Massacre at Whiskey Flats. William W. Johnstone

going to feel when they find out that John Henry Braddock, the man they were counting on to bring law and order to their community, is dead?”

      Reilly shrugged. “Disappointed, I suppose. But that’s not my problem, and it’s not yours either. Hell, you’re doing them a favor just by bringing them the news that Braddock is never going to get there.”

      “But what if he does?” Bo asked. “What if John Henry Braddock rides into Whiskey Flats after all?”

      A laugh came from Reilly. “That’s gonna be pretty hard, seeing as how he’s dead and buried.”

      Now it was Scratch’s turn to be suspicious as he asked, “What sort o’ crazy notion is floatin’ around inside that noggin o’ yours, Bo Creel?”

      “It’s really simple,” Bo said. “John Henry Braddock can still take the job of marshal in Whiskey Flats and bring law and order to the settlement.” He held out his hand, and the light of the rising moon glinted on the badge that rested on his palm once again. “All you have to do, Jake, is pretend to be Braddock. You can be the marshal of Whiskey Flats.”

      CHAPTER 7

      Scratch and Reilly both stared at him for a long moment in the fading light, and then both exploded in surprise at the same time. “You’re crazy!” Reilly exclaimed, and Scratch put it more colorfully by bursting out, “Bo, you’ve gone plumb loco!”

      Bo shook his head and told them, “Not at all. It makes perfect sense. The letter from Mayor McHale makes it clear that neither he nor anyone else in Whiskey Flats has ever actually met Braddock. The town council arranged to hire him as marshal through correspondence. McHale says that they’re all looking forward to meeting him for the first time.”

      “But maybe they’ve seen pictures of him, or at least know what he’s supposed to look like,” Reilly objected.

      “You saw Braddock for yourself,” Bo said. “He was about the same age and size as you, Jake, and your hair color is close enough to pass for his.”

      “But…but…you’re forgetting one thing…I’m not a lawman!”

      “But you could be,” Bo insisted. “All you have to do is pretend to be Braddock.”

      “And bring law and order to some wide-open, lawless town! How in blazes am I supposed to do that?”

      “That’s simple, too.” Bo smiled. “We’ll help you.”

      “Now I know you’re loco,” Scratch said.

      “Just think about it,” Bo urged. “Jake here tells the folks in Whiskey Flats that he’s John Henry Braddock. They’ll believe him. And to help him restore order, he’s brought a couple of deputies with him. That would be you and me, Scratch.”

      Deep trenches appeared in Scratch’s weathered face as he frowned in thought. He reached up and rubbed his jaw.

      Reilly looked over at him. “You can’t actually be considering this insane scheme!” he said.

      “You know, it just might work,” Scratch mused. “It’d take a heap o’ luck, but it might work.”

      “It would take me agreeing to go along with it, too,” Reilly said, “and I’m not gonna! Do I look like a lawman to you? Do you really think I’m cut out for that sort of thing?”

      “You pretended to be a railroad man,” Bo pointed out. “All you’d have to do is pretend to be a marshal.” He paused. “Unless you think you couldn’t convince anybody that’s who you were.”

      Reilly laughed. “I can convince anybody of anything! Hell, I once persuaded a little gal in Kansas that I was Jesse James! If I wanted to, I could put it over. I could—”

      He stopped short and glared at Bo.

      “You see, Jake,” the Texan said quietly, “you’ve just got to have confidence.”

      Reilly stood up and paced back and forth across the campsite. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his tousled blond hair. Finally, he stopped to look at Bo and Scratch and asked, “What’s in it for me?”

      “In a town as grateful as Whiskey Flats is bound to be when the man they believe to be John Henry Braddock shows up…well, it seems to me that a fella could get just about anything he wanted in a town like that.”

      Reilly stared at Bo for a moment. He still held his hat in his hand, and he abruptly lifted it and pointed it at the Texans as he exclaimed, “Yes! That’s exactly right! All I’d have to do is pretend to be the marshal for a little while, and they’d open up the town wide for me!” He threw his head back and laughed. “It’s brilliant! Good Lord, Bo, I never realized you had such a streak of larceny in you, too!”

      “Just don’t forget your faithful deputies when it comes time for the big cleanup,” Bo said.

      Reilly clapped his hat back on his head. “Don’t worry about that,” he assured them. “You boys will get your share. Maybe not quite as big as my share, of course, since I’ll be the marshal and you’ll just be deputies, but we’ll all come out of this rich men. Rich men, I tell you!”

      He capered around the campsite a while longer, then finally sat down again to turn over all the potentially lucrative possibilities in his mind. Scratch climbed to his feet and said, “Reckon I’d best have a look around ’fore we turn in, just to make sure there ain’t nobody lurkin’ in these parts. Bo, why don’t you come with me?”

      “I can do that,” Bo agreed as he stood up. “You’ll be all right here, Jake?”

      “Huh?” Reilly glanced up distractedly. “Oh, yeah, sure. You fellas take your time. I’ve got plenty of thinking and planning to do.”

      Bo and Scratch nodded and moved off into the darkness, carrying their Winchesters with them. They moved with the silent grace of born frontiersmen and didn’t stop until they were well out of easy earshot of the camp.

      “Now,” Scratch said as he turned to his trail partner. “How about tellin’ me just what the hell is really goin’ on here?”

      “Maybe some of Reilly’s shady nature has rubbed off on me,” Bo suggested.

      Scratch shook his head. “Not hardly. You got somethin’ else in mind. I can tell.”

      Bo laughed softly and said, “All right, you’ve got me. I knew I couldn’t put it over on you. Jake was easy. All I had to do was make him think that we’re as crooked as he is, and he went right along with the idea.”

      “Like he said about swindlin’ somebody,” Scratch replied as understanding dawned in him. “Make a fella think he might get somethin’ for nothin’, and he’ll do whatever you want him to.”

      “Exactly. Jake thinks he’s going to Whiskey Flats to swindle the people there, but he’s actually going to be their marshal and do some growing up.”

      Scratch grunted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

      “Think about it,” Bo urged. “He’s a smart kid, you’ve seen that for yourself. And he’s got some sand, too. He’s in the habit of running away from trouble, but back him into a corner and he might actually grow a backbone and become a man.”

      “And you’re plannin’ on backin’ him into that corner.”

      “If Whiskey Flats is as full of trouble as Mayor McHale’s letter indicates, it’ll do the job for us. Jake won’t have any choice but to grow up in a hurry while he’s pretending to be the marshal.”

      “Either that or get himself killed,” Scratch said gloomily. “And us right along with him.”

      “Well,” Bo said with a faint smile in the darkness, “there’s that possibility to consider, too.”

      In