Mac watched the trail boss herd the horses into the corral they had built for the night. He tried to lift his arms and stretch. His muscles refused to give him that much effort. He ached all over and barely kept his eyelids from drooping. Flagg had told him to get some shut-eye. That was about the best advice he remembered getting. He put his horse into the corral, trooped to the chuckwagon, and spread his bedroll underneath.
He went to sleep with visions of pies, apple and cherry and pumpkin and mince, all tormenting him. He wanted to make them all and lacked the ingredients for any of them.
* * *
The next thing he knew, it was time to fix breakfast. Even then, he regretted not fixing up a mountain of eggs for the men. They had to do with beefsteak and whatever else he could dredge up from the larder.
And biscuits. He might not have pie for the herders, but he had biscuits.
“Which way are you heading, Mac?” Rattler asked when the meal was over.
Mac finished closing the drop-down table on the chuckwagon and looked back at Rattler.
“I can’t follow the H Bar H herd, so I’m going to head more to the east. There must be a river in that direction from the way the land slopes. Find it and there’ll be grass aplenty for the cattle.”
“Don’t you go gettin’ lost. You’re gettin’ out of ridin’ with the herd so you can cook for us. You’re ’bout the best hire Lem Carson made.” The old cowboy spat, then added, “’Cept me, of course. And Flagg. And then there’s that consarned Billy Duke. And . . .”
Rattler walked off, listing every cowboy in the outfit.
Mac had to laugh. The way they all worked, humor was necessary for lubricating the troubles between them, but he wondered about Billy. Others besides Rattler had said he had a wild streak that barely stayed under control.
Mac pushed that thought from his mind. Scouting the new route mattered more than any single cowboy out there singing to the cattle. Wagon rattling along, he cut away at an angle to the trail left by the H Bar H herd and an hour later saw that he had guessed right about a river. It flowed between rolling hills and disappeared in the direction of the Mississippi, though that was mighty far off. Getting the team turned, he followed the riverbank, hunting for a spot to ford.
Not another mile along the river, he saw debris floating that showed a town lay upriver. From the amount of junk, it wasn’t too far off. Thoughts of swapping another few cows for more supplies filled his imagination. Unless Compass Jack or another herd had come by recently, those settlers would need fresh beef as much as the ones in the other town. Top dollar per head was his goal.
He found a decent place to make camp and began work on the noon meal. Before long, he looked up and saw two riders watching him. After he beckoned them over, the pair trotted closer. Badges gleamed on their chests, but he had no trouble figuring which was the marshal and which was the deputy. The deputy looked to be about ten years old, although he had to be older than that. The marshal pushed back his hat so a shock of gray hair poked out.
“Howdy,” the marshal called. “Are you setting up a permanent camp here?”
“No, sir, I’m waiting for the rest of the Rolling J herd to catch up with me. As quick as I feed the crew, we’ll push on.”
“Push on,” the marshal repeated. “Do tell.”
“There’s a town not far from here, unless I miss my guess. Are you in need of fresh meat? If you are, we can do some trading. Prime beef for supplies.”
“Supplies.”
Mac grew a little irritated. All the lawman did was repeat what he said and didn’t give out the information he needed. Any worry that the marshal might have recognized him passed quickly. The man had a far-off look in his eye, and the boy with him wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else, from the way he fidgeted. He reminded Mac of the children at Thanksgiving dinner being put at the small table in the kitchen while the adults sat around the dining room table. The deputy acted like he wanted to be with the adults but found that they didn’t have half the fun the kids did.
“What’s the name of the town?” Mac decided to try a different tactic to get the marshal talking more freely. Who didn’t want to brag on the town where they lived?
“I call it Hell, but the residents prefer Lewiston.”
“Lewiston sounds more accommodating.”
“Does it now?” The marshal reached for the gun on his hip and looked off into the distance to the southwest. Mac turned his head to check and saw Flagg riding toward them, his horse moving at a steady lope.
When Flagg rode up, he reined in and asked, “And who might this be?”
Mac introduced them the best he could, saying, “Lawmen from a settlement nearby. I didn’t catch your name, Marshal. Or your deputy’s.”
The marshal relaxed and took his hand away from his gun as Flagg dismounted and went to stand beside Mac.
“Name’s Wilkinson, and this is my boy, David.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Flagg said, but his tone indicated he was as wary as Mac had become of the lawman.
“Good thing to talk to the trail boss since you’re the one what has to pay up for passage.”
“How’s that?” Flagg stepped away from Mac.
This caused Mac to catch his breath. Flagg acted as if lead was about to fly. Mac bent into the chuckwagon and opened the drawer where he kept his S&W. Leaving it there but close at hand, he turned back to the conversation playing out between the men.
“Well, Mr. Flagg, as town marshal, I got to levy a passage tax of a dollar a head on your cows. You have to go right on by Lewiston, you do, and that causes all kinds of disruption in our business.”
“That’s two thousand dollars!” Mac blurted out the number before he could control himself.
“That many head, eh? Well, now, Mr. Flagg, you either turn your herd around and go back the way you come or pay the passage tax. In gold, if you got it. If you’re thinkin’ on payin’ in scrip, well now, there’s a convenience tax added on. I’d have to take three thousand dollars in greenbacks.”
“I can understand that,” Flagg said. “Most banks issuing paper money are bankrupt.”
“Glad you understand. Now pay up or get out of here. This is town property where your cook’s set up. I wouldn’t want to deliver a fine for not obeying a peace officer.”
“You want two thousand dollars for the herd to go past your town. And you want rent for my cook fixing a meal beside a river that looks like it’s free for anyone to use.” Flagg rested his hand on the butt of his Colt. “That sounds like highway robbery to me.”
“You accusin’ a lawman of bein’ a crook? That’s a crime, too, in Lewiston.”
“If I had to guess, everything is a crime in Lewiston.” Flagg turned toward Mac and said, “There’s nothing we can do but pay the passage tax.”
“You got that kind of money?” Marshal Wilkinson’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “How much more you carryin’?”
“I suppose you want to know so you can invent new taxes and take that, too!”
Mac’s outburst caused the deputy to drag out his black powder Remington. It was almost as big as he was, but it didn’t waver or quake in his steady grip.
“That’s not too friendly.”
“That’s a crime in Lewiston, isn’t it? Have your boy put down his gun. We can talk this out.” Flagg glared at Mac, and he didn’t blame the trail boss. He had let his emotions get out of control at how unfair this was. The marshal was as much a robber as Thumbs Fontaine and his partners when they’d hog-tied him and strung him up so they could steal the Rolling J supplies.
“No need for a parley,” the marshal said. “The law’s clear. Pay up or go back.”
“If we don’t do either?” Flagg squarely faced the lawman.
Mac tensed. This was the question that had to get answered.
“Won’t come as a surprise to you if I confiscate the herd, will it? See? It’s cheaper to pay the tax what’s owed the city of Lewiston.”
/> “It isn’t possible to offer a few head of cattle to you to forget the whole matter, is it?”
Mac blinked at the marshal’s speed. He had his gun out, cocked and pointed at Flagg so fast there wasn’t hardly a blur.
“Now that’s a crime, Mr. Trail Boss. You tried to bribe a peace officer. You get yourself across that horse, and let’s get on into town. We got a right fine lockup and a cell waitin’ just for you.”
“What’s the fine?” Mac ignored Flagg’s attempt to silence him. “How much will it take to get him out and free? We need him to handle the herd. There’s nothing but greenhorns working the cattle otherwise.”
“Is that a fact? Five hundred dollars. That’ll get him his freedom. Then we’ll talk about the two-thousand-dollar passage tax.” Wilkinson motioned with his pistol for Flagg to mount.
His boy rode over, plucked Flagg’s Colt from his holster, and tucked it into his own belt.
“Can you rustle up the money, Cook?” Wilkinson sneered, forcing Mac to decide between answering with a word or his own six-shooter. He chose the one Flagg would approve of.
“Can.”
“Better get him out of jail before the judge comes through. Then it’ll be prison for certain.” He waved his pistol around, pointed with it upstream, waited for Flagg to start, and said, “You watch our back trail, David. Don’t let nobody but this one come on into town. I don’t want any trouble. The townsfolk don’t cotton much to whoopin’ and hollerin’ by rowdy cowpokes.”
His horse reared, pawed the air, then galloped off, leaving Mac with emotions mixing anger and fear. There wasn’t any doubt Flagg would pay dearly if the fine wasn’t paid. As far as Mac knew, the only cash money Mr. Jefferson had given them was around three hundred dollars. It might be in Flagg’s bedroll, but that still came out a couple hundred shy of the ransom demanded.
And there was no question about it. This was a road agent, only he wore a badge.
* * *
“I say we all ride into town and shoot it up.” Rattler waved his fists in the air. More than one of the cowboys joined in the call for action.
“He’s got a point, Mac. We can’t let Flagg stay in the hoosegow.” Billy Duke didn’t shake his fist. He drew his gun and fired it into the air.
Mac saw the shot coming, and he still flinched at the loud roar.
“That’s just going to make matters worse,” he said. “We have to figure this out.”
“I reckon I’m ’bout the most senior hand left in the outfit,” Rattler said. “That makes me actin’ trail boss. Billy here’s got a good idea. We don’t have near enough money to pay any fine to spring Flagg. What else can we do?”
“If I read the marshal right, he wants us doing that very thing—riding into Lewiston and trying to shoot up the town. He’s looking for an excuse to seize the entire herd.”
“A lot of them mayors and marshals demand money to drive past them, but they only ask for a few head of cattle. That’s part of the business, and in the past Carson forked over the beeves without so much as a cold, hard stare.” Rattler grabbed Billy’s hand and pulled it down and whispered to him. Billy holstered the six-shooter but looked put out rather than repentant.
“I want to do what Billy’s suggesting,” Mac said. “I really do. But if it makes matters worse, if it loses Mr. Jefferson his entire herd, nobody comes out ahead other than that crooked marshal and his boy.”
“That’s what we do. We kidnap his kid and hold him for ransom. We swap him for Flagg, and we go on.” Billy Duke looked proud of himself for thinking up the harebrained scheme.
Mac chose his words carefully, not wanting to split the outfit. They had to work together or they’d all be out of a job—or worse. Marshal Wilkinson looked like the kind who would lock them all up or leave their bodies for the buzzards. With the town situated along the Shawnee Trail the way it was, the lawman had worked this swindle before. The people in Lewiston might go along with it because he shared, or maybe he kept them cowed by threatening them. Without knowing, Mac saw no quick solution to their problem.
“Three hundred’s all there was in Flagg’s bedroll?” he asked.
“Mac, there wasn’t even that,” Rattler said. “I’m not too good at countin’, but I’d say there was only two hundred. There’s no tellin’ if Carson left him the whole amount or if he spent some along the way. Hell, for all I know, one or the other of them lost it in a poker game.”
“We haven’t hit any towns where they’d have gambled,” Mac said, distracted. “We don’t have the money”—he looked around the circle of faces and saw they couldn’t scrape together another fifty dollars among the lot of them—“so we have to do something else.”
“You said he wanted the entire herd, so offering a few head to him’s not goin’ to work.” Rattler started to wind up for a speech rallying them to shoot up the town. Mac beat him to it.
“I can get Flagg out. And not pay the ransom for moving the herd.” He saw how skeptical Rattler was and how disappointed Billy was. He hurried on. “I’ll need what money Flagg had.”
“That’s not enough to pay Flagg’s fine!” Rattler sounded disappointed that Mac hadn’t been paying attention.
A slow smile came to Mac’s lips.
“It’s not, but it’ll be plenty for what I have in mind. Here’s what we have to do. All of us.” He held out his arms and pulled Rattler and Billy Duke closer as if hatching the greatest conspiracy since Lincoln’s assassination. As he talked, they warmed to his cockeyed scheme.
They agreed to it because they didn’t have any other choice.
CHAPTER 16
Mac felt every eye on him as he rode into town. The nightlife in Lewiston stirred and moved toward one of three saloons but took a pause to study him like he was some exotic bug buzzing about. He kept his eyes straight ahead as he passed the third of the saloons, Gus’s Watering Hole. It was the least crowded and closest to the jail. He wondered if there was a connection between those two facts.
He dismounted and went to the jailhouse. His hand shook as he reached for the latch. He stepped back, took a deep breath, and remembered all he had survived. Comanches and Northrup’s killers and working double—triple!—duty with the drive. Before that he had escaped New Orleans by the skin of his teeth. He had avoided a double danger there. Going on trial for Micah Holdstock’s murder would have been the worst, but he wondered if, after seeing how Evangeline had taken so quickly to Pierre Leclerc, he had dodged trouble by not marrying her, too.
“I can do this,” he said softly. When he reached for the latch this time, his hand was rock steady. He opened the door and stepped inside to face a scattergun aimed in his direction.
“You’ve got quite a way of greeting strangers, Marshal,” Mac said calmly. “Real hospitable.”
“You ain’t wearin’ a gun. Turn around. Lift that duster.”
“All I’ve got on me is my knife.”
“You just drop it here on my desk.” Marshal Wilkinson rocked back in his chair and balanced the shotgun on the desk edge as Mac divested himself of his only weapon. “That’s real good. Now, you got the money?”
“I do. I want to be sure Mr. Flagg is still among the living.”
“Ain’t no reason why he shouldn’t be.”
“I’m all right, Mac. You got the money?” Flagg’s words came from the back of the jail, set off by a wall and closed door.
“Now, you two stop that palaverin’. This is a legal matter, not a social one. Fork over the money. On the desk.”
“I had to be sure you were an honorable thief.”
“You want to end up in the cell next to that owlhoot?” Wilkinson rocked forward and lifted the shotgun to menace him. Mac never batted an eye. He had come this far—too far to back out.
“I want to buy you a drink, Marshal. Your choice of saloon. I see there’s three of them. Which do you prefer?”
Wilkinson frowned. The shotgun never moved an inch off dead center of Mac’s chest.
“
You thinkin’ on takin’ me to a saloon whilst the others come and spring him?” He canted his head back in the direction of the cells. “That’s not happenin’. I’m too smart for that.”
“How did you know I was at the door and not someone else? Really, Marshal Wilkinson, you have everyone in town on the lookout for you. If anybody snuck in, you’d know it right away. I wanted to be sociable, but if you don’t want a drink . . .”
Mac let the invitation die off. From the two empty bottles in the office corner he guessed Wilkinson didn’t go long without dipping his beak in a shot glass filled to the brim with whiskey.
“My scouts all say you rode in alone. Ain’t nobody else out on the road leading into town.”
“See?” Mac tried to look innocent. He must have succeeded because the marshal lowered the shotgun. Now if he fired, he would only blow off Mac’s balls.
“Ain’t comin’ out of my fine. The fine for your trail boss, that is.”
“Agreed. I don’t want us to part on bad terms, and, well, you’ve seen how he is.” Mac glanced toward the rear of the jailhouse. A locked wooden door between the office and the cells prevented him from seeing Flagg. “He can be downright cantankerous.”
“He’s got a mouth on him, that’s for sure.”
“Wet your whistle, Marshal. I’m buying. Is Gus’s Watering Hole next door good enough?”
“I have to get my deputy in to watch the office.” He bellowed like a bull, sucked in more air, then repeated the call.
Mac smiled, nodded and waited. He was not surprised to see the youngster who had been with Wilkinson earlier come in from a small room at the side of the office, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Running this town was a family enterprise.
“Yeah, Pa. What is it?”
“You keep the office whilst I’m out. Lock the door after me. If anybody tries to break in, you shoot the varmint in the cell. You hear?”
“Like I done before?”
The boy’s question turned Mac cold inside. He knew they had run this swindle before, but hearing such a young man admit he had murdered a prisoner on his pa’s orders chilled him. The wrong ones were out of the cell.
The Chuckwagon Trail Page 14
