William Johnstone: Texas Bloodshed

“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.