Free Texas Bloodshed by William W. Johnstone

Fort Smith or over in the Territory, I’m not gonna ask what you’re doin’ there. I’m not gonna even speak to you. I’m just gonna shoot you dead right then and there, you understand?”
    Jink whimpered but didn’t answer. Brubaker bore down with his boot again.
    â€œI understand!” Jink screamed. “I understand! You won’t n-never see me again, Marshal, I swear it.”
    â€œGood.” Brubaker looked up at the storekeeper. “Got any hot food in there?”
    â€œYes, sir, we sure do,” the man answered nervously. “Some nice roast beef.”
    â€œBread?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œSlap some beef between bread, then, enough for the three of us. We’ll get it when we’re ready to pull out again.”
    Bo asked, “What about the prisoners?”
    Grudgingly, Brubaker nodded and told the man in the apron, “Enough for them, too, I suppose. And some coffee, if you’ve got it. I promised ’em something to eat and drink. Now let’s all get busy. The sooner we’re back on the road again, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

CHAPTER 10
    It took a while to get Lowe and Elam in and out of the privy. By that time the storekeeper had made the sandwiches. Bo, Scratch, and Brubaker ate first, then Scratch and the deputy covered the prisoners while Bo fed them and gave them sips of coffee from a wide-mouthed jug. The three outlaws were cooperative for a change, and Cara didn’t even cuss at any of her captors.
    Bo figured that hunger and thirst had gotten the best of their natural-born orneriness.
    Finally Brubaker climbed to the seat and unwrapped the reins from the brake lever. He had his black hat resting on the back of his head so that it wouldn’t rub against the welt where the bullet had grazed him. He had refused medical attention for the injury, insisting that it would be fine.
    â€œIf that slug had been a few inches to one side, it would’ve blown my brains out,” he said. “But it didn’t, so that tells me I ain’t fated to die from it.”
    That seemed like pretty shaky reasoning to Bo, but Brubaker was in charge, so he didn’t argue.
    The wagon continued rolling southward all afternoon, with occasional stops so the team of horses pulling it could rest. Late in the day, which ended fairly early at this time of year, Bo asked Brubaker, “Are we going to try to find a settlement with a jail so we can lock up those three for the night?”
    Brubaker shook his head.
    â€œThis wagon is sturdier than any back-country jail we’re liable to find. They can stretch out on the floor to sleep. Judge Parker just said to get ’em there. He didn’t say anything about keepin’ ’em comfortable along the way.”
    â€œYou’re a pretty hard-nosed hombre, aren’t you, Marshal?”
    Brubaker snorted. “Try keepin’ the peace in Indian Territory for a while,” he suggested. “You’ll learn right quick that gettin’ sentimental is a good way of windin’ up dead.”
    Bo couldn’t dispute that. He had seen firsthand evidence of it over the years. There were plenty of bad men in the West who would stop at nothing, including cold-blooded murder, to get what they wanted. If you misjudged the wrong man, it usually meant a bullet. It was a hard land, and it took hard men to live in it, and trust was a rare commodity.
    As they set up camp in a clearing where Brubaker had pulled off the road, Bo said to the deputy, “We’ll be taking turns standing guard?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Brubaker said. “Think you can stay awake and alert enough to handle it?”
    â€œWe’ve stood many a night watch,” Scratch said. “You can depend on us.”
    â€œGood. Because it’s your lives at stake, too, not just mine. Hank Gentry and his men would kill you without ever blinkin’ an eye.”
    Bo