Free Ralph Compton The Convict Trail by Ralph Compton

and the man turned and floundered into the Red.
    Kane went after him, his horse kicking up cascading plumes of foamy water. Terrified, Young waded deeper, then tripped and disappeared. He surfaced like a broaching sperm whale, spluttering, his face and bald head dripping slimy river mud.
    The marshal drew rein, the sorrel standing in water up to its knees. Kane grinned. “It’s about time you took a bath, Young. You stink like the business end of a polecat.”
    The man angrily slapped the water on each side of him. “Damn you, I won’t fergit this. You’re banned from my ferry for life. You hear that, law-dog? Banned for life!”
    Kane’s grin grew wider. Then he lifted his eyes from Young to the Indian woman on the opposite bank. She stood still, holding the Sharps over her right shoulder, her face impassive. The marshal waved, but the woman did not wave back.
    Kane swung his horse around and cantered up the rise. Behind him Young started to wade out of the river, fell, then waded again. He stumbled onto the bank and fell on his belly, his chest heaving.
    Sam looked at Kane, his eyes twinkling, and said, “Drownin’ is a sure cure for bad habits.”
    â€œAin’t it, though,” Kane said.
    â€œHappy now?” Sam said.
    â€œAs a kid pullin’ a pup’s ears,” Kane said.
    â€œThat’s what I figgered,” Sam said.
    But Kane’s attention was suddenly elsewhere. On the opposite bank a rider sat his horse, his face shadowed by a black, wide-brimmed hat. A far-seeing man, Kane took note of the holstered revolver on the man’s hip and the booted rifle under his left knee. The guide rope of the stranger’s pack mule was in his gun hand and he seemed relaxed and unthreatening.
    But still, there was something about the rider that made Kane uneasy. It seemed Sam shared that feeling.
    â€œHe’s a gun all right, Logan,” he said, as though Kane had asked him a question. “Ain’t nobody else but a named man sits that arrogant in the saddle, except maybe a Yankee cavalry colonel.”
    â€œRecognize him?”
    Sam shook his head. “Nah, I can’t peg him.”
    It was Buff Stringfellow who answered Kane’s question. The man had bullied his way to the door of the cage and his mouth was pressed between the bars. “Jack!” he bellowed. “It’s me, Buff!”
    For a moment Kane thought the man hadn’t heard, but then he slid his rifle from the scabbard and brandished it over his head.
    â€œI’ll be lookin’ fer ya, Jack!” Stringfellow yelled.
    Even from a distance, Kane saw the white grin on the face of the man called Jack.
    Sam turned all the way around in his seat and called out to Stringfellow, “Hey, Buff, who’s yer friend?”
    â€œThat’s for me to know, old man.”
    â€œI know who he is,” Kane said. “He’s a drunken killer an’ train robber who goes by the name o’ Jack Henry.” The marshal’s eyes lifted to Sam. “It don’t come as too much of a surprise that him and Stringfellow are pea patch kin.”
    â€œCorrect on all counts, Marshal.” Stringfellow grinned. “An’ if you ain’t boogered by now, you should be. Jack is a heller from way back. Why, I mind the time him an’ ol’ Jesse—”
    â€œShut your trap, Stringfellow,” Kane said. “Another word o’ sass an’ you’ll be building your smokes with your left hand.”
    â€œSuit yourself, Kane,” the man said. He looked around at his companions. “Won’t be long now, boys.” Every man’s eyes turned to the marshal. All six of them were grinning, like cats who had just eaten the canary.
    Sam climbed down from the wagon and stepped beside Kane, his hand on the bridle of the marshal’s horse. “How you want to play this, Logan? You cain’t get lard less’n you boil the hog. Want