Bleeding Texas (3 page)

While Jim Winthorp was still alive but already battling the consumption that eventually killed him, he had allowed the ranch house where he and his wife lived to fall into disrepair.

After Jim passed on and his widow sold the spread to Ned Fontaine, the new owner made numerous repairs and improvements, even added a couple of rooms to the sprawling house. Fontaine had poured money into the newly renamed Rafter F, there was no doubt about that.

Some of that money had gone to hire men like Trace Holland, who was still muttering curses as he rode up to the ranch house later that day. The men with him veered off toward the corrals to put up their horses.

Holland swung down awkwardly from the saddle, grimacing from the pain in his arm. The bloody sleeve was cut away, and a bandage had been wrapped around the wound. Holland had stopped at Doc Perkins's office in Bear Creek and had the old medico patch up the wound.

Perkins had wanted to put the arm in a sling, but Holland had turned thumbs-down on that idea. The idea of not having the arm loose where he could use it made him uncomfortable.

“You won't be making any fast draws for a while,” the doc had warned him dourly after stitching up the gash. “You'll need to let that wound heal for at least a couple of weeks before you use the arm very much.”

“I'll try, Doc,” Holland had said, “but I don't make any guarantees.”

Indeed, if he had the chance right now to bushwhack that silver-haired son of a bitch Scratch Morton, he might take it. Sooner or later he would settle the score with Morton, and with Bo Creel, too.

The pair of big yellow curs who lived on the ranch had set up a racket when the men rode in, of course, and that had alerted the people in the house to their arrival. Holland hadn't reached the bottom of the porch steps when Ned Fontaine came out the front door and looked at him with narrowed eyes.

With his neat brush of a mustache and erect carriage, Fontaine looked like a former military man, even though he wasn't. His keen gray eyes didn't miss much, including the bandage on Holland's arm. His voice was cool and clipped as he asked, “What happened to you, Holland?”

“We had a run-in with some of the Star C bunch in town.”

Holland thought he saw a flash of pleasure in Fontaine's eyes. The old man really hated the Creels. He regarded them as standing in the way of his plans to make the Rafter F the largest ranch in this part of Texas.

But then Fontaine was all business again as he said, “Were any of our men killed or seriously injured?”

Holland shook his head.

“No, I got the worst of it, I guess,” he said as he lifted his injured arm slightly and winced again.

“Who did that?”

“Scratch Morton. Bo Creel's friend.”

“I know who Morton is,” Fontaine snapped. “Tell me what happened.”

Holland did. That didn't take long. While he was telling the story, Nick Fontaine stepped out onto the porch, as well.

The elder of Ned Fontaine's two sons was a medium-sized, muscular man with glossy black hair like a raven's wing. He bossed most of the actual work that was carried out on the ranch.

He also wore a Colt in a fancy black leather holster that matched his vest. Rumor had it that Nick Fontaine was pretty fast and had killed several men in gunfights. Holland didn't know if that was true or not, but like any man who considered himself good with a gun, he had an itching to find out.

Maybe someday. For the time being, he and Nick rode for the same brand.

“You're lucky Jonas Haltom didn't throw you in jail,” Fontaine said when Holland finished his story. “On the other hand, I'm glad you stood up to that Creel scum.”

“The boys and I had to kick in quite a bit of money to help pay for the damages . . .”

Fontaine waved that away and said, “I'll pay you back. You were standing up for Rafter F, after all. See to it, Nick.”

“Sure, Pa,” Nick said. “Come on inside, Trace. I'll take care of that right now.”

“And I'll continue with my ride,” Fontaine said. He turned and called through the screen door, “Are you ready, Samantha?”

The screen opened a moment later as Samantha Fontaine emerged from the house. Ned Fontaine's only daughter, she was between the ages of her older brother, Nick, and her brother Danny, the baby of the family. She was also mistress of this house, since her mother, Ned Fontaine's wife, had passed away several years before the family came to Texas.

Holland was careful not to let his gaze linger on Samantha, but that was difficult sometimes. Now was one of those times, because she wore a man's shirt that emphasized the curves of her bosom, and on her, the denim trousers she wore looked nothing like they would have on a cowpuncher.

Samantha's long, thick hair wasn't quite as dark as her brother Nick's. Right now it was piled on top of her head and tucked under a flat-crowned brown hat held on by a taut chin strap. She was lovely enough to take a man's breath away.

Holland knew perfectly well that a gunhawk like him had no chance with a woman like Samantha Fontaine. Soiled doves in dusty trail towns were more his type.

But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy looking at her. He just had to be discreet about it, that's all.

“Are you ready, darling?” her father asked her.

“Of course,” Samantha said.

As they came down the steps, she gave Holland a nod and a faint smile. Some women in her position wouldn't have even acknowledged his existence, he thought. Samantha always did, even though she was cool and reserved about it. That was one more reason Holland admired her.

As Fontaine and Samantha walked toward the barn to get their horses, Holland couldn't help but cast a glance over his shoulder after them.

Nick noticed and said, “Stop leering at my sister's behind and get in here.”

“Sorry, boss,” Holland said as he climbed the step.

Nick gestured at the bandage on Holland's arm.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“I won't be able to use a gun for a while.”

Nick grunted. Holland had a pretty good idea what he was thinking.

If you can't use a gun, what good are you to me?

After a second, Nick jerked his head toward the door and said, “Come on.”

The two men went in the house. Holland used his left hand to take his hat off. He asked, “Where's your brother?”

“I don't know. It's not important.”

Danny Fontaine had a reputation as a hothead and a troublemaker. He was reckless and impulsive and his old man had had to bail him out of numerous scrapes.

Holland knew that Danny wasn't really the member of the Fontaine family you had to watch out for, though. That honor fell to the oldest brother. Nick was a quiet sort, most of the time, but that old saying about still waters running deep applied to him.

Holland knew that for a fact.

Nick led him into a room that served as study, library, and office for the ranch. He went behind the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a soft leather pouch that clinked when he set it on top of the desk.

“How much did you have to pay for damages in the saloon?”

Holland thought about inflating the amount, but he discarded the idea quickly. It was possible Nick might find out the truth, and Holland didn't want to risk his employer catching him in a lie.

“A hundred bucks,” he said.

Nick cocked a slightly shaggy eyebrow.

“Where were you when the fight broke out?”

“The Southern Belle Saloon.”

“Lauralee Parker wasn't hurt, was she?” Nick asked sharply.

Holland figured Nick was a little sweet on Lauralee. That was bound to come to nothing. She wouldn't give him the time of day, no matter how big his pa's ranch was.

“She's fine,” Holland said. He didn't figure it would serve any purpose to tell Nick about how Lauralee's dress had gotten torn.

“Good.” Nick took ten gold eagles from the pouch and stacked them on the desk. “Divvy that up among the men however you need to.” He hesitated, then said, “The fact that Morton creased you . . . I take it that means Bo Creel is still alive.”

“Yeah,” Holland said. “I was about to take the first good shot at him I could get when Morton came in and winged me.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have waited for a good shot. Maybe you should have taken the first chance you got.”

Holland would allow Nick Fontaine to push him only so far. His voice hardened a little as he said, “I was the one who was there. I had to use my judgment. You said for me to ride into town with the boys, stir up trouble with the Star C bunch if we could find any of them, and try to see to it that Bo Creel died during the ruckus if he happened to be there. Well, all that was working out fine right up until the end. Hell, I even had Creel cut out from the herd with Morton nowhere around . . . or so I thought.” The gunman's narrow shoulders rose and fell. “It was bad luck, boss, that's all. Sometimes that happens.”

“I know.” Nick waved a hand at the coins. “Take the money and go on about your business.”

Holland used his left hand to pick up the stack of eagles.

“I guess the whole kill-Bo-Creel-if-I-get-the-chance deal is off, huh?”

“Postponed, that's all,” Nick said. “I'll figure out something else. The important thing is that one way or another, Bo Creel is a threat to my plans as long as he stays around here. If he and Morton don't pull up stakes and leave pretty soon . . . well, he'll have to die, that's all there is to it.”

That was all right with Trace Holland. After what had happened today, he had his own reasons for wanting both of those damned drifters dead.

When Bo and Scratch got back to th e Star C with the wagonload of supplies, Bo's father and brothers were waiting for them. Bo could tell from the look on John Creel's craggy, deeply tanned face that his father was upset.

It wasn't hard to figure out what had gotten the old man's dander up. The Star C cowboys who'd been involved in the brawl in the Southern Belle had had plenty of time to get back to the ranch ahead of Bo and Scratch.

John Creel stood on the front porch of the ranch house with his hands tucked in the hip pockets of his jeans. He had spent eight decades on this earth, but you couldn't tell it by looking at him. His back was still straight. His eyes were keen and piercing under bushy white brows. He might not be able to spend all day in the saddle anymore, but he could still outwork a lot of younger men.

“Hear tell you had some trouble in town,” he said before Bo had even dismounted.

Bo went ahead and swung down from the saddle. He handed the reins to one of his father's punchers who came up to take care of the horse.

“That's right,” Bo said. “Some of Fontaine's men started a ruckus in the Southern Belle.”

Riley, the second oldest brother in the family next to Bo, said, “Trace Holland tried to kill you.”

“The thought crossed his mind,” Bo admitted.

“This has gone far enough,” Riley said. “We need to gather up all the men and guns on the place and head for the Rafter F. It's long past time we cleaned out that rat's nest.”

“There was a time I'd have agreed with you, boy,” John said. “Try something like that now and we'd have the Rangers down on us.”

“To hell with the Rangers! They haven't done anything to stop the Fontaines from rustling our cattle, have they?”

“We haven't been able to prove Fontaine is behind that,” Bo pointed out in response to his brother's angry question.

Riley just snorted disgustedly. He was a tall, lanky man with graying brown hair. Like all the Creels, he appeared to be somewhat younger than he really was. Riley was a grandfather, but you wouldn't know it to look at him.

The next brother in line was Cooper, a handsome, fair-haired man with the same muscular, broad-shouldered build as John and Bo. He was a bit of a dandy and waxed the tips of his mustache so that they curled up, but he was as hard a worker and as good a hand as any of the brothers.

Hank was the baby of the family. Stocky, with a close-cropped brown beard, he was far from a natural cowboy. He'd never been comfortable on horseback and couldn't dab a loop over a steer to save his life, but he could make sense of all the ranch's bookkeeping and was a true craftsman when it came to making and repairing saddles and tack. He turned out some fancy, hand-tooled holsters and gunbelts, as well.

“I sent a letter to Ranger headquarters in Austin asking for some help around here,” Hank said now. “Haven't heard back from them, though. There aren't that many of them, Riley. I imagine they're spread pretty thin.”

Cooper said, “I agree we don't need to take the law into our own hands . . . yet. There may come a time when we have to, though.”

“Might be,” Bo allowed. “But for now the trouble's over, and no real harm was done except to some tables and chairs and bottles of whiskey in Lauralee's saloon. She got paid back for that.”

“Out of our boys' pockets,” Riley said.

“And out of the pockets of the Rafter F men, too.”

Riley shook his head and turned away.

Bo knew that his next-youngest brother felt some resentment toward him. Riley had never liked the fact that Bo had gone on the drift with Scratch instead of staying in the area to help out his family. Bo could understand that . . . but it was way too late to go back and change the past, even if such a thing had been possible.

Idabelle Fisher came out onto the porch. The tiny, gray-haired woman said, “I see you're back with those supplies I need for my kitchen.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Scratch said with a grin from the driver's seat of the wagon. He started to climb down. “I'll bring 'em in for you.”

“No need. Cooper and Hank don't have any arms or legs broken, do you, boys?”

“No, ma'am,” the brothers said in unison. They came down the steps to unload the boxes of supplies and carry them into the house.

As Hank moved past Bo, he asked quietly, “Can I talk to you in the office in a few minutes, once we get done with this chore?”

“Sure,” Bo said. He wondered what his little brother wanted. From the look in Hank's eyes, he was troubled about something.

Scratch reclaimed his horse from the corral and after saddling the animal told Bo, “Reckon I'll head on back across the creek to my sister's place.”

Bo nodded and said, “All right, just be careful. I don't think Trace Holland is in any shape right now to try to bushwhack you, but some of those other Fontaine men might.”

“I'll keep my eyes open,” Scratch promised. “I'm sorta in the habit of doin' that anyway.”

Bo knew what his old friend meant. Over the years they had spent entirely too much time with people trying to kill them.

When Scratch was gone, Bo went in the house and ambled into the little office where Hank kept up with all the ranch's paperwork. The desk was littered with documents.

Bo didn't look at them. He was smart enough to make sense of them but lacked the inclination. Over the years, the numbers that had interested him the most had been on playing cards. He was a good enough gambler to support himself and Scratch between the jobs they took.

Hank came in a few minutes later. He sat down behind the desk while Bo took the room's other ladder-back chair, turned it around, and straddled it.

“What's on your mind, Hank?” Bo asked.

“Money,” Hank said. “Or the lack of same.”

“How do you mean?”

“The Star C is cash-poor right now. There were some bad times a few years back. For a long time it seemed like we had either not enough rain or too much, depending on whether or not a hurricane came in.”

Bo nodded in understanding. The Gulf of Mexico was only about fifty miles south, and sometimes the gigantic storms that roamed the Gulf at certain times of year dumped enormous amounts of rain inland. The resulting floods always killed some of the cattle, and other animals died from bogging down in the mud left behind. Droughts, of course, were common in Texas, with graze drying up and diminishing the herds, as well.

“The upshot is that Pa needed money to keep us afloat,” Hank went on. “He took out a loan at the bank in town.”

“All right,” Bo said. “That's nothing unusual for folks who make their living off the land in one way or another. Whether it's crops or cattle, sometimes a fella needs a little help.”

“I know. But that note's going to come due in a couple of months.”

Bo frowned and said, “Pa can't pay it off?”

“Not anywhere near all of it. In the past, Mr. Ambrose at the bank has always let Pa pay a little on the note and then extended the rest of it.”

“You have any reason to think he won't do that again?”

Hank leaned back in his chair and said slowly, “No, not exactly. But the last time I was in town I ran into Ambrose, and he asked me how things were going. When I told him we were still having trouble with losing stock, he looked a mite worried. I think he might decide to cut his losses, Bo, and call in the whole amount. If he does that . . .”

“Pa won't be able to scrape up enough money,” Bo finished, his voice holding a grim note now.

“I don't see how he could.”

Bo said, “It'd kill Pa to lose this ranch.”

“I know. It's been preying on my mind. That's why I thought I'd say something to you about it.”

“No offense, Hank, but why me? You know I'd pitch in everything I have to help the old man, but it just doesn't amount to much. Scratch and I never had more than just enough to get by.”

“I know, but . . . I guess it's just because you're the oldest, Bo. I was hoping you might have some idea how to handle this.”

Bo shook his head and said, “I'm afraid I don't. Not right offhand, anyway. Let me think on it.”

“You know, it might help if you went and talked to Gilbert Ambrose at the bank.”

Bo looked pretty skeptical about that idea.

“Everybody in town was ready to string me up when we first got back,” he reminded his brother. “I don't think I carry a lot of weight in Bear Creek anymore.”

“Yeah, but that was all just a misunderstanding. And you and Scratch help keep the bank from being robbed. Mr. Ambrose sort of owes you.”

“I guess I could talk to him,” Bo said. “I don't know how much good it'll do, though.”

“I'd appreciate you just trying.”

“All right. I'll ride back into town tomorrow. In the meantime, do you think we ought to talk about this with Riley and Cooper?”

Hank winced at that suggestion.

“Riley would find some way to blame it all on me,” he said. “And Cooper would just say that he doesn't have a head for ciphering and tell me to figure it out. As for Pa . . .”

“No, we won't tell him about it,” Bo agreed without hesitation. “He already gets worked up about plenty of things, mainly that feud of his with Ned Fontaine.” Bo paused. “Do you think Fontaine is behind the rustling, Hank?”

“I don't know. I couldn't track an elephant in a snowstorm. But we've had a steady trickle of losses, and it's made the ranch's financial position that much more precarious.” Hank shrugged. “It sounds like something Fontaine would do, to be honest.”

Bo thought so, too, and if there was any truth to the charge, one thing was certain.

Sooner or later, the showdown with the Rafter F that Riley wanted so bad would come about.

And Bo was afraid that when it did, the Texas prairie would be covered with blood.