The hanging road, p.3
The Hanging Road, page 3
It didn’t take long to check the bodies. All six of the men were dead as mackerels. Sam dismounted to make sure of that, and when he rolled one of the corpses onto his back, Matt let out a low whistle and said, “Deuce Ballinger.”
“You know him?” Sam asked.
“We were just nodding acquaintances. Never liked him. He hired out his gun. Last I heard of him, he was mixed up in some range war in Montana.”
They moved on to the next carcass, and Sam said, “This one is Wilbur Hatch. Bank robber and rustler from Idaho.”
Matt pointed. “The Laredo Kid, lying over there. Sam, that bunch was nothing but backshooters and hired killers. Scum of the earth.”
Sam had a look at the other bodies, and even though neither he nor Matt recognized any of them, they were all the same sort: coarse-featured, beard-stubbled hard cases. He went through their pockets, finding a considerable amount of money along with the makin’s and a couple of flasks of whiskey. There were no letters or anything like that, though, to explain why they had attacked the wagon.
As Sam swung back up onto his paint, he said, “I reckon the ones who got away were all the same no-good sort. You reckon they jumped the wagon just because they saw that a woman was driving it?”
“Men like that would be snake-blooded enough to do such a thing,” Matt said. “Or it could be that they heard a group of mail-order brides was traveling through the area and decided they wanted the women for themselves. They might’ve been able to collect ransom from the men who made arrangements to marry them.”
“Who might not have wanted them anymore after those varmints got through abusing them,” Sam said with a bleak expression on his face. “It really is a good thing we came along when we did, Matt.”
“Yeah. Let’s get back to the wagon before that redheaded little spitfire gets impatient and takes off without us.”
Sam waved a hand toward the dead men and asked, “What about them?”
“I guess when we get to Buffalo Flat we can tell the local law what happened,” Matt said with a shrug. “If there’s an undertaker in town he might want to come out and get them, so he can plant ’em for what’s in their pockets.”
As they rode slowly back toward the wagon, Sam said quietly, “Does something strike you as funny about this whole situation?”
“Funny as in strange?”
“Yeah.”
Matt frowned in thought and said, “Those women are just about the best-looking mail-order brides I’ve ever seen.”
Sam nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. Young, good-looking women usually don’t have any trouble finding husbands. It’s the older, plainer ones who decide to become mail-order brides. Why would gals like these need to come all the way out here to the frontier and marry up with gents they’ve never even met?”
“You reckon they’re lying?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to be mighty interested to see what happens when we get to Buffalo Flat.”
So would Matt. It had occurred to him that maybe someone had hired those gunmen to see to it that the wagonload of women never made it to town, but he couldn’t see why anyone would want to do that. Females were still scarce out here, especially young, pretty ones. It seemed more likely somebody would have hired men to make sure the women reached their destination safely.
Maybe Matt and Sam would find out the truth later. One thing Matt knew was that he and Sam weren’t going to let those ladies out of their sight until they got to Buffalo Flat.
“Ready to go?” he asked as they came up to the wagon. All the women had gotten back inside the vehicle except for Charity, who stood next to the team, and Lydia, who was perched on the seat with the Greener in her hands. She obviously intended to ride shotgun the rest of the way.
“If you are,” Charity replied. She nodded toward the corpses. “Did you find out anything from the . . . bodies?”
“Not really. Sam and I recognized a few of them. They were badmen, the sort who wouldn’t have treated you ladies kindly if they had caught up to you.”
From the wagon seat, Lydia said, “They might’ve gotten a warmer welcome than they expected.” She patted the barrels of the shotgun cradled across her lap.
Charity started to pull herself up onto the seat, and Matt moved to dismount, saying quickly, “Let me give you a hand.”
“Stay in your saddle,” she told him. “I’m perfectly capable of climbing onto a wagon.” To prove it, she hauled herself to the seat and turned around to settle down on it and give Matt a defiant look. But then she blinked, swayed a little on the seat, and put a hand to her head. “Guess I’m still a little woozy from that rap on the head,” she muttered.
“One of us can drive,” Sam offered.
“No, thanks,” Charity said stubbornly. She lifted the reins, slapped them against the backs of the team, and called out stridently to the horses as she got them moving again.
Matt and Sam just exchanged a glance, then turned their horses and fell in alongside the wagon.
As they rode toward Buffalo Flat, Matt tried to engage Charity in conversation, but mostly he just got curt, short answers from her. When he asked where they were from, Charity admitted that they hailed from Kansas City but didn’t volunteer any further information.
“You’ve got a last name, don’t you?” Matt prodded.
“It’s MacKenzie,” she admitted after a moment.
“I’m Lydia Shannon,” the shotgun-wielding brunette put in. “Back there in the wagon we’ve got Becky Hanson, Kathy North, Wilma Larrabee, and Janie Cantrell.”
Hearing their names, each of the women looked out past Lydia’s shoulder and said hello to Bodine and Two Wolves. The men nodded and touched fingers to the brims of their hats in acknowledgment of the introductions.
“So you came all the way out here by yourselves from Kansas City?” Sam asked.
“Why not?” Lydia demanded. “We can take care of ourselves. Today was the first time we ran into any real trouble, when we were almost where we’re going.”
“That’s the thing about the frontier,” Matt said. “You can’t ever tell where danger is going to come from, or when it might strike. That’s why you’ve got to always be ready to defend yourself. Most of the time out here, nobody’s going to do it for you.”
“We’re used to it,” Charity said. “Don’t worry about us.”
Matt shrugged. “I’m just sayin’, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t bother.”
Matt was about to make some comment about red hair and the temper that went with it, but then he decided that probably wouldn’t be a very good idea. Once in a great while, discretion really was the better part of valor.
He kept an eye on the sun as they continued westward, knowing that Charity wanted to reach Buffalo Flat before nightfall. Matt figured that would be a pretty good idea, too. The thought of having to camp overnight with six pretty young women wasn’t that unappealing, but the prospect that those other gunnies might come after them again was. The ladies ought to be safe once they got to town, though.
The sun was down and twilight was starting to settle over the landscape when lights appeared up ahead in the distance. Sam pointed out the scattering of warm yellow glows and said, “That would be Buffalo Flat.”
“Thank goodness,” Charity said with relief evident in her voice. “I was afraid we were going to have to spend another night on the trail.” She flapped the reins and got the tired horses moving at a slightly faster pace.
As the group approached the town, Matt saw that Buffalo Flat was a good-sized settlement. A wide main street lined with businesses ran for six or eight blocks. There were an equal number of cross streets, and quite a few houses and cabins were scattered around the outer edges of the business district. A steeple rose from the whitewashed walls of a church at the far end of town. At the near end was a large windmill and public watering trough, along with a corral. There was no railroad line running through Buffalo Flat, but a stagecoach probably came through a couple of times a week. For the most part, this was ranching country, although Matt knew there were several mines in the low range of peaks to the west known as the Prophet Mountains.
“You say the fellas you’re betrothed to are supposed to meet you here?” Matt said.
Charity didn’t reply. She just stared straight ahead grimly as she kept the team moving.
Once again Matt was struck by the strong feeling that not all was as it seemed. In fact, he thought that Charity had out-and-out lied to him and Sam. Why she would have done that was her own business, but he couldn’t help but wonder just what the truth was about these women.
As they reached the edge of town, Charity hauled back on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt. “We’ll be safe enough now,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Bodine, and you, too, Mr. Two Wolves. You gentlemen won’t have to bother with us anymore.”
“It was no bother, ma’am,” Sam assured her. “If you like, we can stay with you until you find the gents you’re looking for.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Charity said quickly. “You can go on—”
“There they are!” a harsh male voice said loudly. “There are the two gun-happy bastards who bushwhacked us!”
Chapter 4
Bo couldn’t help but stare at the woman who stood behind the rock pointing a gun at them. Beside him, Scratch did more than stare. He ogled the woman in outright admiration and maybe a little lust that was unbecoming in a man of his age. After a moment he let out a low whistle.
“Settle down,” Bo told him sternly. He raised his voice and called, “Ma’am, you don’t have to be afraid of us. Like my partner said, we ran off the men who ambushed you.”
“Who said I was afraid of you?” she asked, her voice cool and level. “And how do I know I can trust you any more than those no-good bushwhackers of Cole’s?”
“Why, we’re Texans,” Scratch said, as if that explained everything. “We’d never hurt a gal. Where we come from, a fella who don’t treat womenfolk proper finds himself on the wrong end of a whippin’.”
“There are as many bastards from Texas as there are from anywhere else,” the woman said. The barrel of the gun still didn’t droop. She held the weapon rock steady as she asked, “Who are you?”
“My name is Bo Creel,” Bo said. “This rapscallion with me is Scratch Morton.”
“I’d probably be offended,” Scratch said, “if I knew what the hell you were talkin’ about.” He snatched off his Stetson and held it over his heart as he bowed in the saddle. “It’s a plumb honor to meet you, ma’am.”
Bo saw that a smile was trying to tug at the corners of her mouth. “I’d say that the two of you are old enough to be harmless,” she commented, “if I hadn’t just seen you shooting it out with those gunmen.” Finally she lowered the Colt in her hand. “I guess I can trust you. You did come along and pull my bacon out of the fire.”
“We don’t like bushwhackers,” Bo said. He nodded toward the wagon. “Got a load of supplies there?”
“That’s right,” the woman replied. “I was taking it back to my ranch.”
“Your ranch?” Scratch said.
“Damn right it’s mine,” the woman answered without hesitation. “And no skunk like Junius Cole is going to take it away from me.”
Bo crossed his hands on the saddle horn and leaned forward. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned this fella Cole. Who is he?”
“The man who hired those bushwhackers to kill me. I knew I was taking a chance by leaving the ranch and going into Buffalo Flat, but we needed the supplies. I thought maybe I could slip into town, load up, and get back out before Cole or any of his gunnies spotted me.” She grimaced. “Obviously, that wasn’t the case.”
“Buffalo Flat,” Scratch mused. “I’ve heard of the place. Don’t reckon I’ve ever been there, though.”
“You haven’t missed much,” the woman said. “It’s a little east of here.” She nodded toward the west. “My spread is that way, in the foothills at the base of the Prophets. Rugged country, and not as good as some of the other ranches around here, but it’s mine and I’m going to hang onto it.”
Bo said, “Got to admire somebody who’s determined to keep what’s theirs. Why don’t Scratch and I ride along with you and see to it that you get back to your ranch safely?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion again. “You wouldn’t be up to any tricks, would you?”
“No, ma’am. But one of those hombres got away, and he’s liable to go right back to that fella Cole you mentioned and tell him what happened. You know Cole better than I do. What’s he going to do when he hears about it?”
“Send more gunmen after me if he thinks they’ve got a chance to catch me before I get home,” she replied. “I guess you’ve got a point. We’d better get moving.” She came out from behind the rock and slipped the Colt into a holster she wore around her waist.
She was a fine-looking woman; Bo wasn’t so old that he failed to realize that. In her late twenties, maybe thirty, with honey-blond hair that fell in thick wings around her shoulders. She was slender but not skinny, with intriguing curves in the right places. She wore a long brown skirt and a white shirt that was open at the throat so that her tanned skin contrasted nicely with the fabric. Moving with a smooth efficiency, she stepped up to the driver’s seat of the buckboard. As she picked up the reins, she said, “I’m Theresa Kincaid.”
“We’re mighty pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Scratch said with a broad grin on his face.
“Give us a minute to take a look at those hombres who were shooting at you,” Bo said, “and then we’ll join you.”
He and Scratch turned their horses around and rode back to the fallen gunmen. They didn’t have to dismount to be certain that the men were dead. The glassy eyes and the way their limbs were sprawled on the ground were evidence enough of that.
“Recognize any of ’em?” Bo asked.
Scratch shook his head. “Nope. Ugly-lookin’ polecats, though. Hired guns, like you said, Bo.”
“I hate to just leave them here. It doesn’t seem fitting.”
Scratch snorted and said, “It don’t bother me a bit. They were tryin’ to kill us, and you can damn well bet that if they’d succeeded, they’d have ridden off and left us a-layin’ here for the buzzards and coyotes.”
“Maybe when we get to town we can tell the sheriff about it. He’ll probably want to come out and collect the bodies.”
Scratch looked like he thought that would be a waste of time and effort, but he didn’t say anything. He had ridden with Bo plenty long enough to know how his pard felt about doing things right and proper.
They went back to the buckboard. As Theresa Kincaid got the vehicle moving and the two old-timers moved their horses up alongside it, Scratch said, “That little fracas was more fun than we’ve had in a month of Sundays.”
“Trading shots with bushwhackers is fun for you?” Theresa asked with a look of bafflement on her face.
“We’ve sort of gotten used to trouble,” Bo said.
“That’s puttin’ it mildly,” Scratch added.
Theresa frowned in thought as she regarded them. “You two wouldn’t happen to be looking for jobs, would you?” she asked after a moment.
“Fellas like us who are ridin’ the grub line are always lookin’ for work,” Scratch replied before Bo could shake his head. Only a short time earlier, Scratch had been talking about needing to increase their stake and get some supplies in the next town they came to, but he sure hadn’t meant to go about it by means of manual labor. It made a difference, though, when a pretty woman came into the picture.
“So you’re ranch hands?” Theresa asked. She looked at Bo. “You’re not really dressed like a cowboy.”
“Don’t let that getup fool you,” Scratch said. “Ol’ Bo here may look like a parson, but he’s a top hand. As good a man with a rope as you’ll ever see.”
“Is that true?” Theresa asked.
Bo shrugged. “I’ve done my share of cowboying.”
“And I know you can shoot. I’ve seen that with my own eyes.”
“Is that part of the job requirement?” Bo asked coolly. “Shooting?”
“You saw for yourself what happened when I tried to make a peaceful trip to town for supplies. I won’t lie to you, Mr. Creel. If you sign on to ride for the Half Moon, you’re liable to get even more trouble than you’re accustomed to. Junius Cole wants that ranch, and he’s not going to stop at anything to get it.”
“Why is he that anxious to his hands on it?” Bo asked, interested in Theresa’s dilemma despite himself.
“He has a spread just east of mine, and the creek that runs through it and provides most of the water for his stock has its source on my land. The creek is spring-fed, and the spring comes up on Half Moon range.”
“What did you do, threaten to dam it up?”
Theresa shook her head. “Not at all. Cole is just afraid that someday I might interfere with the spring’s flow. I don’t rely on it for water, you understand. Another creek runs through my spread, and the spring that feeds Cole’s creek is just barely over the boundary line. But legally I could dynamite it and close it off any time I wanted to, and Cole worries that I’ll do just that.”
Scratch looked horrified by the thought as he asked, “Why would any Westerner do such a thing?”
“There was . . . bad blood . . . between Cole and my husband.”
Scratch’s eyebrows rose. “You’re married?” He glanced at Bo as if to say, See? I’m checking beforehand.
“I was,” Theresa answered solemnly. “My husband was killed about a year ago.”
“An accident?” Bo asked.
“Only if the low-down bastard who shot him in the back meant to shoot him in the front.”
Bo and Scratch looked at each other. Scratch’s eyebrows rose quizzically. Bo said, “Your husband was already having trouble with Cole when that happened?”
“That’s right. But things got worse after William was ambushed. I’m sure Cole thought that I would just sell out and leave. He was furious when I told him I intended to hang onto the ranch and keep it going.” She paused and then added dryly, “Junius Cole is a man who’s used to getting his own way. He doesn’t like it when anybody stands up to him. That’s how he managed to get his hands on the biggest ranch in the county and half of Buffalo Flat.”
