Winchester 1887 by William W. Johnstone Page B

the two we just couldn’t find.”
    â€œOctober,” Wildcat corrected. “December was their ma. She got called to glory back in Missouri.”
    â€œRight.” James sipped the brew. “October.”
    â€œFour’s enough,” Wildcat said. “They’s good oxen. Can pull six tons, I’d bet, and we ain’t haulin’ that much—jus’ enough to make our trip profitable. And them other two . . .” He gestured toward the flat expanse of land. “This country swallers things up, all the time.”
    â€œWhat are you hauling, sir?” James stared at his cup. Anytime he looked at Wildcat Lamar, his eyes almost immediately locked on that hole where the man’s right eye should be.
    â€œSupplies.” The answer was curt and final.
    â€œFor Fort Smith?”
    â€œWe’ll get there directly. We’ll make some stops in West Cache Creek, Elm Springs, old Fort Holmes and some places.”
    Those names meant nothing to James, but he nodded as if it all made sense to him.
    The man kept on talking. “Sell some of our wares there. Good profit to be made in Indian Territory, but it can be dangersome. So I’m glad we got you and your Winchester cannon.”
    Maybe that was why they had invited James to accompany them on their journey to Arkansas. They needed an extra gun for protection. James swallowed, and almost told Wildcat that he lacked any shells for the repeater. After all, they were decent enough to let him ride along with them. If fate hadn’t led James to their wagon, he’d probably be feeding carrion like October and March. No, April. Yet something stopped him. He just couldn’t trust these two merchants. Not yet. He didn’t know why.
    Wildcat spit juice into the fire, and continued. “Cross the Arkansas River again and pret’ much jes foller it out of the Nations and to Fort Smith. Big town. Mighty fancy.”
    James wanted to ask more questions, but didn’t want to show them—especially Robin—just how green he was.
    Robin told his father to fetch an extra shirt for their new companion.
    James expected the supper to be unappetizing as the biscuits and jerky, but as dusk fell, Robin disappeared into the back of the wagon and came out with a double-barreled shotgun, toting the gun and a sack slung over his left shoulder. “I’ll see if I can’t rouse up a grouse or some pheasant.”
    Relaxing, James eased his hand away from the rifle’s lever, wondering what he would have done had Robin trained those long twelve-gauge barrels on him. Club him? Run? Beg for his life? Wet his britches?
    The old gun’s barrels were enormous, almost four feet long, but Robin seemed experienced holding such a huge weapon.
    The shotgun belonged to another age, probably before the Civil War. It was a muzzleloader, the barrels, affixed to the stock by barrel keys surrounded by egg-shaped escutcheons of German silver, were dark brown and rough from a life of abuse.
    â€œGot yer caps?” the old man asked.
    Robin pulled a capper, full of the copper percussion caps, from the pocket of his vest.
    â€œBirds.” The old man cursed and shook his head. “Well, maybe with James a-joinin’ us with that big ol’ Winchester of his ’n, we’ll eat us some antelope or a mule deer afore too long.”
    Suddenly, James frowned. The coffee didn’t taste that good anymore, and he hated himself for fooling these good people. Even if he couldn’t quite trust them completely.
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    He went to bed with his stomach full and wearing a new blue-checked collarless shirt, a little tight on him, especially after savoring the taste of sage hens. Robin proved a good shot with that old shotgun, and the old man could cook after all. Roasted sage hens, sourdough biscuits, and fine coffee. He felt as if he had been treated to a supper at the eating parlor in McAdam.
    When he woke the next morning,