CHAPTER 9
Bo stepped over to Cara and reached down to grab hold of the trailing chain.
“Hold it,” he told her. “You're not going anywhere.”
She rolled onto her side and started cursing him. He ignored her and used the chain to drag her back the few feet she had managed to cover. That made her howl even more obscenities. He knelt beside Brubaker and took the padlock from the deputy's coat pocket.
While he was this close, he rested a hand on Brubaker's back and felt it rising and falling. Brubaker had passed out, but he wasn't dead. That was a relief, but Bo was still considerably worried about Scratch.
He used the padlock to fasten Cara's chain to the handle of the outhouse door. She might be able to pull the handle off the door or the door off its hinges, but that would take quite a bit of time and Bo intended to have things squared away by then.
He set his rifle well out of Cara's reachânot that she could do much with it while her hands were chained behind her backâand grasped Brubaker under the arms. Bo dragged the deputy out of Cara's reach as well.
He had already figured out it was best not to take any chances with her.
Then he picked up his Winchester and loped toward the front of the trading post.
He heard Jim Elam yelling something about blood inside the wagon. As he swung around the vehicle, Bo's keen eyes spotted a man leaping toward Scratch with a knife in his hand. There wasn't much room to get a shot off without risking hitting his friend, but Bo didn't have a choice. Another second and that varmint would bury the blade in Scratch's body.
Bo lifted the rifle and fired, letting instinct and experience guide his aim.
The slug shattered the man's shoulder and drove him off his feet. He dropped the knife and rolled on the ground, screeching in agony. Scratch kicked him in the head to stun him and shut him up, then looked over at Bo and nodded.
“Much obliged,” he said. “I might've been able to get out of the way of that Bowie, but it would've been close. Where's Forty-two?”
“He was hit when they jumped us back there by the outhouse,” Bo said. “Don't know how bad he's hurt. How about you?”
“I'm fine,” Scratch assured him. “Not so sure about the prisoners. Where's the gal?”
“Chained to the outhouse.”
Scratch grinned for a second.
“Seems fittin', considerin' the filth that comes outta her mouth.” He turned toward the wagon and covered the two men inside. Elam had stopped yelling. “Anybody really hurt in there, or were you just tryin' to distract me?”
Neither of the prisoners answered.
“All right, go ahead and bleed to death,” Scratch said. He slammed the door closed. “We got work to do out here.”
The man he'd kicked in the head was still unconscious. Scratch checked the one he'd shot and grunted.
“Dead, all right. How about the ones out back?”
“Pretty sure they're dead,” Bo said.
“You didn't find out?”
“I came to see if your mangy old hide had any holes in it.”
Scratch grinned again.
“And I appreciate that,” he said. “But you better go make certain-sure the others are buzzard bait.”
Bo kept one eye on the trading post as he hurried behind the building again. The five men who had jumped him and Scratch accounted for the saddle horses tied up outside, but the buggy and the farm wagon told him that at least a few other folks were still inside. They might not represent any threat, but he didn't want to take a chance on that.
He knew the man he'd shot in the throat was dead. Nobody could lose that much blood and survive. Quickly, he checked the other two men and found that one of them had crossed the divide, as well. The third man was still breathing, but as Bo bent over him, a breath rattled grotesquely in the man's throat and then his chest ceased its movement. He was dead now, too, without ever regaining consciousness after Bo shot him.
Brubaker groaned. Bo trotted over to him as the deputy struggled to sit up. Bo grasped his arm and helped him. He saw an ugly red welt on the side of Brubaker's head. Blood had leaked from it and run down the deputy's weathered face.
“Wha ... what happened?” Brubaker asked.
“Looks like a bullet creased you and knocked you out,” Bo told him. “How do you feel?”
“Head hurts like blazes,” Brubaker snapped. “How the hell do you think I feel?” His eyes widened as he looked around frantically. “The prisonersâ!”
“They're all accounted for. Miss LaChance is all right. I don't know about Lowe and Elam, but I have a hunch they are, too.”
“Help me up,” Brubaker muttered. “I gotta go check on 'em. They're my responsibility.”
Bo assisted the deputy in getting to his feet. Brubaker was a little unsteady when he started off, but his steps strengthened. As he passed the bodies of the three dead gunmen, he looked down at them impassively.
“Recognize any of them?” Bo asked. “I thought they might be members of Gentry's gang.”
Brubaker started to shake his head, then winced as the motion must have made throbbing pain shoot through his skull.
“I never saw any of 'em before,” he said. “They're not part of Gentry's bunch.”
In that case, Bo wasn't sure why the men had jumped them, but unless the man he'd shot in the shoulder had bled to death, they had a prisoner they could ask about it.
When Brubaker reached the wagon, he drew his revolver and jerked the door open.
“Either of you make a funny move, and I'll smoke you both down,” he threatened as he climbed onto the step. “Are you hit, either of you?”
“We're all right,” Lowe answered with obvious reluctance. “Except I don't think Jim here needs to visit the outhouse anymore. Havin' bullets flyin' around sort of took care of that for him.”
“Shut up,” Elam muttered.
“I didn't think they were hit,” Scratch said, “but I wasn't sure.”
Brubaker backed off the steps and closed the door.
“Is that the only one still alive?” he asked as he nodded toward the man with the bullet-busted shoulder.
“Appears to be,” Bo said.
“Morton, keep an eye on him. Creel, come with me. I want to get the gal back in the wagon before we do anything else.”
A man in overalls appeared on the trading post's front porch, edging tentatively through the door. Scratch told him, “Better stay right there, mister, unless you're lookin' for trouble.”
The man gulped, making his prominent Adam's apple jump up and down.
“No, sir,” he told Scratch. “I'm sure not lookin' for trouble. Just seein' if all the shootin' was over.”
“It is,” Scratch said. “For now, anyway.”
A short, portly, white-haired man in a dark suit and hat emerged from the trading post as well, followed by a bald, lanky individual in an apron. Scratch figured the gent in the suit went with the buggy, while the apron-wearer was probably the proprietor of the trading post.
“What is all this?” the man in the suit demanded. The blustering tone of his voice told Scratch that the fella was a pompous windbag. “Someone could have been killed!”
“Somebody was,” Scratch said, nodding toward the dead man on the ground. “More than one somebody, in fact.” Something occurred to him. “Any of you happen to know these hombres who jumped us?”
The man in the apron pointed to the other man lying near Scratch.
“The one with the busted shoulder is Jink Staley. Other fella is his cousin Bob Staley.”
“They from around here?” Scratch asked.
The storekeeper nodded.
“Born and raised in these parts, both of 'em,” he said. “And never any good, them or their relatives.”
Knowing that the attack on him and the one on Bo and Brubaker had to be connected, Scratch asked, “Who else was in the tradin' post with them?”
The proprietor hesitated, as if worried that if he answered he might wind up on somebody's bad side, but after a moment he said, “Jink's brother Mort was in there, along with a couple of friends of theirs, Goose Tatum and Bridger Horn.”
“And the three of them went out the back while Jink and Bob came out front, am I right?” Scratch guessed.
The storekeeper shrugged and nodded.
“Yeah, I reckon so. That's what happened.”
“And then the shootin' started,” the man wearing overalls put in. “What happened, mister? Are you the law?”
“That should be my question to ask,” the suit-wearing windbag objected. “I'm Judge Hopper,” he told Scratch. “Justice of the Peace in these parts.”
“Well, things are plumb peaceful now, Judge,” Scratch told him, “so I reckon you don't have to worry. They got quieted down with Winchesters. Works better than a gavel most of the time ... just don't ever tell the Hangin' Judge I said that.”
“Parker?” the local JP asked, sounding impressed. “You work for Judge Isaac Parker?”
“Right now I do,” Scratch confirmed. “My partner and I are temporary deputies, helpin' out one of Parker's more permanent star packers.” He nodded toward the rear of the building, where Cara was back on her feet and shuffling along with Bo and Brubaker behind her. “Here they come now.”
Cara was quiet for a change, but the usual murderous fury burned in her eyes. Her expression softened slightly, though, as she looked at Scratch.
“Were you hurt, mister?” she asked, surprising him.
“Uh ... no, I'm fine, I reckon,” Scratch said. Given the way she'd acted so far, he never would have expected the blond hellcat to inquire as to his health.
“Good. You seem to be about the closest thing to a gentleman in this bunch.”
She cast scathing glares toward Bo and Brubaker.
The deputy swung the wagon door open.
“Get in there,” he told Cara.
“What about us?” Dayton Lowe asked. “Don't we get to come out?”
“In a few minutes,” Brubaker said. “I want to find out who these blasted troublemakers were.”
“I can tell you that,” Scratch said. “I've been talkin' to the fellas on the porch. These gunnies are local boys.”
“Is that so?” Brubaker asked with a frown.
The justice of the peace spoke up.
“I'm Judge Theodore Hopper, Marshal,” he said. “You're one of Judge Parker's men?”
“I am.”
“Well, then, I extend my apologies for this unpleasant incident. I had no idea what those Staley boys and their no-account friends were planning to do ... or why, for that matter.”
“I've got a pretty good idea as to why,” Brubaker said. He toed the wounded shoulder of the unconscious Jink Staley. “Wake up, you polecat.”
Jink winced and groaned. His eyes fluttered open.
“Don't ... don't do that,” he begged. “I'm hurt awful bad.”
“You'll feel worse in a minute if you don't tell me what I want to know.” To reinforce his words, Brubaker rested the sole of his boot on Jink's shoulder. The marshal didn't put any weight on it, but the threat was unmistakable.
“Marshal ...” Bo began.
“Stay out of it, Creel,” Brubaker snapped. “I'm handlin' this my way.” To Jink, he went on, “Why'd you fellas try to jump us?”
“We ... we heard about those prisoners ... you're takin' to Texas.” Jink had to force the words out through pale, tightly clenched lips. “We've always wanted to ... ride with somebody like Hank Gentry. Figured that if we ... turned these three loose ... Hank would have to ... let us in the gang.”
Bo and Scratch glanced at each other. The wounded man's words held the ring of truth as far as the Texans were concerned.
Brubaker seemed to agree. He nodded and said, “All right. Can't say as I'm surprised.” He looked up at the men on the porch. “Is there a doctor around here? Anywhere closer than Fort Smith?”
“There's a midwife who does a fair job of patchin' up bullet wounds,” the storekeeper said.
“Good. Somebody can fetch her for this boy. And you can either plant the dead ones or throw 'em in a hog pen somewhere, it don't make no never mind to me which way you do it.”
Brubaker looked down at Jink and leaned a little on the young man. Jink screamed at the pressure on his shattered shoulder.
“Got your attention?” Brubaker asked. “Listen to me, Staley. I ought to arrest you, but I've got places to go and things to take care of, so here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna let you go. But if I ever see you again, around here or up in Fort Smith or over in the Territory, I'm not gonna ask what you're doin' there. I'm not gonna even speak to you. I'm just gonna shoot you dead right then and there, you understand?”