Bleeding Texas

by William W. Johnstone

  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.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ned Fontaine and his daughter rode to the top of a hill fringed with oaks and gazed across the rolling landscape in front of them. Samantha glanced across at her father and saw the look in his eyes. It was one of pride and ambition and drive. Ned Fontaine wanted to take that land with its scattered herds and transform it into the richest rangeland in all of Texas.

  That was an admirable goal, Samantha thought . . . as far as it went.

  This was the highest point for miles, with the best view. From up here a green line of trees was visible as it twisted across the countryside.

  Those trees marked the course of Bear Creek. On the other side of the stream lay the Star C, belonging to John Creel.

  If her father’s ambition had stopped at the creek, Samantha would have thought it was a fine thing.

  Unfortunately, Ned Fontaine had set his sights on all that other range, and Samantha feared that ultimately his covetousness would lead to disaster.

  “I wish your mother could see this, Samantha,” Fontaine said without taking his eyes off the verdant sweep of countryside in front of him. “I think it would have reminded her of her home back in Ireland.”

  “I’m sure it would have, Pa.”

  “It’s the devil’s own shame that she didn’t live to come to Texas with us.”

  “It is,” Samantha agreed, but she knew he wasn’t really paying much attention to her. He was lost in his own thoughts and memories, casting his mind back over the years.

  He did that more and more these days, and that worried her. It was easy to get lost in the past, especially as a person got older. The present held less and less appeal. Reality could never quite match up to an idealized past.

  People had to live in the present, though.

  And some even looked to the future.

  Fontaine heaved a sigh and said, “I guess we’d better be getting on back now.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead?” Samantha suggested. “I think I might like to ride a little more.”

  That broke Fontaine out of his musing. He frowned at her and said, “You know I don’t like you riding by yourself.”

  She patted the smooth wooden stock of the carbine that rested in a sheath strapped to her saddle.

  “I’ll be fine, Pa,” she told him. “I don’t expect to run into any trouble, and if I do, I can handle it. You know I’m a good shot.”

  “Yes, you’ve got a cool head and a good eye,” Fontaine admitted. “For a girl.”

  Samantha laughed.

  “If you’re trying to get an argument out of me, it’s not going to work,” she said.

  “No, no, just telling you that sometimes you’re too confident for your own good. But I’m not a stupid man. I know by now that I’d be wasting my time telling you what to do. Only . . . stay clear of the creek, all right?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll stay on our range,” Samantha promised.

  “All right.” Fontaine lifted his reins. “Don’t be too long.”

  He turned his horse and rode back toward the ranch headquarters. For a few moments, Samantha watched him go, then she eased her mount into a walk that carried her down the hill’s slope toward the creek.

  She hadn’t exactly lied to him. He had asked her to stay away from the stream that marked the boundary between the two ranches, but she had promised only not to cross it.

  Still, that rationalization was enough to make her feel a little guilty about what she was doing. She was well aware of her father’s flaws but loved him anyway, and she didn’t like deceiving him.

  She didn’t really have any choice in the matter, though.

  As she neared the creek, she reined her horse to a halt, dismounted, and went ahead on foot, leading the animal. She kept a watchful eye on the trees along the bank, alert for any sign of movement. Not seeing any, she led her mount into a particularly thick grove of trees and tied the reins to a slender sapling.

  Then she waited, listening intently.

  Time seemed to drag by more slowly than it really was. About a quarter of an hour had passed before Samantha heard anything other than the usual noises of small animals in the brush and the lowing of cattle in the distance.

  Then she heard something large splashing through the waters of the creek.

  Quietly, she drew the carbine from its sheath. There was already a round in the chamber, so she didn’t have to work the weapon’s lever and make any racket.

  With as much stealth as she could muster, she moved through the trees and undergrowth until she could crouch behind a bush and look out at the stream. A man on horseback was crossing it about fifty yards upstream from Samantha’s position. The trees along the banks cast dappled shade on the water, and that made it difficult to distinguish details about the man’s face.

  Samantha lifted the carbine to her shoulder and nestled her cheek against the stock. She peered over the barrel as she settled the sights on the rider, ready to blow him out of the saddle if she needed to.

  Lee Creel pointed his horse toward a spot where it would be easy to climb out onto the eastern bank of Bear Creek. He appeared to ride easy in the saddle, but actually he was alert.

  He was well aware that he was venturing into the realm of the enemy, and there was no way of knowing for sure what was waiting for him over there.

  A slender young man in his early twenties, Lee had a shock of sandy hair under his sweat-stained, pushed-back hat. Like most men who rode this range, he carried a handgun, and while he was no shootist, he considered himself fairly good with a Colt. His father Cooper had taught him how to shoot at an early age.

  It was a skill a man needed to have if he was going to survive on the frontier.

  Something made Lee’s nerves crawl as he rode out of the creek and up onto the bank. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He recognized the symptoms.

  He was being watched.

  The important question was who was doing the watching.

  He reined in, and as he did he heard something rustling in the brush. A figure carrying a carbine suddenly stepped out from behind the trees about ten yards away from him. Lee’s heart jumped.

  Then he hurried to meet Samantha Fontaine, and as his arms went around her, she tilted her head back and parted her lips slightly to receive his kiss.

  Lord, she tasted sweet! Lee had never experienc
ed anything like it.

  Not since the last time he’d kissed her, anyway.

  Samantha lowered the carbine’s butt to the ground and let go of the barrel. The weapon toppled over. Luckily, it didn’t go off. She lifted her arms and twined them around Lee’s neck. Their bodies strained to draw even closer together.

  Lee’s heart was pounding fit to bust by the time he finally lifted his lips from Samantha’s. His voice was a little breathless as he said, “When you stepped out from the brush with that carbine, I thought for a second I was done for. Figured you’d changed your mind about bein’ in love with a no-count Creel.”

  “You thought I was going to shoot you?”

  “Well, not really. But the idea crossed my mind for half a second.”

  “I could never do that,” she said. “I was just being careful. I didn’t show myself until I made sure it was you. I didn’t want somebody else to come along and catch me out here waiting for you.”

  “So you planned on murderin’ ’em if they did?”

  She balled a fist and struck it lightly against his chest.

  “You just stop your foolishness, Lee Creel. You know good and well there are outlaws and rustlers around these parts.”

  Yeah, and some of them were named Fontaine, he thought, but he kept that to himself. It wouldn’t do any good to point out to her that he considered some of her relatives no-good.

  All of her relatives, as a matter of fact. He believed there was only one good Fontaine around here—and she was in his arms at the moment.

  Six months ago, the idea that he’d be hugging and kissing any Fontaine would have struck him as plumb loco. If anybody had made such a claim, he would have considered those fightin’ words.

  But that was before a rattlesnake had spooked Samantha’s horse and sent it stampeding across Bear Creek onto the Creel range one day, with her in the saddle hanging on for dear life and trying unsuccessfully to bring the animal back under control.

  Lee, who had been riding near the creek himself, had seen the runaway horse and gone after it without even stopping to think about who the rider might be. Samantha had been riding with her hair tucked under her hat that day, as was her habit, so Lee had figured the rider was some hapless cowpoke . . . until he’d gotten close enough to see that the figure on horseback wasn’t shaped like any cowpoke he’d ever run across.

  He’d grabbed the reins, of course, and brought the runaway to a halt. He could tell how nervous the young woman was by the way she kept casting glances back across the creek, as if she knew she was somewhere she shouldn’t be. Lee had recognized her from seeing her with her father and brothers in town, so he’d said, “It’s all right, Miss Fontaine. I won’t tell anybody you’re over here on this side of the creek if you don’t.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me for trespassing?”

  “No . . . but I might do this.”

  Acting on impulse while they were both still in their saddles, he had leaned over and stolen a kiss. Samantha had gasped, slapped his face, and then laughed.

  He had kissed her again before that day was over.

  That was how it started, and they had been meeting out here along the creek several times a week ever since. They were careful because they both knew that her father and his grandfather would be furious if they found out. Lee’s pa and his uncles wouldn’t be too happy about it, either . . . except maybe for Bo. He struck Lee as pretty easygoing, and he hadn’t been around when the Fontaines came to this part of the country and started causing trouble with their pushy ways, either.

  Now Samantha said, “There was another fight in town today.”

  “I heard about it,” Lee said. “That gunnie Trace Holland got shot.”

  “He’s not—” Samantha stopped short. Lee supposed that out of family loyalty, she’d been about to claim Holland wasn’t a gunman. But she knew as well as anybody else that was the truth.

  Instead she said, “I wish everybody could just settle things and get along. If this turns into a range war, I . . . I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  Lee knew. If a range war broke out, people would die. There was no getting around it. Creels and Fontaines both, more than likely.

  Crazy ideas had started to percolate in his head lately. He wished that both families could get together at a wedding.

  Instead it was a lot more likely that funerals would continue to keep them apart.

  He put that grim thought out of his head and cupped a hand under Samantha’s chin.

  “You got your dress picked out for the social?” he asked her.

  That put a smile on her face. She said, “Yes, I do. It’s really pretty.”

  “Good, because I intend to dance with the prettiest girl there.”

  “You mean Lauralee Parker?”

  “Not hardly,” he said with a grin. “I’m lookin’ at the prettiest girl.”

  “I don’t know, Lee,” she said as she grew solemn. “It seems like if we were to dance together, it would be just asking for trouble.”

  “Town’s supposed to be neutral ground, especially at something like a social.”

  “I know, but I’m just not sure how my brothers would react.”

  “Well, we’ll wait and see how things go,” he told her in an attempt to ease her mind.

  But make no mistake about it, he thought, he was going to dance with Samantha Fontaine.

  And anybody who didn’t like it could go to hell—especially if his name was Fontaine, too!

  CHAPTER 7

  Riders on horseback, couples in buggies, families in wagons, all began to converge on the town of Bear Creek one evening several days later. Twice a year the town held a social that featured food, music, and dancing, and people from miles around, from Hallettsville all the way down to Victoria, attended.

  The festivities were held at the Bear Creek School. The students’ desks and benches were carried out to clear the floor for dancing. A group of fiddlers and guitar players set up shop where the teacher normally stood. To one side of the room was a table with a big punch bowl on it. Marshal Jonas Haltom and his deputies would take turns guarding the punch all evening to make sure no cowboy with a flask of Who-hit-John tried to spike it.

  Another table held an assortment of pies and cakes baked by the ladies of the town. They would be auctioned off to raise money for the school. The mayor would probably make a speech, too.

  But the dancing was what drew most people—other than the Baptists, of course. And even some of them figured the good Lord would forgive them if they backslid a little, as long as it was only twice a year.

  Bo wore his usual dark trousers and long dark coat over a white shirt and string tie. Scratch had traded his buckskins for a tan suit, and he sported a string tie, as well.

  “Don’t we look like a couple of Kansas City dudes?” Scratch asked as they stood along one of the walls, sipping too-sweet red punch from tin cups.

  “Speak for yourself,” Bo said. “This is what I wear most of the time.”

  “Yeah, but you got your hair slicked down more than usual. I don’t reckon you really needed to do that to impress Lauralee.”

  “I don’t care whether I impress Lauralee.”

  “Well, I think she’s tryin’ to impress you. And everybody else in the place, to boot.”

  It was true that Lauralee Parker was attracting a lot of attention. That blue dress had been so skillfully repaired that it was impossible to tell it had ever been torn. Her blond curls were piled up in an elaborate arrangement, and her face, with a minimum of paint, glowed with a natural beauty.

  The dancing hadn’t started yet, so at the moment Lauralee stood talking to some of the women from the town. Not for the first time, Bo admired her ability to win folks over. In a lot of frontier settlements, a woman who ran a saloon would be a pariah. People would think she was a prostitute or worse.

  That wasn’t the case with Lauralee. She was accepted as a member of the community. Part of that was because she had gro
wn up here and people had known her ever since she was a little girl. She had become such a fine adult, too, that it was impossible not to like her. If anybody in Bear Creek had trouble, Lauralee was the first one there to offer her help. She nursed people through illnesses, she fed people who might have otherwise gone hungry, she helped make sure that widows and orphans were taken care of, and she was a friend to anybody who needed one.

  She wasn’t perfect—Bo knew she had a temper and was stubborn as a mule—but she was about as close as anybody he had ever known.

  Bo noticed Gilbert Ambrose across the room. He had promised Hank that he would talk to the banker, but he hadn’t gotten around to doing that yet. This evening might not be the best time to have a business conversation, but on the other hand, Bo believed in seizing opportunities whenever and wherever they arose.

  He drank the last of the punch from his cup, handed it to Scratch, and said, “Hang on to this for me, will you?”

  “Where are you going?” the silver-haired Texan asked.

  “I’ll be back,” Bo said, which wasn’t really an answer.

  Ambrose was talking to Judge Clarence Buchanan and Dr. Kenneth Perkins. They were all roughly of the same age, a little older than Bo, and had been here in Bear Creek ever since the town was founded during the early days of the Republic of Texas.

  “Hello, Bo,” the thick-set, florid-faced judge said when Bo walked up to the little group. Doc Perkins and Ambrose muttered greetings, as well.

  “Evening, fellas,” Bo said. “Looking forward to the dancing?”

  Buchanan made a face and said, “These bad feet of mine won’t let me traipse around the floor anymore. But I’ll enjoy watching the young people.”

  “I’m not much of a dancer, either,” the spare, dour physician said.

  “My wife will expect me to haul her around the floor a few times,” Ambrose said with a chuckle. “You’re the lucky one, Creel. You’ll get to dance with Miss Parker.”

  Bo smiled and said, “That’s more good fortune than I deserve, all right. Say, I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute, Mr. Ambrose.”