Sidewinders#2 Massacre At Whiskey Flats

by William W. Johnstone

  Reilly stared, wide-eyed. “Son of a bitch!” he said again. “I never saw shooting like that!”

  “There are men who can do better,” Scratch said as he holstered the left-hand Remington and broke open the other one to begin reloading it. “And that ain’t false modesty, just fact. But I’ll admit that I’m pretty fair at gun-handlin’.”

  “And at wasting ammunition by showing off,” Bo said, but his grin made it clear that he wasn’t really annoyed with Scratch. “Load that Colt and try again, Jake. That’s the only way you’ll get any better.”

  “What’ll I shoot at?” Reilly wanted to know. “He busted that little rock all to pieces!”

  “Just try for the big one,” Bo told him.

  Reilly reloaded and continued to practice, and his last two shots from that cylinder both hit the target. He turned to Bo and Scratch with a grin. “How about that?”

  “Yeah, but the rock ain’t shootin’ back,” Scratch pointed out.

  “You show some promise, Jake,” Bo said. “Keep it up, and you might be a pretty good hand with a gun like that.”

  Reilly shook his head. “Don’t know why I’d ever need to be. I’m just carrying it because Braddock doesn’t have any use for it anymore. When we get to Whiskey Flats, I’ll probably sell it. Might get enough to buy a smaller gun and have some left over to stake me in a game of cards.”

  He appeared to have forgotten what Bo had said about him getting a job in a store or a livery stable. That was all right, Bo mused.

  Because he had something else in mind for Jake Reilly now.

  They hadn’t reached Whiskey Flats by nightfall, if indeed the settlement lay in this direction. That seemed likely, considering that John Henry Braddock had been heading south, too. It might take several days to get there, or they might ride right into the place tomorrow. Only time would tell.

  Bo and Scratch found another good place to camp, this one on top of a small hill with a view of the surrounding countryside. Considering the location, the Texans deemed it best not to have a campfire, which would have been more visible here than the place they had camped in the night before. It was still possible that Tom Harding and his gunhands might be coming after them, although Bo deemed that more unlikely with each day that passed.

  Reilly groused about not having a fire, of course. “Cold food will fill your belly just as well as warm,” Scratch told him. “And the weather ain’t nippy enough at night to freeze off anything important.”

  “I just don’t understand why you have to be so careful all the time.”

  “That’s because we want to stay alive,” Bo said. “And the best way to get dead in a hurry out here is to be careless.”

  “What about Braddock?” Reilly asked. “He wasn’t being careless. He was just riding along the trail. And now he’s as dead as he can be.”

  Bo shrugged. “Sometimes bad luck can’t be avoided no matter what you do. But it doesn’t hurt to try to tip the odds in your favor.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Reilly admitted. “Sort of like playing poker.”

  “Cheatin’ at poker, you mean,” Scratch said disdainfully.

  “Anyway,” Bo added, “you were the one who was worried about Indians, Jake. You wouldn’t want to advertise our presence up here, just in case there is a war party anywhere around these parts, would you?”

  Reilly shut up after that.

  They made another meal on biscuits and jerky, washed down with cold, clear water from a nearby creek instead of the whiskey that Reilly would have preferred. Afterward, Reilly leaned back on a rock and took a cigar out of his pocket. He was reaching for a match when Bo said, “Might as well put it away, unless you want to chew on it unlit, Jake.”

  “Damn it!” Reilly said. “Now you mean to tell me that I can’t even smoke either?”

  “I’d like a pipe myself,” Bo said, “but the smell of tobacco smoke can drift a long way. If anybody’s looking for us, it’d be easy to follow the smoke right back here to us.”

  Muttering disgustedly, Reilly shoved the cheroot back in his pocket. “It’s like traveling with a pair of damned old mother hens.”

  “These mother hens are tryin’ to keep you alive, boy,” Scratch said. “Seems to me like we’ve pulled your bacon outta the fire a couple o’ times already. You ought to be a mite grateful.”

  “I am,” Reilly said, although he didn’t sound particularly thankful.

  “If that’s true, then maybe you’ll consider an idea I have in mind,” Bo said.

  Suspicion was suddenly audible in Reilly’s voice as he said, “An idea? What sort of idea?”

  Bo thumbed his hat back on his head as he sat on the ground with his legs stretched out in front of him. “I’ve been thinking about what’s going to happen when we get to Whiskey Flats,” he said.

  “I sort of figured we’d go our separate ways,” Reilly said. “No offense, and like I told you, I’m grateful to you fellas for what you’ve done for me, but let’s face it…we’re just not cut from the same cloth. You’re cramping my style.”

  “Crampin’ your style?” Scratch repeated as he started to get up. “Why, you little pup—”

  “Take it easy,” Bo said. “Jake, how do you think the people of Whiskey Flats are going to feel when they find out that John Henry Braddock, the man they were counting on to bring law and order to their community, is dead?”

  Reilly shrugged. “Disappointed, I suppose. But that’s not my problem, and it’s not yours either. Hell, you’re doing them a favor just by bringing them the news that Braddock is never going to get there.”

  “But what if he does?” Bo asked. “What if John Henry Braddock rides into Whiskey Flats after all?”

  A laugh came from Reilly. “That’s gonna be pretty hard, seeing as how he’s dead and buried.”

  Now it was Scratch’s turn to be suspicious as he asked, “What sort o’ crazy notion is floatin’ around inside that noggin o’ yours, Bo Creel?”

  “It’s really simple,” Bo said. “John Henry Braddock can still take the job of marshal in Whiskey Flats and bring law and order to the settlement.” He held out his hand, and the light of the rising moon glinted on the badge that rested on his palm once again. “All you have to do, Jake, is pretend to be Braddock. You can be the marshal of Whiskey Flats.”

  CHAPTER 7

  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 questio
n 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.