Massacre at Whiskey Flats. William W. Johnstone

a few of the townspeople had gathered on the boardwalks to watch the grim scene being played out in the street. Bo looked over at one of them, a balding man with a prominent Adam’s apple who wore a storekeeper’s apron. The man had a frown of disapproval on his face.

      “Who’s the fella with the big belly?” Bo asked the townsman.

      “You mean the one running the show, like he runs everything else around here?”

      Bo nodded.

      “That’s Tom Harding,” the storekeeper went on. “Owns the biggest ranch in these parts, as well as having his fingers in half a dozen businesses here in town.”

      “Big skookum he-wolf, is he?” Scratch asked.

      “He thinks he is anyway.” The man sighed. “And I reckon he is. He’s got some tough hombres working for him, so most folks just go along with whatever he wants. Simpler that way.”

      “And less dangerous,” Bo commented.

      The merchant shrugged. “We’re just common folks, mister, not gunhands.”

      “What about the law? Don’t you have a marshal?”

      “That’s him with the pillows,” the man replied disgustedly. “Marshal Ed Ralston. He hasn’t seen the outside of Harding’s hip pocket since Harding got him appointed to the job.”

      Bo and Scratch glanced at each other in the fading light. If they took a hand in this game, they would be going up against not only a wealthy, powerful rancher who fancied himself the lord of his own little kingdom, but also the official forces of law and order, corrupt though they might be.

      But it wouldn’t be the first time they had gotten crosswise with the law. In their travels they had always been more concerned with doing what was right, rather than what was necessarily legal.

      “What do you think, Bo?” Scratch asked.

      Bo’s face was grim as he replied, “I think it’s time we put a stop to this.”

      The storekeeper stared at them in amazement. “Are you fellas loco?” he asked. “Going up against Tom Harding is a good way to get yourselves killed! Not only that, but that hombre they’re going to tar and feather really is a crook. He tried to swindle the whole town!”

      “Then he ought to be dealt with legally,” Bo said. He took a step down from the boardwalk into the street and started toward the mob.

      He didn’t have to look around to make sure that Scratch was with him. He knew that his trail partner would be there.

      A couple of Harding’s men had grabbed hold of the swindler’s arms. He writhed in their grasp and tried desperately to pull free, his instincts forcing him to struggle even though it was obvious he couldn’t escape from the ring of angry men that encircled him. He let out a yell as another man approached him carrying a bucket from which tendrils of steam rose. The bucket contained hot tar, ready to be dumped on the luckless victim.

      “Hold it!” Harding yelled.

      At this apparent last-minute reprieve, the swindler sagged in the grip of the men holding him. “I’ve learned my lesson, Mr. Harding,” he babbled. “I surely have.”

      “Strip him first,” Harding ordered harshly, “then put the tar on him.”

      The swindler’s face twisted in horror. He cried out and started to struggle again as hands reached for him to tear his clothes off.

      That was when Bo said in a loud, clear, powerful voice that carried to everyone on the street, “That’s enough!”

      CHAPTER 2

      Everyone froze for a second, from Tom Harding to the man who struggled in the grip of Harding’s cronies. Then the rancher turned to glare at Bo and Scratch, who stood about ten feet away, apparently as casual as if they’d been out just enjoying the evening air.

      “What the hell did you say, mister?” Harding demanded furiously.

      “I said that’s enough,” Bo repeated coolly and calmly. “Let that man go.”

      Harding took a step toward the Texans, his prominent belly preceding him. “I think you’re mixed up, hombre,” he said. “I give the orders around here.”

      “The way I understand it, you’re not the law.” Bo pointed at Ralston, who still stood there looking a little ludicrous as he clutched a pair of feather pillows. “He is. If this man has committed a crime, he ought to be arrested and held in jail for trial.”

      Harding sneered. “The circuit judge isn’t due through here for three weeks yet. We’re just saving him some work. We can take care of things like this ourselves. Isn’t that right, Marshal?”

      Ralston swallowed hard and bobbed his head in a nod. “That’s right,” he said. “You fellas are strangers here. You better just go on your way.”

      “I’m afraid we can’t do that,” Bo said. “We’ll ride out…but we’re taking that man with us.”

      Harding stared at him in disbelief for a second before he roared, “Do you know who I am, you old son of a bitch?”

      “Reckon I do,” Scratch drawled. “You’re a big bag o’ hot air just achin’ to be popped.”

      Harding gawked, then his face contorted in fury. “Jenkins!” he called. “Thomas! Show these old geezers what happens when somebody butts into my business!”

      Two hard-faced, gun-hung hombres stepped forward from the mob. “You want us to kill them, Boss?” one of them asked.

      Harding hesitated. Even a man as powerful in the community as he was couldn’t order cold-blooded murder in front of this many witnesses. He growled, “Of course not. Just bust ’em up so they hurt for the next week.”

      “Our pleasure, Mr. Harding,” the other man said with a cold grin. “Nothin’ I like better’n beatin’ on some sanctimonious old fart. Learned that from my pa, I did.”

      The two men advanced on Bo and Scratch while the rest of the mob looked on in rapt attention. The townspeople on the boardwalks watched nervously, too. The storekeeper Bo had spoken to earlier ventured, “This ain’t right, Harding.”

      “Shut up, Gus,” Harding snapped. “Don’t forget, the bank I own a half interest in still has a lien on your store.”

      The merchant grimaced, half in anger and half in fear, but didn’t say anything else.

      The two hardcases were almost within reach of Bo and Scratch now. One of them sneered and said, “Say your prayers, old-timers.” Then he lunged at Bo and swung a fist at the Texan’s head in a swift, brutal blow.

      But Bo suddenly wasn’t there anymore, and the punch whipped harmlessly through the empty air where he’d been. Bo had weaved forward and to the right with seemingly effortless ease, and as his opponent stumbled forward, thrown off balance by the missed blow, Bo hooked a hard left into the man’s gut. His fist sank almost wrist-deep. The hardcase gasped in pain as his breath puffed out of him and he doubled over. That put him in perfect position for the roundhouse right that Bo brought around and crashed into his jaw.

      At the same time, the other man tried to grapple with Scratch, only to find himself sailing through the air as Scratch grabbed his arm, twisted around in a sharp pivot, and flung the man over his hip. The hardcase had time to yelp once in surprise before he came crashing down on his back in the street.

      “An old Injun taught me that move nigh on to thirty years ago,” Scratch said with a grin into the stunned silence. “Injuns love to rassle.”

      The man Bo had belted in the jaw had collapsed, too, but he was stunned only for a couple of seconds. Then he started to surge back to his feet, clawing at his gun as he shouted, “I’ll kill you for that, you old buzzard!”

      Bo’s