Chapter Twenty-Six
“He’s dead.” Roscoe kicked the ground next to Jack’s body.
The sun was starting to come up. Riding across Jack’s dead body had been by mere chance rather than skill.
The Cherokee were moving the rest of the herd up to the river.
Roscoe had stayed off in the brush and watched.
Now, they were standing next to a dead man that one of the Cherokee had dragged off the trail.
I guess, in a way, I should be grateful to Ace. Jack was gonna shoot me in the back soon or later. Maybe this is my chance to change hands.
“What’s the plan?” Lucien asked.
“We ride to Wichita.”
“What for?” Lucien snarled. “Jack is dead, Roscoe. Them two trappers you found turned out to be about as helpful as a chair with a broken leg.” He rested his hand on his gun belt. “Look, just give it up already. Bonnie ain’t worth all this trouble?—?”
Roscoe had his gun out and the barrel pressed into Lucien’s chest before the snake could even blink. “Bonnie is my wife, boy. She’s mine.”
“I didn’t mean?—?”
Roscoe pulled a hard trigger. A rough bullet exploded.
Lucien staggered back and collapsed as smoke simmered off his chest. The last thing he saw before death swallowed him whole was a pair of demonic eyes staring into his soul—Roscoe’s eyes.
Roscoe lowered his gun and looked around. Somebody could’ve heard the shot, but he decided that he didn’t care.
That takes care of those two. Now, it’s time to go get Bonnie and kill Ace Carter.
He spat on Lucien’s face and then mounted up and rode off with the dead man’s horse in tow. There was no sense in chasing after the herd. Roscoe had more pressing matters to tend to—like getting to Wichita and hiring some decent guns.
The ride to Wichita took four days. Roscoe stayed off the trail as much as possible, bypassing Fort Reno.
He rode steady and hard, but when he came up on a rattler about a day's ride from Wichita, the pace slowed. The rattler had taken at his horse in a bad way. He’d managed to shoot the snake’s head off, but the damage had been done.
Luckily, he just so happened to have an extra mount.
Guess Lucien was good for something after all.
When Roscoe reached Wichita, he went straight to the jail. Sheriff Ed Winston was sitting behind a desk, going over some wanted posters, when he walked in.
“Help you, stranger?”
Roscoe eyed the man. Sheriff Winston was tall and gruff, but up in his years some, judging by his gray hair and beard. Heavy bags rested under his eyes.
“Man bring a woman in here lately?” Roscoe asked, closing the door behind him.
“Can’t say any fella has been in this jail lately, except for some booze hounds I dragged out of the saloon across the street.” Sheriff Winston tossed down a wanted poster. “You got trouble, stranger?”
“My wife,” Roscoe answered. He looked around the jail with a fast eye. The jail was nothing special. A measly front room and a couple cells in the back. He spotted a wood-burning stove and a wooden rack holding a few rifles.
“Your wife?” Sheriff Winston leaned forward on a squeaky chair. “You best explain yourself.”
“Fella by the name of Ace Carter is running a herd up this way. He’s got my wife and refused to turn her over to me like I asked. We’ve had… trouble with each other over it.”
“Yeah, I know Ace Carter. Good man. Got word from Henry Ashford that he was headed my way.” Sheriff Winston eyed Roscoe as he talked.
Roscoe didn’t take to the way the sheriff was looking at him. He’d expected skepticism, sure, and it was there, but was that a hint of… amusement?
No matter. He won’t be laughing long.
“I want my wife. I got the right to her. Ace Carter done killed some of my hired hands.”
“Is that so?”
“About four days south of here. Didn’t have no choice but to leave the bodies on the trail.”
“You got proof?”
“You saying my word ain’t good enough, Sheriff?”
Before the sheriff could reply, the door to the jail flew open, and Ace stormed in, nearly bumping into Roscoe. “Sheriff.” He nodded his head, pulling the door shut.
“You—!” Roscoe growled, his hand dropping toward his holster.
“Don’t do it,” Sheriff Winston warned.
Roscoe caught his gun hand and raised it slowly. For the first time, he found himself face to face with Ace Carter. “Where’s my wife?”
Ace looked him dead in the eye. “Safe.”
“I want her back,” Roscoe growled. “You done caused me enough trouble. Two of my best hands are dead!”
“Way Ace tells it, you attacked him,” Sheriff Winston drawled.
“That’s a lie.”
“Your word against his.” Sheriff Winston stood up. “Look, fellas, I ain’t gonna stand for bloodshed in my town, you hear me? Now Ace, I’ve known you a good many years. I don’t doubt a word you’ve told me, but you ain’t got any more proof than this fella.”
“I got a right to take back my own—?”
“And you,” Sheriff Winston snapped at Roscoe, “stink of blood. I’ve heard a good many stories about you. Ain’t no warrant out for you, though, far as I can tell. You just make sure to keep your dealings down there in Texas. You cause trouble in my town, and you’ll answer to me, warrant or no.”
“This man has my wife!” Roscoe roared.
“Yeah, and your wife came into this jail with a bruised-up face from a mean hand!” Sheriff Winston walked out from behind his desk. “She told me your right-hand man, Jack Yelters, killed two Cherokee men and then beat her down before dragging her off.”
“Bonnie is lying! He killed Jack!” Roscoe spat, pointing a shaky finger at Ace. “Found him shot through the head back on the trail.”
“Well, that’s down near Indian territory. Army handles trouble down that way. Already sent word to Fort Reno.” Sheriff Winston kept his eyes on Roscoe. “Reckon Colonel Edwards will be paying a visit in a day or so. In the meantime, we’re waiting on Judge Tisdale to get here.”
“What for?” Roscoe demanded.
“He’ll decide if your wife has grounds to leave you or not,” Sheriff Winston explained. “Until then, you best stand clear of her. I put her up at the hotel, so you best find lodging elsewhere.”
Roscoe turned and locked eyes with Ace. “You slimy coward. What kind of yellow-belly rat tries to steal another man’s wife?”
“We can take this outside—”
“Hold it,” Sheriff Winston warned Ace. “I done told you boys I ain’t having no bloodshed in my town. Is that clear?”
“We’ll settle this one way or another,” Roscoe promised Ace. “Bonnie belongs to me. She’s my legal wife—I got the papers!”
Ace stood steady. “Bonnie wants free of you, Carver. You’re never going to touch her again. I’m gonna see to that.”
“Is that a fact?” Roscoe narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see, Carter. We’ll see.” He turned back to Sheriff Winston. “I’ll be in town. When’s Judge Tisdale supposed to get here?”
“In two days.”
“I’ll see you then.” Roscoe turned and walked out of the jail, bumping Ace hard with his shoulder as he passed. “I’ll be seeing you around, Carter.”
He walked out into a dimming evening and looked down a long, dusty street toward a green and white hotel.
Bonnie ain’t going nowhere. She’s gonna try and take the legal route. Fine. That gives me time to round up some guns and get rid of Carter. This is gonna work out just fine.
The Wild Donkey Saloon was directly across from the jail. Horses were tied up out front. A few rough hands were standing out front. Roscoe walked across the street with the intention to buy a bottle of whiskey and do some talking.
Right outside the door, he came upon two men wearing black hats. He looked them up and down, trying to get their measure.
“Got a problem, mister?” one asked when he saw Roscoe looking.
“Need some guns. Interested?”
“Best look elsewhere. Me and my brother just got out of the hoosegow. Just here for a few drinks.”
Roscoe shrugged, then pushed his way into the saloon.
To his relief, the place looked well-kept and up on the fancy side.
He eyed a polished bar and then studied a few crowded card tables toward the back.
All the players looked like ranch hands hoping to win a few dollars.
Four saloon girls were working their rounds, handing out drinks and a few winks, lingering near the card tables.
The scene was one Roscoe had seen dozens of times.
He knew what kind of guns he was looking for and how to play his hand.
The two fellas outside would’ve been good hires, but prison changed a man, made him wary and harder to influence.
It was best to find greenhorns who’d never tasted the boot of justice before.
He approached the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. “Any good players?” he asked the barkeep casually.
“On Tuesday night?” The man scoffed as he slapped down a shot glass and filled it with a slosh of whiskey. “Come back on payday, stranger.”
Roscoe killed his whiskey and ordered another. He tossed that one down, too, then walked over to a card table. About twenty dollars was at stake. He eyed the players, four young men who looked dirty, stupid, and anxious to win a few measly dollars in front of a cheap saloon girl.
None of these boys look like they got enough sense to shoot straight.
He made the rounds to each card table before stalking back to the bar.
“Looking for someone?” the barkeep asked, raising a brow as he cleaned a glass.
“This it for the night?”
“More players might show up later.” He shrugged. “Like I said, it’s Tuesday night. If you want to play rough, come back when the boys got a few more dollars in their pockets.”
“Can’t wait that long.” Roscoe ordered another drink and then heard three men fighting over what sounded like ten dollars. Once the hand had been won and the argument settled, he walked over and sat down. “Mind if I join in, fellas?”
The trio looked like miners who must’ve decided to drift back east. Judging by how quickly they’d ended their bickering, they were friends, but when it came to gambling, not even brothers always saw eye to eye.
“Take a hike, mister. This is a private game.”
Roscoe eyed each man. Burly, bushy beards, dirty—they’d obviously spent a lot of time digging into mountains. But Roscoe noted their yellow eyes, stained from years of drinking rotgut whiskey and eating lousy grub.
“Got a hundred dollars.”
One of the miners turned and looked at Roscoe. “You don’t say.”
The man to his right eyed Roscoe. “We ain’t playing that high, mister.”
“Maybe not—but you boys look like you might could use some traveling money.” Roscoe reached out and grabbed the deck, then broke it in half and began shuffling. “Looking to do some hiring. Quick work. No killing involved.”
The miners exchanged glances. “Keep talking.”
“There’s a man in town. He has my wife. Need somebody to send him a message, if you know what I mean.
” Roscoe sat the cards down and eyed each man in turn.
“One hundred dollars for each of you when the job is finished. No questions asked. Mind you, I ain’t looking to kill the man—beat him within an inch of his life, but leave him alive. ”
“Show us the money.”
Roscoe pulled a stack of bills out of his coat pocket and slapped it on the table. The truth was, he didn’t have but one hundred dollars—but he had a plan to make sure his newfound friends would end up owing him, rather than the other way around. “Now, are we gonna play cards or what?”
I can’t kill Ace Carter yet, but he has to suffer for what he’s done. Bonnie belongs to me, and I’m gonna end this fight my way. I’m still in charge—and Bonnie is gonna learn that the hard way.
But Bonnie had never gone to the law before. He had to get her and skip town before Judge Tisdale showed up.
Thing was, deep in his gut, Roscoe wasn’t sure he could outgun Ace.
He hated to admit it, but something about the look in Ace’s eyes had unnerved him—like he’d seen his own death staring back at him.
Putting the saddle tramp out of commission was vital, but that might get a price slapped on his head.
What would Roscoe do if the law got after him—or worse, the army?
Jack was dead. Lucien was dead. They’d been traitorous bastards for sure, but their deaths had left Roscoe very much alone.
And now, for the first time in his miserable, bloody life, Roscoe Carver didn’t know whether he would win or lose.