”
“It’s possible. They might not even be regular members of his gang, just wild youngsters who want to be outlaws, like Jink and Mort Staley and their cousin Bob. If I was Gentry, I think I’d be waiting with the rest of my men at some central location, so that if one of the watchers saw us cross the river into Texas, he could gallop there and carry the word. Then Gentry and the gang could get on our trail.”
Scratch let out a low whistle of admiration.
“That’s some devious thinkin’ there, Bo,” he said. “I think we missed our callin’. We should’ve been outlaws.”
“Maybe so. But I sort of like being able to sleep at night.”
Scratch didn’t say anything to that.
They rode along the eastern bank overlooking the trail and didn’t find anything unusual. Then they doubled back and started checking out the western bank. As they approached the edge that overlooked the river, Bo suddenly reined in and lifted his head to sniff the air.
Scratch did likewise. He smelled the same thing Bo had.
Tobacco smoke.
Somebody was in the vicinity, all right, puffing on a quirly. Whoever it was might be totally innocent, with no connection to Hank Gentry, but they couldn’t risk that.
Bo said in a fairly loud voice, “Well, I don’t see anybody up here. We might as well go on back to the wagon and tell Deputy Brubaker that it’s all right to cross the river.”
While he was talking, he swung down from the saddle and handed his reins to Scratch. The silver-haired Texan frowned in concern, but Bo made a reassuring motion with his left hand and drew his gun with his right.
Scratch turned his mount and rode back toward the wagon, leading Bo’s horse. To anyone listening, it would sound like they were both returning to the wagon.
Gun in hand, Bo stole forward stealthily. He approached the edge of the bank where it dropped off rather sharply to the river, some twenty feet below. The smell of smoke was stronger now. It drifted up from a brush- choked ledge that ran along the northern riverbank, following the curve of the bank and gradually descending to a flat area next to the water where some scrubby trees grew.
Bo studied those trees closely, and after a few moments he caught a glimpse of movement there. He continued watching until he was able to make out a horse cropping at the sparse grass under the trees. Someone had picketed the animal there, and that somebody had to be hiding in the brush farther up the ledge, watching the crossing.
And foolishly smoking a cigarette, too, Bo thought. That was the only thing that had given away the man’s presence. The trees where the horse was hidden were around a small bend, so it was unlikely any of them would have noticed the animal if they had crossed the river without scouting around first.
Bo moved closer to the edge of the bank and peered down into the brush. He thought he might be able to spot smoke rising from the quirly, but the smell was fading now. The watcher had finished his smoke, and he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to build another.
He couldn’t keep completely still, though, which told Bo that he was probably young. Most experienced frontiersmen had the ability to remain motionless when they had to. A lot of times being able to do so was a matter of life and death.
In this case, the watcher shifted, and Bo spotted the movement. Now that he knew where to look, he was able to pick out the shape of a brown hat among the mostly bare branches. The watcher wore a brown coat, too, which helped him to blend in with the gray branches and the reddish-brown dirt. Sunlight reflected on something beside him. The breech of a rifle, Bo decided.
He could have gunned the man down without much trouble, but that would be cold-blooded murder. Not only that, but Bo couldn’t be absolutely certain the watcher was working for Hank Gentry, although that was the only explanation that really made sense. If the man was a member of Gentry’s gang, or even if he just wanted to be, he might possess information that would be valuable.
The ledge was about twelve feet below Bo. In absolute silence, he holstered his gun, then rose to his feet and gathered himself. He knew that Scratch and Brubaker were probably watching him, and as soon as he made his move, Scratch would, too. So he would have help if anything went wrong.
The watcher shifted again, and Bo took a deep breath.
He leaped over the edge of the bank and plunged straight down at the hidden man.
CHAPTER 21
The watcher didn’t know he was under attack until it was too late to do anything about it. At the last second some instinct must have warned him, because he twisted around and looked up, revealing a freckled, frightened face.
The next instant, Bo’s booted feet smashed into him and drove him to the ground.
The man let out a cry of pain. Bo’s weight carried him forward, but he rolled against the bushes and they kept him from falling off the ledge and into the river. As soon as he caught his balance, he came up on one knee and drew his Colt.
He didn’t have to worry about the man he had jumped on putting up a fight. The fellow was curled up in a ball clutching his chest with both hands. He gasped, “Holy cow! I think you ... busted all my ribs!”
The watcher’s hat had flown off when Bo knocked him to the ground, revealing him to be young, probably no more than twenty years old. He had a thick shock of rumpled red hair that went with his freckled features. The rifle that lay on the ledge close to the spot where he’d been hunkering on his heels was an old single-shot weapon. As far as Bo could see, the youngster wasn’t carrying a handgun.
Bo’s hat had come off, too, when he jumped from the edge of the bank. It had landed nearby on top of a bush. Without taking his eyes off the man he was covering, he picked up the black hat and clapped it back on his head.
Then he said, “Don’t try anything. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to.”
“Didn’t you ... hear me?” the young man asked miserably. “I’m busted all to pieces inside!”
“I doubt that,” Bo said. “I didn’t hit you that hard. What’s your name?”
“Early,” the youngster forced out through clenched teeth. “Early Nesbit.”
“Why were you lurking in the bushes, Early?” Bo asked. “Waiting for somebody to come along so you could bushwhack them and rob them?”
“No! I ... I wasn’t lurkin’. Can’t a fella ... stop to have a smoke ... without somebody jumpin’ him?”
“You didn’t just stop to have a smoke,” Bo said. “You were hidden in the brush, and you’ve been here a
