Ralph Compton The Convict Trail by Ralph Compton

without sound.
    Kicking aside a tangle of legs and feet, Stringfellow moved closer to the side of the cage. “How long you gonna keep us out here?” he demanded.
    â€œNot too long, Stringfellow. Once Mr. Shaver has the grub ready, I’ll take you into the cabin and feed you.”
    â€œThe old coot is mister, an’ I’m Stringfellow.”
    â€œUh-huh, that’s about the size of it.”
    â€œThe cabin don’t have a roof, damn you. We’ll be as wet in there as we are out here.”
    â€œStringfellow,” Kane said, “I’m not concerned with your comfort. I was ordered to escort you to Fort Smith. How you get there was left up to me.”
    â€œHey, Kane!” Joe Foster yelled from the rear of the wagon, his young face made old by hate and anger. “If I ever get an even break with you, I’ll—”
    â€œYou wouldn’t even come close,” Kane interrupted, smiling. “All over the West, Boot Hills are full of tinhorns like you.”
    Foster opened his mouth to speak again, but Stringfellow cursed him into silence. “Your time will come, Joe,” he said finally. “Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but it will come. Now shut your trap.”
    Amos Albright looked at Kane, then ran a slimy tongue over his top lip. “Hey, Marshal, you gonna find us a woman soon, maybe a little Indian gal, huh? All you got to do is th’ow her into the back o’ the wagon an’ let’s have at her.”
    Albright had the face of a cadaver, a tallow skin that never took the sun and red-rimmed yellow eyes. His wet, loose-lipped mouth always hung slack, as though his jaw were broken.
    Kane said, “You enjoy abusing women, don’t you, Albright? You ever bite them on the shoulders?”
    â€œSure I do, an’ I bite hard. Hot little gal expects that from a man. What do you do, Marshal, huh? What do you do to a woman?”
    Albright started to cough, gagging on his own lust. Kane ignored him and stepped into the cabin. “I seen your smoke—smelled it too,” he said to Sam.
    â€œShe’s smokin’, all right, but there’ll be enough fire to bile the coffee an’ cook the grub.” The old man handed Kane the coffeepot. “Fill that from the water barrel, Logan. I’d do it my ownself, but this danged rain is a misery. My old knees is stiff as a frozen rope with the rheumatisms.”
    Kane took the pot and said, “You set close to the fire an’ warm up them bones, Sam.”
    â€œKnow what I really need, Logan? Brown paper, vinegar and an Irish potato. You soak the paper in vinegar and then make a poultice of shredded potato. Spread the poultice on the knees and cover with vinegar paper. It’s a sovereign remedy for the rheumatisms.”
    â€œWe don’t have any o’ that, Sam.”
    â€œI know we don’t, so getting me the coffee water will have to do.” His eyes lifted to Kane’s face. “You be careful out there, Marshal. I heard them boys talkin’ to you an’ none of them has a good story to tell.”
    Kane walked to the wagon, lifted the tin lid of the water barrel and filled the pot. The convicts sat soaked and miserable in the wagon, saying nothing, but all eyes were hard on the marshal, their hostility hanging like black bile in the air, crowding Kane so close he could almost smell its vile stink.
    He made to step back to the cabin but stopped in his tracks when he heard the soft fall of hooves on the wet ground behind him. Kane carefully laid the coffeepot at his feet and turned, his hand close to his holstered gun.
    â€œTrusting man, ain’t you?” a voice said from the darkness.
    Kane spoke in that direction. “You ought to know better than ride into a man’s camp without announcing yourself.”
    â€œNever occurred to me.”
    Leather creaked and hooves thudded as the man rode closer. But now, as the darkness opened