Bleeding Texas (16 page)

Trace Holland lowered the field glasses. Sitting his horse on a slight rise half a mile away, he had watched as the group of survivors from the cattle drive divided and went their separate ways.

He was glad now that he hadn't headed for home the night before, as soon as Palmer succeeded in stealing the herd from the Creels. Nick had told him to come right back, but he'd figured that it wouldn't hurt to camp nearby and let his horse rest before he started the return trip to the Rafter F.

If he hadn't done that, he couldn't have given in to the impulse to spy on the survivors this morning. Nick might want to know what they were doing.

And if he hadn't been watching the ruined camp from a distance, he never would have seen Samantha Fontaine ride in.

He knew she'd been fooling around with Lee Creel, of course. He had seen them together several times. But he'd never expected her to follow the cattle drive. She had to have a pretty good reason for doing something like that, but damned if Holland could figure out what it was.

The way she'd been hugging the Creel boy, though, she sure wasn't trying to keep their romance a secret anymore.

Now she had ridden off to the southwest with Lee and the rest of the Creels who were going after the stolen herd. It was obvious to Holland that was what they had in mind and equally obvious that Samantha had thrown in with them.

Nick would want to know about that. Holland was certain of it.

There wouldn't have been a problem if Palmer had gone ahead and killed all the Creels like he was supposed to. Palmer had taken the easy way out, though. Once he had the cattle and his payoff from selling the herd was assured, he hadn't cared about anything else. He and his men had lit out, leaving Holland behind.

No way Holland was taking on the Creels by himself, then or now.

Instead he let them go and turned his horse north, toward the Rafter F and whatever gun-job Nick Fontaine had for him next.

 

 

Bo kept the group moving at a fast pace, but he knew he had to be careful. If they pushed their mounts too hard, the horses would break down. That would ruin any chance of catching up to the rustlers before they reached Rockport.

He rode at the head of the group with Scratch and Lauralee, who asked, “Do you really think we have a chance to catch them? They have more than twelve hours' lead on us.”

“We can make that up,” Bo said. “They still have to cross the San Antonio River. That'll slow them down a little. And even though we have to be careful with our horses, we can still move faster than that herd can.”

Scratch said, “Yeah, but that fella Palmer won't care how much beef he runs off of 'em, as long as he keeps you from sellin' 'em and takin' the money back to your pa.”

“I don't follow all of this,” Lauralee said with a slight shake of her head.

“There's only one explanation that makes any sense,” Bo said. “You know how Gilbert Ambrose at the bank plans to call in my father's note. Nick Fontaine has to be behind that somehow. Ambrose would have given Pa an extension, but Nick forced his hand. Now Nick's sent those rustlers after us to keep us from coming up with the cash Pa needs to save the Star C.”

Lauralee nodded slowly and said, “I guess that makes sense, all right. You don't have a bit of proof, though.”

“We'll worry about proof later—
after
we've gotten those cattle back.”

“Yeah,” Scratch added, “I reckon ol' Gil Ambrose will be eager to talk once we've had a word with him.”

“You mean you'll scare the truth out of him,” Lauralee said.

Bo shrugged.

“I'll do whatever I have to to keep Nick Fontaine from stealing the Star C,” he said.

 

 

Farther back in the group, Samantha rode beside Lee. She didn't want to get too far from his side. She felt like she was surrounded by enemies, even though Bo, Scratch, and Lauralee had been sympathetic to her.

All the others still regarded her with suspicion—except Lee, of course.

“When we catch up with those rustlers tomorrow or the next day, you're gonna stay back so you ain't in any danger,” he told her.

“But you'll be right in the middle of any fight,” she said.

Lee nodded and said, “Yep, I sure will. That's where I belong. You don't.”

“I told you, I need to do something—”

“Look, Samantha,” he broke in, “I'll be honest with you. If you're anywhere around when the shootin' starts, you'll just be a distraction to me. That'll make it more likely that one or both of us will get ourselves shot.”

She tried to tell herself that he was just being practical, but she couldn't keep from being a little offended by his blunt tone.

“Well, I certainly never meant to be a problem—”

Again he didn't let her finish. He said, “If you really want to help, there are a couple of things you can do.”

“Tell me,” she urged.

“Like I said, stay out of the way when the showdown comes . . . and when we get back to Bear Creek, tell the law about what your brother did.”

Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment she couldn't say anything, then she managed, “You want me to testify in court against Nick?”

“If it comes to that. Nick may not have pulled the trigger, but you know he's responsible for my cousin Tim bein' dead, don't you, Samantha?”

She knew Lee was looking over at her, but she kept her eyes on her saddlehorn, unable to meet his gaze.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I just never thought . . . He's my brother, Lee. I know he's done terrible things, but I can't just forget all the good times. I can't forget how he took care of me when I was a little girl. He wasn't always . . . evil.”

“I reckon not many people start out that way. And I sure don't know why some of 'em wind up on that trail. But I know we all got to pay for what we do, good and bad.”

“Yes,” she whispered as she nodded. “I understand that. And I'll do the right thing, Lee. I promise.”

“That's all anybody can ask of you.”

She hoped it wasn't more than she could ask of herself.

 

 

By nightfall, they were approaching the San Antonio River. Bo and Scratch scouted ahead to make sure the rustlers hadn't bedded down the herd on this side of the river.

That would have been a lucky break, but luck wasn't with them. They found the ford where the cattle had crossed. Judging by the tracks and the droppings they found, the herd had come through here several hours earlier.

“We cut into their lead, but they're still ahead of us,” Scratch said as he rested his hands on his saddlehorn and leaned forward to ease muscles aching from a long day in the saddle.

Bo nodded and said, “Yes, and there's not much left between here and Rockport to slow them down. All the creeks are so small the cattle will be able to go right across them without any trouble, and the terrain's as flat as a table.”

“Wouldn't surprise me if that varmint Palmer keeps 'em movin' until after dark, too,” Scratch commented. “We got to make camp and let these horses rest for a while, though, or they won't be worth anything.”

“I know,” Bo said, trying not to let despair creep into his voice. He was not the sort of man to give up and never had been, but the deck seemed to have been stacked against his family from the start in this matter.

He went on, “We'll make camp here at the river. Why don't you ride back and show them the way? I'll get started building a fire.”

Scratch lifted a hand in acknowledgment and turned his horse. He rode away as Bo sat his saddle in the fading red light of the sunset.

After a couple of minutes, Bo shook off the gloomy mood and dismounted. He started gathering wood for a campfire.

This area along the river was the last bit of rugged countryside between there and the coast. The banks were about twenty feet high in most places, and the streambed was choked with brush and deadfalls that had washed down during times of flooding and gotten hung up.

The ford was located where a gully with gently sloping sides crossed the river. That gully had acted as a funnel to keep the herd moving in the right direction.

In the years right after the war, when driving cattle to the coastal markets had been about the only thing cash-poor ranchers in this area could do to make any money, enough herds had moved through here to beat down the brush. It had grown back to a certain extent since the cattle trails to the railhead in Kansas had opened and the drives didn't come this way anymore, but the vegetation still wasn't as thick here at the ford as it was in other places.

Bo didn't have any trouble finding an armful of dead branches from the cottonwood trees that grew in profusion along the banks and beside the river. He was carrying them toward a spot that he thought would be a good place for a campfire when he heard a horse whinny somewhere nearby.

The sound put a frown on Bo's face. It was too soon for Scratch to be back with the others. Not only that, but it sounded like the horse was on the other side of the river.

That didn't have to mean anything—there were plenty of innocent reasons a rider could be traveling through here—but Bo hadn't lived as long as he had by being careless. He set the armload of firewood on the ground, grabbed his horse's reins, and slid silently into a thick clump of trees where he and the animal would be out of sight.

The ground on the western side of the river sloped up in a small rise of the sort that passed for high ground around here. Bo watched the top of it as he listened to the growing sound of hoofbeats.

Half a dozen riders came into view. Positioned against the red glare of the sunset the way they were, he couldn't make out any details about them. They were just tall, mounted silhouettes.

As the men started down toward the ford, Bo drew his gun. Instincts forged over years of finding himself and his friend Scratch in trouble warned him that these strangers weren't to be trusted.

The men rode all the way down to the river and stopped there to let their horses drink. What Bo overheard them saying confirmed his hunch that they were up to no good.

“Looks like we beat that Creel bunch here, Walton,” one of them commented.

“That's a good thing,” the man called Walton said. “Now we got a chance to get ready for 'em, instead of havin' to jump 'em after they've made camp.” He waved a hand at the vegetation along the stream. “We'll hide the horses and spread out in the brush. We'll let 'em ride right into our gunsights before we open up.”

The callous words made Bo's blood run cold. He had no doubt that Palmer had sent these men. The vicious ambush they were planning was intended to wipe out any pursuit.

“Judd's payin' us extra for this, right, Walton?” another man asked. “We're runnin' more of a risk than the fellas who are just pushin' those cows down to Rockport.”

Walton let out a cold laugh.

“We're not runnin' any risk. You wait and see. They'll all be dead before they know what hit 'em.”

Bo's pulse hammered in his head. He wanted to step out into the open, challenge those cold-blooded killers, and open fire on them. He was confident that with the element of surprise on his side, he could bring down several of them.

But the odds against him would be too high. They would get him, too, and once he was dead, he had no chance of warning Scratch and the others about the trap that was being set for them.

What he needed to do was fade back downstream a ways without Palmer's men noticing him, then circle around and get back to the others before they rode right into that ambush.

It would be difficult, though, to get through the brush without making enough noise to give himself away.

That wasn't the only problem facing him, he realized a second later when one of the men said, “Look at that pile of branches over there. Danged if it don't look like somebody's been gatherin' firewood.”

Bo bit back a curse. He must be getting careless in his old age, he thought. When he'd dropped the armload of branches on the ground, it hadn't occurred to him that someone might notice something odd about it.

Walton reacted instantly, reaching for his gun as he barked, “Spread out! Somebody's been here in the last few minutes. Could've been one of the bunch we're after!”

There was no point in stealth now, Bo thought as he grabbed his saddlehorn and swung up onto his horse. Now he had to get back to the others and warn them as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, the six gunmen blocked the easiest way out of the big, twisting
arroyo
where the river flowed. The banks were too steep to climb where Bo was, so he had no choice except to turn downstream and send his horse crashing through the undergrowth as he weaved around the cottonwoods.

“There he goes!” Walton yelled as the noise alerted him to Bo's presence. “Get after him! But no shooting! The rest of that outfit might hear!”

That was a good point. Scratch would hear gunshots and know that something was wrong. He wouldn't let the others waltz right into danger. Bo's Colt was already in his hand, so he figured he might as well discourage the pursuit by loosing a few rounds at them.

He twisted in the saddle, which was another mistake. Something slammed into his left shoulder with stunning force. He felt himself coming out of the saddle and managed to kick his feet free of the stirrups. If he was dragged in this thicket, the brush would rip him to shreds.

He lost his gun when he hit the ground. Rolling over from the momentum of his fall, he saw that a low-hanging branch had swept him out of the saddle. In the thick growth, he hadn't seen it coming in time.

The impact of his collision with the ground had knocked the air out of his lungs. Gasping for breath, he scrambled upright as the riders closed in on him. He reached his feet just in time to get knocked down again as one of the rustlers dived from the saddle and tackled him.

Bo went over backward and landed with the man on top of him, slugging away at him. He blunted the ferocity of the attack by lifting his knee into the outlaw's belly and driving it into his guts. With that opening, Bo looped a punch to the rustler's jaw and knocked him to the side.

Hoofbeats thundered around him as he rolled over and tried to get up. One of the other men whooped as he drew back a booted foot and kicked Bo in the back. That drove Bo to his knees. He reached up, grabbed hold of a stirrup, and pulled himself to his feet again, trying to ignore the pain he felt shooting through him as he made a lunge for a holstered gun. He hadn't given up on the idea of firing some shots that would alert Scratch to the trouble.

Instead another man leaned over in the saddle and clipped Bo on the head with a gun butt. Stars exploded behind Bo's eyes. His legs turned to rubber underneath him, and when he fell he landed in a thorny bush that felt like a thousand tiny knives stabbing him. Even that jabbing agony wasn't enough to keep him from losing consciousness.

Just before the world faded away around him, he heard one of the men say, “You want me to go ahead and cut this bastard's throat, Walton?”

When the leader of the bushwhackers answered, his voice sounded like it came from a thousand miles away.

“No, we'll keep him alive for now. If he's one of the bunch we're after, he might come in handy. If he's not . . . well, we can kill him just as dead later on!”

 

 

The sun had dipped completely below the horizon by the time Scratch got back to the rest of the group, leaving only a fan-shaped, reddish-golden glow in the western sky.

“Where's Bo?” Lauralee asked him immediately.

Before Scratch could answer, Riley said, “It'll be dark soon. I reckon we'd better make camp.”

Scratch thumbed his hat back and said, “That's what Bo sent me to tell you. The San Antonio River ain't far ahead, only a couple of miles. We were hopin' the cattle'd be there and the rustlers would be waitin' until mornin' to cross, but they're already over the river and gone. Be a good place for us to camp, though. Bo stayed behind to gather some wood and get a fire goin'.”

“All right, I guess we'll keep moving, then,” Riley said. “Ought to be enough light left for that.”

As Scratch fell in alongside them, Lee asked, “Could you tell how far ahead of us the rustlers are?”

“A few hours, I'd say. They've made good time. That fella Palmer is really pushin' 'em.”

“No reason not to,” Riley said with a disgusted snort. “He doesn't care about running any fat off them. He just doesn't want us to have them.”

Lee said, “If they're only a few hours ahead, we ought to be able to catch up to them tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” Scratch said. “Bo was worried that Palmer would keep on drivin' 'em into the night, since there's really nothin' but open ground in front of them now, all the way to the coast.”

“Then we shouldn't be stopping to make camp,” Riley said. “We need to keep going, too, if there's a chance that's what the rustlers are going to do.”

“Problem with that is, these horses need a night's rest,” Scratch pointed out. “We've already asked a lot of ' em.”

No one could argue with that. They were all experienced enough riders, even Lauralee and Samantha, to know that their mounts were worn out.

They continued over the gently rolling hills as they approached the river. The bright glow of the departed sun faded to rose. Behind them, blue sky began to turn purple. Another day was done and the timeless rhythm of the universe continued, paying no heed to the doings of the puny humans who populated this world.

There was still enough light for them to see the line of trees that marked the river's course. The hills sloped inward, forming the gully that provided a good place to ford the stream.

Scratch expected to see the leaping orange flames of a campfire up ahead. Bo had had time to get a blaze going. The ford was still dark, though, and the river's high banks, along with the rise on the other side, made it even gloomier than the surrounding countryside.

A frown creased Scratch's forehead. This wasn't really anything to worry about, he told himself. Bo could have gotten busy with something else and just hadn't built the fire yet.

That didn't stop him from slowing his horse and saying to the others, “Hold on a minute. Best let me go take a look around up there before you ride in.”

“I thought you said Bo was waiting for us,” Riley said.

“He's supposed to be, but I don't see him.”

“Maybe he found an even better place to camp,” Lauralee suggested.

“Yeah, maybe,” Scratch said, but that idea didn't make the prickling on the back of his neck go away. He was going to follow his instincts, even if they turned out to be wrong. “Just stay here. I'll be back in a minute.”

“I'm coming with you,” Lauralee said. Scratch wondered if she was worried about Bo just because he was.

“Get your rifle out,” he told her as he urged his horse forward.

Lauralee drew her Winchester from the saddle boot and worked the lever to throw a .44-40 shell into the chamber. Scratch rode with the reins in his left hand and his right hand resting on his thigh where it was close to the ivory-handled butt of the Remington revolver on that side.

“You think something's happened to him, don't you?” Lauralee asked quietly.

“Nope, not really. But he said he'd get a fire started, and I don't see one up yonder. Whenever Bo says he's gonna do something, he usually does it. It takes a mighty good reason for him not to. I'll rest easier when I know what that reason is.”

“He had better not have gone and gotten himself hurt—or worse,” Lauralee said. “Slowly but surely, I'm wearing him down.”

Even in this tense situation, Scratch couldn't help but chuckle at the confidence he heard in the beautiful young woman's voice.

“You reckon so, do you?” he asked.

“He can't keep saying no to me forever.”

“I ain't so sure about that. Bo's got his own special brand of stubbornness.” Scratch's grin disappeared as he grew more solemn. “The grievin' came on him more than forty years ago, and it's never let loose of him. Or he's never let loose of it. Works out the same either way.”

“But I've heard him laugh. I've seen him smile. I've seen pure joy in him, Scratch.”

“Yep, because he's too stubborn not to go on livin'. But now and then you catch him when he don't know anybody's lookin' at him, and you can see it in his eyes, the way he looks off and sees things nobody else sees. The hurtin' is buried deep, but it's still there.” Scratch paused. “I reckon it always will be.”

“That's no way to be,” Lauralee said.

“Maybe not . . . but those are the cards he was dealt.”

They were close to the river now. In the still twilight air Scratch heard the faint whisper of the water as it flowed over the streambed that was a mixture of sandy soil and rocks. He reined in and looked around, hoping to see Bo or at least his old friend's horse. Instead he saw only shadows . . .

Shadows torn apart suddenly by the orange flame spurting from a gun muzzle as a shot blasted.