Texas Bloodshed Read online

  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 think—”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 7

  They took the road south out of Fort Smith, which followed the boundary between Arkansas and Indian Territory fairly closely. Bo rode up alongside the wagon seat and asked Brubaker, “How long do you think it’ll take to get to Tyler?”

  “Five or six days, I expect,” the deputy marshal replied. “If we don’t run into any trouble.”

  Scratch had come up to flank the wagon on the other side. He grinned and said, “If that’s true, then the dinero we’re
gettin’ paid works out to be better than the wages we could make cowboyin’.”

  Brubaker grunted.

  “You’ll earn every penny of it if Gentry and his bunch come after us,” he warned.

  The thick wooden walls around the wagon bed had a few small, slitlike windows set high in them to let in some light and air. Obviously those openings permitted the prisoners to hear some of the conversation that was going on outside, too, because Cara LaChance yelled, “You just wait, you damn lawdog! Hank’s coming after you, all right! When he catches up to you, you’ll wish you’d never been born! He’ll take his skinnin’ knife to you, and you’ll be screaming and begging for him to kill you before he’s through with you!”

  Cara went on explaining in gory, graphic detail just what Hank Gentry would do with his knife. Brubaker sighed and shook his head.

  “Lord, we’re gonna have to listen to that all the way to Texas,” he muttered.

  “Maybe you could gag her,” Scratch suggested.

  “And take a chance on her bitin’ me?” Brubaker shook his head again. “That’d be a good way to get hydrophobia.”

  “She’s like one of those kid’s toys that you wind up,” Bo said. “She’ll run down after a while.”

  His prediction proved to be accurate. A short time later, Cara fell silent for a few miles.

  But then the cursing and haranguing started again. Brubaker finally lost his temper and turned to yell through the narrow openings, “Shut up in there! The judge said I had to deliver you to Tyler. He didn’t say that you still had to have a tongue in your head when I got you there!”

  Scratch looked at the deputy in horror.

  “You wouldn’t really cut her tongue out, would you?” he asked.

  Brubaker shook his head, but he said in a loud, clear voice, “I damn sure might!”

  That shut Cara up again. Bo didn’t have any real hope that it would last, but he would take all the peace and quiet he could get, even if it was only temporary.

  The town had fallen well behind, leaving them to travel through rolling, thickly wooded hills broken up by grassy meadows, plowed fields that were bare of crops at this time of year, and the occasional rocky ridge. From time to time they passed a log cabin with smoke curling from its chimney into the morning air. Droopy-eared hounds bayed at them, and the commotion drew farmers and their families from the cabins to watch the wagon and the two riders go past.

  “If anybody’s coming after us, they won’t have any trouble following our trail,” Bo said.

  Brubaker didn’t look over at him.

  “I know.”

  Bo exchanged a glance with Scratch over the top of the enclosed wagon. It seemed to him that Brubaker was being awfully nonchalant about the prospect of a bloodthirsty outlaw gang pursuing them, and Scratch’s frown told Bo that his old friend shared that concern.

  Brubaker was the boss, though, and since the Texans had taken money to back his play, there was no doubt that they would do so.

  It just seemed like they might be riding straight into trouble with their eyes wide open, and Bo didn’t cotton to that feeling.

  The day warmed as the sun rose higher in the sky, but the air still held a slight chill, even at midday as the wagon approached a low, rambling wooden building beside the road.

  A buggy and a farm wagon were parked in front of the building, and several saddle horses were tied up at the hitch racks. Thick billows of white smoke came from the stone chimney.

  “Clark’s Trading Post,” Brubaker announced. “We’ll stop here and let the horses rest for a spell. We’ll take the prisoners out one at a time and let ’em go out back to the privy, too.”

  He brought the wagon to a stop at the side of the building. Bo and Scratch reined in and dismounted while Brubaker climbed down from the high seat. The Texans drew their Winchesters from saddle sheaths.

  “I reckon we’ll cover them while you turn them loose?” Bo said.

  “I’m not turnin’ ’em loose,” Brubaker snapped.

  Bo shrugged. “Bad choice of words. While you unlock the chains holding them to the floor.”

  “Right.” Brubaker reached into his pocket and brought out the big key that would unfasten the padlocks. “The girl’s comin’ out first.”

  Bo and Scratch worked the levers on their rifles. They stood back, one on each side of the door in the back of the wagon. Brubaker unlocked the padlock on the door and took it off. Then he stepped back quickly and dropped his hand to the butt of his gun, just in case the prisoners had gotten loose somehow and were about to try busting out.

  Nothing happened, except that Jim Elam’s whiny voice asked, “Where are we? Why have we stopped?”

  “We’re at Clark’s,” Brubaker replied. “I’m gonna take you out one at a time, let you tend to your business, give you some food and somethin’ to drink. If you don’t give me any trouble, it’ll go a hell of a lot easier.”

  Cara laughed. “Easier for you, maybe.”

  “Easier for you, too,” Brubaker told her. “Unless you enjoy goin’ all day with nothin’ to eat or drink and like pissin’ in your pants.”

  She cursed at him. The deputy sighed and said to Bo and Scratch, “This is gonna get mighty old.”

  He reached forward, grasped the handle on the door, and pulled it open. All three prisoners flinched away from the midday light that spilled through the door. It had to be painfully bright to their eyes after spending the morning inside the dim, shadowy wagon bed.

  “You first, Cara,” Brubaker said.

  “Why, ain’t you the little gentleman?” She screeched with laughter. “And I do mean little.”

  Lowe joined in with some rumbling laughter of his own, and Elam snickered. Brubaker ignored them. He stood on the steps leading up to the open door and reached in to unlock the padlock holding Cara’s chains to the ring on the floor. Then he backed off and drew his gun.

  “You’re not gonna take any of these other chains off me?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “I need my hands free. I can’t take care of my business with my arms chained behind my back!”

  “You’ll just have to make do,” Brubaker told her stubbornly.

  “Why, damn you—”

  “Shut up now, or you can just stay in the wagon.”

  Bo could see the hatred seething inside Cara. It seemed to light her up, like she was on fire inside. But she didn’t say anything else.

  Instead she climbed awkwardly out of the wagon with the chain that had fastened her to the floor now dangling awkwardly from her other chains, weighing her down. Between that and the shackles on her ankles, there was no way she could run. She could barely shuffle along.

  “Creel, you come with me,” Brubaker said. “Morton, stay here and keep an eye on the other two. If either of them does anything suspicious ... shoot him.”

  Scratch said, “I reckon ol’ Bigfoot Southwick wouldn’t like it if he didn’t get to hang all three of ’em.”

  “I don’t care what Judge Southwick likes or doesn’t like. I’d rather bury a prisoner than have one escape.” Brubaker jerked his head at Bo. “Come on, Creel.”

  Bo and the deputy followed Cara as she inched her way along the side of the building. An outhouse sat behind the trading post, at the edge of some trees. That was their destination. It took quite a while to reach it.

  When they did, Cara said again, “I tell you, I got to have my hands loose. I got to pull my dress up. My God, Brubaker, ain’t you got no decency to you at all?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about decency,” Brubaker said. “I seem to remember Gentry and his gang burnin’ down a farmhouse with the family that lived there still inside it. You were there.”

  Cara giggled. “One time when we passed through those parts before, that damn Cherokee sodbuster sent word to the law. He tried to turn us in. We barely got away. Hank swore then that the redskin would pay, him and his squaw and all their brats.”

  “Go on and get in there, if you’re g
oin’ to,” Brubaker ordered.

  Cara shuffled into the two-holer.

  “Ain’t you even gonna close the door and give a lady some privacy?” she demanded.

  “I would if there was a lady here.”

  “I can’t ... Son of a ... Brubaker, this ain’t gonna work!”

  The deputy heaved a sigh.

  “Creel, use the barrel of your rifle to lift her skirt some,” he said.

  Bo was too old to be easily embarrassed, but he felt his face warming now. He said, “I’ll give you the rifle, and I’ll cover her with my Colt.”

  “All right, blast it.” Brubaker holstered his revolver and practically snatched the Winchester from Bo’s hands. Bo moved back a step and drew his Colt.

  Brubaker reached into the outhouse and used the rifle barrel to hoist Cara’s dress enough that she could sit down on one of the holes. Bo wanted to avert his eyes, but he didn’t. Maybe he and Scratch should have thought about Judge Parker’s offer a little longer before they agreed to help Brubaker deliver the prisoners, he told himself. He was about as uncomfortable as he had been in a long time.

  After a while Cara said, “All right, I’m done.”

  “Stand up and come on out, then,” Brubaker told her.

  “You’re a miserable excuse for a human bein’.”

  “Leastways I never killed any innocent folks, like you and your butcherin’ crew.”

  She laughed again as she stood up and started to come out of the privy.

  “Hank and the boys will butcher you, all right,” she said. “Lay you wide open and show you your own innards. How’s that gonna feel to you, lawman?”

  “If I was you,” Brubaker said, “I’d worry more about what it’s gonna feel like when that trapdoor drops out from under you and that hang rope tightens around your neck—”

  “Marshal,” Bo said. He didn’t want to listen to the two of them fussing at each other anymore.

  Besides, three men had just stepped out the back door of the trading post, and every instinct in Bo’s body was suddenly warning him that they were trouble.

  CHAPTER 8

  Out in front of the trading post, Scratch stood alertly, holding his Winchester and watching the two men inside the wagon.