Free Gunsmith #362 : Buffalo Soldiers (9781101554388) by J. R. Roberts

the jackets.”
    “Keep your voice down,” Gordon said. “He hears us talkin’ about goin’ out on our own and he’ll kill us.”
    “And I don’t need to be afraid that no man’s gonna kill me if’n I say somethin’ he don’t like,” Franklin said. “I swear, Gordo, this should be our last job with him.”
    Gordon didn’t know what to think, but he was glad when Franklin finally quieted down.

TWENTY-FIVE
    Clint and Reeves stopped to rest the horses. Actually, they stopped to rest Bass Reeves’s horse. Clint’s Darley Arabian could have gone on all day, and Reeves knew it.
    “That damn horse of yours don’t never get tired, does he?” the big black man asked.
    “I’ve never gotten to the bottom of him,” Clint said. “Not yet. I don’t even know if he has a bottom.”
    Reeves stroked his horse’s neck and spoke to him, telling him not to be intimidated by Eclipse.
    “You think he understands you?” Clint asked.
    “No, he don’t,” Reeves said. “He ain’t like your horse, but I figure I’ll talk to him anyway.”
    They drank from their canteens, hung them back on their saddles, and mounted up.
    “We’ll ride awhile longer and then camp,” Reeves said. “We’ll make Kilkenny by tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Hopefully,” Clint said, “we’ll find what we’re looking for when we get there.”
    * * *
    Jefferson stood across the street from the bank, watching. It didn’t look like they did much of a business—at least not people walking in. It was a small building, probably had a small safe. This could not be the next job that Washington had been talking about. There had to be something else.
    He kept walking.
    Washington halted their progress by raising his gloved hand. Gordon and Franklin rode up on either side of him and reined in.
    “Where are we?” Gordon asked.
    “Kilkenny is over that rise,” Washington said.
    “That’s where we’re goin’, ain’t it?” Franklin asked.
    “Yeah,” Washington said, “that’s where we’re goin’.”
    “What’s the job?” Gordon asked. “What’s there?”
    “You’ll see,” Washington said. “You’ll both see when we get there.”
    “Are we goin’?” Gordon asked. “Now?”
    “In a minute,” Washington said, dismounting. “I want to rest my horse.”
    “Now?” Franklin asked.
    “Yes, now.”
    He walked his horse away from the two men, started checking his saddle, made sure the cinch was tight, let the horse take a breather—and looked behind them. As far as he could see, there was nobody there—but there was. He knew there was.
    Bass Reeves was there.
    He wondered what Reeves would think when he saw him.
    “Bass?”
    “Yes?”
    “Can you think of anyone who would do this?” Clint asked. “Any Buffalo Soldier you ever knew who might use his training, and his men, to do something like this?”
    They were riding along at an easy pace, side by side, probably less than an hour from stopping for the night.
    “I been thinkin’ about that,” Reeves said. “Askin’ myself the same question.”
    “You come up with an answer?”
    “No,” Reeves said. “The Soldiers I knew were honest, decent men.”
    “No angry men?”
    Reeves smiled tightly.
    “We’re black men, Clint,” he said. “We’re all angry.”
    “Even you?”
    “I said ‘we,’ ” Reeves answered.
    Clint let the subject go.
    They camped. All they had left was some water in their canteens, and a few pieces of beef jerky. They had not stopped in any town to restock.
    “If they’re not in Kilkenny,” Clint said, “we’ll have to do some shopping.”
    “Then we will,” Reeves said. “We’ll keep huntin’ until we catch ’em.”
    “What about Judge Parker?”
    “What about him?”
    “Won’t he wonder where you are?”
    “No,” Reeves said. “If his deputies are not in town, he assumes they are out doin’ their jobs.”
    “You could send him a telegram, tell him where we are, what we’re doing.”
    “He would wonder why I am