Massacre at Whiskey Flats. William W. Johnstone

Scratch said. “That cayuse was still goin’ hell-for-leather when he went past us, but I’ll bet he didn’t run too far.”

      Scratch rode off on his bay in search of the lawman’s horse while Bo and Reilly walked back to the edge of the debris from the avalanche where Braddock’s body lay. Bo brought a blanket from his war bag with him, but he handed it to Reilly and said, “Hang on to this for a minute.” Then he knelt beside Braddock’s body.

      “What are you doing there?” Reilly asked with a frown.

      Bo straightened with the dead man’s gunbelt and holstered Colt in his hands. The gun had been lying under Braddock’s hip when the boulder rolled over him, and it had escaped damage.

      Bo held out the gunbelt and weapon toward Reilly. “This looks like it would fit you,” he said. “Might as well get some use out of it, since Braddock doesn’t need it anymore.”

      Reilly’s frown deepened. He didn’t reach for the gun. “I don’t know,” he said. “I told you I carried a pocket pistol. I’ve never used one of those big six-shooters.”

      “Just take it,” Bo said. “You never know when it might come in handy.”

      After a moment, Reilly shrugged and took the gunbelt. He strapped it around his waist, and looked somewhat surprised as he buckled it in place.

      “Yeah, it fits all right,” he said.

      Bo nodded. “I thought it would. Now, let’s spread that blanket on the ground and lift Braddock onto it.”

      “That’s gonna be an ugly job,” Reilly said with a grimace. “He’s pretty busted up.”

      “You’d want somebody to take care of you properly, if it was you lying there and not him.”

      “I suppose.”

      Reilly looked away as much as possible as they lifted the gruesome remains of John Henry Braddock out of the rocks and onto the blanket. He seemed relieved when Bo rolled the blanket around the corpse and it was no longer visible.

      Just then, Scratch came trotting back on the bay, leading Braddock’s horse by the reins. It was a good-looking buckskin, the sort of mount that a well-known lawman would ride. Reilly looked at the horse with keen interest and lightly slapped the holstered gun at his side.

      “I’m carrying Braddock’s Colt,” he said. “Do I get to claim his horse, too?”

      “Might as well,” Bo said. “That’s what I had in mind.”

      “Better’n you havin’ to ride double with one of us,” Scratch said. He dismounted and tied the reins of Braddock’s horse to a pine sapling. His bay and Bo’s dun didn’t have to be tied up; they knew not to stray very far from the Texans.

      Bo and Scratch took hold of Braddock’s blanket-wrapped body, lifting it and carrying it over to the grave. They lowered it into the hole in the earth as gently and carefully as they could, then stepped back and removed their hats. Reilly had ambled over after them. Scratch nudged him in the ribs with an elbow and nodded toward his hat. Reilly rolled his eyes and took it off, holding it in front of him as Bo and Scratch held theirs.

      Bo and Scratch bowed their heads. “Lord,” Bo said, “we ask that You show mercy on this man and welcome him into Your kingdom. Grant him peace and rest from all the ills and troubles of this world, and let him dwell in Your house forever and ever. Amen.”

      “Amen,” Scratch echoed.

      “You really think that does any good?” Reilly asked as they all put their hats on again.

      “There are some as don’t believe in El Señor Dios,” Scratch said as he picked up the shovel. “I don’t hold that against ’em because every man’s got to make up his mind about such things for his own self. But tell me this…what harm’s it gonna do?”

      Reilly didn’t say anything, and Scratch laughed as he thrust the shovel into the young man’s hands.

      “That’s what I thought. Get busy coverin’ him up. The dirt’ll go back in easier’n it came out.”

      CHAPTER 6

      The rock slide completely blocked the trail and extended for a hundred yards or so beyond it on the other side. That presented no problem for horsemen, who could easily ride around the rubble, but the trail would have to be cleared before wagon traffic could get through again.

      That wasn’t the responsibility of Bo, Scratch, and Jake Reilly, so after they finished refilling the final resting place of John Henry Braddock, they mounted up and rode on, still heading south. Bo had slipped the letter from the mayor of Whiskey Flats into the inside pocket of his coat, along with Braddock’s badge.

      The badge itself didn’t have any markings, so Bo assumed it could function as the symbol of authority no matter whether its wearer was serving as marshal, sheriff, constable, or in some other law enforcement position.

      “How far do you think it is to this Whiskey Flats place?” Reilly asked. He was a decent rider, Bo noted, and handled Braddock’s buckskin without much trouble.

      “I don’t know,” Bo replied. “Scratch and I have been through this part of the territory before, but it was a long time ago.”

      “Thirty years or more, I reckon,” Scratch commented. “Back then it was still part of Mexico.” He chuckled. “Remember the big ruckus we got into in that cantina in Santa Fe?”

      “You could ask a similar question about nearly every place we’ve been,” Bo said dryly.

      “Hell does have a habit o’ poppin’ wherever we happen to be, don’t it?”

      Reilly said, “Well, I guess if we keep riding, we’ll come to it sooner or later.”

      “Hell,” Scratch asked, “or Whiskey Flats?”

      “With a name like that, and the way Mayor McHale talks about it in his letter, there may not be much difference,” Bo said.

      It was almost midday by the time they left the scene of the avalanche behind, but they rode on for a while before stopping to eat a little and rest the horses. The meal consisted of cold biscuits and a little jerky from Scratch’s saddlebags.

      Reilly said, “You know, you could break out that bottle again. A couple of swigs might make this food go down easier.”

      “That’s all right,” Bo said. “You need a clear head, Jake, for what’s coming next.”

      “Oh? What’s that?”

      Bo gestured toward the Colt .45 on Reilly’s hip. “Let’s see how good you are at handling that smokepole.”

      Reilly frowned and said, “I told you, I never used a gun like this very much.”

      “Well, give it a try anyway.” Bo pointed. “See that rock over there, about twenty feet away?”

      “The one sitting on top of the bigger rock?”

      “That’s right.”

      Reilly squinted at the target Bo had chosen, a fist-sized rock resting on top of a stone about the size of a carpetbag.

      “Seems like it’s sort of far away.”

      “Just see if you can hit somewhere in the general vicinity,” Bo told him.

      “All right,” Reilly said with a sigh. “If you’re sure.”

      He positioned himself with his right side toward the rocks and reached down to draw the gun. He pointed the Colt toward the sky and then extended his arm to its full length so that he could squint down the barrel toward the target.

      “Hold on,” Scratch said. “You ain’t fightin’ a duel with them rocks. Stand facin’ ’em.”

      Reilly lowered the gun and