William Johnstone - Texas Bloodshed

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 goin’ 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.”