Free Forty Times a Killer by William W. Johnstone Page A

way, and they led us onto a narrow lane between the pines. It was still dark, but ahead of us we saw the glow of lanterns.
    I thought it might be a cow outfit rounding up mavericks in the brush and said so to Wes.
    â€œCould be. But it also might be lawmen or the army.”
    I pulled up my tired horse. “Do we ride around them?”
    â€œWe’ll dismount and get closer. See what we can see,” Wes said.
    We swung out of the saddle and walked our horses, always a chore for me on uneven ground. After a couple minutes, I heard a woman’s laugh, followed by the bellowing roar of a man.
    â€œDoesn’t sound like lawmen or the army, either,” I said.
    Wes had close-seeing eyes and after he peered into the darkness, he said, “Damn it all. I can’t see a thing.”
    â€œLet’s get closer,” I said.
    Wes had Smalley’s Colt butt forward in his waistband and he adjusted the big revolver for a fast draw. “Little Bit, you see anything that suggests lawmen, holler out I’ll cut loose and then we’ll ride back the way we came.”
    I said that sounded just fine with me and we walked on.
    The path, no more than a sliver of game trail, led though a pine and brush thicket, then into an open area dominated by the skeleton of a lighting-struck tree that lifted skinny white arms to the dark sky.
    After maybe fifty paces, I made out a large wall tent in the distance and next to that a canvas lean-to. The silhouettes of men and a couple women moved back and forth in front of the fire. Beyond the camp, barely visible in the gloom, a parked covered wagon had its tongue raised. Nearby, a tethered mule team stood in a hipshot row.
    â€œWell, what do you see?” Wes sounded on edge.
    â€œMen and women. Travellers more than likely.”
    â€œI could use a cup of coffee and some grub,” Wes said.
    â€œThen we’ll go visiting. It seems safe enough to me.”
    â€œWe’re a pair of drifting farm boys looking for work. Got that?”
    â€œI got it.” I led my horse forward and when I was within hailing distance, I yelled, “Hello the camp!”
    The answer came immediately. A man yelled, “Good-bye your ownself. Come on out.”
    â€œWelcoming folks,” I said. “Ain’t they?”
    Wes said nothing, but I could tell from the stiff, alert set of his head and shoulders that he was wound up tight as a clock spring.
    As we drew closer, a man who looked big in the darkness stepped forward and said, “Are ye frontwards or are ye backwards?”
    I’d no idea what the man was talking about, but I took a shot in the dark. “We have good mothers.”
    It took a while for the big man to understand the implications of my answer, but when he did, he said, “Then advance and be recognized, friend.” Another pause, then, “If ye’d said ye were frontward there would have been no welcome for you at our fire.”
    Beside me I heard Wes groan or growl. To this day, I still can’t figure the right of it.
    The big man walked out to meet us and made a great show of waving us into camp, like St. Peter ushering the righteous through the Pearly Gates.
    He was dressed in black broadcloth. Under that he wore a white collarless shirt, mighty yellow and stained. His hat was low-crowned and flat-brimmed, his face wide, fair, and handsome.
    The two men with him were clothed in the same fashion and all three were close enough in looks to be brothers.
    I guessed that the two women were wives, thin, severe, and modestly attired in black dresses with white at the collars and cuffs.
    One of the women smiled at me and said, “Good-bye.”
    â€œIndeed,” the big man said. “Sleep, put your horses up, and then have coffee.”
    The other men stepped forward, smiled, and shook hands with us. “Good-bye,” they said. “Come again some time.”
    Wes gave me a sidelong look and I noticed that his thumb