bit of searching to find the blood trail.
He followed it on afoot just a bit, then turned back and mounted his horse. The trail was easy to follow, so he could move at a good pace, having to stop only now and again to make sure he was still on the right path. Sometime in midafternoon, he slowed, then halted, listening intently. He nodded when he heard a soft moaning. There was nowhere to tie his horse out here on the open prairie, so he ground staked the animal. Slipping out his pistol, he crept forward.
He found the wounded man in a buffalo wallow ten yards ahead. The man was lying on his side, facing Bloodworth, but not looking at him. His face was dirty, covered with sweat and pinched with pain. His shirtfront was bloody from the exit wound. A canteen lay in front of him.
Bloodworth slipped his pistol way. He knelt in front of the man and lifted his chin with a forefinger. “You’re hurt mighty bad, boy,” Bloodworth said without inflection.
“I know,” the man whispered.
“What’s your name?”
“Frank Gilmore.”
“Well, Mr. Gilmore, you’re in a deep pile of shit here. Ain’t much I can do to help you, I suppose, but it might help you ease the way with your maker was you to tell me who your pard was. The one who run off. And tell me where I can find him.”
“Don’t know.”
“I reckon it won’t come as a surprise that I don’t believe you. It might go better for you to just tell me.”
“Go to hell.”
“That’s no way to act, boy. Like I said, I maybe can’t help you a lot. But I can damn sure make your end a hell of a lot more painful.” He paused to let that sink in. “So who is that fellah was over there by the river?”
“I told you, go to hell.”
Bloodworth cracked the heel of his palm against Gilmore’s forehead, snapping his head back and exposing his chest. “His name.” Bloodworth hissed.
“No.”
Bloodworth slammed a fist into the exit wound on Gilmore’s chest.
Gilmore hissed in agony and fought to catch his breath. Bloodworth felt no pleasure as Gilmore’s eyes clouded with it.
“Who is he?” He reared back to launch another fist.
Gilmore held up his hands. “Wait,” he managed to gurgle out as he still struggled to breath. When the pain subsided, he squawked, “Ed Tucker.”
“Good. Now where can I find him?
“Ain’t sure.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, boy.”
“I don’t know. Far’s I know he took off after the trouble started. I was goin’ the other way, as you well know, seein’s how you was the one shot me in the back.”
Bloodworth considered that for a few seconds. “Reckon that’s true,” he said thoughtfully. “But you ought to know where he’d go. He got a hideout somewhere? A favorite place to hang his hat? A whorehouse somewhere?”
Gilmore lay his head down, eyes closed, face contorted with pain. It was some moments before his lids rose. “Abilene, maybe. I hear he’s got kin there. St. Joe, too. Hell, maybe he headed down into the Nations.”
“No more notion than that?”
“Reckon not.”
“You know, boy, I still don’t believe you.” He punched Gilmore in the ribs, breaking several.
For a moment Bloodworth thought Gilmore was going to pass out, but the outlaw was tougher than he expected.
Gilmore gasped and choked. He spit up some blood, then wheezed. Bloodworth waited. “My patience is quite limited, boy,” he said, voice cold and hard.
“He favors some whore over in Wichita,” Gilmore finally managed to croak. “Maybe he went there. He didn’t, I don’t know where he might be. But that’s the most likely.”
“Even though folks might be lookin’ for him?”
Gilmore could not quite pull off the shrug he wanted to. “Reckon he wouldn’t be worried. You got Bill and Chester. I reckon he figures you got me, too. So I would say he’s likely feelin’ safe now, especially since you never saw his face, best I can tell.”
“Which brings to mind what he
He followed it on afoot just a bit, then turned back and mounted his horse. The trail was easy to follow, so he could move at a good pace, having to stop only now and again to make sure he was still on the right path. Sometime in midafternoon, he slowed, then halted, listening intently. He nodded when he heard a soft moaning. There was nowhere to tie his horse out here on the open prairie, so he ground staked the animal. Slipping out his pistol, he crept forward.
He found the wounded man in a buffalo wallow ten yards ahead. The man was lying on his side, facing Bloodworth, but not looking at him. His face was dirty, covered with sweat and pinched with pain. His shirtfront was bloody from the exit wound. A canteen lay in front of him.
Bloodworth slipped his pistol way. He knelt in front of the man and lifted his chin with a forefinger. “You’re hurt mighty bad, boy,” Bloodworth said without inflection.
“I know,” the man whispered.
“What’s your name?”
“Frank Gilmore.”
“Well, Mr. Gilmore, you’re in a deep pile of shit here. Ain’t much I can do to help you, I suppose, but it might help you ease the way with your maker was you to tell me who your pard was. The one who run off. And tell me where I can find him.”
“Don’t know.”
“I reckon it won’t come as a surprise that I don’t believe you. It might go better for you to just tell me.”
“Go to hell.”
“That’s no way to act, boy. Like I said, I maybe can’t help you a lot. But I can damn sure make your end a hell of a lot more painful.” He paused to let that sink in. “So who is that fellah was over there by the river?”
“I told you, go to hell.”
Bloodworth cracked the heel of his palm against Gilmore’s forehead, snapping his head back and exposing his chest. “His name.” Bloodworth hissed.
“No.”
Bloodworth slammed a fist into the exit wound on Gilmore’s chest.
Gilmore hissed in agony and fought to catch his breath. Bloodworth felt no pleasure as Gilmore’s eyes clouded with it.
“Who is he?” He reared back to launch another fist.
Gilmore held up his hands. “Wait,” he managed to gurgle out as he still struggled to breath. When the pain subsided, he squawked, “Ed Tucker.”
“Good. Now where can I find him?
“Ain’t sure.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, boy.”
“I don’t know. Far’s I know he took off after the trouble started. I was goin’ the other way, as you well know, seein’s how you was the one shot me in the back.”
Bloodworth considered that for a few seconds. “Reckon that’s true,” he said thoughtfully. “But you ought to know where he’d go. He got a hideout somewhere? A favorite place to hang his hat? A whorehouse somewhere?”
Gilmore lay his head down, eyes closed, face contorted with pain. It was some moments before his lids rose. “Abilene, maybe. I hear he’s got kin there. St. Joe, too. Hell, maybe he headed down into the Nations.”
“No more notion than that?”
“Reckon not.”
“You know, boy, I still don’t believe you.” He punched Gilmore in the ribs, breaking several.
For a moment Bloodworth thought Gilmore was going to pass out, but the outlaw was tougher than he expected.
Gilmore gasped and choked. He spit up some blood, then wheezed. Bloodworth waited. “My patience is quite limited, boy,” he said, voice cold and hard.
“He favors some whore over in Wichita,” Gilmore finally managed to croak. “Maybe he went there. He didn’t, I don’t know where he might be. But that’s the most likely.”
“Even though folks might be lookin’ for him?”
Gilmore could not quite pull off the shrug he wanted to. “Reckon he wouldn’t be worried. You got Bill and Chester. I reckon he figures you got me, too. So I would say he’s likely feelin’ safe now, especially since you never saw his face, best I can tell.”
“Which brings to mind what he
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