CHAPTER 14
Scratch straightened and stepped away from the fire, as he did so picking up the rifle he had laid aside when he started to prepare supper. Bo held his Winchester, too, and Brubaker snatched his Henry from the driver's seat of the wagon. The deputy had just put Cara back into the vehicle and locked the door.
The hoofbeats grew louder as the riders approached. At first Bo hadn't heard them very well because of the noise of the waterfall, and it occurred to him that maybe this wasn't a very good place to camp after all.
From the sound of the horses, at least three or four riders were coming toward the camp, maybe more. Brubaker took cover behind the wagon and motioned for the Texans to do likewise.
The hoofbeats stopped as the three men waited tensely. A moment of silence went by before a voice called, “Hello, the camp! We're friendly! All right to come in?”
“Do it slow and easy, with your hands in plain sight!” Brubaker shouted back. “You've got a dozen rifles pointed at you!”
With a steady
clip-clop
of hooves on the ground, four riders moved up into the circle of light cast by the fire. They wore slouch hats and long dusters. Bo saw gun belts under the coats, and each man had the butt of a rifle sticking up from a saddle boot. As Brubaker had ordered, they had their hands half-lifted and well away from the weapons.
Even though the strangers were dressed like white men, their faces had a ruddy glow that didn't come completely from the firelight, although the flames might have exaggerated the effect. Their skin color and their high cheekbones made it obvious these men were Indians.
Brubaker suddenly asked, “Charley Graywolf, is that you?”
One of the men grinned.
“I thought I recognized that growl of yours, Forty-two. All right if we put our hands down now?”
Brubaker glanced over at Bo and Scratch and nodded to indicate that these newcomers weren't a threat. He said, “Yeah, put 'em down.”
He lowered his rifle and came out from behind the wagon. Bo and Scratch followed suit.
“This is an old friend of mine, Charley Graywolf,” Brubaker said. “I don't know the other fellas, but I'd wager that they're members of the Cherokee Lighthorse, too.”
“That's right,” the man called Charley Graywolf said. He jerked a thumb toward his companions. “This is Duck Forbes, Walt Moon, and Joe Reeder.”
Brubaker inclined his head toward the Texans.
“Bo Creel and Scratch Morton,” he introduced them. “A couple of temporary deputies. What brings you boys out here?”
Graywolf didn't answer right away. Instead he said, “I could ask the same thing of you, Forty-two.”
Brubaker slapped a hand against the side of the wagon.
“Transportin' some prisoners down to Texas. They're goin' to Judge Southwick's court in Tyler.”
“Kind of off the main road, aren't you?” Graywolf asked with a puzzled frown.
“Yeah, and for good reason,” Brubaker replied. “We've got trouble doggin' us, and we're tryin' to shake loose from it.”
“This is good country to throw somebody off your trail, all right,” Graywolf said with a nod. “All right if we get down and share your fire?”
Brubaker gestured toward the flames and said, “Sure. You're welcome to coffee, too.”
Graywolf grinned as he swung down from the saddle.
“Only if you'll let us throw in some provisions for supper,” he said.
“Not necessary,” Brubaker told him. “I know when you boys are out on the scout, you travel light.”
Graywolf shrugged. “That's true. How'd you know we're looking for somebody?”
“The Lighthorse don't send out Charley Graywolf unless there's a mighty good reason, and those fellas with you look like they've got plenty of bark on their hides, too.”
“It's true,” Graywolf said with a grim nod. “We're looking for some men who raided a farm north of here. Slaughtered the whole family who lived there and looted the place, not that there was much to steal.”
Brubaker grunted and said, “Sounds like Hank Gentry's bunch. I've got three of 'em locked up in here.”
He nodded toward the wagon.
“No, these were redskinned scoundrels,” Graywolf said as he shook his head. “One of the victims managed to write the name âKinlock' in his own blood. Nat Kinlock's a Cherokee. We've suspected for a while that he and some of his friends were behind a string of robberies over around Checotah. Now we're sure of it, and we're going to bring him in.” Graywolf paused. “Or plant him and his boys.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” Brubaker said. “We'll share our camp tonight and go separate ways in the morning.”
“Sounds good,” Graywolf agreed.
The Cherokee lawmen began unsaddling their horses. Bo had heard of the Cherokee Lighthorse, but as far as he recalled he had never met any of them. They looked like tough, competent men. The Cherokee had their own towns and government, and as one of the so-called Five Civilized Tribes, they lived more like white men than did their nomadic cousins to the north and west. They were lawyers, doctors, teachers, farmers, and businessmen ... but the Cherokee Nation had outlaws among its members, too, and that was the reason the Lighthorse existed.
There was a friendly camaraderie between Brubaker and the Indian lawmen, and Bo and Scratch liked them as well. Tonight they could sleep a little easier, Bo mused. It was unlikely anybody would attack such a large, well-armed group. Although Hank Gentry's gang was supposed to be even larger, he reminded himself, so it would still be necessary to remain alert and stand guard all night.
When they had finished eating, Brubaker told Bo and Scratch, “All right, we'll feed the prisoners now.”
“Who do you have in custody?” Charley Graywolf asked.
“Cara LaChance, Jim Elam, and Dayton Lowe.”
Graywolf's hard-planed face grew even more grim.
“That LaChance woman is said to be full of evil spirits,” he said. “And the other two aren't much better. Gentry's gang have robbed and killed a number of Cherokees.”
“I know,” Brubaker said, “and Judge Parker would like nothin' more than to hang 'em for it. But the authorities down in Texas have first claim on them because of all the hell they raised down there before coming up here to the Nations. Don't worry, they'll get what's comin' to 'em.”
“As long as justice is done, that's all that matters, I suppose,” Graywolf agreed. “I wish we could escort you all the way to the Red River to make sure you reach Texas safely, Forty-two, but we have a job of our own to do.”
Brubaker nodded. “I understand. I'm glad we ran into you, anyway. It'll be nice not havin' to worry as much about somebody jumpin' us tonight.”
After the prisoners were fed and taken out of the wagon one by one to take care of their needs, the camp settled down for the night. Bo had the first watch, and Charley Graywolf told Duck Forbes to take his turn then, as well.
Bo didn't mind having the company. It was easier to stay awake and alert if there was someone to talk to, and Duck proved to be a pleasant companion. He was short and stocky, with a round face that creased easily in a grin. He had been a member of the Cherokee Lighthorse for a couple of years, he explained to Bo as the two of them sat on rocks just outside the circle of light from the campfire.
“My father's a teacher,” Duck said, “and he always figured I would be, too, but I just couldn't see sitting in a classroom all day. I always liked to be out doing things.”
Bo knew that the Cherokee were maybe the only Indian tribe with a written language. The Cherokee Nation even had its own newspaper. As a people, they valued education.
But a society needed lawmen, too, so Bo thought Duck's decision was a good one.
They sat and chatted for a while before settling down to pass the time in companionable silence. Other than a couple of trips to Fort Smith, Duck had never been anywhere except Indian Territory, so he was especially interested in hearing about all the places where the Texans' wanderings had taken them.
“One of these days I'll see all that for myself,” he said. “Especially the ocean. Wouldn't it be somethin' to stand there and look out over all that water, just goin' on and on like it was never gonna end.”
Scratch took the second turn on guard, joined by lean, taciturn Jim Reeder. Bo said good night to Duck and rolled up in his blankets to get a few hours of sleep, knowing that Brubaker would want to be on the move again by dawn.
Dayton Lowe was in a bad mood when Brubaker awoke the prisoners while the sky was just turning gray in the east. While Lowe was out of the wagon, he glared at Charley Graywolf and the other members of the Cherokee Lighthorse.
“Filthy redskins,” the burly Lowe muttered. “I could barely sleep last night because the stink of Indians was so strong around here.”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Brubaker told the prisoner.
“Why? I ain't worried about hurtin' some damn buck's feelin's. The savages probably don't even understand what I'm sayin'.”
Graywolf and the other men ignored Lowe. They'd probably had to put up with ignorant insults like that from whites many times over the years, Bo thought.
“Are you planning to cut through Massasauga Valley?” Graywolf asked Brubaker as they were all getting ready to leave.
“That's right,” the deputy replied.
“That's the way the trail we've been following leads. Nat Kinlock has some family over that way. We think he may be figuring on hiding out with them. Since we're going in the same direction anyway ...”
“I'd be pleased to have you ride along with us for a while,” Brubaker answered without hesitation.
That was all right with Bo and Scratch, too, although they would have gone along with whatever Brubaker decided, since he was in charge. After a quick breakfast of pan bread and coffee, the group started in a generally westward direction along the winding trail. The sun hadn't quite risen above the eastern horizon yet, although it was already painting the sky with red and gold light. The air was still and cold, and frost lay heavy on the grass, glittering as the light grew stronger.
By midmorning the frost had melted and dried, and the sun was warmer as it washed over the rugged landscape. The going was rather slow because the trail had to twist and turn so much to avoid ridges, deep gullies, and impassible cliffs. In many places the trees crowded in close to the sides of the trail, which was barely wide enough to allow the wagon to pass. Bo, Scratch, Charley Graywolf, and Duck Forbes rode in front of the vehicle while the other Cherokee Lighthorsemen brought up the rear. There wasn't room for them to flank the wagon.
After several miles the trees thinned somewhat and the trail widened. Up ahead to the left of the trail loomed a rocky bluff. Out of habit, Bo studied it closely, searching for the glint of sunlight on metal that would tell him someone was up there. Beside him, Duck was saying, “Something else I'd like to see one of these days is a desert. Growin' up here in the Nations where there are trees and bushes everywhere you look, I can't imagine a place where there's nothin' but sand. You and Scratch ever been to a desert, Bo?”
“Death Valley, out in California,” Bo said. “That's about as barren a place as you'd ever want to see. And White Sands, over in New Mexico Territory. Miles and miles of sand so white and bright it'll just about blind you when the sun shines on it.”
“That would sure be somethin' to see, all right,” Duck agreed. “I'm gonna save my money, and after I put in a few more years in the Lighthorse, I'llâ”
Bo straightened in the saddle as he spotted the glint of sunlight reflecting off something on top of that bluff, which was now only about a hundred yards away. He opened his mouth to interrupt Duck, but before he could say anything, the flat crack of a rifle shot split the morning air.
And beside Bo, Duck Forbes grunted in pain and rocked back in his saddle.
CHAPTER 15
Bo caught a glimpse of the puff of powder smoke from the top of the bluff, but he was already turning to look at Duck. The stocky Cherokee, his eyes wide with pain, swayed back and forth in the saddle as he pressed a hand to his chest. Blood welled between his splayed-out fingers, telling Bo that Duck was badly wounded.
Everybody in the group had heard the shot and knew they were under attack. Brubaker yanked back on the team's reins, bringing the wagon to a halt as he shouted, “Everybody spread out!”
At the same time, Charley Graywolf yelled, “Take cover!”
Both of those commands sent the riders scattering for the closest rocks or trees.
Bo leaned over and grabbed the reins of Duck's horse. The tribal policeman had dropped them when he was shot. Clinging tightly to the reins, Bo led Duck's mount behind him as he galloped toward a cluster of boulders. He hoped Duck could manage to stay in the saddle.
More shots came from the bluff. Bo didn't know where the bullets went, but he reached the rocks without being hit. When he was safely behind the boulders, he dismounted almost before his horse stopped moving and sprang to the side of Duck's horse just as the young Cherokee toppled off the animal. Bo caught him and eased him to the ground.
Duck's mouth opened and closed several times as he looked up at Bo. He seemed to be struggling to say something. He couldn't get the words out, though. The only sound that came from him was a cross between a wheeze and a whistle ... and that came from the hole in his chest.
Bo knew that sound meant the bullet had penetrated one of Duck's lungs. He ripped Duck's shirt open and saw the bullet hole still welling bright, frothy blood. Tearing off a piece of Duck's shirt, he wadded it up and shoved it into the opening as hard as he could. That would serve two purposes. It would slow down the bleeding and also close the wound temporarily, which would help Duck breathe.
Duck's distress seemed to ease slightly, but he still couldn't say anything.
“Take it easy,” Bo told him. “Try not to move around any. You'll see those oceans and deserts yet, Duck.”
Bo wasn't sure of that at all, but he wanted to give Duck some hope to hold on to. When a man was badly wounded, despair was often fatal, but stubborn determination and a fighting spirit could bring him back from the brink of death.
Bo ran to his horse and pulled his Winchester from its sheath. The shooting still continued, and he could tell now that the members of Charley Graywolf's posse were returning the ambusher's fire. He figured Scratch and Brubaker were getting in on the action, too. He crawled up a huge, slanting slab of rock so he could get a look at the trail and the bluff where the hidden rifleman was located.
Several shots from a clump of trees on the other side of the trail drew his attention. He caught a glimpse of what looked like Scratch's cream-colored Stetson and watched until he got a better look at his old friend. Scratch poked the barrel of his rifle around a tree trunk and squeezed off a shot. When he drew back, Bo called, “Scratch!”
The silver-haired Texan looked over, grinned, and waved. Bo returned the wave. Confident now that they were both all right, he turned his attention to the man on top of the bluff.
Large boulders lined the edge of that outcropping. The rifleman was probably firing through a narrow gap between a couple of the rocks, which meant it would be almost impossible for their return fire to hit him. He could sit up there and keep them pinned down all day.
Evidently that wasn't his goal, because he shifted his aim to the wagon and started peppering it with slugs. Cara screamed and Lowe and Elam bellowed curses, making Bo wonder if some of the bullets had gone through the ventilation slits and whipped around the heads of the prisoners. That was possible, considering the angle from which the ambusher was firing.
Scratch must have been worried about the same thing, because he yelled at the wagon, “Cara! You and those boys get down as low as you can!”
The fact that the prisoners were being endangered probably meant that the man on the bluff wasn't trying to free them. Indeed, he didn't seem to care if he killed them. That ruled out Hank Gentry and his gang.
The most likely possibility was that the men being pursued by the Cherokee Lighthorse had left someone behind to slow them down. In that case, the man wouldn't know who Bo, Scratch, and Brubaker were, nor why the wagon was traveling with Charley Graywolf and the others. But to him, they would all be enemies, anyway.
The bullets were coming too close to the team. The normally stolid draft horses finally spooked and lunged forward against their harness, desperate to be out of the line of fire. They bolted, taking off along the trail and pulling the wagon behind them. The prisoners inside the vehicle howled even louder.
Jake Brubaker yelled in alarm and broke out of the trees where he had taken cover. He ran after the wagon, ignoring Scratch's shout of warning.
“Forty-two, no!”
“Let them go, Marshal!” Bo shouted from the other side of the trail.
Brubaker's hat suddenly flew off his head, plucked from it by a bullet. Even more than the shouts from the Texans, that had to make him realize that he was out in the open ... and that was a bad spot to be in right now. Another bullet kicked up dirt at his feet as he whirled toward the side of the trail and threw himself behind a log that was lying there. Chucks of bark and splinters of wood flew in the air as slugs chewed into the fallen tree.
Bo opened fire on the bluff as the rest of the group resumed shooting. Brubaker was still in a bad spot. If they could keep the bushwhacker occupied for a few moments, it might give the deputy time to reach some better cover.
Brubaker surged up into a run. He made it behind some trees and rocks, where he slid to the ground. Bo watched him lie there panting heavily. As far as Bo could tell, the lawman wasn't hurt.
The wagon careened around a bend in the trail and vanished from sight.
Bo wasn't worried about the prisoners getting away. The runaway horses would slow down and stop as their panic wore off. The prisoners' chains and the lock on the door were secure. The biggest problem was that the wagon might overturn and crash before the team came to a stop. If that happened, the prisoners might be injured, or even killed in the wreck.
Bo wondered if there was any way to reach that bluff, work his way up to the top, and take the ambusher by surprise. Even as he considered the idea, he saw that it wouldn't work. The bluff commanded too broad a field of fire.
Knowing that his rifle wasn't going to make a difference in the fight, he slid back down to the bottom of the rock and hurried to the spot where Duck Forbes lay. Dropping to a knee beside the wounded man, Bo leaned over to check on his condition.
The Texan's face took on a hard, grim cast as he saw the way Duck's eyes were staring sightlessly into the blue sky. He rested a hand on Duck's chest to make sure and found that it was motionless. While Bo was up in the rocks trading shots with the man on the bluff, the young Cherokee Lighthorseman had crossed the divide.
“I'm sorry, Duck,” Bo said quietly. “If I can, I'll settle the score for you. You have my word on that.”
For all the good it did now.
Bo couldn't stop that bitter thought from edging into his mind. Whoever was up there on the bluff had chosen the perfect spot for an ambush. He could keep them pinned down until dark ...
But why just keep your enemies pinned down, Bo suddenly asked himself, when you could close the jaws of a trap on them? Scratch and the others were all concentrating on the danger in front of them, when something even worse could be coming up from behind.
That thought had just gone through Bo's head when a bullet whistled past his head, struck one of the boulders, and ricocheted off with a whine like the wail of an evil banshee.