Part 3 (1/2)
McCluskey cursed, ”You told me I could have my hands loose while I ate.”
Luke laughed in astonishment at the man's gall. ”Well, that's moot now. The coffee's boiled away and I sure as h.e.l.l don't feel like hand-feeding you. You can do without until we make camp tonight.”
”That's not right!” McCluskey protested. ”You can't starve me like that.”
”You're lucky I don't cut your throat,” Luke snapped. ”Now roll over.”
Still complaining, McCluskey did as he was told. Carefully, Luke put the handcuffs on him. Then he took the leg irons off and lifted the prisoner to his feet.
A short time later, they were on their way. McCluskey was tied onto his horse again, a steady stream of profanity spewing from his mouth.
CHAPTER 6.
By the middle of the afternoon, McCluskey fell into a sullen silence. Eventually he dozed off as he rocked along in the saddle.
Luke noticed. The peace and quiet was more than welcome.
McCluskey remained subdued when Luke made camp next to a small creek that evening. With one hand free and the other cuffed to his saddle weighing him down and preventing him from making any sudden moves, he was able to feed himself and drink the coffee Luke brewed. He even said, ”I'm obliged to you for the meal-and for not killin' me.”
Luke didn't trust this new, meek, cooperative McCluskey for a second. He knew the man was still a ruthless killer. His life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel if McCluskey ever got the upper hand. Luke was determined that wasn't going to happen.
After they had eaten, Luke propped McCluskey, once again in handcuffs and leg irons, against a tree trunk and wound rope around him, binding him securely to the tree. With that done, Luke was able to stretch out in his bedroll and sleep soundly-or better than McCluskey did, anyway.
They were on their way again early the next morning, and by the middle of the day they were approaching Rattlesnake Wells. McCluskey hadn't caused any problems since the day before at the dry wash. His shoulders slumped as he rode along, he looked like he had given up hope.
Maybe it was just a pose, Luke told himself. He kept a wary eye on the outlaw. But McCluskey seemed mired in despair as they rode into the settlement.
Marshal Elliott had called Rattlesnake Wells a boomtown, and that was an apt description. Main Street was crowded with wagons, buckboards, buggies, and riders on horseback. The boardwalks thronged with people. The town had been there before the gold strike in the mountains that loomed above it. Several large springs-the wells that had given the place its name, along with an accompanying nest of diamondback rattlers-provided water for immigrants pa.s.sing through the area on their way to Oregon and Was.h.i.+ngton. Because of that history, a number of permanent buildings stood along the street, but the boom had brought in quite a few tent saloons and stores and other business establishments.
Luke had seen it happen before-sleepy little hamlets becoming thriving cities almost overnight. Rattlesnake Wells would go back to being small and sleepy as it once had been almost as quickly if the gold vein ever petered out.
The most important result of the boom, as far as Luke was concerned, was that the railroad had come to Rattlesnake Wells. He had seen the tracks running into the settlement from the south as they'd approached, along with the poles carrying telegraph wires. The tracks ended at a large, red-brick depot building and roundhouse at the far end of the street.
It would have been too much to hope that a train was in town, soon to pull out and head south to the junction with the Union Pacific. Luke would have gotten on that train with McCluskey and spent as little time in Rattlesnake Wells as possible.
But there was no locomotive at the station puffing smoke from its diamond-shaped stack as it built up steam, so Luke knew he would have to spend at least one night there, which meant his first priority was to get McCluskey safely behind bars again.
A lanky old-timer with a bald head under a tipped-back hat perched on the driver's seat of a wagon parked in front of a store set up in a big tent. A sign tacked to a post pounded into the ground read ALBRIGHT'S MERCANTILE.
Luke reined in and nodded to the old-timer. ”Excuse me, mister, can you tell me where to find the marshal's office?”
The old man looked at McCluskey with wide, interested eyes. ”Got yourself a prisoner there, I see. You a lawman, son?”
”You could say that,” Luke answered with deliberate vagueness. Plenty of people didn't like bounty hunters and considered them one step above the reptiles that had congregated around the springs in times past.
”What'd he do?” the old man wanted to know.
Luke kept a tight rein on the impatience he felt. ”Enough to get himself in plenty of trouble. If you could point me to the marshal's office . . . ?”
”Oh, sure.” The old-timer leveled a gnarled hand. ”Just go on down this street. It's yonder a couple blocks on the left-hand side.”
Luke nodded again. ”Obliged to you.”
”Gonna lock him up?”
”That's the idea.”
”He don't look all that dangerous.”
It was true. At the moment, McCluskey looked more pathetic than he did like a menace.
Luke knew just how deceptive that was and heeled the dun into motion. He weaved through the traffic in the street, leading McCluskey's mount. The outlaw drew a lot of interested stares, but Luke didn't stop to offer explanations. He didn't draw rein until he was in front of the stoutly built log building that housed the RATTLESNAKE WELLS MARSHAL'S OFFICE AND JAIL, according to the sign.
A little boy about ten years old, with bright red hair, stood in front of the marshal's office and stared up at Luke and McCluskey.
Luke said, ”Son, do you know if the marshal's inside?”
The youngster had a little trouble finding his tongue before saying, ”Yes, sir, he is.” He added with barely controlled excitement, ”That's Frank McCluskey!”
”That's right,” Luke said, a little surprised that the boy knew who McCluskey was. ”Would you mind fetching the marshal for me?”
”Sure!” The kid hurried to the door, threw it open, and called, ”Pa! Pa, come quick! A fella out here's got Frank McCluskey in irons!”
Well, that probably explained it, Luke thought.
Seeing as the boy's father was the marshal, the boy spent a considerable amount of time in his pa's office and could have studied all the reward dodgers that came in. The drawings of McCluskey that decorated some of those posters were reasonably accurate, with enough of a resemblance for the kid to recognize the genuine article when he saw it.
A tall young man with the same red hair as the boy emerged from the office. He was hatless and had an open, honest, friendly face with a faint dusting of freckles. He wore a Colt on his hip and looked like he knew how to use it. A lawman's badge was pinned to his vest.
A whistle of admiration came from his lips as he looked at Luke and the prisoner. ”That's Frank McCluskey, all right. Good eye, Buck.” To Luke, he said, ”Who are you, mister, and what are you doing with this desperado? Although I reckon I can make a pretty good guess.”
”Name's Luke Jensen. McCluskey's my prisoner, and I'm taking him to Cheyenne to turn him over to the authorities there.”
”And collect all the rewards on him, I'll wager,” the marshal said. When Luke didn't respond to that, the lawman went on. ”I'll bet you want to take him on the train.”
”That's the idea,” Luke said. ”When's the next one due?”
”Ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”
That was a relief, Luke thought. He and McCluskey would have to spend only one night here. He had nothing against Rattlesnake Wells, but the sooner he took in McCluskey and had the reward money in his pocket, the better.
”I was hoping-”
”That you could lock him up here overnight? I reckon that can be arranged. My name's Bob Hatfield, by the way. Some folks call me Sundown, on account of my hair.” Marshal Hatfield put his hand on the boy's shoulder. ”This little heathen is my son Bucky.”