Massacre at Whiskey Flats. William W. Johnstone
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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