Texas Bloodshed

by William W. Johnstone

  “I reckon there are plenty of people who feel that way,” Bo said.

  “But we make allowances for ’em because they don’t know no better,” Scratch added.

  Scratch had been unusually quiet for the past couple of days. This was the first time he had cracked wise in a while. That was because he had a lot on his mind. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Cara again, and he would have to before he made his move. There were still things that he wanted to know.

  They reached the Red River, the boundary between Indian Territory and Texas, the next day. The stream, with its banks of reddish clay that gave the water its namesake color, twisted through rugged hills. Brubaker explained that as the trail sloped down toward a low-water crossing, it went between a couple of high cutbanks covered with stunted brush.

  Bo was riding in front of the wagon. When he was still a few hundred yards from the river, he held up his hand to signal a stop and turned in the saddle to talk to Brubaker.

  “I don’t much like the looks of this,” he said to the deputy. “This is a good spot for another ambush. How many crossings like this are there along the river?”

  “Half a dozen or so,” Brubaker replied. “Depends on how far west you go, I guess. You think Gentry’s waitin’ down there for us?”

  “He’s bound to have figured out by now that we left the main road back in Arkansas,” Bo said. “He might have tried to follow us ... or he might have decided to get ahead of us instead and wait for us to come to him.”

  Brubaker shook his head.

  “That ain’t very likely considerin’ that he wouldn’t have any way of knowin’ which crossin’ we’d head for. His gang’s not big enough that he could set up an ambush at every place we could cross into Texas.”

  “Maybe not,” Bo said, “but he could send men out to watch every crossing and get back on our trail that way.”

  Scratch had brought his horse up alongside the wagon while Bo and Brubaker were talking. He asked, “Would Gentry risk crossin’ back over into Texas just to rescue these three? Didn’t he light out for the Indian Nations to start with because the law made it too hot for him south of the Red River?”

  Brubaker chewed at his drooping mustache as he thought about Scratch’s question. After a moment he said, “It’s true that he and his bunch got out of Texas by the skin of their teeth when the Rangers were after them. But that’s been a couple of years ago. Yeah, I think he’d risk it.” Brubaker leaned his head toward the back of the wagon. “Gentry sets a lot of store by that girl in there, and Lowe and Elam rode with him for a long time. He has to get ’em all back, or he risks losin’ the respect of the rest of the gang.”

  “Then why don’t you wait here,” Bo suggested, “while Scratch and I take a look around? We’ll scout out the crossing and come right back.”

  Brubaker nodded. “Sure, go ahead. Just be careful in case there is some sort of trouble waitin’ up there.”

  “We’re always careful,” Scratch said with a grin. “Sometimes what we do just looks reckless.”

  Bo chuckled and said, “Come on.”

  While Brubaker sat there with the wagon, the Texans rode on toward the river.

  Scratch was thinking as he rode. He figured that what Brubaker had said about Gentry’s gang getting out of Texas one step ahead of a posse of Rangers was the answer to one of the things he’d been wondering about. They had left that loot stashed in the cave Cara had told him about because they’d never had a chance to go back and get it. When they rode away from the hideout for the last time, they hadn’t known that they wouldn’t be able to return.

  “See anything?” Bo asked quietly as they approached the cutbanks.

  “Not so far,” Scratch replied. His keen eyes scanned the brushy bluffs overlooking the river. “You really think Gentry posted watchers at all the river crossin’s in these parts?”

  “It’s possible. They might not even be regular members of his gang, just wild youngsters who want to be outlaws, like Jink and Mort Staley and their cousin Bob. If I was Gentry, I think I’d be waiting with the rest of my men at some central location, so that if one of the watchers saw us cross the river into Texas, he could gallop there and carry the word. Then Gentry and the gang could get on our trail.”

  Scratch let out a low whistle of admiration.

  “That’s some devious thinkin’ there, Bo,” he said. “I think we missed our callin’. We should’ve been outlaws.”

  “Maybe so. But I sort of like being able to sleep at night.”

  Scratch didn’t say anything to that.

  They rode along the eastern bank overlooking the trail and didn’t find anything unusual. Then they doubled back and started checking out the western bank. As they approached the edge that overlooked the river, Bo suddenly reined in and lifted his head to sniff the air.

  Scratch did likewise. He smelled the same thing Bo had.

  Tobacco smoke.

  Somebody was in the vicinity, all right, puffing on a quirly. Whoever it was might be totally innocent, with no connection to Hank Gentry, but they couldn’t risk that.

  Bo said in a fairly loud voice, “Well, I don’t see anybody up here. We might as well go on back to the wagon and tell Deputy Brubaker that it’s all right to cross the river.”

  While he was talking, he swung down from the saddle and handed his reins to Scratch. The silver-haired Texan frowned in concern, but Bo made a reassuring motion with his left hand and drew his gun with his right.

  Scratch turned his mount and rode back toward the wagon, leading Bo’s horse. To anyone listening, it would sound like they were both returning to the wagon.

  Gun in hand, Bo stole forward stealthily. He approached the edge of the bank where it dropped off rather sharply to the river, some twenty feet below. The smell of smoke was stronger now. It drifted up from a brush-choked ledge that ran along the northern riverbank, following the curve of the bank and gradually descending to a flat area next to the water where some scrubby trees grew.

  Bo studied those trees closely, and after a few moments he caught a glimpse of movement there. He continued watching until he was able to make out a horse cropping at the sparse grass under the trees. Someone had picketed the animal there, and that somebody had to be hiding in the brush farther up the ledge, watching the crossing.

  And foolishly smoking a cigarette, too, Bo thought. That was the only thing that had given away the man’s presence. The trees where the horse was hidden were around a small bend, so it was unlikely any of them would have noticed the animal if they had crossed the river without scouting around first.

  Bo moved closer to the edge of the bank and peered down into the brush. He thought he might be able to spot smoke rising from the quirly, but the smell was fading now. The watcher had finished his smoke, and he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to build another.

  He couldn’t keep completely still, though, which told Bo that he was probably young. Most experienced frontiersmen had the ability to remain motionless when they had to. A lot of times being able to do so was a matter of life and death.

  In this case, the watcher shifted, and Bo spotted the movement. Now that he knew where to look, he was able to pick out the shape of a brown hat among the mostly bare branches. The watcher wore a brown coat, too, which helped him to blend in with the gray branches and the reddish-brown dirt. Sunlight reflected on something beside him. The breech of a rifle, Bo decided.

  He could have gunned the man down without much trouble, but that would be cold-blooded murder. Not only that, but Bo couldn’t be absolutely certain the watcher was working for Hank Gentry, although that was the only explanation that really made sense. If the man was a member of Gentry’s gang, or even if he just wanted to be, he might possess information that would be valuable.

  The ledge was about twelve feet below Bo. In absolute silence, he holstered his gun, then rose to his feet and gathered himself. He knew that Scratch and Brubaker were probably watching him, and as soon as he made his move, Scratch w
ould, too. So he would have help if anything went wrong.

  The watcher shifted again, and Bo took a deep breath.

  He leaped over the edge of the bank and plunged straight down at the hidden man.

  CHAPTER 21

  The watcher didn’t know he was under attack until it was too late to do anything about it. At the last second some instinct must have warned him, because he twisted around and looked up, revealing a freckled, frightened face.

  The next instant, Bo’s booted feet smashed into him and drove him to the ground.

  The man let out a cry of pain. Bo’s weight carried him forward, but he rolled against the bushes and they kept him from falling off the ledge and into the river. As soon as he caught his balance, he came up on one knee and drew his Colt.

  He didn’t have to worry about the man he had jumped on putting up a fight. The fellow was curled up in a ball clutching his chest with both hands. He gasped, “Holy cow! I think you ... busted all my ribs!”

  The watcher’s hat had flown off when Bo knocked him to the ground, revealing him to be young, probably no more than twenty years old. He had a thick shock of rumpled red hair that went with his freckled features. The rifle that lay on the ledge close to the spot where he’d been hunkering on his heels was an old single-shot weapon. As far as Bo could see, the youngster wasn’t carrying a handgun.

  Bo’s hat had come off, too, when he jumped from the edge of the bank. It had landed nearby on top of a bush. Without taking his eyes off the man he was covering, he picked up the black hat and clapped it back on his head.

  Then he said, “Don’t try anything. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to.”

  “Didn’t you ... hear me?” the young man asked miserably. “I’m busted all to pieces inside!”

  “I doubt that,” Bo said. “I didn’t hit you that hard. What’s your name?”

  “Early,” the youngster forced out through clenched teeth. “Early Nesbit.”

  “Why were you lurking in the bushes, Early?” Bo asked. “Waiting for somebody to come along so you could bushwhack them and rob them?”

  “No! I ... I wasn’t lurkin’. Can’t a fella ... stop to have a smoke ... without somebody jumpin’ him?”

  “You didn’t just stop to have a smoke,” Bo said. “You were hidden in the brush, and you’ve been here a while.” He gestured toward the ground. “I see what’s left of half a dozen quirlies lying there.”

  An angry, sullen expression came over Early’s face.

  “I don’t have to ... talk to you. You got no right ... to ask me a bunch of questions.”

  Quietly, Bo said, “I reckon this Colt in my hand gives me the right to ask whatever I want.”

  Early sighed. “All right. I was waitin’ for somebody. A friend. He was supposed to meet me here, but he ain’t come along yet.”

  Bo shook his head, apparently sad at hearing the answer Early had given him.

  “All right. I guess I’ll just have to shoot you. That way you can’t go running to Hank Gentry to tell him what you saw. When he gets curious and sends somebody to check on you, and they find your body, he’ll figure this must be where we crossed. By then, though, you’ll be dead, so it’ll be too late for the knowledge to do you any good.”

  Early’s brown eyes widened in fear.

  “You’d really shoot me in cold blood? But you’re supposed to be lawmen!”

  Bo smiled at the young man, who winced as he realized what he’d just done.

  “I said too much, didn’t I?” Early drew in a deep breath and winced again at the pain that caused him. “Now you really are gonna kill me.”

  “No, I’m not,” Bo said as he stood up. “Or at least I might not, as long as you keep telling me the truth. Are you part of Hank Gentry’s gang?”

  Early struggled into a sitting position with his back propped against the bank. He shook his head and said, “I ain’t never rode with ’em on a job, if that’s what you mean. Me and some other fellas just sort of hung around wherever Hank was, hopin’ that someday he’d take us with him when he went to rob a bank or hold up a train.”

  “Where was this?”

  Early got that sullen look on his face again.

  “I ain’t sayin’. I don’t turn on my friends that easy. You can just go ahead and shoot me if you want!”

  “Hank Gentry and those owlhoots aren’t your friends, son,” Bo said. “If you’re lucky and live long enough, you might figure that out one of these days.”

  Early glared up at him.

  “What’re you gonna do with me?”

  “Yeah, Bo,” Scratch said from the top of the bank, where he’d come up without Early noticing him, although Bo had. “What’re we gonna do with him? He’s too small a fish. He ain’t a keeper.”

  Early leaned forward and twisted his head to look up at the silver-haired Texan.

  “You better go ahead and kill me!” he raged. “If you don’t, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you both!”

  “Settle down,” Bo told him. “This isn’t some dime novel. Ranting and making threats isn’t going to do you any good.” He picked up Early’s rifle. “Can you get to your feet?”

  “I ... I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you try?” Bo suggested.

  “My ribs—”

  “Aren’t broken, or you wouldn’t be able to breathe and talk the way you are.”

  “Well, by God, they feel broken!”

  Bo motioned with the Colt and said, “Up.”

  Muttering curses under his breath, Early struggled to his feet. When he made it, he said, “There! You satisfied?”

  “It’ll do for a start,” Bo told him. “You’re here alone, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.” Early’s jaw jutted out defiantly. “Hank trusted me to handle this job by myself. He knows I’m a good man.”

  Bo had counted on the young man’s pride to get him an honest answer to the question, and he was convinced Early was telling the truth.

  He looked up and said, “Scratch, go tell Forty-two that he can bring the wagon on across. We’ll collect Early’s horse and meet you at the ford.”

  “You’re not gonna shoot him?” Scratch asked.

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  Scratch shook his head. “Forty-two ain’t gonna like havin’ another prisoner to take care of.”

  “Well, if Early gets to be too much trouble, I’m sure there are buzzards and coyotes on the other side of the river, too.”

  Early swallowed hard at the grim implications of that seemingly casual comment. Bo managed not to grin. He figured that right now, keeping the young man good and scared was the best way to get him to cooperate.

  Bo wiggled the revolver’s barrel again.

  “Get moving,” he ordered. “Down the ledge and around the bend to where you left your horse.”

  “You’re gonna be mighty sorry about this,” Early threatened as he moved gingerly along the ledge in front of Bo. “Hank don’t take kindly to hombres who mistreat his friends.”

  “I told you, you’re not Hank Gentry’s friend. A man like that doesn’t have any real friends, only people that he uses to get what he wants. Where are you from, anyway? Seems like I hear some Texas in your voice.”

  “A little town called Tioga,” Early replied grudgingly. “It ain’t too far from here.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Bo said. “What made you decide to cross the Red River and become an outlaw?”

  “That’s none o’ your damn business!” After a moment, though, the youngster went on, “You ever pick cotton, mister?”

  “I sure have,” Bo said.

  “Well, my daddy works a cotton patch on shares, and he expects all of us kids to work, too. I just couldn’t see spendin’ the rest of my life bent over pickin’ those damn bolls, so as soon as I got big enough, I lit out.”

  “Just because you don’t want to be a cotton farmer doesn’t mean you have to become an outlaw.”

  “Maybe not, but it seemed
like the quickest way to get rich.”

  “That’s all you want to do, get rich?”

  “Don’t you?” Early asked.

  “Can’t say as it ever interested me all that much,” Bo answered honestly. “Having a bunch of money seemed like more trouble than it was worth. You’d have to be worrying all the time that something might happen to it.”

  “Not having money doesn’t worry you?”

  “Not all that much. I’m not so old that I can’t do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”

  “What are you gonna do when you are too old to do that? How you gonna take care of yourself then?”

  That question brought a frown to Bo’s face as they reached the bottom of the ledge. It was something he had thought about from time to time. He didn’t have any close relatives who would take him in, and as far as he knew, neither did Scratch. There had been some lonely nights on the trail when they got to talking and wondering about such things, and neither of the Texans had an answer for the problem.

  On the other hand, Bo told himself, the sort of lives they led, the way trouble followed them around, it was more likely they’d get shot or knifed before they got so old they couldn’t fend for themselves. There was a lot to be said for dying with your boots on.

  Early’s horse was a placid-looking chestnut gelding. Bo untied the animal and swung up into the saddle.

  “Hey!” Early protested. “Are you stealin’ my horse?”

  “No, just riding back down to the crossing on it.”

  “How am I supposed to get there?”

  “You can wade along the edge,” Bo told him.

  “Why do I have to wade while you get to ride?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m older than you, and you should respect your elders. For another, I’ve already been wading one time this week, and I don’t have any hankering to do it again. Now move.”

  The crossing was only a hundred yards or so from where Early had left his horse. He slogged through the reddish mud and shallow water at the edge of the river, and Bo rode behind him, covering him with the Colt. By the time they reached the crossing, Scratch and Brubaker were waiting for them just on the Texas side of the river. They all went up the trail between the cutbanks to the flats at the top.