Massacre at Whiskey Flats. William W. Johnstone
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said, “Maybe so. I got to admit, I felt a mite queasy myself at the idea of doing that to him. Nobody from around here, though, would’ve stood up to Tom Harding to stop it.”
Bo started to tell him that until the townspeople stood up to Harding, the cattle baron would continue running roughshod over them, but he decided to save his breath. Hobart had to be aware of that, and so did everybody else in the settlement. What they did about it was up to them, and no business of his and Scratch’s.
“Any towns south of here?” he asked after taking another swig of the beer. “It’s been a while since we’ve been through these parts, but to the best of my recollection, there’s not much until you hit Santa Fe.”
Hobart shook his head. “No, that’s not true. There are several settlements between here and there. Closest one is several days’ ride, though.”
“You’re not thinkin’ of movin’ on, are you?” Scratch asked with a frown. “We were gonna stay here a few days and stock up on supplies, amongst other things.”
That had been the plan, all right. Despite looking like a parson, Bo was a highly skilled poker player, and when the Texans’ stake ran low, he could usually fatten it up in a few days just by sitting in on a few games. That was what he would have done here, if fate hadn’t intervened.
“We still have enough provisions to last us for a while,” he said. Nor were they flat broke yet, although he didn’t mention that. “It might be best if we moved on.” At Scratch’s grimace, he added, “Best for the town, that is. If Harding knows we’re still here, he’s liable to be like a bear with a hurt paw. He’ll lash out at anything that comes near him.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Scratch admitted. “I was sure lookin’ forward to sleepin’ in a real bed with a roof over my head again, though.”
Bo grinned. “We’ll find us a nice comfortable spot to camp tonight.”
Scratch just snorted.
They finished their beers, and Bo said, “We’re much obliged to you, Mr. Hobart.”
The storekeeper nodded. “I just wish we could be more hospitable to you fellas. You understand, though.”
“Sure,” Bo said. He and Scratch stood up, nodded their farewells, and started toward the batwings. The other men in the saloon nervously watched them leave.
As they stepped out onto the boardwalk, Scratch growled, “It’s like we got a dark cloud hangin’ over our heads, and those gents are afraid it’s gonna rain all over ’em.”
“You can’t blame them for feeling that way,” Bo said. “We’re strangers, just passing through, but they have to live here and try to get along with Harding—”
He didn’t have time to say anything else before muzzle flame spurted from the darkness of a nearby alley mouth and the roar of guns filled the night.
CHAPTER 3
Bo and Scratch reacted instinctively as bullets sang past their heads. They split up, Bo hugging the front wall of the saloon to the right, Scratch going to the left toward the street. The silver-haired Texan put one hand on the railing along the edge of the boardwalk and vaulted over it, rolling lithely as he landed in the street. He came up on one knee with both hands filled with the butts of his Remingtons.
Meanwhile, Bo crouched behind a bench that sat on the boardwalk. As the bushwhackers’ guns continued to blare from the alley, slugs chewed splinters from the arms of the bench. One of the wooden slivers stung Bo’s cheek as he lined up his Colt and squeezed the trigger. He had aimed just above one of the muzzle flashes, and as the revolver bucked against his palm, he saw another gout of flame from a gun barrel, only this one was aimed skyward as the man who pulled the trigger was driven over backward by the smashing impact of the bullet from Bo’s gun.
Scratch opened fire, too. Instead of the single precise shot that had come from Bo’s gun, Scratch set both smokepoles to roaring in a thunderous volley of death. Left, right, left, right, he squeezed off the shots, each Remington blasting in turn as the barrel of the other gun kicked upward from the recoil. Lead poured into the alley mouth. The second bushwhacker, even though he managed to get off another couple of rounds, never had a chance.
After triggering half a dozen shots in less than five seconds, Scratch held his fire. On the boardwalk, Bo straightened from his crouch and walked toward the alley, advancing slowly and cautiously with the Colt thrust out in front of him, ready to fire again if need be.
No more shots came from the alley mouth. When Bo reached the end of the boardwalk, he fished a lucifer out of his coat pocket with his left hand and snapped it into life with his thumbnail. The harsh flare of light from the match revealed two men lying motionless on the dirt, their rough range clothes splotched with spreading bloodstains. Bo recognized both men.
So did Scratch, who had holstered one gun and was using that hand to slap dust off his clothes as he came closer. He grunted and said, “The same two varmints who tried to hand us a beatin’ earlier.”
“Yeah,” Bo agreed. “Jenkins and Thomas, I think Harding called them.”
“You reckon he sent them back to kill us?”
Bo shrugged. “Could be. Or they might’ve come after us on their own, since we showed them up. You can bet Harding would say he didn’t know anything about them being here, if the law ever called him on it.” Bo’s mouth twisted. “But of course that won’t ever happen, since the only law around here is Harding’s tame star packer.”
Scratch leaned forward to take a closer look. “Both dead, ain’t they?”
“Oh, yeah. Shot through and through.” In fact, spreading blood was forming dark pools around both men.
Bo shook the match out and dropped it as boot heels rang on the boardwalk, hurrying closer. He and Scratch swung around in case they were about to be attacked again, but instead of more bushwhackers, all they saw were curious townsmen, drawn by the flurry of shots. The marshal, Ralston, was in the lead, carrying a lantern.
“What in blazes happened here?” he demanded. He held the lantern higher so that its yellow glow washed over the corpses. “My God! You’ve murdered two of Mr. Harding’s men!”
Gus Hobart, who was in the curious crowd that had emerged from the Buffalo Bar, said sharply, “Don’t even think about trying that, Ralston! Those Texans had barely stepped outside when the shooting started, and the first shots came from the alley over here. They were just defending themselves, and there are a dozen men here who will swear to it!”
Ralston regarded the storekeeper narrowly. “You better watch what you’re sayin’, Hobart. You’re liable to wind up neck-deep in trouble.”
Hobart thrust out his jaw and said, “You know I’ll go along with most anything Tom Harding wants. I’m no fool. But I’ll be damned if I’ll go along with these two men being railroaded for murder when all they were doing was defending themselves from Harding’s hired killers!”
Ralston jerked his head around, nervous as a rabbit as he looked at the townspeople surrounding him. “You’re sure that’s the way it was?” he asked.
“Damn sure,” Hobart responded. He didn’t look like a meek little storekeeper at this moment. Growing a mite of backbone seemed to have straightened him and even made him taller.
Ralston pulled at his chin. “Well, then, I, uh, I reckon I can’t hold you two,” he said to Bo and Scratch. He squared his shoulders in an attempt to regain a little dignity. “But you’re troublemakers, both of you, and I’m damn sure within my rights to tell you to get out of my town! Vamoose and don’t come back!”
Bo saw Scratch stiffening, and knew that the marshal’s words had put a burr under his partner’s saddle. Scratch was stubborn enough to argue with Ralston just on general principles. Instead, Bo put a restraining hand on Scratch’s arm and