The Last Good Day, стр. 11

7

Several hours later, B.W. sat up on a grassy knoll, two empty whiskey bottles lying nearby. Rance was stretched out on the ground a couple feet away and Tommy curled up on his saddle next to him with his saddle blanket over him.

B.W. started to get up, grabbed his head and sat back down. He heard a moan and saw Rance struggling to push himself upright with his good arm.

“Damn,” Rance said. “Look what you made me do. I’m in even more pain now. Feels like my head is disconnected from my body.”

“I didn’t make you do nothing,” B.W. said.

“It was your idea,” Rance said. “Don’t think anything’s changed and you got the boy drunk! Still got a bottle I hid in Tommy’s saddle bags from you.”

“If you didn’t want me to know why did you just tell me, dumbass.”

“I don’t know, whiskey got me all confused,” Rance said.

B.W. glanced at the rising sun and the horses and noticed Tommy’s wasn’t there. “Tommy’s horse is gone.”

“Think somebody stole him?” Rance asked.

“How the hell would I know?” B.W. said. “Wake Tommy up. I’ll saddle the horses if I can get up.”

“Get up boy, we lost your horse.” Rance said, shaking Tommy. Tommy threw the blanket off and sat up.

“Everything smells like a horse,” he said, wrinkling up his nose.

Rance shook his head looking at him.

“Your horse is gone.” B.W. said.

“Think someone stole him?” Tommy said to Rance.

“How the hell would I know?” Rance said.

B.W. led the horses over to Rance and Tommy. “Double with me, boy. Leave the saddle here, cover it with some brush, we’ll come back and get it when we find your horse.”

“What if we don’t?” Tommy said.

“Well we’ll have to find you another one, won’t we?” B.W. said with a frown.

“Boy, you two sure are grouchy this morning,” Tommy said. “You do have a bad hangover. Used to see that all the time in the saloon.”

B.W. ignored Tommy’s comment and looked at Rance. “He doesn’t have a homing around here so if he just wandered off maybe he’s not too far away.”

“Did you tie him, Tommy?” Rance asked.

“I think so,” Tommy said.

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“No.”

“Don’t make much sense for someone to steal just one when they could have taken all of them and bushwhacked us, too,” B.W. said. “We weren’t in any condition to object.”

“Let’s start making a circle,” Rance said. “Keep widenin’ it for ‘bout a hundred yards out. He’s probably just out there grazing but we got to be ready if trouble comes.”

Rance drew the Colt from his belt, rolled the cylinder across his left arm to check the rounds and stuck it back in his belt.

They worked the circle from their spot about a half mile out, but no horse.

On the next trip, ranging further out, they spotted smoke and rode inside a tree line toward it and came to an opening with an old barn not more than a rock’s throw away.

Three men were sitting by a campfire next to the barn, passing a whiskey bottle around. Three saddled horses were tied to a sapling nearby. None of them were Tommy’s horse. The men had rebel soldier caps on and their Remington .44s in a holster on their hips.

B.W. held up a finger to his mouth to indicate silence to Rance and Tommy They dismounted. Rance and B.W. handed the horses’ reins to Tommy inside the tree line. B.W. made a staying motion with his hand to Tommy. B.W. stepped out in the opening, pointing the double-barrel toward the men. Rance moved up beside him with his Colt cocked.

“Stay just like you are, boys,” B.W. said. “Nobody move, we’re lookin’ for our horse.”

One of the men turned his head toward B.W. and placed his hand on the butt of his revolver.

“You don’t want to do that, hombre, I’ll blow you apart ‘fore you pull it,” B.W. said.

The man dropped his hand from the Colt and started to stand.

“Sit down,” B.W. said and the man dropped back down to a sitting potion on the tree stump.

He still had that boyish look with bushy blonde hair sticking out from under his rebel cap. The other two didn’t move. They looked a little older, similar-looking, same color eyes, about the same height. Maybe brothers. A cooking pot was sitting on the ground by the fire.

“You boys like some grits?” the young one said.

“No thanks,” Rance said and noticed a price mark with Catching’s Trading Post on the grits box by the pot.

“Can we get up now?” the young one asked.

“Feel better if you just sit right there for now,” B.W. said.

“You lawmen?” the young one asked. He may have been the young one but they could tell who the leader was.

“No, just lookin’ for a horse,” B.W. said. “A roan gelding ‘bout fourteen hands, you seen him?”

The brothers were silent and kept glancing at the barn.

“We haven’t seen your horse,” the young one said. “And I’m gettin’ a little nervous lookin’ down the barrels of that scatter gun.”

“Long as you’re looking at it you’re okay,” B.W. said.

“When were you at Catching’s Trading Post?” Rance asked.

Before anyone could answer a scream came from the barn.

The three strangers went for their guns but B.W. cut them down with both barrels of the shotgun as Rance put a bullet in the young one’s chest. He fell on his back, drew one leg up and down a couple of times like he was riding a bicycle, exhaled, then didn’t move anymore.

B.W. reloaded the shotgun and ran into the barn. A young colored woman wearing a tattered blue cotton dress was hanging from a beam in the barn by her hands, her feet dragging the ground, a dirty neckerchief tied around her neck. She was covered in cuts and bruises, blood trickling down her legs. A bloody gag she spit out was lying on the ground in front of her. A shovel