William Johnstone - Texas Bloodshed

Brubaker looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t say anything.

Parker nodded to Bo and Scratch, said, “Good day, gentlemen,” and turned to walk back to the courthouse.

“I hope you don’t plan on standin’ around waitin’ for me to thank you,” Brubaker told the Texans.

“We didn’t do it for thanks or a reward,” Bo said. “Just didn’t want any outlaws getting loose to raise more hell.”

“We ain’t overfond of outlaws,” Scratch put in.

Brubaker snorted and stomped after Parker.

“Well, I reckon we can go get us a drink now,” Scratch went on. “That’s what I had in mind to start with. I remember a certain tavern on one of these hilly streets from the last time we passed through here.”

“I do, too,” Bo replied. “Why don’t we go see if we can find it?”

They found the tavern without much trouble and were glad it was still in business. The place was a dim, cavelike room in a stone building with very thick walls, built into the side of a hill. Warm in the winter, cool in the summer, it was run by a burly, redheaded Irishman named Michael Corrigan, who pointed a blunt finger at Bo and Scratch from behind the bar as they came in and declared in a loud voice, “I remember the two o’ ye! Start any more trouble and this time I’ll bust yer heads open with me trusty bungstarter!”

“We didn’t start the trouble last time, dadgum it!” Scratch protested.

“And that was years ago,” Bo added. “How do you even remember it?”

Corrigan scowled darkly at them.

“Some things ye don’t forget, boyo,” he said. “It took me nearly a week to clean up all the damage from that ruckus!”

“We’re peaceable men,” Bo insisted as the Texans came up to the bar. “All we want are a couple of mugs of beer.”

“That I can do ye for,” Corrigan said.

“And maybe some coffee later on,” Scratch said.

“Aye, that, too.”

Corrigan drew the beers and slid the mugs across the hardwood. Bo paid for the drinks, and he and Scratch carried them to a table in one of the rear corners of the tavern. The place wasn’t very busy at this hour, so it was no problem finding a place to sit.

“This is more like it,” Scratch said after he’d leaned back in his chair and taken a long swallow of the beer. “Nobody tryin’ to wallop us, stab us, or shoot us.”

“Better not get used to it,” Bo replied with a chuckle.

“Oh, I ain’t gonna. It don’t seem to matter how hard we try to steer clear of trouble, it finds us. I’m just hopin’ that little fracas was our share of it for this trip.”

Bo shared that hope, but like his old friend, he wasn’t going to count on it.

“Did you get a look at that gal I was scufflin’ with?” Scratch asked after a moment.

“I did,” Bo replied. “She was pretty good looking.”

Scratch snorted.

“Too good lookin’ to be an outlaw gal, if you ask me,” he said. “But she cussed like a bullwhacker, and she sure went after me with that razor. Reckon that just goes to show you, you can’t always tell what somebody’s like by lookin’ at ’em.”

“You should’ve figured that out a long time ago,” Bo said.

“Oh, I did. I ain’t no babe in the woods, as you well know. But when you see a gal like that ... Oh, shoot, you know what I mean.”

Bo knew what his friend meant, all right. Scratch had an eye for a pretty girl and had always been that way. He thought they all ought to be as nice and sweet as he wanted them to be.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t always the case, and sometimes Scratch had to pay a price for his idealism and romantic nature.

From time to time, Bo had been fooled by women himself, although with his practical nature that was more difficult. He had an instinctive wariness Scratch lacked.

But Scratch’s more reckless personality had gotten them out of plenty of scrapes in the past, too. They made a good team, which was one reason they were still riding together after all these years.

After a while, Corrigan brought cups of coffee over to them. As he set the cups on the table, the tavern keeper said, “I’ve got some stew in the pot. Would ye like some?”

“That sounds mighty fine, Mike,” Bo told him. “Thanks.”

Corrigan nodded and started to turn back toward the bar. He paused as the door opened and a man came inside. The newcomer closed the door behind him a little harder than was necessary.

“What’s got yer dander up, Forty-two?” Corrigan asked.

Deputy Marshal Brubaker ignored the question and strode up to the table. He glared at Bo and Scratch.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you two,” he said. “Somebody told me they’d seen a couple of Texans come in here. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Bo asked.

“We ain’t under arrest, are we?” Scratch added.

“No, you ain’t under arrest, but we’re goin’ to the courthouse,” Brubaker said. “The judge wants to see you, and I mean right now.”

CHAPTER 4

Bo and Scratch sat there looking at the deputy in surprised silence for several seconds before Bo asked, “What does Judge Parker want with us?”

“Maybe he’s gonna give us a ree-ward after all,” Scratch suggested.

Brubaker snorted disdainfully. “Don’t hold your breath waitin’ for that,” he said.

Scratch’s eyes narrowed.

“He ain’t come up with some excuse for hangin’ us, has he?”

The deputy marshal sighed in exasperation and said, “Just come on, will you?”

Bo took a sip of his coffee.

“Mike here was about to get us some bowls of Irish stew,” he said. “I’m a little hungry. I hate to miss out on that.”

Brubaker wheeled around and glared at the tavern keeper, who raised his hands in surrender.

“Don’t be givin’ me that evil eye, Forty-two,” Corrigan said. He looked at Bo and Scratch and added, “I’ll keep the pot warm for ye, lads. Ye can have some o’ my fine stew later.”

“We’ll hold you to that deal, Mike,” Scratch said as he got to his feet. He noisily slurped down some of the coffee from his cup.

Bo took another sip of his and stood up as well. He said, “All right, Marshal, lead the way.”

Muttering under his breath, Brubaker stalked out of the tavern with the Texans behind him.

As they walked up the hill toward the large level bluff where the courthouse was located, Bo asked, “What’s that forty-two business? Mike was calling you that like it’s your name.”

“That’s what some of my friends call me,” Brubaker admitted with obvious reluctance.

“That how old you are?” Scratch asked. “They gonna start callin’ you Forty-three next year?”

“No, blast it, that’s not how old I am! I’m thirty-six.”

“Then how come folks don’t call you Thirty-six?” Scratch persisted.

Brubaker yanked his hat off, dragged his fingers through his hair, and then wearily scrubbed his hand over his face before he put the hat back on.

“They call me Forty-two,” he said with forced patience, “because I like to play dominoes, and Forty-two is my favorite game.”

A big grin split Scratch’s face.

“Well, why in tarnation didn’t you say so? Bo and me been playin’ Forty-two for years and years, ain’t that right, Bo?”

“Nothing I like better than a good game of Forty-two,” Bo said. “Maybe if we can find a fourth man, we can play sometime, Deputy.”

“You don’t reckon His Honor would be up for a game, do you?” Scratch asked.

“I wouldn’t bring it up if I was you,” Brubaker said. “He’s already in a pretty foul mood.”

“Because of those prisoners escaping?” Bo asked.

“They didn’t escape! They’re locked up right now. Lowe and Elam are down in the basement, and that she-devil’s in one of the women’s cells.”