Back on the courthouse lawn, Bo was about to fire at the prisoner he’d been battling when somebody suddenly stepped past him and swung a leg in a well-aimed kick. The man’s boot crashed into the fugitive’s jaw and laid him out again. The newcomer moved in and brought the butt of his rifle crashing down on the back of the man’s neck.
Bo recognized the rugged-looking deputy marshal who had driven the wagon up to the courthouse. More law officers swarmed past him and grabbed the unconscious fugitive.
The deputy swung his rifle toward Bo and snapped, “Put that gun down, mister. Better yet, holster it. You’re makin’ me nervous.”
Bo pouched the iron as he came to his feet. Obviously, the deputy had overcome the man he’d been fighting with at the wagon, maybe with help from other deputies who’d come running out of the courthouse.
“Did you see which way that yellow-haired gal went?” the lawman went on.
“She was headed that way,” Bo said as he pointed toward the downtown area. “My partner was after her.”
“Come on, then. She’s the most loco one in the whole bunch!”
Bo and the deputy ran toward Fort Smith’s business district. They heard a lot of yelling, and as they rounded a corner they saw a group of people in the street. Through gaps in the crowd, Bo caught a glimpse of Scratch being held from behind, his arms pinned by a burly townsman.
The blonde that Scratch had pursued was coming at him, a razor in her uplifted hand.
The deputy skidded to a halt and fired three shots into the air, cranking off the rounds as fast as he could work the Henry’s lever. The roar of the shots made people in the crowd gasp, curse, and fall back.
They also made the woman hesitate, and Scratch took advantage of the opportunity to lift his left leg in a kick that caught her wrist and sent the razor flying from her fingers.
Disarmed, the woman whirled around to flee again. The deputy snapped the rifle to his shoulder and fired again, this time through a narrow gap in the crowd. The bullet smacked into the paving stones at the woman’s feet.
The deputy worked the Henry’s lever and called, “Next one goes in your back, Cara! You know I ain’t foolin’!”
The mob that had surrounded Scratch and the woman was vanishing rapidly as people scrambled for cover. There was nothing like a few gunshots for clearing a street in a hurry. The deputy had an unobstructed aim now as he settled the rifle’s sights on the woman’s back.
She must have known he would kill her rather than let her get away, because she stopped and raised her hands. The torn dress hung open almost indecently, revealing her smooth back down to the curve of her hips.
“Marshal, that woman needs something to wear,” Bo said, his chivalrous instincts coming into play even in this situation.
“Don’t worry about that murderous whore,” the lawman muttered.
More deputies who had come running from the courthouse closed in around the blonde. They jerked her arms behind her back and clapped handcuffs around her wrists. Only when she was securely manacled did one of the men take off his coat and drape it around her shoulders where the mutilated dress was threatening to slip down and expose even more of her.
The lawman who stood next to Bo and Scratch finally lowered his rifle and stepped aside to let the other deputies lead the prisoner past them.
“Lock her up, boys, but don’t put her in with Lowe and Elam,” he ordered. He turned to the Texans and looked like he was about to say something else, but a stentorian shout interrupted him.
“Brubaker!”
“Aw, hell,” the deputy muttered. “Here comes Parker.”
CHAPTER 3
It was the famous Hanging Judge stalking along the street toward them, all right. Bo had seen photographs of Isaac Parker before, although he had never met the man and certainly never appeared before him in court.
Parker didn’t cut that impressive of a figure at first glance. He was a medium-size man with dark hair and a Van Dyke beard, dressed in a brown tweed suit.
You had to get close to him to see the unquenchable fire for justice that burned in his eyes.
As judge for the western district of Arkansas, which included Indian Territory, he rode herd on one of the wildest areas in the country. The tribes who had been settled on reservations in the Territory several decades earlier were peaceful for the most part, but they had their share of criminals and troublemakers just like any group will.
For the most part it was white owlhoots who made Indian Territory such a lawless, untamed region. Smugglers, bootleggers, rustlers, bank robbers, thieves, road agents, and murderers of all stripes viewed the Territory as a refuge beyond the reach of the law.
That wasn’t strictly true. The various tribes had their own police forces, such as the Cherokee Lighthorse, but those officers dealt only with Indian matters. Judge Parker employed a force of tough deputy marshals to patrol the Territory and bring in lawbreakers, but they were spread pretty thin.
Bo had heard it said that a lot of Parker’s deputies were little better than outlaws themselves, and for all he knew, that might be true. The one called Brubaker certainly looked mean enough to have broken a few laws in his time.
Parker strode up to them and said in his powerful, commanding voice, “I’m told that three prisoners in your custody have escaped, Brubaker. Is this true?”
“No, sir, it’s a dadblamed lie,” the deputy responded without hesitation. “They gave me a mite of trouble, but they’re all locked up now, Your Honor, or they will be as soon as the boys get Cara LaChance behind bars.”
Parker’s eyes flashed with interest. “You arrested the LaChance woman?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, along with Dayton Lowe and Jim Elam. The rest of Gentry’s bunch gave me the slip, but as soon as I provision up again, I’ll be headed out on their trail.”
“Not so fast,” Parker said. “I may have another job for you.” He looked over at Bo and Scratch and frowned. “Who are these men?”
Brubaker scowled and said, “They, uh, gave me a hand corralin’ them prisoners.”
“Gave you a hand?” Scratched repeated incredulously. “Why, if we hadn’t pitched in, two of ’em would’ve got away, and you durned well know it, mister.”
Brubaker was about to frame an angry response when Parker stopped him with an upraised hand. The judge looked at Scratch and asked, “Is that a Texas accent I hear?”
“Texan born, bred, and forever,” Scratch answered without any attempt to keep the pride out of his voice. Despite their years of wandering elsewhere, he and Bo had never lost the drawl that was part of their Lone Star heritage.
“I’m Bo Creel, Your Honor,” Bo introduced himself. “My pard here is Scratch Morton.”
Parker nodded and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen, and you have my sincere thanks for your assistance in this matter.” He glanced at Brubaker, whose face was flushed with anger. “Those prisoners never should have gotten loose in the first place. How did they manage that, Brubaker? Why weren’t they shackled in the back of that wagon?”
“They were, Judge,” Brubaker replied. “I put the irons on ’em myself. There ain’t no doubt about it. But when I swung open the door on the back of the wagon, Lowe jumped me and tried to get my rifle away from me. While I was tusslin’ with him, the other two jumped out and lit a shuck. They got loose somehow, but durned if I know how.”
“Did you search them before you locked them up?” Bo asked. “Some people are real good at picking locks if they’ve got a little steel bar.”
“Are you tryin’ to tell me how to do my job, mister?” Brubaker shot back hotly. “Of course I searched ’em!
