Читать книгу Settling The Score - George McLane Wood - Страница 17

Chapter Eleven

Jeff slowly walked his two horses down the alley to the end and came out three blocks away and onto the main street, then he rode almost to the other end of town and pulled up at the hitch rail of the last saloon. Jeff calmly tied up and was having his second cool beer when a townie rushed in and hollered, “Two masked men just now broke that feller we was gonna hang outa our jailhouse. The sheriff’s forming up a posse to go after ’em. Who wants to go?” Twelve men rushed through the batwing doors dang near at once. Jeff took another sip of his beer. He had to smile. Those two scared fellows he’d locked up in the jail cell had stayed quiet just long enough.

“Ready for another beer, gent,” the barkeep asked Jeff. “My cook says your steak is about ready.”

Jeff finished his T-bone steak. He got a shave at the barbershop, replenished his grub supply, and bought grain and oats from the mercantile store. Then he slowly walked his two rested horses out of town, heading them west, the same direction them two outlaw fellers had went. Jeff walked, trotted, and jogged his mounts for the rest of the afternoon until he met the posse coming back at almost sundown. He could see they hadn’t caught up with those two outlaws when they rode past him and waved. Jeff had his coat draped over his cantle. He was hiding the yellow stripes on his pants legs.

Jeff rode another hundred yards until he came across a narrow gravel bedded creek. He made camp beside it and made a small fire. He filled his coffeepot with water, added some crushed coffee beans, and put the pot on to brew. He grained and watered and rubbed down his two horses, then sat down on a log with a tin cup of hot coffee. Jeff wasn’t hungry, but he was tired and was looking forward to rolling up in his blankets and getting a good night’s sleep.

“Don’t move, mister, we got you covered.” Jeff stiffened, then recognized the voice of Smitty behind him. “Are you two fellows nuts?” Jeff asked, without turning around. “That posse might be camped close by.”

“Nah, we watched them from the tree line. They’re long gone over the next hill. They oughta be nearly back to town by now. How the hell are you, Lieutenant Nelson?” asked Bo Jenkins.

“I’m fine, Bo,” Jeff replied as he turned. “How come you two boys aren’t still traveling?”

“My mount lost the shoe off his front hoof, Jeff. He started limping,” replied Smitty, “so we holed up in that stand of trees yonder till we seen you coming down the road. We watched till that posse rode on over the next hill, and then we eased on down here to your camp hoping for some grub and coffee.”

“Help yourself to the coffee, boys. I’m still full of my lunch of steak, but y’all can help yourself to some bacon and a can of beans a piece. You’ll find ’em in my camp sack. Then y’all are welcome to stay the night if one of you stands guard duty. I ain’t lookin’ to get my neck stretched if that posse comes back this way to see who’s cooking that bacon.”

“Forget frying that bacon, Bo, we’ll just have us a can of beans apiece to go with our coffee.”

“Thanks, Jeff, for busting my ass outa that jailhouse. I thought I was a goner till I seen Smitty standing there. I didn’t recognize you, though.”

“You’re welcome, Bo. Next time you shoot someone, you may not be so lucky to have a friend nearby.”

“I’ve learned my lesson, Jeff, truly I have. There ain’t gonna be no next time. I’m goaded again, I’m walkin’ away, and you can bet yer money on it.”

“Good man. Well, good night, boys, I’m off to bed. I’ll see you both in the morning. Don’t forget what I said about one of you standing guard, at least until we’re about fifty miles down the road.”

“Yes, sir, Loo-tenant,” echoed Bo. “We’ll carry out your orders, on the double, sir.”

When daylight came, Jeff had the coffee on the fire cooking, when both his outlaw friends rolled out of their blankets. While the bacon was frying, and all three were having their coffee, Jeff told Smitty he could lead his critter to the next town and get him a shoe put on. “That mean I ride behind you?” he asked Jeff.

“I reckon so. Then y’all can ride along with me and help retrieve my papa’s bones.”

After breakfast, the three men rode west and headed toward Staunton, Virginia. About ten miles east of Staunton, after spending all morning looking for trees, Jeff recognized the grove of huge oak trees near the small creek and he headed his gelding in that direction.

There Jeff spied the shovel, still upright where he’d left it in 1861. He’d finally got to his papa’s grave. The three men dismounted from their mounts and stretched. Jeff walked over to his papa’s grave and bowed his head. “I’ve come back for you like I promised, Papa,” he whispered. “Soon I’ll have you restin’ next to Mama.”

Bo had gathered some rocks and arranged them in a circle. He gathered some firewood and lit a small fire. Smitty grabbed up their coffeepot, walked down to the creek, and filled it with water. Bo added some coffee and sat the blackened old pot on the edge of the fire to begin brewing. Then Smitty took his rifle and walked into the woods. In a few minutes, Bo heard a shot and Smitty came walking back swinging a large rabbit by its ears. He handed the hare to Bo, who dressed it and placed it on a spit. While the rabbit was grilling over hot coals, Bo got busy slicing potatoes for his frying pan.

Jeff and Smitty began taking turns digging up the remains of Jeff’s father. When they’d lifted his bones from the ground, they rolled his remains up in the tarp, and Jeff secured both ends with a heavy cord. When the morning came, Jeff and Smitty would load his papa’s bones over the back of Jeff’s packhorse for the short ride into Staunton; there they’d find a blacksmith who’d put a new shoe on Smitty’s lame horse. After Jeff and Smitty washed in the creek, they sat by and watched Bo finish cooking supper while they savored a cup of coffee.

“What is your first name, Smitty?” Jeff asked.

“Don’t use it, I go by Smitty.”

“Well, we oughta know it.”

“Why?”

“We might have to post it on your tombstone someday.”

“It’s Messmoor, but don’t y’all never call me that or I’ll shoot ya in yer foot. Call me Smitty, that’s what I go by.”

“Let’s eat this rabbit, fellers, he’s done, I reckon!” Bo hollered.