CHAPTER THREE
Monday noon, the first day of April
1866. A hot sun topped the cloudless blue sky. Below lay empty
tableland, vast, covered with the bright green grass of early
spring and broken by sparsely scattered stands of timber. A line of
wooded hills rose some miles to the north.
The flat was divided by a dirt road
running east-west. It ran as straight as if it had been drawn by a
ruler. No other sign of human habitation presented itself as far as
the eye could see.
An antlike blur of motion inched with
painful slowness across that wide, sprawling plain. It was a man
alone, afoot on the dirt road. A lurching, ragged scarecrow of a
figure.
Texas is big. Big sky, big land. And no
place for a walking man. Especially if he’s only got one
leg.
Luke Pettigrew was that man, painfully
and painstakingly making his way west along the road to
Hangtown.
He was lean, weathered, with long, lank
brown hair and a beard. His young-old face, carved with lines of
suffering, was now stoically expressionless except for a certain
grim determination.
He was dressed in gray, the gray of a
soldier of the army of the Confederate States of America. The
Confederacy was now defunct a few weeks short of a year ago, since
General Robert E. Lee had signed the articles of surrender at
Appomatox courthouse. Texas had joined with the South in seceding
from the Union, sending its sons to fight in the War Between the
States. Many had fallen, never to return.
Luke Pettigrew had returned. Minus his
left leg below the knee.
A crooked tree branch served him for a
crutch. A stick with a Y-shaped fork at one end, said fork being
jammed under his left arm and helping to keep him upright. Strips
of shredded rangs were wrapped around the fork to cushion it as
best they could. Which wasn’t much. A clawlike left hand clutched
the roughbarked shaft with a white-knuckled grip.
A battered, shapeless hat covered his
head. It was faded to colorlessness by time and the elements. A
bullethole showed in the top of the crown and a few nicks marked
the brim.
Luke wore his uniform, what was left of
it. A gray tunic, unbuttoned and open, revealed a threadbare,
sun-faded red flannel shirt beneath it. Baggy gray trousers were
held in place by a brown leather belt whose dulled-metal buckle
bore the legend: CSA.
Many extra holes had been punched in
the belt to coincide with his weight loss. He was thin,
half-starved.
His garments had seen much hard use.
They were worn, tattered. His left trouser leg was knotted together
below the knee, to keep the empty pant leg from getting in his way.
His good right foot was shod by a rough, handmade rawhide
moccasin.
Luke Pettigrew was unarmed, without
rifle, pistol or knife. And Texas is no place for an unarmed man.
But there he was, minus horse, gun—and the lower part of his left
leg—doggedly closing in on Hangtown.
The capital of Hangtree County is the
town of Hangtree, known far and wide as Hangtown.
From head to toe Luke was powdered with
fine dust from the dirt road. Sweat cut sharp lines through the
powder covering his face. Grimacing, grunting between clenched
teeth, he advanced another step with the crutch.
How many hundreds, thousands of such
steps had he taken on his solitary trek? How many more such steps
must he take before reaching his destination? He didn’t
know.
He was without a canteen. He’d been a
long time without water under the hot Texas sun. Somewhere beyond
the western horizon lay Swift Creek with its fresh, cool waters. On
the far side of the creek: Hangtown.
Neither was yet in sight. Luke trudged
on ahead. One thing he had plenty of was determination. Grit. The
same doggedness that had seen him through battles without number in
the war, endless forced marches, hunger, privation. It had kept him
alive after the wound that took off the lower half of his left leg
while others, far less seriously wounded, gave up the ghost and
died.
That said, he sure was almighty sick
and tired of walking.
Along came a rider, out of the
east.
Absorbed with his own struggles, Luke
was unaware of the newcomer’s approach until the other was quite
near. The sound of hoofbeats gave him pause. Halting, he looked
back over his shoulder.
The single rider advanced at an easy
lope.
Luke walked in the middle of the road
because there the danger of rocks, holes and ditches was less than
at the sidelines. A sound caught in his throat, something between a
groan and a sigh, in anticipation of spending more of his meager
reserves of energy in getting out of the way.
He angled torward the left-hand side of
the road. It was a measure of the time and place that he
unquestioningly accepted the likelihood of a perfect stranger
riding down a crippled war veteran.
The rider was mounted on a chestnut
horse. He slowed the animal to an easy walk, drawing abreast of
Luke, keeping pace with him. Luke kept going, looking straight
ahead, making a show of minding his own business in hopes that the
newcomer would do the same.
“Howdy,” the rider said, his voice
soft-spoken, with a Texas twang.
At least he wasn’t no damned Yankee,
thought Luke. Not that that made much difference. His fellow Texans
had given him plenty of grief lately. Luke grunted, acknowledging
that the other had spoken and committing himself to no more than
that acknowledgment.
“Long way to town,” the rider said. He
sounded friendly enough, for whatever that was worth, Luke told
himself.
“Room up here for two to ride,” the
other said.
“I’m getting along, thanks,” muttered
Luke, not wanting to be beholding to nobody.
The rider laughed, laughter that was
free and easy with no malice in it. Still, the sound of it raced
like wildfire along Luke’s strained nerves.
“You always was a hard-headed cuss,
Luke Pettigrew,” the rider said.
Luke, stung, looked to see who it was
that was calling him out of his name. The rider was about his age,
in his early twenties. He still had his youth, though, what was
left of it, unlike Luke, who felt himself prematurely aged, one of
the oldest men alive.
Luke peered up at him. Something
familiar in the other’s tone of voice . . .
A dark, flat-crowned, broad-brimmed hat
with a snakeskin hatband shadowed the rider’s face. The sun was
behind him, in Luke’s eyes. Luke squinted, peering, at first unable
to make out the other’s features. The rider tilted his head,
causing the light to fall on his face.
“Good gawd!—Johnny Cross!” Luke’s
outcry was a croak, his throat being parched from lack of
water.
“Long time no see, Luke,” Johnny Cross
said.
“Well I’ll be go to gawd-damned! I
never expected to see you again,” said Luke. “Huh! So you made it
through the war.”
“Looks like. And you,
too.”
“Mostly,” Luke said, indicating with a
tilt of his head and a sour twist of his mouth his missing lower
leg.
“Reckon we’re both going in the same
direction. Climb on up,” Johnny Cross said. Gripping the saddlehorn
with his right hand, he leaned over and down, extending his left
hand.
He was lean and wiry, with strength in
him. He took hold of Luke’s right hand in an iron grip and hefted
him up, swinging the other up onto the horse behind him. It helped
that Luke didn’t weigh much.
Luke got himself settled. “I want to
keep hold of this crutch for now,” he said.
“I’ll tie it to the saddle, leave you
with both hands free,” Johnny said. He used a rawhide thong to lash
the tree branch in place out of the way. A touch of Johnny’s boot
heels to the chestnut’s flanks started the animal
forward.
“Much obliged, Johnny.”
“You’d do the same for
me.”
“What good would that do? I ain’t got
no horse.”
“Man, things must be tough in Hangtree
County.”
“Like always. Only more so, since the
war.”
They set out for Hangtown.
Johnny Cross was of medium height,
compact, trim, athletic. He had black hair and clean-lined,
well-formed features. His hazel eyes varied in color from brown to
yellow depending on the light. He had a deep tan and a three-day
beard. There was something catlike about him with his restless
yellow eyes, self-contained alertness and lithe, easy way of
moving.
He wore a sunbleached maroon shirt,
black jeans and good boots. A pair of guns were strapped to his
hips. Good guns.
Luke noticed several things right off.
Johnny Cross had done some long, hard riding. His clothes were
trailworn, dusty; his guns, what Luke could see of them in their
holsters, were clean, polished. Their inset dark wooden handles
were smooth, well worn with use. A late-model carbine was sheathed
in the saddle scabbard.
The chestnut horse was a fine-looking
animal. Judging by its lines it was fast and strong, with plenty of
endurance. The kind of mount favored by one on the dodge. One thing
was sure:
Johnny Cross was returning to Hangtree
in better shape than when he left it.
The Cross family had always been
dirt-poor, honest but penniless. Throughout his youth up till the
time he went off to war, Johnny had worn mostly patched, outgrown
clothes and gone shoeless for long periods of time.
Johnny Cross handed the other a
canteen. “Here, Luke, cut the dust some.”
“Don’t mind if I do, thanks.” Luke
fought to still the trembling in his hands as he took hold of the
canteen and fumbled open the cap. The water was as warm as blood.
He took a mouthful and held it there, letting the welcome wetness
refresh the dust-dry inside of his mouth.
His throat was so dry that at first he
had trouble swallowing. He took a couple of mouthfuls, stopping
though still thirsty. He didn’t want to be a hog or show how great
his need was. “Thank you kindly,” he said, returning the
canteen.
Johnny put it away. “Sorry I don’t have
something stronger.”
“That’s plenty fine,” Luke
said.
“Been back long?”
“Since last fall.”
“How’s your folks, Luke?”
“Pa got drowned two years ago trying to
cross the Liberty River when it was running high at flood
time.”
“Sorry to hear that. He was a good
man,” Johnny said.
Luke nodded. “Hardworking and
godfearing . . . for all the good it done him.”
“Your brothers?”
“Finn joined up with Ben McCullough and
got kilt at Pea Ridge. Heck got it in Chicamagua.”
“That’s a damned shame. They was good
ole boys.”
“War kilt off a lot of good ole
boys.”
“Ain’t it the truth.”
The two were silent for a
spell.
“Sue Ellen’s married to a fellow over
to Dennison way,” Luke went on. “Got two young’uns, a boy and a
girl. Named the boy after Pa. Ma’s living with them.”
“Imagine that! Last time I saw Sue
Ellen she was a pretty little slip of a thing, and now she’s got
two young’uns of her own,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “Time
sure does fly . . .”
“Four years is a long time,
Johnny.”
“How was your war, Luke?”
“I been around. I was with Hood’s
Brigade.”
“Good outfit.”
Luke nodded. “We fought our way all
over the South. Reckon we was in just about every big battle there
was. I was with ’em right through almost to the finish at the front
lines of Richmond, till a cannonball took off the bottom part of my
leg.”
“That must’ve hurt some,” Johnny
said.
“It didn’t tickle,” Luke deadpanned.
“They patched me up in a Yankee prison camp where I set for a few
months until after Appomatox in April of ’65, when they set us all
a-loose. I made my way back here, walking most of the
way.
“What about you, Johnny? Seems I heard
something about you riding with Bill Anderson.”
“Did you? Well, you heard
right.”
Hard-riding, hard-fighting Bill
Anderson had led a band of fellow Texans up into Missouri to join
up with William Clarke Quantrill, onetime schoolteacher turned
leader of a ferociously effective mounted force of Confederate
irregulars in the border states. The fighting there was guerrilla
warfare at its worst, an unending series of ambushes, raids,
flight, pursuit and counterattack—an ever-escalating spiral of
brutalities and atrocities on both sides.
“We was with Quantrill,” Johnny Cross
said.
“How was it?” Luke asked.
“We gave those Yankees pure hell,”
Johnny said, smiling with his lips, a self-contained, secretive
smile.
His alert yellow-eyed gaze turned
momentarily inward, bemused by cascading memories of hard riding
and hard fighting. He tossed his head, as if physically shaking off
the mood of reverie and returning to the present.
“Didn’t work out too well in the end,
though,” Johnny said at last. “After Bill’s sister got killed—she
and a bunch of women, children and old folks was being held hostage
by the Yanks in a house that collapsed on ’em—Bill went off the
deep end. He always had a mean streak but after that he went plumb
loco, kill crazy. That’s when they started calling him Bloody
Bill.”
“You at Lawrence?” asked
Luke.
Lawrence, Kansas, was a longtime
abolitionist center and home base for Jim Lane’s Redlegs, a band of
Yankee marauders who’d shot, hanged and burned their way through
pro-Confederate counties in Missouri. In retaliation Quantrill had
led a raid on Lawrence that became one of the bloodiest and most
notorious massacres of the war.
“It wasn’t good, Luke. I came to kill
Yankee soldiers. This business of shooting down unarmed men—and
boys—it ain’t sporting.”
“No more ’n what the Redlegs done to
our people.”
“I stuck with Quantrill until the end,
long after Bill split off from him to lead his own bunch. They’re
both dead now, shot down by the bluebellies—I’d appreciate it if
you’d keep that to yourself,” Johnny said, after a pause. “The
federals still got a grudge on about Quantrill and ain’t too keen
on amnestying any of our bunch.”
“You one of them pistol-fighters,
Johnny?”
Johnny shrugged. “I’m like you, just
another Reb looking for a place to light.”
“You always was good with a gun. I see
you’re toting a mighty fine-looking pair of the plow handles in
that gun belt,” Luke said.
“That’s about all I’ve got after four
years of war, some good guns and a horse.” Johnny cut an
involuntary glance at the empty space below Luke’s left
knee.
“Not that I’m complaining, mind you,”
he added quickly.
“Hold on to them guns and keep ’em
close. Now that you’re back, you’re gonna need ’em,” Luke
said.
“Yanks been throwing their weight
around?” Johnny asked.
Luke shook his head. “’T’ain’t the
Yanks that’s the problem. Not yet, anyhow. They’s around some but
they’re stretched kind of thin. There’s a company of them in Fort
Pardee up in the Breaks.”
“They closed that at the start of the
war, along with all them forts up and down the frontier line,”
Johnny said.
“It’s up and running now, manned by a
company of bluebelly horse soldiers. But that ain’t the problem—not
that I got any truck with a bunch of damn Yankees,” Luke
said.
“’Course not.”
“What with no cavalry around and most
of the menfolk away during the war, no home guard and no Ranger
companies, things have gone to rot and ruin hereabouts. The Indians
have run wild, the Comanches and the Kiowas. Comanches, mostly.
Wahtonka’s been spending pretty much half the year riding the
warpaths between Kansas and Mexico. Sometimes as far east as Fort
Worth and even Dallas.”
“Wahtonka? That ol’ devil ain’t dead
yet?”
Luke shook his head. “Full of piss and
vinegar and more ornery than ever. And then there’s Red
Hand.”
“I recollect him. A troublemaker, a
real bad ’un. He was just starting to make a name for himself when
I went north.”
“He’s a big noise nowadays, Johnny. Got
hisself a following among the young bucks of the tribe. Red Hand’s
been raising holy hell for the last four years with no Army or
Rangers to crack down on him. There’s some other smaller fry but
them two are the real hellbenders.
“But that’s not the least of it. The
redskins raid and move on. But the white badmen just set. The
county’s thick with ’em. Thicker ’n flies swarming a manure pile in
a cow pasture on a hot summer day. Deserters from both armies,
renegades, outlaws. Comancheros selling guns and whiskey to the
Indians. Backshooters, women-killers. The lowest. Bluecoats are too
busy chasing the Indians to bother with them. Folks ’re so broke
that there ain’t hardly nothing left worth stealing any more but
that don’t matter to some hombres. They’s up to all kinds of
devilments out of pure meanness.
“Hell, I got robbed right here on this
road not more than a day ago. In broad daylight. I didn’t have
nothing worth stealing but they took it anyhow. It’d been different
if I’d had me a sixgun. Or a good doublebarreled
sawed-off.”
“Who done it, Luke?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. First off, I been
living out at the old family place, what’s left of it,” Luke said.
“Somebody put the torch to it while I was away. Burned down the
ranch house and barn.”
“Yanks?” Johnny asked.
Luke shook his head. “Federals never
got to Hangtree County during the war. Probably figured it wasn’t
worth bothering with. No, the ranch must’ve been burned by some
no-goods, probably just for the hell of it.
“Anyhow I scrounged up enough unburnt
planks and shacks to build me a little shack; I been living there
since I come back. Place is thick with maverick cattle—the whole
range is. Strays that have been gone wild during the war and now
there’s hundreds, thousands of them running around loose. Every now
and then I catch and kill me one for food. I’d’ve starved
without.
“I had me some hides I’d cleaned and
cured. I was bringing ’em into town to sell or barter at the
general store. Some fishhooks, chaw of tobacco, seeds . .
.”
“And whiskey,” Johnny
said.
“Hell, yes,” Luke said. “Had my old
rifled musket and mule. Never made it to Hangtown—I got held up
along the way. Bunch of no-accounts come up, got the drop on me.
Five of them.”
“Who?”
“Strangers, I never seed ’em before.
But when I see ’em again—Well, never mind about that now. Lot of
outsiders horning in around here lately. I ain’t forgetting a one
of ’em. Led by a mean son name of Monty.”
“Monty,” Johnny echoed, committing the
name to memory.
“That’s what they called him, Monty.
Big ol’ boy with a round fat face and little piggy eyes. Cornsilk
hair so fine and pale it was white. Got him a gold front tooth
a-shining and a-sparkling away in the middle of his mouth,” Luke
said. “Him and his crowd gave me a whomping. Busted my musket
against a tree. Shot my poor ol’ mule dead for the fun of it.
Busted my crutch over my head. It hurt, too.”
Luke took off his hat, pointing out a
big fat lump in the middle of his crown.
“That’s some goose egg. Like I said,
you always was a hardheaded fellow. Lucky for you,” Johnny
said.
“Yeh, lucky.” Luke put his hat back on,
gingerly settling it on his head. “While I was out cold they stole
everything I had: my hides, my knife, even my wooden leg. Can you
beat that? Stealing a man’s wooden leg! Them things don’t grow on
trees, you know. That’s what really hurt. I walked from hell to
Texas on that leg. Yes, you could say I was attached to
it.”
“You could. I wouldn’t.”
“When I come to, them owlhoots was
talking about if’n they should kill me or not. Only reason they
didn’t gun me down on the spot is ’cause Monty thought it would be
funny to leave me alive to go crawling across the
countryside.”
“Yankees?”
“Hell no, they was Southerners just
like us. Texans, some of ’em, from the way they talked,” said
Luke.
His face set in lines of grim
determination. “I’ll find ’em, I got time. When I do, I’ll even up
with ’em. And then some. That gold tooth of Monty’s is gonna make
me a good watch fob. Once I get me a watch.”
He waved a hand dismissively, shooing
away the topic as if it were a troublesome insect. “Not that I want
to bother you with my troubles. Just giving you the lay of the
land, so to speak. And you, Johnny, what’re you doing back
here?”
Johnny Cross shrugged. “I came home for
a little peace and quiet, Luke. That’s all.”
“You come to the wrong
place.”
“And to lay low. The border states
ain’t too healthy for any of Quantrill’s crowd.”
“You wanted, Johnny?”
“Not in Texas.” After a pause, he said,
“Not in this part of Texas.”
“You could do worse. Hangtree’s a big
county with lots of room to get lost in. The Yanks are quartered
forty miles northwest at Fort Pardee in the Breaks. They don’t come
to Hangtown much and when they do they’s just passing through. They
got their hands full chasing Indians.”
“They catch any?”
Luke laughed. “From what I hear, they
got to look sharp to keep the Indians from catching
them.”
“Good, that’ll keep ’em out of my
hair.”
“What’re your plans,
Johnny?”
“One thing I know is horses. Mustangs
still running at Wild Horse Gulch?”
“More now than ever, since nobody was
rounding ’em up during the war.”
“Figured I’d collect a string and sell
’em. Folks always need horses, even in hard times. Maybe I’ll sell
’em to those bluebellies at the fort.”
Luke was shocked. “You
wouldn’t!”
“Gold’s gold and the Yanks are the ones
that got it nowadays,” said Johnny Cross.
Something in the air made him look
back. A dust cloud showed in the distance east on the road, a brown
smudge on the lip of the blue bowl of sky. Johnny reined in,
turning the horse to face back the way they came. “Company’s
coming,” he said.
“Generally that means trouble in these
parts,” Luke said.
“Ain’t necessarily so, but that’s the
way to bet it,” he added.
Johnny Cross unfastened the catch of
the saddlebag on his right-hand side, reaching in and pulling out a
revolver. A big .44 frontloading cap-and-ball sixgun like the ones
worn on his hips: new, clean and potent.
“Here,” he said, holding it out to
Luke. “Take it,” he said when the other hesitated.
Luke took it. The gun had a satisfying
heft and balance in his hand. “A six-gun! One of them repeating
revolvers,” Luke marveled.
“Know how to use it?” Johnny
asked.
“After four years with Hood’s Brigade?”
Luke said in disbelief.
“In that case I’d better show you how
it works, then. I wouldn’t want you shooting me or yourself by
accident,” Johnny said, straight-faced.
Luke’s scowl broke into a twisted grin.
“Shucks, you’re joshing me,” he said.
“I am? That’s news to me.”
“You’re still doing it, dang
you.”
Johnny Cross flashed him a quick grin,
strong white teeth gleaming, laugh lines curling up around the
corners of his hazel eyes. A boyish grin, likable somehow, with
nothing mean in it.
Sure, Johnny was funning Luke. Hood’s
Brigade of Texans was one of the hardest-fighting outfits of the
Confederacy, whose army had been distinguished by a host of fierce
and valiant fighters.
Johnny turned the horse’s head,
pointing it west, urging it forward into a fast walk.
Luke stuck the pistol into the top of
his waistband on his left side, butt-out.
“It’s good to have something to fill
the hand with. Been feeling half-nekkid without one,” he
said.
“With what’s left of that uniform, you
are half-nekkid,” Johnny said.
“How many more of them ventilators you
got tucked in them saddlebags?”
“Never enough.”
“You must have been traveling in some
fast company, Johnny. I heard Quantrill’s men rode into battle with
a half-dozen guns or more. That true?”
“And more. Reloading takes time. A
fellow wants a gun to hand when he wants it.”
Luke was enthusiastic. “Man, what we
couldn’t have done with a brace of these for every man in the old
outfit!”
“If only,” Johnny said flatly. His eyes
were hard, cold.
A couple of hundred yards farther west,
a stand of timber grew on the left side of the road. A grove of
cottonwood trees.
East, the brown dust cloud grew. “Fair
amount of riders from the dust they’re kicking up. Coming pretty
fast, too,” said Luke, looking back.
“Wouldn’t it be something if it was
that bunch who cleaned you out?”
“It sure would. Any chance it’s
somebody on your trail, Johnny?”
“I ain’t been back long
enough.”
Luke laughed. “Don’t feel bad about it,
hoss,” he said. “It’s early yet.”
Johnny Cross turned the horse left, off
the dirt road into the cottonwood grove. The shade felt good, thin
though it was. The Texas sun was plenty fierce even at the start of
spring. Sunlight shining through spaces in the canopy of trees
dappled the ground with a mosaic of light and shade. A wild hare
started, springing across the glade for the cover of tall
grass.
Johnny took the horse in deep behind a
concealing screen of brush. “We’ll just let these rannies have the
right of way so we can get a looksee at ’em.”
Luke was serious, in dead earnest.
“Johnny—if it is that pack that tore into me—Monty is
mine.”
“Whoa, boy. Don’t go getting ahead of
yourself, Luke. Even if it is your bunch—especially if it is—don’t
throw down on ’em without my say-so. They’ll get what’s coming to
’em, I promise you that. But we’ll pick the time and place. Two men
shooting off the back of one horse ain’t the most advantageous
layout for a showdown.
“I know you got a hard head but beware
a hot one. It should have cooled some after four years of war,”
Johnny said.
“Well—it ain’t,” said
Luke.
Johnny grinned. “Me, neither,” he
said.
The blur at the base of the dust cloud
sweeping west along the road resolved itself into a column of
riders. About a dozen men or so.
They came in tandem: four pairs in
front, then the wagon, then two horsemen bringing up the rear.
Hardbitten men doing some hard traveling, as indicated by the trail
dust covering them and the sweat-streaked flanks of their horses.
They wore civilian clothes, broad-brimmed hats, flannel shirts,
denim pants. Each rider was armed with a holstered sidearm and a
carbine in a saddle-scabbard.
A team of six horses yoked in tandem
drew the wagon. Two men rode up front at the head of the wagon, the
driver and a shotgun messenger. A freight wagon with an
oblong-shaped hopper, it was ten feet long, four feet wide, and
three feet high. A canvas tarpaulin tied down over the top of the
hopper concealed its contents. Crates, judging by the shape of them
under the tarp.
The column came along at a brisk pace,
kicking up plenty of dust. There was the pounding of hoofbeats, the
hard breathing of the horses, the creak of saddle leather. Wagon
wheels rumbled, clattering.
The driver wore his hat teamster style,
with the brim turned up in front. The men of the escort were
hardeyed, grim-faced, wary. They glanced at the cottonwood grove
but spotted no sign of the duo on horseback.
On they rode, dragging a plume of brown
dirt in their wake. It obscured the scene long after its creators
had departed it. Some of the dust drifted into the glade, fine
powder falling on Johnny, Luke, and the horse. Some dust got in the
chestnut’s nostrils and he sneezed.
Luke cleared his throat, hawked up a
glob of phlegm and spat. Johnny took a swig from his canteen to
wash the dust out out of his mouth and throat, then passed the
canteen to Luke. “What do you make of that?” he asked.
“You tell me,” Luke said.
“You’re the one who’s been back for a
while.”
“I never saw that bunch before. But I
don’t get into town much.”
“I’ll tell you this: they was loaded
for bear.”
“They must’ve been
Yankees.”
“How can you tell? They don’t wear
signs, Luke.”
“They looked like they was doing all
right. Well-fed, good guns and mounts, clothes that wasn’t rags.
Only folks getting along in these parts are Yankees and outlaws.
They was escorting the wagon, doing a job of work. Outlaws don’t
work. So they must be Yanks, damn their eyes.”
“Could be.”
“They got the right idea, though.
Nothing gets nowhere in Hangtree less’n it’s well guarded,” said
Luke. “Wonder what was in that wagon?”
“I wonder,” Johnny Cross said,
thoughtfully stroking his chin. A hard, predatory gleam came to his
narrowed eyes as they gazed in the direction where the convoy had
gone.
