Texas Bloodshed (11 page)
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Bo was in the lead. He had just taken a step when suddenly his foot kept sinking through the water. Just as he had fallen into that ravine, he knew instantly that he had stepped into a hole in the creek bottom. He had the torches in his left hand, and as the frigid water closed around him, he thrust that hand into the air as high as he could.
“Bo!” Scratch exclaimed in a half-whisper. He leaped forward to reach for Bo's arm.
The water didn't come all the way up over Bo's head, but when he stopped sinking he was up to his neck in the creek. Its icy grip enveloped him, shocking him so that he wasn't able to move. He knew better than to start floundering. That might just cause him to sink even more.
Scratch's free hand closed around Bo's wrist and hauled up. Bo's boots slid in the mud, but with Scratch's help he was able to get out of the hole. Trying to keep his teeth from chattering, he said, “B-b-b-better circle around this spot.”
“Bo, we gotta get you out of here and into some dry clothes!”
“Not yet,” Bo said. “We're c-c-c-c-close now.”
It was true. The shots from the cabin sounded like they were only a few yards away. The Texans moved on a short distance and then Scratch pulled himself a few inches up the bank.
“I can see the roof!” he whispered to Bo.
They were back in knee-deep water now. Bo was shivering. He told Scratch, “You'll have to light the torches. My matches are soaked.”
“Sure. Let's get 'em ready.”
Bo held out one of the torches. Scratch used his teeth to pull the cork from the jug, then tipped it just enough to let the clear liquid inside soak into the blanket strips wrapped around the end of the branch. He got them thoroughly wet without spilling much of the whiskey. The stuff would evaporate quickly, so they didn't waste any time as they soaked all three torches.
Then Scratch set the jug on a little shelf of earth that jutted out from the creek bank and dug a tin of matches from his shirt pocket. He snapped one of them to life with his thumbnail and held the little flame to each of the torches in turn.
That was all it took. The whiskey-soaked rags caught fire immediately and blazed up. Scratch took one of the torches from Bo and said, “Let's go!”
They scrambled up the bank, carrying the burning torches. The cabin was about twenty feet away. The window in the wall facing them was a dark hole. Nobody was looking out.
Fighting off the terrible chills that ran through him, Bo drew back his right arm and let fly with that torch. It spun through the air and landed cleanly on the cabin's roof. Scratch's torch bounced and looked like it might fall off, but then it caught on the rough shakes and came to a stop. Bo's second torch landed close to it. All three continued to burn.
But even though the wooden shakes on the roof quickly started to char and smolder, they didn't actually catch fire. And the flames on the torches were beginning to die down. They looked like they might burn out before they caught the roof on fire.
Scratch cursed and whispered, “Now what?”
Being half-frozen hadn't slowed down Bo's brain any, at least not yet.
“Hand me the jug,” he said.
“What are youâOh, hell,” Scratch said as he realized what Bo had in mind. “That ought to do it, all right, but you'd better let me heave it. We'll only get one try, and you're shakin' to beat the band.”
“T-t-t-toss it good,” Bo urged.
Scratched reached back down and snagged the jug. He gave it a shake.
“Probably half full,” he said. “Ought to be enough.”
“Let it rip.”
Scratch left the cork in the neck of the jug, hooked a finger through the little handle, and drew back his arm. He swung it forward and sent the jug arching through the air toward the top of the cabin.
For a second Bo thought his old friend had thrown the jug too hard. It looked like it was going to go clear over the roof's peak and fall on the other side.
But then it dropped, its weight carrying it down with enough force that when it struck the roof it seemed to explode, spraying moonshine in all directions, including over the still-burning torches.
With a mighty
whoosh!
, flames shot high into the air.
whoosh!
, flames shot high into the air.
CHAPTER 18
With that added fuel, there was no question now that the cabin roof was going to catch on fire. It did so in a matter of seconds as Bo and Scratch slid back down the creek bank and their feet splashed in the water. A fierce crackling filled the air as the wooden shakes began to burn and black smoke billowed up.
The Texans heard alarmed yelling from inside the cabin. Scratch leaned closer to Bo and said, “I hope there were no womenfolk or kids in there with those outlaws!”
“Me, too,” Bo agreed with a nod, “but if there are, none of the f-f-f-fellas up on that knob will shoot them when they come out.”
“You're gonna freeze to death if we don't get you in some dry clothes soon.”
“I'll be all right,” Bo insisted. He drew his Colt from its soggy holster. “We b-b-b-better be ready in case any of them come this way when they run.”
Scratch slid his Remingtons from leather.
“Yeah, you're right about that. With that window on this side, they're liable to.”
The shooting continued as the lawmen peppered the burning cabin with slugs. Bo and Scratch waited tensely to see if any of the outlaws were going to flee in their direction. That window in the back wall of the cabin would be easy enough to climb out of.
They didn't have to wait very long. A panting, cursing figure appeared, clambering and sliding down the bank about fifteen feet from the spot where the Texans had drawn back and pressed themselves against the slope.
Another man came close behind the first one, saying bitterly, “Damn it, Nat, you claimed they'd never chase us this far!”
The first fugitive, who had to be Nat Kinlock, didn't look back as he said, “Shut up and run, Chester!”
Both of them started to splash across the creek. Bo and Scratch stepped out with leveled guns. The silver-haired Texan shouted, “Hold it right there, boys!”
Neither of them really expected the fleeing outlaws to surrender, and Kinlock and Chester didn't disappoint. The two men twisted around and clawed guns from underneath their long coats.
But they couldn't outdraw guns that were already drawn, and they were no match for the coolheaded accuracy of the drifters from Texas.
Half-frozen Bo might be, but the trembling that had shaken his body disappeared entirely when he had the butt of a Colt in his hand. Flame stabbed from the weapon's muzzle as he fired. Beside him, the twin booms of Scratch's Remingtons filled the air and echoed back from the creek banks.
Kinlock and Chester didn't get off a single shot. Bo's bullet drove into Chester's body and knocked him backward. He landed full-length in the creek with a huge splash that threw water high in the air.
A few feet away, both of Scratch's slugs bored through Nat Kinlock and twisted him around so that he fell face-first in the icy water. The creek was just deep enough that he began to float with his arms splayed out as the water around him took on a reddish tinge from the blood leaking from both outlaws.
“You sons o' bitches!” someone bellowed from the top of the creek bank. Bo and Scratch turned their heads to look in that direction and saw an old man in overalls leveling a double-barreled shotgun at them. Bo had time to realize the old-timer was probably George Kinlock, Nat's grandfather.
He realized as well that he and Scratch had nowhere to take cover and they were about to be shredded by that double load of buckshot.
George Kinlock lurched forward and arched his back just he jerked the Greener's triggers. That pulled the twin barrels up just enough that the blasts went over the heads of Bo and Scratch and tore into the opposite bank instead. The old man dropped the empty shotgun and fell to his knees. He pitched forward and slid head-first down the bank, coming to a stop with his head just above the water as his overalls snagged on a protruding branch. There was a growing bloodstain in the middle of his back.
“One of those fellas on the knob must'a drilled him,” Scratch said.
“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.
“
G-g-g-gracias
,” he said.
G-g-g-gracias
,” he said.
“
De nada
,” Scratch told him with a grin. “Careful, there ...”
De nada
,” Scratch told him with a grin. “Careful, there ...”
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 a shy smile. Looking at her like that, Scratch thought, it was almost impossible to believe that she was a bloodthirsty outlaw.
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