Bleeding Texas (10 page)

Dr. Kenneth Perkins's examination confirmed what anybody with eyes could see: John Creel's leg was broken about halfway between the knee and ankle.

“Will I walk again, Doc?” John asked as he looked up from the bed where Perkins had just finished setting his leg.

He had slugged down a considerable amount of whiskey to help dull the pain, having refused any of the doctor's potions that would have put him under. So he was a little bleary-eyed but seemed to be coherent, Bo thought.

“Whether or not you walk again is going to depend entirely on how stubborn you are,” Perkins said as he started to roll down the shirtsleeves he had rolled up earlier.

“Then I reckon you know the answer,” John said. “I'm the stubbornest
hombre
you ever saw. I'll be up and around again before—”

The doctor held up a hand to stop him in mid-declaration.

“You misunderstand me, John,” he said. “What you were about to say is exactly what I'm talking about. If you insist on getting up before that leg has had time to heal properly, there's a good chance you
won't
ever walk again.”

“You see?” Idabelle Fisher said from where she hovered over the head of the bed and reached down to wipe some of the sweat from John's face with a towel. “I've been trying to tell you for years that being so mule-headed isn't always a good thing.”

John glared at her, then at the doctor.

“You're tellin' me I'm stuck in this bed?”

“For the next several weeks, at least,” Perkins said. “And even then, you'll only be able to get up for short periods of time. You'll need a lot of help.”

“He'll get whatever he needs,” Idabelle promised quietly.

“Great jumpin' Jehoshaphat!” John said. “I've got a herd of cattle to get to the coast!”

“We'll do that,” Bo said. “There are plenty of us, Pa. You've got a big family, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the old man muttered. He narrowed his eyes at the doctor and went on, “You sure there ain't no way you can prop me up on a pair of crutches—”

“No,” Perkins said flatly. “I'm sorry, John, but you're not going anywhere.”

John's head sagged back against the pillows propped up behind him. He lifted a gnarled hand and waved it at the door.

“Get out, the whole bunch of you. Leave an old man alone in his misery, why don't you?”

Idabelle patted his shoulder and said, “All right, but we'll be close by if you need anything.”

“A new leg, that's all I need.” As everyone started to file out of the bedroom, John added, “Thanks, Doc.”

“Just doing my job,” Perkins said crisply. His tone softened slightly as he went on, “You listen to Idabelle and let her take care of you, and I'm sure you'll be all right, John. Old bones don't knit as well as young ones, but you
are
the stubbornest man I know, and sometimes that comes in handy.”

“Damn straight,” John said. He raised himself a little on one elbow. “Bo, you and Riley hold on a minute.” He glanced at Idabelle. “It's all right if I talk with my sons, ain't it?”

“Just don't wear yourself out,” she told him. “You've been through an ordeal. You need your rest.”

“Yeah, sure.”

When he and Riley were the only ones left in the room with their father, Bo asked, “What is it you want to talk to us about, Pa?”

“You know damn good and well what I want to talk about. That cattle drive.”

Riley said, “We'll take the blasted cows to Rockport—”

“I know that. I'm countin' on you boys to get 'em there and get back here with that money. But somebody's got to ramrod the drive.”

“I've taken plenty of herds to Kansas—” Riley began.

“Bo's in charge,” his father interrupted.

Bo and Riley said, “What?” at the same time.

“Bo's the trail boss on this drive. You'll be
segundo
, Riley, just like you were with me all them other times.”

Riley's face was dark with anger. He said, “That whiskey you guzzled down must be muddling your brain, Pa. This can't be about Bo bein' older than me. That doesn't count. Not when he left home forty years ago and hasn't hardly been back since!”

“I figured Riley would be in charge, too, Pa,” Bo said.

His brother glared at him.

“Sure you did. What did you say to Pa before I got there, out by Caddo Knob? You've been tryin' to take over ever since you got back, like you had some sort of right to run things around here!”

“If you think I have any interest in running anything, you don't know me very well, little brother. I've spent the past forty years like you said, riding away from responsibility.”

John Creel said, “You boys settle down. You ain't kids anymore, and this squabblin' don't serve any purpose. My mind is made up. Bo's runnin' the drive. If you can't go along with that, Riley, I reckon you don't have to.”

“You mean—”

“I mean you can stay here.”

“The hell with that! If you think I'm gonna let Bo hog all the credit—”

From the doorway, Idabelle said, “Land's sake, what's all the yelling going on in here? I left this poor injured man in here to rest, not to be harangued by a couple of
loco
cowboys. Now, shoo! Go on and let your father get some sleep.”

“Might as well not waste your time arguin' with her, boys,” John Creel said with a chuckle. “It won't get you anywhere. It never has when I do it.”

With his jaw tight from anger, Riley said, “All right, we'll go.” He pointed a finger at Bo. “But this ain't over.”

“It is as far as I'm concerned,” Idabelle said. “Git!”

They got.

 

 

Scratch rode in about suppertime to report that he had followed the bushwhacker's tracks to Bear Creek.

“But I wasn't able to pick up the trail on the other side,” the silver-haired Texan told Bo and the other Creel brothers. “The fella didn't want anybody followin' him, and he put some effort into it.”

“But the tracks led to the creek,” Riley said. “That means it had to be the Fontaines or one of their hired guns.”

“There's a lot of Texas east of Bear Creek,” Bo pointed out. “The bushwhacker could have cut through Rafter F range and gone on somewhere else.”

“You don't really believe that.”

Bo shrugged and admitted, “No, I don't. But we'd have to find those same shoes on a Rafter F horse to prove anything, and I doubt if Fontaine is going to let us look.”

Hank said, “He wouldn't have any choice if it was the law asking to have that look.”

“Jonas Haltom's just the town marshal,” Cooper said. “He doesn't have any jurisdiction out here. We might persuade the sheriff up in Hallettsville to send a deputy down here, though.”

“I can't believe the whole lot of you,” Riley said. “When Pa settled the Star C, there was no law anywhere in these parts except what a man carried in his holster.”

“Things were simpler then,” Bo agreed, “but times have changed, whether we like it or not.”

“So what do you think we should do, Bo?” Riley asked with a challenging tone in his voice. “Just forget that somebody tried to kill Pa and was responsible for that broken leg of his?”

“We're not going to forget about it,” Bo said, and now a grim note had come into his voice. “But we can't afford to let this distract us from saving the Star C. And that means getting those cattle to Rockport, so that's our first goal.”

Riley didn't say anything for a moment, but then he nodded.

“You're right. But when we get back . . .”

“When we get back, we'll find out who took that shot at Pa,” Bo said. “And once we do . . . we'll make that
hombre
wish he'd never been born.”

The roundup continued for several more days before Bo tallied the herd and decided they had enough stock to make the drive. He and Hank sat on the fence of a wooden chute and watched as riders pushed the cattle past them. Bo and Hank each had a length of rope with knots tied in it to help them keep count. The ropes slid through their fingers with practiced ease as they tallied the stock.

“That's fifteen hundred,” Hank announced first.

“I make it fourteen ninety-eight,” Bo said. “Close enough.”

He took his hat off and waved it over his head, signaling to the others that they didn't need to drive any more cows through the chute.

They didn't know exactly how many head they needed to take to Rockport because they wouldn't know for sure what the buyers were paying until they got there. But fifteen hundred would be more than enough, Bo thought. The number gave them a good cushion.

The rest of the animals that had been rounded up would be turned back out onto the range to grow fatter and wait until next time. They had been given a reprieve, Bo mused from his perch on the fence, but it was strictly a matter of the luck of the draw.

All too often, it seemed to work the same way with people. There was no way to fathom the workings of fate.

 

 

A similar thought went through Lee Creel's head later that day as he waited for Samantha in a grove of trees near the creek. The last time they were together, they had arranged to meet today because Lee worried that it might be their last chance. He knew the end of the roundup was fast approaching.

Sure enough, earlier this afternoon Uncle Bo had said they had enough stock gathered to start the drive to the coast.

Fate would determine whether or not Samantha would be able to sneak off from her home and meet Lee here today, just as fate had charted the course of the rest of their relationship. What else could you call it? Had he just happened to be in the right place at the right time when Samantha's horse ran away from her? Or had some other mysterious force been at work that day?

Lee figured that had to be the answer. It couldn't be just pure luck that had brought a Fontaine and a Creel together and allowed them to discover the feelings they had for each other.

He heard a horse's hooves splashing through the creek and eased his mount forward as he peered anxiously through the trees. His heart gave a little jump as he spotted Samantha riding toward him. He started to move out into the open to meet her, then reined in the impulse.

It was better to wait and let her ride into the trees. If anybody was spying on them, the growth would obscure the view, anyway.

“Lee,” she called softly as she steered her horse into the grove.

“Here,” he replied.

A moment later they were off their horses and in each other's arms, and for a while there wasn't much talking going on.

Eventually, though, Samantha said, “Something's bothering you. I can tell.”

“Yeah,” Lee said with a sigh. “We've finished the roundup. We'll be startin' for the coast soon, maybe as early as tomorrow.”

“Well, we . . . we knew this day was coming,” she said, and he could tell that she was trying to put a brave face on. “And it's not like you're going to be gone forever or anything. You said it would only be a couple of weeks.”

“Thereabouts,” he agreed. “Even so, it's gonna be a
long
two weeks if I don't see you the whole time.”

“I'll be here when you get back,” Samantha promised. “And maybe . . . maybe once your grandfather's ranch is safe again, he and my father can start getting along better.”

Lee smiled down into her face as he held her.

“You really think so?”

“You never know,” she said. “Father's changed some. He's not as loud and angry as he used to be. Sometimes he seems so unlike himself that I . . . I almost worry about him.” Her voice steadied. “It would be good for everyone if there was peace between the Rafter F and the Star C.”

“You won't get any arguments from me on that score. I don't know if we'll ever see it happen, though. Even if your pa decides to live and let live, there are still your brothers. No offense, but Danny's got a hell-raisin' streak in him.”

Samantha sighed and said, “I know. I keep hoping he'll grow up, but so far . . . I just try to be as good an influence on them as I can. On
all
of them.”

“Well, you keep it up,” Lee said. “Maybe it'll do some good. Can't hurt to try. In the meantime, I think we got some more sayin' good-bye to do.”

“I think you're right.”

It got quiet again in the grove of trees.

Samantha had been in there a long time, Trace Holland thought as he lowered the field glasses he had trained on the oak trees across the creek. Obviously, the Creel kid had been waiting for her among the trees.

Holland had been following Samantha every time she rode out on the Rafter F range, ever since he'd discovered that she was carrying on with Lee Creel. Sometimes they met on one side of the creek, sometimes on the other. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it, but he supposed it made sense to them.

As much sense as anything could make to a couple of youngsters all stirred up with passion.

Nick Fontaine didn't know that Holland had been spying on his sister. That might not have set well with him.

But he did know that Holland was keeping an eye on the Star C. Sometimes Holland even risked crossing the creek, knowing that he might have to shoot his way out if he were discovered. He wanted to be sure what the Creels were up to before he reported back to Nick.

They were going ahead with the preparations for the cattle drive, no doubt about that. They had a good-sized herd bedded down a couple of miles south of the Star C ranch house. They even had a chuck wagon out there, a sure sign that the drive would be getting underway soon.

The country was buzzing with talk about the attempt on old John Creel's life. Doc Perkins had brought word back to town about it, after he'd been summoned out to the Star C to patch up the injured rancher.

Holland didn't know for sure who the bushwhacker had been, but he would have bet a new hat that it was Nick, giving in to his anger and striking out at his enemy.

Holland didn't really care one way or the other who had taken that shot at Creel and wound up being responsible for the old man's broken leg. What was important was that John Creel's injury hadn't stopped the rest of his family from carrying on with their plans. They were taking that stock to Rockport.

And Nick was going to do something to stop them. Holland felt that in his gut.

He wanted to be part of it. He had a score to settle with Bo Creel and that pard of his, Scratch Morton.

In the distance, Samantha emerged from the trees and rode toward the creek. Holland put the field glasses on her again in time to see her wipe at her eyes with the back of a hand with a riding glove on it.

She was crying, he thought. She was upset about something.

The most reasonable explanation was that Lee Creel had just told her he was leaving with the rest of the bunch, heading for the coast on that cattle drive.

Nick would want to know that.

Holland stowed the field glasses away in his saddlebags and turned his horse to ride down the gentle, grass-covered slope behind him. This little rise wasn't very big, but it was enough to shield him from Samantha's view.

He headed for the ranch house, figuring that there was no need to keep an eye on the young woman anymore.

When he got there, he found Nick at one of the corrals, watching a bronc rider busting a big sorrel with a bad attitude. While the other punchers who lined the corral fence were calling encouragement to the rider on top of the bucking, sunfishing horse, Holland sidled up beside Nick and said quietly, “Got some news, boss.”

Nick looked around, then jerked his head toward the barn.

“Come on,” he said. “We'll talk in there.”

The two men went into the shade of the barn. Nick, who wasn't wearing a hat or a gun today, tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and gave Holland a level stare.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just what we were afraid of,” Holland said. “I think there's a good chance the Creels are pulling out for the coast with that herd tomorrow. The next day, at the latest.”

Nick cursed bitterly.

“They're going ahead with it, are they?” he said.

“I think so.”

Holland didn't explain how he had reached that conclusion, and Nick didn't ask. Holland was perfectly content to leave things that way.

Nick stood there frowning darkly for a long moment, then said, “Put your saddle on a fresh horse, and saddle that paint of mine while you're at it.”

“Where are we goin'?” Holland asked with a frown of his own.

“It's time I paid a visit to Judd Palmer.”

 

 

The two men rode east from the ranch a short time later. The farther they went in that direction, the thicker the growth of mesquites and twisted live oaks became. By the time they left Rafter F range and crossed the stage road from Hallettsville to Matagorda, they were in country that was a lot rougher going than its generally flat appearance seemed to indicate. A man had to know the trails, or it would be easy to get lost in these tangled thickets that stretched all the way to the Colorado River.

“I appreciate you bringing me with you, Nick,” Holland said as they rode. “I've never met Palmer. Always thought he'd be a good man to ride with.”

“As long as you don't cross him,” Nick said. “He's not in the habit of giving a man a second chance.”

Palmer was good at what he did, though, Nick reflected. The man was wanted in several states and territories in the Southwest for murder, train robbery, bank holdups, and assorted other mayhem. When he wasn't being a desperado, he was a gun for hire, and he headed up an equally salty crew.

They had been perfectly happy to try their hand at rustling—for the right price, of course. Nick's war of attrition against the Creels meant that there wasn't a lot of profit from the stolen cattle, so Nick had had to pay Judd Palmer and his men handsomely for their efforts.

That had put a strain on the Rafter F's finances, but nobody knew that except Nick. There was a time when his father had kept a close eye on the books, but not any longer. Money didn't seem to interest Ned Fontaine all that much.

Money meant plenty to Danny, but as long as it kept flowing to him so he could indulge his vices, he didn't care about anything else. And Samantha wasn't privy to that information. Only Nick knew how much he had sunk into ruining the Creels.

It would all be worthwhile, he told himself, when the Star C was his, too, and his range stretched for miles and miles along both sides of Bear Creek.

Nick smelled a faint odor of smoke and knew he and Holland were getting close to their destination. As if to confirm that, a moment later a man stepped out into the trail from the concealment of the brush and leveled a rifle at them.

Holland's hand started instinctively toward the butt of his gun, but Nick motioned for him to stop.

“Take it easy,” he said. “I was expecting this.”

“Might've warned a fella,” Holland muttered.

The sentry lowered his rifle and said, “I recognize you now, Fontaine. Might be a good idea to sing out next time you come callin'.”

“I was just about to do that,” Nick said. “I need to talk to Judd.”

The hard-faced man gestured with the rifle barrel.

“You know the way,” he said.

Nick and Holland rode past him and followed the winding trail another five hundred yards before they came out into a large clearing where several low, rough cabins sat. Off to one side was a brush corral with about two dozen horses in it.

A number of men were lounging around the little camp as well as a couple of slatternly women. The man who stalked forward to meet the two visitors looked like somebody had hacked his face out of a tree stump with a dull ax. Wiry dark hair curled under his pushed-back hat, and he sported a narrow mustache under a large nose that had been broken several times in the past.

“Hello, Judd,” Nick said.

“Fontaine,” the outlaw chief greeted him curtly. Palmer's dark eyes narrowed as he looked at Holland. “Who's this?”

“Trace Holland.”

Palmer nodded slowly and said, “Reckon I've heard of you, Holland.”

“And I've heard of you, Palmer,” Holland said. “Good to finally cross trails with you.”

“Huh. We'll see.” Palmer turned his attention back to Nick. He didn't invite the visitors to get down from their horses. “What're you doin' here? You ready for us to make off with another jag o' Star C stock?”

Nick shook his head and said, “No, that's over and done with.”

“Good! When I threw in with you, I didn't know that penny-ante stuff was gonna go on for so long. The boys have been gettin' a mite restless, and so have I.”

The boys, as Palmer called them, were as vicious-looking a bunch of cutthroats as could be found anywhere in Texas. Nick knew that with a nod of Palmer's head, he and Holland would be dead, and there wouldn't be a damned thing they could do about it.

But killing them wouldn't make any money for Palmer, and he was a man who didn't do anything without a payoff being involved. Right now, his best hope for a big payoff lay with Nick.

“The Creels have been rounding up their stock the past couple of weeks,” Nick said.

Palmer frowned and said, “Kind of late in the season for that, ain't it? They plan on startin' to the railhead with a herd?”

Nick shook his head.

“No. They're making a drive down to Rockport, on the Gulf Coast.”

Palmer threw back his head and let out a harsh laugh.

“Hell, they'll lose money at that!”

“John Creel needs cash,” Nick said. “I need him flat broke.”

A look of understanding appeared in Palmer's eyes. He nodded again and said, “So you don't want that herd gettin' to where it's goin'.”

“I don't care if the herd gets there. I just want it to be in your hands when it does. Do you know any place on the coast where you can dispose of it?”

“I know people on the wrong side of the law anywhere you go in Texas,” Palmer said, and Nick didn't doubt that for a second. “You want us to steal that whole herd.”

“That's right, and you can keep whatever you get for selling it.”

“How about the bunch takin' it down there?”

Nick shook his head and said flatly, “I don't care what happens to them. The less trouble they can give any of us, the better.”

“That makes it mighty plain.”

Nick nodded toward Holland and went on, “One more thing. I want Trace to go with you.”

Holland looked a little surprised by that, and not completely comfortable with the idea, either.

Evidently Palmer felt the same way. His eyes narrowed as he asked, “What's the matter? All of a sudden you don't trust me, Fontaine?”

“That's not it at all. Trace is a good man to have on your side. You must know that, or you wouldn't have heard of him—which you admitted that you had.”

Palmer rubbed his darkly stubbled chin and said speculatively, “Yeah, that's true.”

“And he's got a personal grudge against a couple of the men who'll be with that herd,” Nick said.

Holland spoke up, saying, “You want me to make sure Bo Creel and Scratch Morton don't come back alive, is that it, boss?”

“That's it,” Nick said. “Those two worry me more than any of the others. How about it, Trace?”

Holland inclined his head toward Palmer and said, “Judd's calling the shots.”

That put a grin on Palmer's face. He said, “Damn right I am. And I reckon I'd be glad to have you come along, Holland. Light and set, and we'll talk about how we'll make sure those varmints you're after wind up dead.”