Free Ralph Compton The Convict Trail by Ralph Compton Page A

to wait on this side for ol’ Jack, lay up for him an’ shoot him right out of the saddle?”
    Kane sat his saddle, his brow wrinkled. He said nothing.
    â€œMarshal?”
    â€œI’m studying on it, Sam. I’m studying on it.”

Chapter 8
    Kane watched the sloshing wet Bill Young clamber onto the ferry and take up the rope. On the opposite bank Jack Henry had dismounted and stood by his horse.
    â€œWell, Logan, what do you think?” Sam prompted. “Do we stash the wagon someplace and bushwhack that feller?”
    Kane had already made up his mind. “Move ’em out, Sam.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œHenry won’t cross on the ferry until we’re gone, and a man in his line o’ work ain’t likely to ride into our rifles.”
    â€œThen how do we play it?”
    â€œFor now, we watch our drag, left flank, right flank an’ point.”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œAtween us, we don’t got that many eyes.” Sam shook his head. “I sure hope you know what you’re doin’, Marshal.”
    Kane’s smile was tight. “So do I, old-timer. So . . . do . . . I.”
    After they left the Red, Kane dropped back, leaving Sam to follow any trail he could find. The marshal rose through rolling country, the ground thickly carpeted with buffalo and grama grass, and here and there patches of sand bluestem and prickly pear. Vast forests of pine, hickory and wild oak grew everywhere and sometimes glades of tumbled white boulders were visible through the trees. The sky was blue as carbon steel, the morning clouds burned away by the flaming sun. Kane saw where the tracks of Sam’s wagon swung wide around peat bogs and stretches of wetlands where water lilies floated on shallow ponds like ancient galleons. The old man was a first-rate teamster and his experienced eyes constantly searched the terrain ahead, wary of places where the wagon could get stuck or shatter a wheel.
    Three miles north of the river Kane rode up on the wagon. Sam had stopped at a slow-running creek bordered by cottonwood and elm. At first the marshal thought the old man was about to water the team, but the mules were standing head down in the traces and Sam was fifty yards downstream, looking around him.
    Kane rode closer and then saw what the old man was seeing.
    Sam looked up at him. “Small herd, no more’n five hundred head, headin’ north. Watered here, oh, maybe two, three hours ago.”
    At this point both sandy banks of the creek had been broken down by the passage of the herd. The smell of cow dung and dust still lingered in the air.
    Kane offered no response, and Sam said, “Safe bet they’re headed for the Territory. Army is always ready to buy beef to feed the Indians.”
    The old man stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked at the grass at his feet. He looked at Kane again and grinned. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
    â€œSam, I never know what you’re thinkin,’ ” Kane said. “But if you’re thinkin’ we should fall in with them drovers, then you’re thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m thinkin’,” Sam said. “Small herd like that should make ten miles a day easy. We could stay with them until we reach the mountains, unless they decide to go over instead of around.”
    Kane shifted in the saddle, then took the makings from his shirt pocket. There was safety in numbers, and Texas drovers were a tough bunch. The thought of Jack Henry on his back trail rankled him, to say nothing of the Provanzano brothers. He was sure they thought he was protecting Barnabas Hook, and in a way maybe he was. They might even figure Hook had given him the family money for safe-keeping.
    Kane thumbed a match into flame and lit his cigarette. “Water the mules, Sam, and let’s see if we can catch up to