Massacre at Whiskey Flats. William W. Johnstone
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That’s not even a real shotgun.”
“Son,” Bo said, “even if it had been, I don’t reckon we would’ve been in all that much danger.” He paused. “What’s your name?”
The swindler dusted off his clothes, straightened his coat, and tucked his thumbs in the lapels. “My name is Charles Wortham,” he said. “I work for the—”
“Don’t even try that,” Bo warned him. “We heard all about it back in town.”
“Oh.” The stranger was abashed, but only for a second. “My name is really Jake Reilly.”
“Are we supposed to believe that?”
“As it happens, it’s true.”
“You tried to cheat those folks back there,” Scratch accused.
“I would have gotten away with it, too,” Reilly said, and there was a note of pride in his voice. “That is, if Harding hadn’t had to go and ruin everything.”
“Don’t you even feel the least bit ashamed?” Bo asked.
“Let me tell you something,” Reilly said, “something that everybody in my line of work knows. Every single person on the face of the earth has at least a little bit of larceny in his or her soul. That’s what you have to appeal to if you want to make the schemes work. A man who wants to get something for nothing is the easiest to cheat.”
“But those folks back yonder weren’t tryin’ to get somethin’ for nothin’,” Scratch argued. “They just wanted the railroad to come to their town.”
“So they could get rich. Everybody who handed over a deed to me would never have done it if he hadn’t believed that he’d make a lot more money in the long run by doing it.”
Bo shook his head. “We can go round and round all night arguing about this, and it won’t accomplish a blamed thing.” He extended a hand toward Reilly. “Are you coming or not? If you are, climb up here behind me.”
Scratch and Reilly both stared at him. It would have been hard to say which of them was more surprised by Bo’s offer.
Scratch found his voice first. “You’re askin’ the likes o’ him to ride with us?”
“I won’t leave any man afoot,” Bo said. “Not even a swindler and con artist like our friend Jake here.”
“He ain’t my friend,” Scratch said. “And I think you’re loco for not leavin’ him here.”
Bo smiled. “Wouldn’t be the first time you thought I was loco, would it?”
“Well…not hardly.”
Grinning, Reilly came forward to reach up and clasp Bo’s wrist. “I’m surely obliged to you for the ride, Mister…?”
“Creel,” Bo introduced himself. “Bo Creel. My partner is Scratch Morton.”
“I’m sure pleased to meet you both.” With a grunt of effort, Reilly lifted himself onto the back of Bo’s dun and settled himself behind the saddle. “It was gonna be a mighty long walk to the next town.”
“We won’t get there tonight,” Bo told him. “We’ll have to find a place to make camp before too much longer. I wouldn’t mind putting a few more miles between us and that settlement, though.”
Reilly laughed. “You and me both, brother. You and me both.”
Now that he appeared to be out of immediate danger and wouldn’t be forced to wander through the night on foot, Reilly’s natural, easygoing arrogance had returned. Bo sensed that it was as much a part of the man as his blond hair.
“What happened to your horse?” he asked. “I reckon you did have a horse?”
“I sure did. A fine little mare. She’s back there in the livery stable, though…a livery stable co-owned by Tom Harding, I might add…so I don’t think I’ll be going back to get her.”
“Not unless you want to risk a dose o’tar and feathers again,” Scratch said.
“How about a gun?” Bo asked.
“I had a pocket pistol. They took it away from me when they stormed into my hotel room, the barbarians.”
“So you don’t have a thing?”
“The clothes on my back,” Reilly answered. “And my charm.”
Scratch made a disgusted noise in his throat to indicate just how charming he thought Reilly was. Bo said, “Well, maybe you can make a fresh start in the next town we come to. You can probably get a job in a store or a livery stable or some such.”
Reilly reached around and held up a hand, wiggling the long, slender fingers. “Does that look like a hand that should be loading flour sacks or mucking out stalls? If you’ll stake me to a dollar or two, Mr. Creel, and let me find a poker game in some saloon, I’ll run that up to plenty of money in no time.”
“By cheating?” Bo asked. “And call me Bo. Even as old as I am, Mr. Creel is still my father.”
“I don’t have to cheat,” Reilly boasted. “I can take these yokels for plenty just by playing fair and square. Of course, if I need to shade the odds a little…”
Scratch exploded. “A damn tinhorn! You’ve got a blasted cardsharp ridin’ with us, Bo!”
“Afraid he’s going to get us into trouble?” Bo asked dryly. “It seems to have a way of finding us anyway.”
“Maybe so, but that ain’t no reason to give it a helpin’ hand.”
Scratch continued to mutter in disgust as Bo said to Reilly, “You don’t need to get into any poker games, Jake. Some good honest labor will get you back on your feet again.”
“I thought you just dressed like a sky pilot,” Reilly said. “I didn’t know you were going to start preaching at me, or I might not have accepted that ride.”
Bo lifted the reins as if getting ready to bring the dun to a halt. “I’ll let you get down right now, if you want.”
“No, no,” Reilly said hastily. “There’s no need for that. We’ll talk about what I’m going to do next once we get where we’re going.” He couldn’t resist adding, “For a couple of saddle tramps, you two are sure full of advice about how a fellow ought to live.”
That brought on a fresh round of muttering from Scratch, but Bo just ignored the comment. A few minutes later, he swung the dun off the trail and onto an even narrower path that led upward through the trees. Scratch followed, and a minute later they came out into a small clearing, just as Bo had expected.
“This’ll do,” he declared. He waited until Reilly had slid down from the dun’s back, then dismounted as well. Scratch had already swung down from the saddle.
Not much light penetrated into the clearing since it was surrounded by tall pines, but the Texans had good enough eyes despite their age to let them see what they were doing as they unsaddled the horses. “Look around and find us some firewood, Jake,” Bo told Reilly.
“Look around?” Reilly repeated. “How can I look around? I can’t see a blasted thing!”
“Sure you can,” Bo said. “Just relax and wait a minute. Open your eyes. Don’t squeeze them half-shut like you would if you were in some smoky saloon.”
“I wish I was,” Reilly muttered. But after a few moments, he began moving around the clearing and bending over to pick up broken branches small enough to use as firewood.
“Careful you don’t grab a shotgun by mistake,” Scratch gibed.
A few minutes later, Bo had a tiny fire burning inside a circle of rocks he had carefully arranged so that they threw back the heat from the dancing flames. Reilly