Texas Bloodshed (3 page)
Authors: William W. Johnstone
CHAPTER 5
Bo and Scratch looked at each other. It wasn't that they were opposed to returning to their home state. They had been back to Texas a number of times over the years, most recently to El Paso before a dangerous sojourn down into Mexico, to a place called Cutthroat Canyon. They had even returned to the area where they had grown up on a few occasions, but the last time had been about a decade earlier.
“Been a while since we've been home,” Scratch commented. “If we was to go to Tyler, it wouldn't be that hard to drift on down to Victoria.”
“It's still quite a ways,” Bo pointed out.
“Yeah, but we'd be closer than we are now.”
Bo shrugged in acknowledgment of that undeniable fact.
Brubaker said, “I want you to know, I didn't ask the judge to hire you fellas. I figure I can deliver those prisoners to Judge Southwick without any help.”
“That's certainly a possibility,” Parker said, “especially if Gentry doesn't get wind that we're moving them until it's too late to go after them. But I don't think we can count on that, Jake. Gentry has a number of friends among the criminal element here in Fort Smith.”
Brubaker shrugged and said, “I'll go along with whatever you decide, Your Honor.”
His tone made it clear that he might not like or agree with the decision, though.
“It's not my decision to make,” Parker said. He nodded across the desk toward Bo and Scratch. “That lies in the hands of these gentlemen.”
“How much money are we talkin' about, Judge?” Scratch asked.
“Forty dollars apiece, plus ten cents per mile. One way, of course. Where you go after you reach Tyler with the prisoners is your own affair.”
“That's as good as we could make cowboyin',” Scratch said to his old friend.
“Probably a little better, once you throw in the mileage,” Bo said. “How do you intend to pay us, Your Honor?”
“I'll give you the forty dollars when you're ready to ride out with Marshal Brubaker,” Parker replied.
Scratch grinned. “Afraid to give us the dinero ahead of time because we might take it and run off or fritter it away on whiskey and wild women, eh?” he asked.
“A federal judge must be prudent,” Parker said.
“What about the mileage?” Bo asked.
“Judge Southwick will pay you that portion of your fee when you deliver the prisoners to his court.'
“Does Bigfoot ... I mean His Honor Judge Southwick. . . know about that?”
“I'll send him a telegram advising him of our arrangement, once we've actually reached agreement on the particulars.”
Scratch grimaced and shook his head.
“So he's liable to tell us to go climb a stump and suck eggs instead of givin' us the money,” he said.
Parker clenched one hand into a fist that he thumped on the desk.
“Blast it! I'll guarantee the payment out of my own pocket if Judge Southwick refuses to abide by the terms I've laid out.”
“Well, I suppose that's fair,” Bo said. He'd had a strong hunch all along that he and Scratch would agree to go with Brubaker, but it never hurt to jaw a little first. “I'll say yes. How about you, Scratch?”
“Reckon I'll go along with the deal, too,” the silver-haired Texan drawled. “Be mighty good to see some of the Lone Star State again.”
“Then we have an agreement,” Parker said with an emphatic nod. He came to his feet. “Shake on it?”
“Sure thing,” Bo said as he stood and reached across the desk to shake hands with Parker. Scratch did likewise.
“Marshal Brubaker will give you all the details,” Parker went on. “I'll just say good luck, gentlemen.”
“You reckon we're gonna need it?” Scratch asked with a grin.
Parker's expression was solemn as he nodded and said, “Knowing Hank Gentry's reputation, I'm absolutely certain that you will.”
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After leaving Parker's office, the three men paused just outside the courthouse.
“I'll say again, this wasn't my idea,” Brubaker told the Texans. “And not to mince words about it, I don't appreciate the judge saddlin' me with a couple of amateurs.”
“You'd rather go it alone, is that it?” Bo asked.
“I'll have enough to do just keepin' up with those prisoners, without havin' to look after a couple of old pelicans like you two.”
“Old pelicans, are we?” Scratch asked hotly. “Let me tell you, sonny boyâ”
“Don't make the marshal's case for him, Scratch,” Bo said. “And as for you, Marshal, Scratch and I may not be young anymore, but trust me, we've still got some bark on us. You won't have to look after us. You just worry about the prisoners.”
Brubaker snorted and said, “Fine by me. You're on your own, then if there's trouble. My only concern is gettin' those three varmints to Tyler.”
Bo nodded. “That's a deal. When are we leaving?”
“First thing tomorrow mornin'. I want to be on the road by sunup.”
“That's fine. You plan to carry them in the same wagon you used to bring them here?”
“I figured I would,” Brubaker said. “You got any objection to that?”
“Not at all. It looked pretty sturdy. What about supplies?”
“There's a boot under the driver's seat we can fill up with provisions. If we run low, there are settlements between here and there where we can buy what we need.”
“Are you taking along a saddle horse?”
Brubaker frowned and asked, “What business is that of yours?”
“Just curious,” Bo said with a shrug.
“Yeah, I'm takin' a horse. I'll tie it on behind the wagon. Do the two of you have good mounts?”
“We do. We won't have any trouble keeping up.”
“Well, good,” Brubaker said, although he didn't sound all that pleased by the prospect. “You can meet me here at the courthouse at ... let's call it six o'clock tomorrow mornin'. Be ready to ride.”
“We will be,” Bo promised.
Brubaker gave them a curt nod and stalked off toward the stairs that led down to the basement jail. From the looks of it, he intended to pay a visit to the prisoners.
“That little banty rooster don't like us,” Scratch said as he watched Brubaker walk away.
“He doesn't appear to like much of anybody,” Bo said. “I wonder why not.” He shook his head and clapped a hand on Scratch's shoulder. “Let's go see if Corrigan kept that stew warm for us like he said he would.”
The tavern keeper had kept his promise. He set steaming bowls of Irish stew in front of the Texans, along with fresh cups of coffee. Then he surprised them by pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table with them.
“Why don't you join us?” Bo asked dryly.
“Don't mind if I do, seein' as 'tis my place and all,” Corrigan said, grinning under his red mustache. “What did Forty-two Brubaker want with you?”
“It wasn't Brubaker who wanted us,” Scratch said. “It was that durned judge.”
Bo considered how much they ought to tell Corrigan, then decided that the Irishman could be trusted. Corrigan had been running this tavern for a long time and had a good reputation.
“You heard about the ruckus with the prisoners who tried to escape earlier, I suppose,” Bo said.
Corrigan nodded. “Aye. Some of my customers have been talkin' about it. Quite a brouhaha from the sound of it.”
“We kept a couple of them from getting away, and that brought us to Judge Parker's attention. He wanted to hire us as temporary deputy marshals.”
“He's sendin' ye into the Territory after badmen, then?”
Bo shook his head.
“We're going to Texas with Marshal Brubaker. He has to deliver the prisoners he brought in today to another federal judge down in Tyler.”
Corrigan let out a surprised whistle.
“I'm bettin' Parker don't care much for that,” he said. “Once he gets a lawbreaker in that Hell on the Border jail o' his, most of 'em don't come out again unless it's to make the acquaintance of George Maledon.”
Bo knew that was the name of the hangman who conducted the executions for Parker.
“In this case, the judge didn't have any choice. He got a telegram from Washington telling him to go along with what the judge down in Texas wants.”
“Bigfoot Southwick,” Scratch muttered. “I still can't believe that galoot and those big clodhoppers of his wound up bein' a federal judge. When we knowed him, I always figured he was more likely to wind up behind bars his own self.”
“And that'd be a good place for a bunch o' them judges, if ye ask me,” Corrigan declared.
Bo was enjoying the stew. After he washed down another mouthful with a sip of coffee, he asked, “How well do you know Brubaker, Mike?”
“Tolerably well,” the tavern keeper replied. “We've been acquainted for four or five years, I'd say.”
Scratch commented, “He's sure got a burr up his backside, don't he?”
“He's not a man who's easy to warm up to, I'll admit,” Corrigan said. “Ye can't question his dedication to the law, though. It cost him his marriage.”
“How's that?” Bo asked.
“Well, it cost him his engagement, I should say. He never did make it to the altar. But he'd be married to a mighty pretty girl with a rich daddy by now if he'd agreed to give up packin' a badge. She and her da wanted him to go to work for the old man in his lumber business. The way I heard the story, Forty-two agreed, but then he changed his mind. I reckon he just couldn't bear the thought o' sleepin' in a nice warm bed with a nice warm wife and collectin' wages for a cushy job, instead of spendin' his days blisterin' under a hot sun and freezin' in a cold rain and gettin' shot at by some o' the worst rapscallions west of the Mississippi. The man's daft, if ye ask me, but don't ever question how he feels about doin' his job.”
Bo nodded slowly and said, “That's good to know, since we'll be traveling with him for a while.”
“Well, there's dedication, and then there's sheer pigheadedness, and Forty-two's capable of that, too,” Corrigan said. “Have a care, lads, that he don't get both of ye killed.”
CHAPTER 6
Bo and Scratch were sitting on their horses in front of the courthouse the next morning when Brubaker drove up in the wagon. The air was cold enough that the breath of men and horses alike turned into plumes of steam.
The Texans' saddlebags were full. Despite what Brubaker had said about taking along plenty of supplies, the Texans had decided that it wouldn't hurt anything to bring extra provisions.
The sun had not yet peeked over the horizon, but it would be doing so soon. The heavens to the east were full of yellow, gold, and red light, and that brilliance turned the fleecy clouds floating in the sky pastel shades of those same colors, creating a spectacular view.
It was a view those locked up in the basement jail couldn't see, except maybe for tiny bits visible through the small, ground-level, iron-barred holes used for ventilation. For the most part, Hell on the Border would be dark, cold, and clammy.
All the more reason not to behave like an owlhoot and get locked up, Bo thought as he shifted and eased his weight in his saddle.
He knew that not everybody who wound up behind bars had only themselves to blame for it. Genuine mix-ups could occur, and some of the things that had happened to him and Scratch were proof of that. But most people who wound up in jail or prison were there because they had it coming for something they had done.
From the sound of it, Cara LaChance, Dayton Lowe, and Jim Elam deserved to be right where they were, locked up so they couldn't hurt anybody else.
Brubaker brought the wagon to a halt and looped the reins around the brake lever.
“I wasn't sure you fellas would be here this mornin',” he said. “I thought you might've decided to back out.”
“Once we've shook on somethin', we don't back out,” Scratch said.
“And you're not going to get rid of us that easily, Marshal,” Bo added.
Brubaker climbed down from the wagon seat.
“Wait here,” he said. “I'll go get the prisoners. The jailers are supposed to have them ready to travel.”
He went down the stairs to the basement. While Bo and Scratch waited for him to return, they rubbed their gloved hands together for warmth.
A few minutes later, a whole mob of people came up the stairs, led by Brubaker, who had his revolver in his hand. Behind him came a couple of guards carrying shotguns as they backed up the steps so they could point the Greeners down into the dark basement.
Jim Elam, the skinny hombre with long black hair who Bo had scuffled with the day before, emerged next, wincing at the light. He shuffled along carefully because his hands were cuffed behind his back and a chain ran from those manacles down to the shackles on his ankles. Those shackles had just enough play in them to allow him to move up the steps.
Burly, bearded, glowering Dayton Lowe was next. He was chained up the same way. He resembled a bear, and Bo wouldn't have been surprised to hear him growl.
That left Cara LaChance. She came up the stairs last, chained and shackled like the others, wearing a fresh dress and a shawl draped around her shoulders that left her head uncovered. Bo was struck once again by just how pretty she was. At first glance she looked like she ought to be somebody's bride, setting out on a new course in life.
Then when he looked closer, he could see the loco fires burning in her eyes, and he had no trouble remembering that she'd been ready to carve up Scratch the day before. She would carve up anybody who got in her way, Bo thought.
Several more shotgun-toting guards followed the prisoners up from the basement and then spread out to surround them as they hobbled toward the back of the wagon, where Brubaker opened the door.
“You first, Elam,” he ordered. “Get in there and sit on that bench.”
“Ain't you gonna chain our hands in front of us?” Elam asked with a whining note in his voice. “It's gonna be mighty uncomfortable ridin' with our arms pulled behind us this-a-way.”
“You should've thought of that before you went around robbin' and killin' folks all over creation,” Brubaker snapped. He prodded Elam in the back with the barrel of his revolver. “Now get in there, and don't make me tell you again.”
Grumbling, Elam awkwardly climbed into the wagon and moved along the bench that ran down its center. Following Brubaker's orders, he sat down at the far end. Brubaker crouched inside the enclosed wagonbed, covering Elam as one of the other deputies climbed in and looped another chain around Elam's waist. That one led down to a sturdy iron ring bolted into the floor of the wagon bed, where it was fastened with a massive padlock.
Lowe was next, chained into place on the middle of the bench. He didn't say anything, but his expression made it clear that he would have been glad to tear all the guards limb from limb with his bare hands.
While Lowe was being put into the wagon, Cara LaChance looked up at the Texans where they sat on their horses. Her baleful gaze fastened on Scratch. She said, “I should've cut you when I had the chance.”
“It weren't for lack of tryin' on your part, miss,” Scratch pointed out.
“Shut up,” Brubaker told Cara. “Prisoners don't talk.”
“Go to hell!” she spat at him.
Brubaker looked like he wanted to slap her. Bo was glad when he didn't. He didn't hold with hitting women, even murderous hellcats like Cara LaChance, unless it was absolutely necessary. He knew from Scratch's frown that his old friend felt the same way, despite what Cara had tried to do to him.
When the time came for Cara to climb into the wagon, she refused to do it. A couple of guards moved in to take hold of her and lift her into the vehicle. She fought furiously against them, despite the irons on her. She screamed, cursed, spat, and writhed like a snake. Curses as colorful and vile as anything a teamster or bullwhacker could come up with spilled from her mouth in a steady stream.
“Lord, it's like she's got a devil inside her,” Scratch muttered as he and Bo watched the spectacle. “Say, I've heard stories about folks bein', what do you call it, possessed like that. You don't thinkâ”
“No, I don't,” Bo said. “That's not possession we're seeing, it's pure meanness.”
The officers finally got Cara inside the wagon and locked down. By then her loud, profane carrying-on had drawn the attention of quite a crowd. Bo looked over the citizens of Fort Smith who had gathered in front of the courthouse to watch the outlaws being loaded into the wagon, and he wondered if any of them were connected to Hank Gentry, Cara's lover and the leader of the owlhoot band to which she and the other two prisoners belonged.
It would have been smarter to sneak the prisoners out in the dead of night, Bo thought, and keep their destination a secret. That way there would have been a better chance of getting them to Tyler without Gentry coming after them.
That wasn't the way Parker had handled the matter, though, and Bo speculated that some of that could have been because of the judge's dissatisfaction with the situation. Parker would have preferred to put the outlaws on trial here and carry out the inevitable sentence on his own gallows. But that wasn't what was going to happen.
Brubaker checked the irons on all three prisoners, then climbed out of the wagon, slammed the door closed, and fastened it with another massive padlock.
“Satisfied?” Bo asked.
“They're not gettin' loose this time,” Brubaker said. “And that's for certain sure. All three of 'em got stripped down to the skin and searched this mornin', and they're chained up in there so good they couldn't get to anything to help 'em get loose, even if they had it.”
“What about when the gal has to tend to her private needs?” Scratch asked.
“She'll have to take care of that with one of us holdin' a gun on her.” Brubaker held up a hand to forestall any protests. “I don't like it any better than you gents do, so don't try pullin' any of that Texas gallantry on me. I'm takin' no chances, and if you don't like it, you're free to go on your way since you ain't taken the judge's money yet.”
“We'll stick,” Bo told him. “This isn't a one-man job, Marshal.”
Brubaker glanced at the sky and frowned.
“I figured we'd be on the road by now,” he said. “Wait here. I'll let the judge know we're ready to pull out.”
A few minutes later, Parker came out of the courthouse, followed by Brubaker. The judge looked at the wagon and nodded as if he could see through the sides and approved of how the prisoners were chained up. Cara must have gotten tired or lost her voice, because she had finally stopped screaming obscenities.
Parker came over to Bo and Scratch.
“Gentlemen, I believe I promised you forty dollars apiece,” he said. “I'll pay you as soon as you've been sworn in.”
“Do we have to wear badges?” Scratch asked. “We don't much cotton to wearin' badges. Every time we've helped out the law, we've done it sort of unofficial-like.”
“No badges,” Parker said, “but if you want the two double eagles I have for each of you, you'll have to be sworn in and sign a receipt.”
“Let's get on with it, Your Honor,” Bo suggested. “I think Marshal Brubaker wants to get started.”
Brubaker just snorted and didn't say anything.
The formalities were soon over with, and two double eagles apiece rested in the Texans' pockets.
“You're now legally appointed representatives of the United States government, gentlemen,” Parker told them. “Conduct yourselves accordingly.”
“We'll bear that in mind, Your Honor,” Bo said.
“And we'll try not to be an embarrassment to the gov'ment,” Scratch added.
Brubaker climbed to the wagon seat and unwrapped the reins from the brake lever.
“Are we ready now?” he asked impatiently. “The sun's comin' up. We're burnin' daylight.”
Bo nodded and said, “Ready whenever you are, Marshal.”
Brubaker slapped the reins against the backs of the mules hitched to the wagon. He backed and turned the team and started away from the courthouse. Bo and Scratch fell in behind the vehicle.
Behind them, Judge Parker called, “Good luck, gentlemen!”
“He's sayin' something under his breath about how we're gonna need it, ain't he?” Scratch asked quietly as they rode along the flagstone drive behind the wagon.
“More than likely,” Bo agreed.
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