Bleeding Texas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Orin, did you see who was just standing here behind me?”

  “You mean the fella you hit with your elbow? I saw him, but I didn’t get a good look at him.”

  “You don’t know who it was?”

  Moody shook his head and said, “Nope, afraid not. He had his hat pulled down so I couldn’t see much of his face, and I wasn’t really payin’ attention, you know. I was watchin’ all those fellas slappin’ your nephew on the back. Heck of a fight, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Bo said. “A heck of a fight.”

  He knew that finding the man who’d attacked him was hopeless now. There had to be more than a hundred men out here. The would-be killer could blend into the crowd and be completely safe.

  Bo’s left side stung. He put a hand to it, felt the tear in his coat where the knife had gone through. Under it, he touched the warm wetness of blood. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t hurt badly, but the wound would need to be cleaned up.

  Scratch appeared at his side and asked with a worried frown, “Bo, are you all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can tell something’s got you shook. You don’t ride with a fella as long as I have with you and not be able to tell when something’s wrong.”

  “Somebody just came within a couple of inches of putting a knife in my heart,” Bo said, quietly enough that only his friend would hear in the continuing commotion.

  Scratch’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I’ll go find Doc Perkins—”

  “I don’t think the wound is that bad. Find Lauralee instead.” Bo smiled grimly. “If you don’t get her before the dancing starts again, those hombres in there will never let her leave.”

  Scratch hurried off and returned a few minutes later with Lauralee, who had draped a white lace shawl around her shoulders.

  “Scratch says you’re hurt,” she said anxiously to Bo.

  “It doesn’t amount to much,” he assured her, “but I thought maybe we could go back to your place and patch it up.”

  “That’s a good idea. Come on.”

  The three of them started to walk away from the school. As they passed Lee Creel, the young man asked, “Where are you goin’, Uncle Bo? The dance ain’t over.”

  “Just getting some air,” Bo said. “Maybe we’ll be back later.”

  Lee shrugged. He seemed to have something else on his mind. Probably that young woman he’d been waiting for earlier.

  Bo, Scratch, and Lauralee crossed the bridge over Bear Creek and went to the Southern Belle, which was open but not doing much business on this night of the semi-annual town social. The saloon would be busy later, though. With so many people in town, a lot of them would want a drink after the social was over.

  Roscoe the bartender greeted them by saying, “Didn’t expect to see you back this early, Miss Lauralee.”

  “The social wasn’t as exciting as usual,” she said dryly. She took Bo and Scratch through a door at the end of the bar and into her office. Once the door was closed, she told Bo, “Get that coat and shirt off.”

  Bo complied with the order, revealing a thin gash that stretched for several inches along his ribs. The wound had bled quite a bit, but it wasn’t deep. The would-be killer’s aim had been off.

  That made Bo wonder if the man had struck it with the wrong hand. Trace Holland was right-handed, but his right arm would be too stiff for him to use it to stab someone. Trying it left-handed could have been responsible for making him miss.

  That was pure speculation, though, Bo cautioned himself. He had no proof Holland had tried to kill him again.

  Lauralee used a rag soaked in whiskey to clean the blood away from the wound. Bo’s jaw tightened at the stuff ’s fiery bite, but he didn’t make a sound.

  “I don’t think it’ll need any stitches,” Lauralee announced after she had studied the injury. “I’ll just clean it up a little better and then bandage it.”

  “I’m obliged to you,” Bo told her. He trusted Lauralee’s judgment. She had helped out Doc Perkins enough in the past that she was probably better qualified to practice medicine than some of the pill-pushers on the frontier.

  Scratch tilted his hat back and asked, “Which one of those Fontaine skunks you reckon did this, Bo?”

  “What makes you so sure it was a Fontaine man?”

  Scratch snorted.

  “Does anybody else around Bear Creek have a reason for wantin’ you dead?” he asked.

  “Well . . . to be honest, I can’t think of anybody,” Bo admitted. “It sort of crossed my mind that Trace Holland might have made another try for me. He’s a better gunman than he is a knife artist, though.”

  “Lucky for you . . . and lucky for him, too.”

  Bo raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  “If he’d killed you, then I’d have had to kill him,” Scratch explained.

  For two hombres who had been trail partners as long as these two, that made perfect sense.

  Samantha could tell that her father was angry because of how thin-lipped his mouth was when he rejoined her in the schoolhouse. He always looked like that when he was trying to hold in hot words.

  “Is Danny all right?” she asked him.

  Fontaine snorted disgustedly.

  “Better than he deserves, the arrogant young pup,” he said. “I told him I didn’t want any trouble here tonight. I specifically told him to watch his step around that Creel bunch.”

  Samantha had been hoping to catch a moment alone with one particular member of “that Creel bunch” in the aftermath of the fight, but that hadn’t worked out. Lee was in the middle of his relatives, where she couldn’t very well approach him.

  Fontaine’s expression softened a bit as he went on, “Still, I suppose Daniel didn’t have much choice. I didn’t raise him to back down from trouble when he’s in the right.”

  That was the problem, Samantha thought. Danny was always in the right as far as their father was concerned, especially if there were any Creels involved. Ned Fontaine let his dislike of the family color all of his opinions.

  “Anyway,” Fontaine continued with a curt gesture, “the boy’s going to be bruised and sore, and his pride is certainly wounded, but other than that he’s fine. Some of the men dumped a bucket of water over his head, and he came around right away. I told them to get him cleaned up and take him back out to the ranch.”

  “Are we leaving, too?” Samantha asked, trying to keep the despair out of her voice.

  “Yes, I think so. We don’t really belong here with these ruffians.”

  Samantha sighed, causing her father to frown.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did you want to stay?”

  “I don’t see other people very often . . .”

  She couldn’t explain to her father that she’d been hoping to dance with Lee Creel tonight. He had promised that they would.

  Of course, she was logical enough to know that it was probably better if they didn’t. That would be just asking for more trouble, and there had already been enough of that tonight, thanks to Danny.

  She summoned up a smile and went on, “But that’s all right. We can go. It is awfully warm in here.”

  Fontaine grunted agreement and took her arm to lead her out of the schoolhouse.

  Samantha glanced around and asked, “Where’s Nick? I don’t see him.”

  “I don’t know. He can come back in his own good time.”

  Samantha started to ask why it was all right for Nick to stay at the dance but she had to leave. She bit back the words before they came out, knowing they would just annoy her father. Anyway, the answer was obvious.

  Nick could do whatever he wanted because he was male, and because their father trusted him.

  After all, Nick practically ran the ranch these days, didn’t he?

  A few yards away from where Nick Fontaine stood under an oak tree, two of the Rafter F punchers were helping a still-groggy Danny Fontaine into his saddle. O
nce he was on the horse, Danny swayed back and forth so perilously that one of the men had to grab his arm to steady him.

  As Nick leaned against the rough-barked trunk, he dragged deeply on the cigarette he had rolled. As the coal on the end of the coffin nail flared up, its orange glow cast faint shadows over the harsh planes of his face.

  “It’d serve him right if he fell off and broke his fool neck,” Nick said. “Try to keep him from doing that, though.”

  “Sure, boss,” one of the men said. “We’ll ride on either side of him so he can’t topple clean off. Mulligan, I’ll hang on to him while you fetch our horses.”

  The other cowboy hurried off to do that.

  A dark shape sidled up to Nick in the shadows under the tree. The newcomer started to say something, but Nick lifted a hand to stop him for the moment. The two men stood there until Danny and his minders had ridden off.

  Then Nick said in a low, angry voice, “That’s twice you’ve missed, Trace. You reckon you deserve a third try?”

  “I don’t see how Creel’s not dead,” Trace Holland replied, equally quietly. “He must’ve shifted a little just as I went to put the knife in his back.”

  “Or else your aim was off. Either way, Creel’s alive. Was he at least hurt bad enough to lay him up for a while?”

  Holland hesitated, then answered, “The way he walked off under his own power with Morton and that saloon gal, it didn’t really look like it.”

  Nick blew smoke out his nose and stood there stiffly for a few seconds before he muttered, “I’m tired of this.”

  “I’ll get Bo Creel, boss, I swear it—”

  “I’m not talking about your feeble attempts to kill Bo Creel. I’m talking about this whole damned dance we’ve been doing with his family for the past year. I’m tired of trying to ease them out of the way. It’s time to take more direct action.”

  Holland’s lean form practically trembled with anticipation as he said, “Are you talkin’ about a raid on the Star C? Because if you are, I can get enough good men together to wipe that bunch off the face of the earth. If we bring in Palmer’s bunch alone—”

  “Don’t be a damned fool,” Nick snapped. “That might have worked ten years ago, but if we tried something like that now we’d have the Rangers down on our necks. We’ve kept things quiet enough so far that we haven’t drawn their attention, and I’d just as soon keep it that way.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  Nick flicked the butt of the quirley away from him in the darkness and said, “We’re going to let the law do all the hard work for us.”

  CHAPTER 10

  After Lauralee patched up the wound in Bo’s side, Scratch stayed close to his old friend as they returned to the schoolhouse for the rest of the social. If anybody else made an attempt on Bo’s life, Scratch intended to be there to stop it.

  Now that the fight was over, the dancing continued. Bo wasn’t really up to it, but he insisted that Scratch and Lauralee get out there on the floor.

  Scratch knew Lauralee wouldn’t have any trouble finding dance partners, but he took her in his arms and led off in the waltz the musicians were playing. He said, “Since we’re spinnin’ around, we can take turns keepin’ an eye on Bo.”

  “Do you think he needs someone to keep an eye on him?”

  “He’s come too blasted close to gettin’ killed a couple of times lately. I don’t see any of the Fontaine bunch around anymore, but I ain’t takin’ no chances. If I see anything that looks fishy, I’m gonna take a hand in a hurry.”

  “Yes, I agree with you,” Lauralee said. “He won’t like having people watching out for him, though. He always thinks he can take care of himself.”

  “And most of the time he can. I got a bad feelin’ about the things goin’ on around here these days, though.”

  “I can’t argue with that. The Fontaines are really on the prod. Of course, Danny always is.”

  Scratch grunted. He and Bo had had a run-in with Danny Fontaine the same day they’d returned to Bear Creek several months earlier, and things hadn’t really changed since then.

  Somebody tapped on Scratch’s shoulder. He looked around to see one of Bo’s nephews standing there with a grin on his face. Scratch couldn’t recall the kid’s name right offhand. There were too many of them.

  “I’m cuttin’ in,” the youngster said.

  Scratch thought about telling the kid to go climb a stump, then thought better of it. Could be that Lauralee would enjoy dancing with somebody closer to her own age.

  “All right,” he said as he stepped back. “As long as the lady don’t object, that is.”

  “That’s fine,” Lauralee said with a smile. Her new partner took hold of her hands, and they spun away in the crowd of dancers.

  Scratch figured he would go and sit with Bo, but as he turned he found his path blocked by an attractive, yet formidable, barrier.

  “You never came and had tea with me, Mr. Morton,” Mrs. Emmaline Ashley said with an accusing frown. “I thought we had agreed on that.”

  “Well, I, uh, that is . . .”

  This was a different sort of threat than the ones Scratch was accustomed to facing, and he didn’t quite know what to do.

  When in doubt, he told himself, fall back on the truth.

  “After what happened, I mean with me rushin’ outta the store like that, I didn’t figure you still wanted to have tea with me, ma’am,” he said.

  “Don’t you think you should have let me make that decision?”

  “Well, I reckon maybe I should have.”

  “Never assume you know what a woman wants, Mr. Morton. There’s a good chance you’ll be wrong.”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, I figured that out a long time ago.”

  She raised an eyebrow at that, and Scratch thought maybe he should’ve kept his mouth shut, but Mrs. Ashley said, “If you’re really repentant, you can make it up to me by dancing with me. At least, that will be a start.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I think I can do that.”

  Scratch took her in his arms.

  Emmaline—she insisted that he call her that—proved to be a fine dancer.

  “I know I’m not as young and gorgeous as Lauralee Parker, of course, but I hope you enjoy dancing with me, Scratch,” she said. “Is she a particular ladyfriend of yours?”

  “What, you mean Lauralee? Shoot, no. I mean, she’s a lady and she’s a good friend, no doubt about that, but I’ve known her ever since she was a scabby-kneed little kid runnin’ around Bear Creek.”

  “So has your friend Mr. Creel, but that hasn’t stopped him from taking an interest in her.”

  “What Bo does is his own business.” When nobody was trying to kill him, that is, Scratch corrected himself mentally. “I’d say the interest is more the other way around, though.”

  “Really? Miss Parker has been pursuing a man old enough to be her father?”

  “The feelin’s in a person’s heart don’t have to make sense to anybody but the one feelin’ ’em, I reckon.”

  Emmaline laughed and said, “Why, Scratch, that’s positively profound.”

  “Better’n profane.”

  Somehow while they were dancing and talking, she had managed to get closer to him. In fact, he was holding her pretty doggoned close now, and the music had slowed down so that he could feel her soft warmth moving with him.

  “Scratch . . .” she said softly.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he asked, his voice sounding a mite huskier than he expected it to.

  “What is your real name? Surely your mother didn’t name you . . . Scratch.”

  “It’s been so long since anybody called me anything else, I sort of disremember,” he lied.

  “I’m acquainted with your sister, you know. I could always ask her.”

  “Maybe you should do that,” he told her, knowing good and well that she wouldn’t get anything out of Dorothy. “Then if she tells you, you can tell me and we’ll both know!”

  Emmaline laughed and
moved even closer, close enough to rest her head on his chest.

  Scratch resisted the temptation to reach up and tug at his shirt collar. Maybe it would be a good idea if this dance went ahead and got itself over with, he thought.

  After a while, the musicians played “Goodnight, Ladies,” and folks started to drift toward the doors. Some of the families had long wagon rides ahead of them before they got home. The kids would sleep in the back, the wives would doze against their husbands’ shoulders, and the men would try not to nod off over the reins as they kept their teams moving.

  Most of the cowboys would head for the saloons to get drunk and then sleep it off before making miserable, hungover rides back to their home ranches in the morning.

  Bo had tried to convince Lauralee to dance the final dance with Scratch, but she had refused to budge from where she was sitting by his side.

  Instead Scratch was out on the floor with a nice-looking woman Lauralee identified as Mrs. Emmaline Ashley, a widow who lived here in Bear Creek. Bo had noticed them dancing several times earlier.

  “Looks like Mrs. Ashley has her cap set for ol’ Scratch,” Bo commented with a smile.

  “She’s nice enough, I suppose,” Lauralee said. “She’s wasting her time, though, if she’s looking for another husband. The chances of Scratch ever settling down are pretty slim.”

  Bo had to chuckle at that. He said, “I reckon you’re right.”

  “How about you, Bo? You ever give any thought to putting down roots again?”

  His smile went away as he said, “That didn’t work out too well the first time.”

  Lauralee knew his history, knew about the family he had lost so many years ago when he was a young man. She said quietly, “Just because something bad happened once, that doesn’t mean it will again.”

  “Doesn’t mean it won’t,” Bo said without looking at her.

  “No, I suppose not.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Whenever you find something worthwhile in life that comes with an iron-clad guarantee, you be sure and tell me about it, Bo. Because I’ve never run across anything like that, myself.”