Bleeding Texas (17 page)

Bo wasn't too surprised to wake up and find that he was still alive. He had heard Walton tell the others not to cut his throat.

But he expected to regain consciousness to the sound of guns going off, and instead a hush surrounded him. He listened for a minute or so, and the silence was broken only by an occasional rustle as somebody shifted in the brush.

His wrists were tied behind his back. Somebody had looped a cord around them and drawn it tight. His feet and legs were loose, though. A sour-tasting bandanna had been shoved in his mouth as a gag and tied in place with another bandanna.

He remembered the fight with the men Judd Palmer had sent back to bushwhack the pursuers. Did the quiet mean that the ambush hadn't taken place yet?

Or was it the stillness of death? Had Scratch and all the others been wiped out already?

That couldn't be, Bo told himself. If the others were dead, the rustlers would have killed him, too.

The fact that he was still alive meant Scratch was, too. The faint noises he heard came from the gunmen who had hidden in the brush to carry out their deadly chore.

Somebody shifted close beside Bo. He sensed the movement as much as heard it. Cracking his eyes open to mere slits and staying absolutely still so as not to give away the fact that he had regained consciousness, he looked around as much as he could to take stock of his situation.

He couldn't see very well because most of the sun's light had faded from the sky, leaving the area along the creek even deeper in dusky shadows. He could tell that trees surrounded him. After a moment his eyes picked out a shape that didn't belong, a human shape crouched behind a bush.

That had to be one of the rustlers, thought Bo. It was obvious from the man's tense stance that he was waiting for something.

Bo heard the steady thud of hoofbeats as two horses approached the ford.

Only two horses. That meant the whole group wasn't about to ride into the trap and Bo was grateful for that.

But two of them were, and Bo strongly suspected that one of them would be Scratch. His old friend wanted to take another look around before bringing the others in.

Someone was with him, though. Riley? Lee?

A murmur of voices drifted through the twilight. Bo recognized Scratch's familiar bass rumble. Then, replying to it, a woman's voice . . .

Lauralee.

Bo didn't have any doubt of that. It was just like her to insist that she was coming along, no matter where or when or why. Knowing that she was about to come under the guns of those ruthless killers made desperation course through Bo's veins.

He heard a quiet metallic sound close by. The man with him had just pulled back the hammer on his revolver . . .

Bo acted on instinct, not planning what he was going to do. He had to warn Scratch and Lauralee somehow, even though he couldn't yell. He twisted around sharply, drew his knees up, and kicked the man in front of him in the rear end.

Bo put every bit of strength he could into that double-legged kick. The heels of his boots landed solidly, and the impact drove the man forward into the bush that he had been using for cover. The unexpected attack made him jerk his finger on the trigger, too, and the gun in his hand roared.

Bo could only hope that the weapon wasn't pointed at Scratch or Lauralee when it went off.

 

 

Scratch reacted to the shot with swift deadliness. The Remington seemed to leap into his hand, and flame spouted from the muzzle as he fired at the flash he had just seen.

At the same time, he shouted, “Get back!” at Lauralee.

Somewhere in the gloom along the river, a man yelled, “Get 'em!” More shots blasted.

Scratch didn't know where Bo was, but finding out his friend's fate would have to wait. He had his other gun out now, and both Remingtons roared as he twisted in the saddle and sent slugs screaming through the trees and bushes where the bushwhackers were hidden.

Beside him, Lauralee's Winchester began to crack wickedly. He should have known that she wouldn't cut and run, he thought fleetingly. She was one gal who just didn't have any backup in her.

Scratch didn't want to turn his back on the bushwhackers and give them a better target, so he did the unexpected. He kicked his horse into a run and charged straight across the river. Water splashed up around the animal's hocks. Lauralee was right behind him.

That took them out of the crossfire the ambushers had set up. Scratch whirled his mount. The man who had yelled the order to get them was still making a racket. Scratch aimed at the voice and triggered.

The yelling stopped.

But only for a second. Another man shouted, “Let's get out of here!”

Scratch wasn't surprised. Varmints like that didn't want to fight unless all the odds were on their side.

Riders appeared on the far side of the river, thundering down the gully toward the ford. That would be Riley and the rest of the boys, Scratch thought. He called, “Bushwhackers in the trees!” and started firing again.

The trap had backfired on the would-be killers. Now they were the ones caught in a crossfire as the Creels charged them and drove them straight toward Scratch and Lauralee. The light made shooting tricky, but the two of them had pretty good shots as the bushwhackers tried to flee.

As Scratch's guns roared and bucked in his hands, he offered a silent prayer for his friend's safety. He had no idea where Bo was, and there was a heck of a lot of lead flying around down there.

 

 

As soon as the man Bo had kicked accidentally fired his gun, all hell broke loose along the river, just as Bo expected.

One thing you could always count on was Scratch Morton putting up a good fight!

Bo heard a heavy
thud
and a dark, looming shape fell backward on him. That was the bushwhacker Bo had kicked. He figured the man had been struck by one of the slugs Scratch or Lauralee fired.

However, the bullet hadn't killed the man. He tried to scramble to his feet.

Bo flung his legs up, threw them around the man's neck, and caught him in a scissors hold. Growing up, Bo and his brothers had wrestled frequently, as most boys will, and he still remembered how to grapple.

The bushwhacker must have dropped his gun when he was hit. Bo felt both of the man's hands tearing at his legs, trying to pull them loose. Bo just tightened his grip and hung on with grim determination, squeezing hard on the man's neck to cut off his air.

The bushwhacker bucked and thrashed, and his increasing panic told Bo that he couldn't get his breath. That was just what Bo wanted. Eventually the man would pass out from lack of air.

Suddenly Bo felt pain in his leg. The man had gotten out a knife and slashed at him. The thick leather of Bo's high-topped boot had turned aside the blade without it doing any damage other than what felt like a minor cut, but if the man sank the knife in Bo's leg, he'd have no choice but to let go.

Bo's muscles bunched as he rolled over and heaved harder with his legs. He twisted with all his strength and heard a sharp, sudden snap.

The bushwhacker went limp.

Bo knew he had broken the man's neck.

That was a shame in a way—he wouldn't have minded questioning the man about Judd Palmer's plans—but then Bo thought about his nephew Tim and how the young man's dead face had looked, and he didn't mind so much that he'd just killed this son of a bitch. He would never know if this man was the one who shot Tim, but he had been there, been part of it.

Around the ford, pistols boomed and rifles cracked. Hoofbeats and shouts filled the twilight air. It was a full-fledged battle now. Bo heard bullets whipping through the branches not far from him, so he squirmed over next to the body of the man he had just killed and hunkered as low behind the corpse as he could, using it for cover.

The shooting went on for several more minutes, then died away fairly quickly. As the echoes of the gun-thunder rolled away, Scratch called, “Bo! Bo, are you around here?”

Scratch sounded like he was all right. That made relief surge through Bo. He raised his head and made the loudest noises he could through the gag.

“Scratch, I think I hear something!”

That was Lauralee, and she didn't sound like she was hurt, either. Bo closed his eyes and offered up a prayer of thanks for that. He prayed that the rest of the Creels were unharmed, too.

Crashing in the brush sounded nearby. Bo kept making noise, and suddenly some branches parted and Scratch was beside him, followed closely by Lauralee.

Gun in hand, Scratch toed the corpse over just to make sure the
hombre
was dead. While he was doing that, Lauralee dropped to her knees beside Bo and started working to remove the gag from his mouth.

“Bo, are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

The gag came loose. Bo turned his head to the side and spat a couple of times to get the bad taste out of his mouth. Then he said, “Yeah, I'm fine. A scratch on my leg, but that's all. If you could get my hands loose . . . ?”

“Roll onto your side,” she told him. She worked at the knots for a minute, then said, “Scratch, I think you're going to have to cut this cord off of him.”

“Let me strike a match so I can see what I'm doin',” the silver-haired Texan said. “After all this, I'd hate to cut the old fella's wrists.”

“Old fella?” Bo repeated. “You're a month older than me.”

“Yeah, but you were born old,” Scratch said with a chuckle.

He fired up a lucifer and held it in his left hand while he used his right to slide the blade of his Bowie knife under the bonds around Bo's wrists. A few moments of sawing with the razor-sharp blade had Bo free.

He sat up, rubbing his wrists and hands to get the feeling back into them, and asked, “What about the others? Was anybody hurt?”

“Don't know yet,” Scratch said, sounding more serious now. “I wanted to find you first before I checked on them.”

“Help me to my feet and let's go see.”

It didn't take long to establish that a crease on Jason's upper arm was the only injury any of the Creels had suffered. Samantha Fontaine was already binding it up with a strip of cloth ripped from the bottom of her shirt.

“Thanks,” Jason told her with grudging gratitude.

“It's the least I can do,” Samantha said.

No one argued with her about that.

Riley, Lee, and Davy checked the bodies sprawled along the riverbank. When Riley saw his brother approaching with Scratch and Lauralee, he grunted and asked, “Do you know how many of the bastards there were?”

“Six,” Bo replied. Riley hadn't asked how he was doing, but that came as no surprise. Riley had eyes. He could see that Bo wasn't hurt bad.

“We got five of'em. Reckon the other one got away.”

Bo shook his head and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the trees behind him.

“The sixth man's back there.”

Lee said, “You killed him, Uncle Bo?”

“Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

Riley rubbed his chin and said, “The important thing is that none of them got away to warn the rest of the bunch that we're still alive. I assume they were part of the gang that stole our herd?”

“That's right,” Bo said. “The leader's a man named Judd Palmer. The more I think about it, the more familiar that name is. I think I've heard of him somewhere before. Maybe saw a Wanted poster on him one of the times that Scratch and I were working as deputies.”

“Palmer sent these men back to ambush us?”

“Yeah. So we've still got a chance to take him by surprise.”

“If we can catch up to him before he makes it to Rockport,” Riley said.

“We've got a better chance than we did before,” Bo said. “We've got some extra horses now.” He looked at the bodies of the slain rustlers and added, “These fellas don't have any use for them anymore.”

Lee had to give Samantha credit. When the shooting started and he told her to stay put, she stayed put. She hadn't ventured closer to the river until the roar of gunfire ceased.

Later, after the bodies of the dead rustlers had been disposed of—there was a handy ravine a couple of hundred yards downstream—Lee carried a cup of coffee to her where she sat on a cottonwood deadfall not far from the fire. He had a cup for himself, too.

“Here you go,” he said as he handed the coffee to her.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice had a hollow note to it. She took the cup and sipped the hot, black brew.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Why wouldn't I be? Six more men are dead, and the man I love was almost killed, too.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Lee told her. “Don't waste any sympathy on those
hombres
. They were owlhoots, plain and simple, and there's a good chance they done plenty of bad things in their lives. They would've killed every one of us and never blinked. They got what was comin' to 'em, and that's the God's honest truth.” He took a sip of his coffee. “As for me almost gettin' killed . . . Well, none of those bullets that were flyin' around came close enough for me to hear 'em, so I reckon I wasn't really in that much danger.”

“And that was just pure luck, too.”

Lee shrugged and said, “A man's got to have luck on his side sometimes. Like that day when your horse ran away with you, and you found yourself on the wrong side of Bear Creek. I figure that was just about the luckiest day of my life.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then smiled and shook her head.

“You have an answer for everything, don't you, Lee Creel?”

“Yes, ma'am. And most of 'em have to do with me lovin' you and you lovin' me.”

She leaned closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

“When we get back,” she said quietly, “we have to do something about this.”

“About you and me, you mean?”

“Yes, but what I was really talking about is that silly feud between my father and your grandfather. We have to put a stop to all this trouble.”

“Oh, I've got that figured out already,” Lee said.

Samantha lifted her head and frowned at him.

“You do?”

“Yep,” he said with a nod. “It seems to me that once the two of us are married, those two ol' goats won't have any choice but to stop fussin' with each other.”

Samantha licked her lips, said in a half whisper, “Married?”

“That's right. If you'll have me, that is.”

She looked around at the primitive camp on the bank of the San Antonio River and said, “This isn't exactly the most romantic place for a proposal, but . . . Yes. I'll marry you.”

A couple of minutes later, when Lee finally broke the kiss he had planted on her, Samantha said, “Your brothers are glaring at you.”

“Let 'em,” Lee said. “They'll get over it. They might as well start gettin' used to the idea that the Creel-Fontaine feud is over.”

 

 

It was the middle of the day when Trace Holland rode into the yard in front of the Rafter F ranch house. He had pushed his mount fairly hard, riding until well after dark the previous night before making camp. Then he had come on the rest of the way today. The horse's head hung down in weariness as Holland dismounted.

The screen door banged as Nick Fontaine stepped out onto the porch. He said, “I thought I heard the dogs barking. Figured somebody was riding in.” He paused, then asked bluntly, “Is it done?”

“It's done,” Holland said. He knew what Nick meant, and neither of them had to put it into words. He went on, “There's something else I reckon you'd like to know about, though.”

“What's that?”

“It's about your sister.”

Nick's breath hissed between his teeth. For a second he looked like he was about to come down off the porch and attack Holland with his bare hands, and the gunman wondered if he had made a mistake by being cryptic.

But then Nick regained control of himself, jerked his head toward the door, and said, “Come on inside. I'm not having this conversation out here.”

“I ought to take care of my horse—”

“Jed!” Nick bellowed. The old wrangler hurried out of the barn and came toward them. Nick went on, “Jed will see to your horse.”

Holland nodded and dismounted. He handed the reins to Jed Clemons and then followed Nick into the house.

They went to the study. Nick didn't offer Holland a drink or anything, just fixed him with an intense gaze and waited.

“Where's your pa?” Holland asked.

“In his room. He's been under the weather lately. It hasn't helped that he's worrying himself sick about Samantha. You said you know something about her? About where she is?”

Holland drew in a deep breath and said, “She's with the Creels, headed for the coast.”

Nick's face darkened until it looked like he was about ready to pop a blood vessel. In a low, dangerous tone, he said, “What? What's she doing with the Creels?”

“Best I can figure it, she took off after that cattle drive and caught up to it yesterday morning, after Palmer's bunch ran off the herd the night before.”

“Palmer left some of them alive?”

“He left most of them alive,” Holland said. “That fella's not to be trusted, boss. I think once he had the herd, he didn't care any more about doing the rest of the job.” The gunman shrugged. “Maybe he had something else in mind, though. I don't really know. He's not in the habit of letting anybody else in on his plans.”

Nick cursed bitterly, then said, “What about Samantha?”

“The Creels split up. Looked like some of them were bringing the wounded back. The others headed south, after the herd.” Holland paused. “Your sister went with that bunch. I was watching from a hill close by when they rode off.”

Nick sank down in the chair behind the desk. His hands clenched into fists. Without looking at Holland, as if he were talking to himself, he said, “What the hell made her go after the Creels like that?”

“Only thing I can figure out is that she found out somehow about what Palmer was gonna do and went after them to warn them.”

One of Nick's fists slammed down on the desk.

“But why?”

Holland knew he had to tell the rest of it, even though it would only enrage Nick that much more. He said, “When she rode up, she started hugging and kissing one of those Creel boys. The one called Lee, I think. From the looks of it, they're sweet on each other and have been for a while.”

He didn't mention that he had known about the romance between Samantha and Lee Creel for several weeks. Nick didn't need to know that.

Nick stared at the gunman in disbelief. He said, “She . . . she wouldn't dare . . . with one of the Creels!”

Holland shrugged and shook his head.

“I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, boss,” he said. “That's what I saw, though, and when you think about everything else that's happened, it's the only thing that makes sense.”

Nick's jaw clenched firmly in anger, so hard that a little muscle jumped in his cheek. He said, “That little bitch. That treacherous little bitch.”

Holland didn't want to intrude on that anger anymore, in case Nick decided to turn it on him. He was familiar with the old saying about shooting the messenger.

“I've had a long ride,” he said. “I need to go clean up, maybe get some coffee and something to eat . . .”

“Wait a minute,” Nick said sharply. “You said some of the Creels went after Palmer?”

“That's right.”

“Then they could still cause trouble for me. Ruin all my plans.”

“There were only about half a dozen of them,” Holland said. “And they'd really have to hustle to catch up to Palmer before he gets to Rockport and sells that herd.”

“But it's possible.”

Holland couldn't deny that, and his silence was just as good as if he had answered.

“Go ahead and get something to eat,” Nick went on, “but then you need to saddle a fresh horse.”

“You're sendin' me back out?” Holland didn't like that idea, but if Nick had made up his mind there wasn't much he could do about it.

“Not by yourself. You'll be taking McNamara and some of the other men. Was Bo Creel one of the bunch that went after Palmer?”

The abrupt question took Holland a little by surprise. He said, “Yeah, and that friend of his, too, Scratch Morton.”

Nick nodded and said, “The most dangerous pair in the bunch. I have to be ready if they try to turn the tables on me, Trace. If they take the herd back from Palmer, I can't afford to let them come back here with the money they'll get for it.”

“So you're sending me and McNamara and the rest of the boys to meet them on the way?”

“That's the idea,” Nick said. “But you won't be going alone.”

 

 

Nick reached down to shake his brother awake. As usual, Danny was asleep. He hadn't let his sister being missing interfere too much with his degenerate habits, so he'd headed for town the night before for an evening of drinking and whoring.

At least he wasn't tangled up in the sheets this time. Nick grabbed his shoulder and bounced him up and down a couple of times.

Danny came awake with a startled yell and grabbed for the Colt that lay on the nightstand next to his bed. Nick caught his wrist before he could get hold of the gun and start shooting blindly.

“Settle down, you damned fool,” Nick snapped. “It's me.”

“Nick? What the hell?” Danny groaned and sank back against the pillows. “Leave me alone. My head feels like a big ol' Longhorn bull stepped on it a few times.”

“You've got to get up, Danny. I found out what happened to Samantha.”

That got through to the younger man. Whatever his faults—and they were numerous—Danny loved his sister. He sat up, raked his fingers through his tangled hair, and said, “What's that about Samantha?”

“She was kidnapped,” Nick said. “By Lee Creel.”

Danny's eyes widened. His hangover was forgotten now. After a moment while Nick's words sunk in on his whiskey-numbed brain, he lunged for the gun again.

This time Nick let him have it.

“I'll kill the son of a bitch!” Danny raged as he waved the Colt around. “Where are they? Where can I find him, Nick?”

“Lee went with the rest of the Creels on that cattle drive to the coast. They'll be on their way back in a few days.”

Danny swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He looked a little shaky, but he didn't fall down.

“I'm not waitin' that long,” he declared. “Let's get some of the boys and go after 'em.”

Nick shook his head and said, “I can't leave the ranch right now, not with Pa sick. But you can handle this job, Danny. You can take Holland and McNamara and the others and ride out to meet that bunch of no-good scum.” He stuck another needle in. “There's no telling what Lee's done to poor little Samantha by now. We can't change that, but we can even the score for her.”

“I'll kill him,” Danny promised as he brandished the Colt. Nick moved the gun barrel aside, just in case. “I won't give him a chance to lie or make excuses, Nick. I'll just blow holes in the son of a bitch as soon as I lay eyes on him!”

“I knew I could count on you, Danny,” Nick said, and somehow he managed to remain solemn and not allow the smile of satisfaction he felt to appear on his face. Danny was reacting just as Nick had known he would.

The only problem Nick could see with this plan was that once the bullets started to fly, his brother and sister would both be in danger. It was possible that neither of them would make it back to the Rafter F alive.

It would be a real shame if things turned out like that, but it was more important that the Creels not get back with the money in time to pay off that note. Of course it might not come to that. They might not recover the herd. They might try to and be killed by Judd Palmer and his men, as they should have been to start with.

Any of those possibilities would be all right in the long run, Nick realized . . . as long as they ended with him in control of both the Rafter F and the Star C.

“Are you sure you can't come along, Nick?” Danny asked.

Nick squeezed his shoulder and said, “That's all right, little brother. I know you'll uphold the honor of the Fontaine name.”