The deputy nodded to him and said, “That wind’s blowin’ like a son of a bitch out there.”
Bo nodded. “It’ll do that,” he said, “especially from this time of year on through the spring. We’ll have to hold on to our hats today.”
“We’ll catch up to Morton and the LaChance woman today, that’s what we’d better do,” Brubaker said.
“That’s the plan. Scratch will find a way to signal us.”
“He damned well better. If he decides to take off with that gal and the loot, I’ll hunt him down, and you’d be wise not to try to stop me, Creel.”
“I’m not worried about that,” Bo replied with a shake of his head. “Scratch isn’t going to double-cross us.”
They ate breakfast at the hotel, then paid their bill and walked down the street to the livery stable where they had left their horses. The wind was still blowing fiercely out of the west.
The elderly hostler greeted them with a jerky nod, and Bo frowned as he sensed that something seemed to be making the man nervous.
Or some
A second later he understood why as the man in the lead, a white-haired hombre with a seamed, weathered face, said in a hard, gravelly voice, “I hear you two are lawmen from Arkansas. Is that right?”
Bo and Brubaker turned slowly. Brubaker glared at the three men and asked, “What business is that of yours, mister?”
“My name’s Leander Staley. You killed my boys Jink and Mort and my nephew Bob, and now that I’ve tracked you down, it’s time for you to pay.”
CHAPTER 28
As soon as Leander Staley opened his mouth, Bo recognized his voice from their previous encounter in Indian Territory. So he knew right away this was trouble, and Brubaker must have, too, because the deputy didn’t wait, didn’t try to talk Staley out of anything.
No, Brubaker just hauled his gun out and commenced to shooting.
Bo had no choice but to follow suit, since Staley and his two companions clawed their irons from leather and returned the fire. As Bo’s Colt began to roar and buck in his hand, he angled to his left, away from Brubaker, who was lunging to the right. Splitting up like that kept their three opponents from concentrating their fire.
Behind Bo, the hostler let out a screech. Bo hoped the old man was just scared and not wounded, but he couldn’t check on the hostler now. Besides, he hadn’t called this tune, Leander Staley had, and the vengeful Staley was the one ultimately responsible for whatever happened.
Staley and his partners were spreading out, too. One of them stumbled and clapped a hand to his side as a bullet ripped through him. That gave Brubaker the chance to put a well-placed slug through his head. The man went down like a puppet with its strings cut.
Bo dropped to one knee behind a post holding up the stable’s hayloft. It was meager cover but better than nothing. He ducked as a bullet smacked into the post above his head and sent a chunk of wood flying into the air. The Colt in his hand blasted again. The other younger man doubled over as Bo’s bullet punched into his belly.
That left Leander Staley still on his feet, and the vengeance-seeking old man was hit. Under his open coat, blood stood out on his flannel shirt like bright flowers in a couple of places.
But he wasn’t going down easily. The hatred he felt for Bo and Brubaker kept him upright. He was even able to stalk forward, still triggering his gun. Bo and the deputy fired at the same time, flame spouting from the muzzles of their guns, and that pair of slugs hammering into Staley’s chest was finally enough to knock him down. He went over backward.
Even when he was on the ground, though, Staley struggled to raise his gun and fire again. Brubaker, who was crouched near a parked wagon, straightened and strode over to him. Staley rasped a curse.
“You ... killed my boys!” he managed to say as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“They had it comin’,” Brubaker said. He kicked the gun out of Staley’s hand. “And so do you.”
Brubaker lined his gun on Staley’s face and clearly was about to pull the trigger again when the old man gasped and arched his back. When he relaxed a second later, the breath came out of him in a death rattle.
“You’d be wasting a bullet, Forty-two,” Bo said from behind Brubaker.
“Yeah, I know.” Brubaker let out a disgusted curse. “And now we’re gonna have to waste time talkin’ to the local law. They’d better not hold us until we can’t catch up to Morton and that gal!”
Bo didn’t think that was likely. Brubaker’s deputy U.S. marshal badge would smooth over any ruffled feelings the local star packers might have about this shoot-out in their bailiwick.
But any delay might prove costly, Bo thought, and he couldn’t forget that Scratch was risking his life just by riding along with Cara LaChance.
Scratch and Cara camped on a high ridge that gave them a view of the countryside for several miles around. Scratch built a good-size campfire that sent smoke climbing upward. He didn’t know if Bo was already in these parts, but if that was the case, he might spot the smoke and realize that was Scratch sending him a signal.
Things had changed by the next morning. The wind had been from the south the day before, continuing the warming trend, but by morning it had turned around to the west. On the ridge it was particularly strong, snatching Scratch’s Stetson from his head when he went to saddle the horses. He had to run after the hat and catch it, which made Cara laugh at him.
Scratch pulled the Stetson down tighter on his head and frowned at her.
“You won’t think it’s so funny when that dang wind blows you off your horse,” he told her.
“That’s not gonna happen,” she said. She grew more serious as she went on. “We’d better have a cold camp this morning. With the wind blowing like that and as dry as everything is, it wouldn’t take much to start a wildfire.”
Scratch knew she was right about that. The grass, the brush, and many of the trees were dead, which meant the whole countryside was tinder-dry. Charley Graywolf had warned them that the drought in Texas was bad, and obviously, the Cherokee Lighthorseman had been right.
“I’ll miss my coffee,” Scratch said, “but maybe we can find a place later where we can risk a little fire. Like inside that cave of yours where the loot’s hidden.”
Cara nodded and said, “Yeah, that ought to be all right. Let’s get on the trail. We’ve still got some jerky. We’ll gnaw on that and call it breakfast.”
The wind was cold in their faces as they rode west. Not icy, as it might have been, and the bright sunshine helped warm things up a little, but Scratch felt the chill in his bones, anyway.
Cara didn’t seem to mind. She was excited at the prospect of arriving at the hideout and claiming that stash of loot before the day was over, and she wasn’t going to let some wind bother her, even a howler like the one blowing today.
By the middle of the day, the terrain had grown rougher and they had to slow down their pace as they fought their way past gullies choked with dry brush, up rocky slopes where their horses’ hooves slid on loose pebbles, and around rugged bluffs that were impossible to climb. At times they made their way along dark, narrow valleys that seemed to be trying to close in on them. Atop the ridges on either side, the bare branches of dead trees waved in the wind and reminded Scratch of skeletal fingers clawing at the empty sky. He didn’t know why such a grim thought crossed his mind, but once it did, he couldn’t shake that ghastly image from his brain.
“Is any of this startin’ to look familiar to you?” he asked Cara around midday.
“It all looks familiar to me,” she replied, “but things weren’t nearly as dry the last time I was here. Another couple of hours and we’ll be at the hideout. We’ve actually made pretty good time.”
Scratch supposed that she knew what she was talking about. He tugged his hat down, lowered his head, and rode on into the wind.
Sometime later—he wasn’t sure exactly how long—he lifted his head and sniffed. Cara, riding beside him, had
