Ralph Compton The Convict Trail by Ralph Compton Page A

up on the box, they’re condemned criminals, ma’am. I’m taking them to Fort Smith to be hung at Judge Parker’s convenience.”
    May’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, how perfectly horrible!”
    Kane nodded. “A hangin’ ain’t purdy, ma’am, that’s fer certain.” He turned. “Sam, bring ’em in. Lay alongside the other wagon, but where I can see ’em, mind.”
    The old man slapped the reins and the mule team lurched into motion. When he got closer he stopped, measuring distances for a turn.
    â€œGood to see you, Mae. It’s been a long time.”
    Startled, Kane swiveled his head and glanced at the wagon. Stringfellow’s face was pressed against the bars and he was grinning hugely.
    It took the woman a moment; then her eyes widened in surprise. “Buff, is that you?”
    â€œAs ever was.”
    Mae stepped to the wagon and Kane said, “I wouldn’t get too close, ma’am.”
    She ignored him and said, her eyes wandering over the cage and the ragged men inside, “I see you’re prospering, Buff.”
    â€œThey’re planning to hang me, Mae.”
    â€œSo I heard.” The woman turned to Kane. “What are the charges, Marshal?”
    â€œMurder, rape and robbery.”
    â€œRape? Still can’t keep your hands off women, Buff, huh?”
    â€œRight now I wish my hands were on you.”
    â€œDamn you, Buff, get in line,” Amos Albright said. His lips were wet and his eyes were hot on the woman.
    Stringfellow’s backhand was vicious. His hard, scarred knuckles smashed into Albright’s nose and Kane heard bone break. The man let out a bubbling, piercing scream and fell to the bottom of the wagon, his mustache and beard red with blood.
    Stringfellow looked down at Albright. “You keep your dirty mouth shut. This woman ain’t anybody’s whore.”
    Albright groaned but made no reply.
    Sam leaned from his seat. “You all through, ma’am?” he asked.
    Mae nodded and took a step back.
    The wagon rolled past, Stringfellow never taking his eyes off the woman. For his part Kane was troubled. Stringfellow and Mae St. John had been friends once, probably a lot more than that. If she was a respectable rancher as she claimed, why would she be on first-name terms with an outlaw and vicious killer like Buff Stringfellow?
    The implications were not pleasant to contemplate and Kane looked at the sky as though to find the answer to his question there. He saw only the hollow moon herding a gathering of dark storm clouds.

Chapter 9
    â€œI cain’t expect you to feed the prisoners, ma’am,” Sam said to Mae. “There’s a passel o’ them.”
    The convicts were sitting, lined up, at the base of a cottonwood. “Only five of us, old man,” Stringfellow said, grinning. “Amos seems to have lost his appetite.”
    Albright had his face in his hands, his shattered nose bubbling blood. Beside him, Hick Dietz nursed his ruined hand, looking at Kane, hate in his eyes.
    â€œSorry-looking bunch, ain’t they, ma’am,” the marshal said. “If I get them to the gallows in one piece, I reckon it will be a miracle.”
    Joe Foster lifted his head, his pale blue eyes blazing. “Kane, I’m asking. Give me an even break with you. Put a gun in my hand and see what happens.”
    â€œSome men make big reputations gunning drunks an’ greenhorns, kid. I don’t think Marshal Kane cares to risk his in a fair fight.” Hyde Larson sat his horse at the rim of the firelight. He was smiling, but he was still and cold as ice.
    Quickly, Sam tried to salvage it. “The only place other folks make a name for themselves is on a tombstone, young feller. Them’s words of wisdom and maybe you should back off a ways an’ study on them for a spell.”
    But Kane was not annoyed and his smile was genuine, if thin. “Larson,