Читать книгу Massacre at Whiskey Flats - William W. Johnstone - Страница 12

Scratch and Reilly both stared at him for a long moment in the fading light, and then both exploded in surprise at the same time. “You’re crazy!” Reilly exclaimed, and Scratch put it more colorfully by bursting out, “Bo, you’ve gone plumb loco!”

Bo shook his head and told them, “Not at all. It makes perfect sense. The letter from Mayor McHale makes it clear that neither he nor anyone else in Whiskey Flats has ever actually met Braddock. The town council arranged to hire him as marshal through correspondence. McHale says that they’re all looking forward to meeting him for the first time.”

“But maybe they’ve seen pictures of him, or at least know what he’s supposed to look like,” Reilly objected.

“You saw Braddock for yourself,” Bo said. “He was about the same age and size as you, Jake, and your hair color is close enough to pass for his.”

“But…but…you’re forgetting one thing…I’m not a lawman!”

“But you could be,” Bo insisted. “All you have to do is pretend to be Braddock.”

“And bring law and order to some wide-open, lawless town! How in blazes am I supposed to do that?”

“That’s simple, too.” Bo smiled. “We’ll help you.”

“Now I know you’re loco,” Scratch said.

“Just think about it,” Bo urged. “Jake here tells the folks in Whiskey Flats that he’s John Henry Braddock. They’ll believe him. And to help him restore order, he’s brought a couple of deputies with him. That would be you and me, Scratch.”

Deep trenches appeared in Scratch’s weathered face as he frowned in thought. He reached up and rubbed his jaw.

Reilly looked over at him. “You can’t actually be considering this insane scheme!” he said.

“You know, it just might work,” Scratch mused. “It’d take a heap o’ luck, but it might work.”

“It would take me agreeing to go along with it, too,” Reilly said, “and I’m not gonna! Do I look like a lawman to you? Do you really think I’m cut out for that sort of thing?”

“You pretended to be a railroad man,” Bo pointed out. “All you’d have to do is pretend to be a marshal.” He paused. “Unless you think you couldn’t convince anybody that’s who you were.”

Reilly laughed. “I can convince anybody of anything! Hell, I once persuaded a little gal in Kansas that I was Jesse James! If I wanted to, I could put it over. I could—”

He stopped short and glared at Bo.

“You see, Jake,” the Texan said quietly, “you’ve just got to have confidence.”

Reilly stood up and paced back and forth across the campsite. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his tousled blond hair. Finally, he stopped to look at Bo and Scratch and asked, “What’s in it for me?”

“In a town as grateful as Whiskey Flats is bound to be when the man they believe to be John Henry Braddock shows up…well, it seems to me that a fella could get just about anything he wanted in a town like that.”

Reilly stared at Bo for a moment. He still held his hat in his hand, and he abruptly lifted it and pointed it at the Texans as he exclaimed, “Yes! That’s exactly right! All I’d have to do is pretend to be the marshal for a little while, and they’d open up the town wide for me!” He threw his head back and laughed. “It’s brilliant! Good Lord, Bo, I never realized you had such a streak of larceny in you, too!”

“Just don’t forget your faithful deputies when it comes time for the big cleanup,” Bo said.

Reilly clapped his hat back on his head. “Don’t worry about that,” he assured them. “You boys will get your share. Maybe not quite as big as my share, of course, since I’ll be the marshal and you’ll just be deputies, but we’ll all come out of this rich men. Rich men, I tell you!”

He capered around the campsite a while longer, then finally sat down again to turn over all the potentially lucrative possibilities in his mind. Scratch climbed to his feet and said, “Reckon I’d best have a look around ’fore we turn in, just to make sure there ain’t nobody lurkin’ in these parts. Bo, why don’t you come with me?”

“I can do that,” Bo agreed as he stood up. “You’ll be all right here, Jake?”

“Huh?” Reilly glanced up distractedly. “Oh, yeah, sure. You fellas take your time. I’ve got plenty of thinking and planning to do.”

Bo and Scratch nodded and moved off into the darkness, carrying their Winchesters with them. They moved with the silent grace of born frontiersmen and didn’t stop until they were well out of easy earshot of the camp.

“Now,” Scratch said as he turned to his trail partner. “How about tellin’ me just what the hell is really goin’ on here?”

“Maybe some of Reilly’s shady nature has rubbed off on me,” Bo suggested.

Scratch shook his head. “Not hardly. You got somethin’ else in mind. I can tell.”

Bo laughed softly and said, “All right, you’ve got me. I knew I couldn’t put it over on you. Jake was easy. All I had to do was make him think that we’re as crooked as he is, and he went right along with the idea.”

“Like he said about swindlin’ somebody,” Scratch replied as understanding dawned in him. “Make a fella think he might get somethin’ for nothin’, and he’ll do whatever you want him to.”

“Exactly. Jake thinks he’s going to Whiskey Flats to swindle the people there, but he’s actually going to be their marshal and do some growing up.”

Scratch grunted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Think about it,” Bo urged. “He’s a smart kid, you’ve seen that for yourself. And he’s got some sand, too. He’s in the habit of running away from trouble, but back him into a corner and he might actually grow a backbone and become a man.”

“And you’re plannin’ on backin’ him into that corner.”

“If Whiskey Flats is as full of trouble as Mayor McHale’s letter indicates, it’ll do the job for us. Jake won’t have any choice but to grow up in a hurry while he’s pretending to be the marshal.”

“Either that or get himself killed,” Scratch said gloomily. “And us right along with him.”

“Well,” Bo said with a faint smile in the darkness, “there’s that possibility to consider, too.”

In the end, Scratch went along with the idea, of course, just as Bo knew he would. Scratch might not have a very high opinion of Reilly, but he trusted Bo’s instincts.

Anyway, Bo had figured out why Scratch and Reilly didn’t get along all that well. They were just too much alike, at least as far as their devil-may-care natures went. It was no wonder they sometimes rubbed each other the wrong way.

The Texans took turns standing watch again that night, and early the next morning they were on their way again. Reilly was still excited and full of talk about how they would carry off the deception once they reached Whiskey Flats.

“I’ve seen plenty of big-city police,” he said, “but not that many frontier marshals.”

“Don’t worry,” Bo assured him. “We’ve run into plenty of small town star packers, so we know how they act. You can just follow our lead.”

“But it’ll have to look like I’m giving the orders,” Reilly pointed out. “After all, I’m the marshal—”

“And we’re just the deputies,” Scratch finished for him. “We ain’t forgot.”

Bo said, “We’ll make it look like you’re in charge, Jake. That’s what the people in Whiskey Flats will be expecting, so that’s what they’ll see.”

After the three riders made their way by a twisting trail over a couple of ridges, the terrain began to flatten out more as the valley they were following once again spread out between mountains to east and west. The countryside took on the look of cattle country, with broad, lushly grassed pastures interspersed with creeks and bands of trees. Scratch spotted some cows grazing in the distance and pointed them out.

“This is prime range,” he commented. “Whoever owns it has got himself a mighty nice spread.”

“How far do you think we are from Whiskey Flats?” Reilly asked.

“No way of telling yet,” Bo said. “But there’s bound to be a settlement pretty close by. The ranches in these parts will need a supply center.”

Scratch grinned and added, “And a place for the cowhands to raise hell on Saturday night and payday.”

Reilly licked his lips in anticipation. “Man, I’d like to spend some time in a saloon! Some good whiskey, a game of cards, a few pretty little gals in spangled dresses to choose from…”

“You’re supposed to be cleanin’ the place up,” Scratch reminded him, “not addin’ to the general debauchery.”

“But I can at least have a drink, can’t I?” Reilly asked, starting to sound a little desperate.

Bo smiled and said, “I reckon even a famous lawman can be allowed a drink now and then.”

Reilly heaved a sigh of relief. “For a minute there, I was afraid you were gonna say I can’t have any fun at all—”

His words were cut off by the sudden crackle of gunfire up ahead.

The three men reined their mounts to a halt as shots blasted through the midday air. Up ahead, the trail twisted through some trees, so they couldn’t see very far along it. The reports sounded like they were coming from handguns, and they drew closer as Bo, Scratch, and Reilly listened. After a moment, they heard the rumble of hoofbeats, too. A desperate pursuit was under way—and coming straight at them.

“What do we do?” Reilly asked. He looked and sounded nervous.

“Take that badge I gave you out of your pocket and pin it to your lapel,” Bo told him. “We don’t know what’s going on here, and until we do I don’t want there to be any question about you being a lawman.”

“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Scratch added. “The way those hombres are ridin’ hell-for-leather, they’ll be here any minute.”

Sure enough, a rider soon swept around the bend in the trail up ahead and pelted toward them, leaning over the neck of his horse and kicking it in the sides to get all the speed out of it that he could. Bo couldn’t tell anything about the man other than that he was riding for his life.

It quickly became apparent why the lone horseman was fleeing. Half a dozen more riders thundered around the bend. Puffs of gun smoke spurted from the revolvers they brandished as they fired after the madly galloping rider.

“Six-to-one odds, Bo,” Scratch said. “I don’t cotton to that, no matter what that lone fella’s done.”

“Neither do I,” Bo agreed. “Let’s put a stop to it and see if we can find out what’s going on here.”

Reilly swallowed. “What do I do?”

“Let’s move aside and let him pass,” Bo said. “Then we’ll stop those men who are chasing him.”

The three of them pulled their mounts to the side of the trail. Mere seconds later, the fleeing rider flashed past them. Bo caught only a glimpse of him. He appeared to be small and fairly young, maybe just a boy. He wore fringed buckskins and a battered old brown hat with the brim pushed up in front. Foamy sweat covered the heaving flanks of the horse, which was clearly on its last legs.

As soon as the rider had gone by, Bo urged the dun back out into the trail. Scratch and Reilly followed suit with their horses. They sat in the middle of the trail, blocking the pursuit. Of course, the gang of gunmen could have gone around them, but instead they stubbornly came straight on, although they ceased shooting as soon as Bo, Scratch, and Reilly got in the line of fire. Bo glanced over at Reilly and saw that the young man looked scared but determined.

“Just remember,” Bo said. “You’re a famous fighting marshal. You don’t have any reason to be scared of these hombres. They ought to be scared of you.”

Reilly nodded and looked a little more resolute. As long as he had a role to play, he was more confident.

The stocky, gray-bearded man who seemed to be leading the charge hauled back on his reins with one hand and lifted the other in a signal for his companions to stop. As the horses slowed, dust swirled around them for a moment. As it cleared away, Bo could see that the men were all hopping mad.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” the gray-bearded man shouted, his voice fairly shaking with rage. “You’re lettin’ that damned rustler get away!”

Bo glanced over his shoulder. The buckskin-clad rider had slowed. Well out of handgun range now, he brought his mount to a stop before the poor, exhausted horse collapsed.

“He doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere right now,” Bo said. “How do you know he’s a rustler? Did you catch him with a running iron, or driving off some of your stock?”

“He was skulkin’ around on Rocking B range, lookin’ over our herd!” the leader of the group said. “Mr. Bascomb’s been losin’ stock right and left, and anybody who ain’t got no business here is suspect! For that matter, who the hell are you?”

Bo looked at Reilly, who was hanging back a little. Reilly urged his horse forward, so that the badge pinned to his coat was more visible.

“This is John Henry Braddock, the new marshal of Whiskey Flats,” Bo announced. “We’re his deputies.”

That took the men by surprise. They were all rugged-looking hombres in range clothes, but even though they had been blazing away at the fleeing rider, it was clear to Bo’s experienced eye that they were cowhands, not hired gunmen. Faced with confronting a representative of the law, they were suddenly a little nervous.

“Marshal?” blustered the gray-bearded man. “I heard somethin’ about a new marshal comin’ to town.”

“Whiskey Flats is close by then?”

The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “About five miles on down this trail.” He glared past them. “What about that thievin’ son of a bitch? I’ll bet he works for that damned North!”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t have any cows in his pockets,” Bo said dryly, “so I don’t think he’s done any rustling today. We’ll question him and find out what he’s doing on Rocking B range. I reckon this Mr. Bascomb you mentioned is the owner?”

“That’s right. Chet Bascomb. As fine a man as you’ll find in these parts…not like that no-good polecat Steve North.”

Bo let that pass. Not being familiar with the situation or the folks involved, he wasn’t going to waste time getting involved in an argument about the relative merits of either Chet Bascomb or Steve North, who was evidently a rival cattleman.

Instead, he said, “You hombres can go on back about your business. We’ll take care of this matter from here.”

The gray-bearded man frowned. “Mr. Bascomb ain’t gonna like it. Around here we stomp our own snakes. We don’t depend on no lawdogs to do it.”

“Things are different now,” Bo said, his voice and his gaze firm. “You can start spreading the word, friend. Law and order have come to these parts.”

Graybeard grumbled some more, but then he turned his horse and profanely told the men with him to get back to work. They rode off, casting a few hostile glares back over their shoulders as they did so.

“I thought for sure they were going to start shooting again,” Reilly said.

Bo shook his head. “Not cowboys like that. They may be pretty rough around the edges, but they’re generally law-abiding. They respected that badge you’re wearing, Jake.”

“People really do that?” Reilly sounded like he couldn’t quite grasp that concept.

“Honest ones do,” Scratch said. “I don’t reckon you’d know.”

Reilly grinned as they turned their horses toward the buckskin-clad rider. “Honesty’s like beauty, boys,” he said. “It’s only skin-deep. Put enough temptation in anybody’s way, and they’ll forget all about being honest fast enough.”

Bo didn’t agree with that, and he hoped that in time Reilly would come to realize that it wasn’t true, too. For now, though, he wanted to find out more about what was going on around Whiskey Flats, and the “rustler” seemed as good a place as any to start.

As they rode toward the man, Scratch said, “From the sound o’ what that varmint with the beard was sayin’, there’s a range war brewin’ in these parts, too, Bo, to go along with the other trouble the mayor o’ Whiskey Flats told Braddock about in that letter.”

Bo nodded. “Yeah, I’d say you’re right. Get a couple of fellas who fancy themselves cattle barons locking horns and you can have a real problem on your hands.”

“But not me, right?” Reilly said. “I mean, I’m the town marshal. I don’t have anything to do with what happens outside of the settlement.”

“According to the letter of the law, you’re probably right. But a good lawman will poke his nose into anything that has an effect on what goes on in his town, and if a range war breaks out this close to Whiskey Flats, it’s bound to spill over into the settlement, too.”

Reilly grimaced. “I think you’re taking this whole marshal business too seriously. I’m not really John Henry Braddock.”

“But you’ve got to act like him for a while,” Bo said. “Otherwise, people won’t believe what we want them to believe. From what I’ve heard about Braddock, he wouldn’t allow a shooting war to break out so close to any town where he was the marshal.”

Reilly sighed and shook his head. “All right, all right. We’ll get to the bottom of the rustling. Or try anyway.”

Bo nodded and said, “I think that would be best.”

They had almost reached the rider who had been fleeing from the Rocking B hands. His shoulders slumped and his head hung low, just like his horse’s. Both of them were clearly exhausted.

Even so, Reilly and the Texans were taken slightly by surprise when the buckskin-clad figure suddenly swayed in the saddle for a moment and then pitched loosely to the ground to lie there motionless.

“Good Lord!” Scratch exclaimed. “Maybe he was hit after all!”

Bo was already moving, swinging down from the saddle and hurrying forward. He knelt at the side of the senseless figure, grasped his shoulders, and rolled him onto his back. As Bo lifted the man’s head, the battered old hat fell off.

Long, red, luxuriously thick hair spilled out. Bo found himself staring down into the unconscious, unmistakably female face of a young woman…. and an undeniably beautiful one at that.