Texas Bloodshed

by William W. Johnstone

  They probably thought he was her grandfather, Scratch told himself. He didn’t care one way or the other. He didn’t intend for them to stay in O’Bar any longer than they had to in order to get that horseshoe fixed.

  Cara sat down on a stool at the lunch counter. Scratch took the stool beside her. A short, burly man with salt-and-pepper hair rested thick-fingered hands on the counter and said, “Howdy, folks. What can I do y’all for?”

  Cara gave him a dazzling smile.

  “I’d love a nice juicy steak with all the trimmin’s,” she said.

  The counterman grinned back at her.

  “I reckon we can do that for y’all,” he said. “How about you, old-timer?”

  Considering the gray in the man’s hair, Scratch didn’t think he was all that much older than the hombre, but he let it pass and said, “A steak sounds good to me, too.”

  “Comin’ up,” the counterman said with a nod. He shouldered his way through a swinging door into the kitchen, which let out even more appetizing odors into the air.

  Scratch leaned closer to Cara and said quietly, “If the idea was for you not to attract much attention, you ain’t goin’ about it the right way.”

  He nodded toward the cowboys watching them.

  Cara gave a toss of her head that made her mass of blond hair swirl enticingly around her shoulders.

  “Oh, them?” she said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even notice it that much anymore. Men have been lookin’ at me like that since I was fourteen.”

  Scratch didn’t believe for a second that she didn’t notice the attention. She saw it, all right, and she liked it. But that wasn’t important at the moment. They would eat their meals, pick up Bo’s horse when that shoe had been repaired or replaced, and then shake off the dust of O’Bar’s single street as quickly as possible.

  At least, that was the plan. But one of the poker players at the table threw in his hand in disgust, announced, “I’m out,” and scraped his chair back. Cocking his Stetson at a jaunty angle, he sauntered toward the lunch counter.

  And all Scratch had to do was look at him to know that trouble was walking toward them.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Hello, sweet thing,” the young cowboy said to Cara as he came up and rested a hand on the counter next to her. He gave her a grin that was cocked at a jaunty angle just like his hat. “You don’t live around here, do you? I don’t remember seein’ you around these parts before.”

  “You know everybody who lives around here, do you?” Cara asked him coolly.

  “I can promise you, if you lived in O’Bar, I’d know it. Fact of the matter is, I’d have been courtin’ you before now. My name’s Joe Reynolds.”

  “Well, you’re right, Mr. Reynolds, I don’t live around here,” Cara told him. “We’re just passin’ through.”

  “Travelin’ with your grandpa, are you?” Reynolds asked, sparing Scratch barely a glance.

  “Oh, he’s not my grandpa.” Cara linked her arm with Scratch’s and leaned her head intimately on his shoulder. “This here is my husband.”

  “Husband!” Reynolds exclaimed in obvious amazement. “This old codger? You can’t be serious.”

  “He’s all the man I need, and then some,” Cara said with great solemnity.

  “What in blazes do you think you’re doin’?” Scratch asked her in a whisper.

  Cara ignored him. She kept giving Reynolds that daring, go-to-hell smile of hers. She even ran her tongue over her lips in a deliberately provocative gesture.

  “Well, all I got to say is that this is the biggest pure-dee waste of a beautiful woman that I ever did see.” Reynolds sneered at Scratch. “Why don’t you let this gal spend a little time with a real man, Gramps?”

  A low growl sounded in Scratch’s throat. He was about to lose his patience with this young pup, even though Cara was egging him on.

  “Listen, son—” he began.

  “Don’t worry, honey, I can handle this,” Cara said. She looked at Reynolds and went on, “I reckon you’re the real man you think I should spend a little time with?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “Yeah, I can tell by lookin’ at you that it’d be a little time, all right. A real little time.”

  “What do you—Hey! What do you mean by that, gal?”

  Cara laughed. “You know what I mean,” she said.

  Reynolds crowded closer to her, saying, “I don’t appreciate some stranger talkin’ to me that way!”

  Cara didn’t flinch. Instead she leaned toward him and said, “Do you appreciate this?”

  Before Reynolds knew what was going on, Cara had snaked the young cowboy’s gun out of its holster. She jammed the muzzle up under Reynolds’s chin and eared back the hammer with an ominous, audible click.

  The talk around the poker table stopped abruptly, and the men in the Red Top who weren’t already watching the confrontation turned to see what was going on.

  Cara had taken Scratch by surprise, too. He’d had no idea she was about to grab the cowboy’s gun. If he had known, he would have tried to stop her.

  But Cara herself probably hadn’t known what she was about to do until she was already doing it. She was acting on pure wild impulse, Scratch sensed.

  Reynolds’s eyes widened until they looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. He came up on his toes in an effort to lessen the pressure as the gun muzzle dug into his neck, but Cara just forced it up even harder.

  “Wha ... what are you doin’?” he managed to gasp. “Are you loco?”

  “Loco?” Cara repeated. “You come over here and look at me like I’m a whore instead of a lady and you insult this fine gentleman, and you ask me if I’m loco? You’re the one who’s loco, buckaroo! And it seems to me like you need a lesson in manners, too.”

  Scratch said, “We don’t need to do this. Why don’t you just let that hammer down easy-like, and we’ll get out of here.”

  “Not until we’ve had our steaks!” she insisted. “Which are gonna be on you, aren’t they, cowboy?”

  The burly counterman had emerged from the kitchen, only to come to a shocked halt as he saw Cara holding the gun on Joe Reynolds. Reynolds swallowed as best he could and cut his eyes toward the counterman.

  “Y-you heard what the lady said, Larry,” he stammered out. “Their steaks are ... are on me!”

  “Look, ma’am, we don’t want any trouble here ...” the counterman began.

  “There’s no trouble,” Cara said. With her thumb on the hammer, she eased it down as Scratch had suggested. Again, she moved so fast it was hard to follow what she was doing as she lowered the gun and slid it back into Reynolds’s holster. “Joe here is just leavin’, but he’ll pay you later for our meals.”

  “Yeah, I ... I sure will,” Reynolds said. Now that the gun wasn’t pressing into his throat anymore, he moved back a step. He watched Cara like a small, terrified animal would watch a snake advancing toward it.

  But his pride wouldn’t let him just turn tail and run. He looked at Scratch, and the belligerent expression appeared again on his face. He said, “Listen, mister, you need to get this woman of yours under control!”

  Scratch stood up and moved a step away from the counter so he could face the cowboy squarely.

  “I like her just fine the way she is,” he said. That wasn’t true, not by a long shot, but this young peckerwood annoyed the hell out of him.

  Reynolds’s gaze dropped to the pair of ivory-handled Remingtons on Scratch’s hips. It was pretty obvious that the silver-haired Texan knew how to use the guns.

  After a moment, Reynolds muttered, “All right, it’s none of my business if you want to let her act like a hellcat. I gotta get back to work.”

  He turned and stalked out of the Red Top. Cara’s merry laugh followed him. That was the only sound in the place. The other customers still seemed a little stunned by how close Reynolds had come to getting his head blown off by the beautiful blonde.

  The coun
terman finally cleared his throat and said, “Them steaks y’all wanted ought to be just about ready. I’ll go fetch ’em.”

  “Much obliged,” Scratch said with a nod.

  The other two men sitting at the counter laid down coins and left. Once they were alone on the stools, Scratch asked quietly, “What was the idea of that little fandango?”

  “I just can’t stand cocky cowboys like that,” Cara said. “They rub me the wrong way.”

  “Maybe so, but now folks around here are gonna remember us. That ain’t what we wanted.”

  Cara shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow we’ll be where we’re goin’, and after that we won’t have to worry about anything. We’ll be rich.”

  “Bein’ rich don’t always mean that trouble can’t find you,” Scratch observed.

  “I plan on goin’ so far away that nobody will ever find me,” Cara said.

  The counterman returned with their food. The steaks were fried just right, and the potatoes and other fixin’s were good, too. The way things had turned out, Scratch would have rather they had just waited at the blacksmith shop, but he had to admit that this was the best meal he’d had since leaving Fort Smith.

  When they were finished, Cara said to the counterman, “You won’t have any trouble collectin’ from Reynolds, will you?”

  “No need for that,” the man said. “It’s all on the house.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Scratch said.

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “Well, if you’re sure ...”

  Scratch figured the only thing the man was really sure of was that he wanted the two of them out of his place before any real hell broke loose.

  Scratch helped Cara down from the stool, and they walked arm in arm out of the Red Top. Together they angled across the street toward the blacksmith shop.

  As they stepped through the open double doors into the shaded interior of the shop, Scratch looked around for the proprietor. He didn’t see the man, but he spotted their horses standing tied to a post. He picked up the hoof that had caused the trouble and checked it. The horse had a new shoe nailed onto that hoof.

  “Hey,” Scratch called as he lowered the horse’s leg and straightened. “Anybody home? What do we owe you? We’re ready to settle up.”

  “You’ll settle up, all right, you old bastard, you and the bitch both,” Joe Reynolds said as he stepped out of the shadows behind the forge with a rifle in his hands.

  CHAPTER 26

  Scratch reacted instinctively to the threat, shoving Cara aside with his left hand while his right dipped to the Remington on that side and drew the long-barreled revolver.

  Reynolds brought the rifle to his shoulder and fired, but Scratch was already moving the other way. The bullet whipped harmlessly through the air between him and Cara, who let out a startled cry as she lost her balance and fell on the dirt floor of the blacksmith shop.

  Scratch triggered the Remington just as Reynolds ducked for cover behind the forge. The Texan bit back a curse as he saw splinters leap from one of the thick beams holding up the roof. His shot had missed.

  He scrambled farther to his right as the rifle cracked wickedly again. He hated using the horses for cover, but that was all he had. He hurried behind the animals as they started tossing their heads and stamping their hooves. The gunfire had spooked them. Normally they were coolheaded and accustomed to the sound of shots since Bo and Scratch had been riding them for several years, but the blacksmith shop’s low ceiling made the echoes boom deafeningly.

  Scratch snapped a shot at the forge and heard the bullet whine off the brick. More splinters flew as a slug chewed into the wall above his head. He couldn’t see Cara anymore, and he hoped that she had taken advantage of the chance to scramble out of the shop to safety.

  No such luck. He heard her scream a curse, and a second later Reynolds yelled in anger and alarm. It sounded like they were struggling. Scratch burst out from behind the horses and headed for the forge.

  He spotted Cara wrestling with Reynolds over the rifle. She had both hands on the barrel and was trying to wrench it out of his hands as she forced the muzzle toward the roof, but he hung on stubbornly.

  With the two of them so close together, Scratch couldn’t risk a shot. There was too great a chance he would hit Cara, and he still needed her to lead him to that hidden loot. Besides, she was a woman, and his upbringing still wouldn’t allow him to forget about that.

  So he charged in, figuring that he could thump Reynolds over the head with the Remington. However, before he could get there Reynolds let go of the rifle with one hand and used that fist to drive a punch into the middle of Cara’s face. Her head snapped back from the impact of the blow, and her grip on the rifle slipped. Reynolds tore the weapon out of her hands.

  He swung around to meet Scratch’s charge and brought the rifle butt up. It crashed into Scratch’s jaw and brought him up short. Reynolds lowered a shoulder and bulled into him, driving him backward. Scratch lost his balance and fell.

  Reynolds aimed a kick at him. Scratch rolled aside just in time to avoid it. He had dropped his revolver when Reynolds knocked him down, so he reached up with both hands, grabbed the man’s leg, and heaved. With a startled yell, the vengeful cowboy went over backward.

  Scratch rolled away from him, snatching up the Remington along the way. As he came up on one knee, from the corner of his eye he saw several of O’Bar’s citizens gathered in the open doorway of the blacksmith shop. They had come to see what all the shooting was about.

  Reynolds had dropped the rifle when he came crashing down on the hard-packed dirt. As Scratch leveled the Remington, Reynolds scrambled after the fallen rifle.

  “Hold it!” Scratch yelled.

  Reynolds gave up on retrieving the rifle, but that didn’t mean the trouble was over. He twisted around and clawed at the Colt on his hip instead.

  “Damn it, stop!” Scratch ordered as Reynolds’s gun cleared leather. “I don’t want to—”

  What he wanted didn’t matter anymore. Reynolds’s gun was coming up, and Scratch didn’t have any choice.

  He fired.

  Flame licked from the Remington’s muzzle. Reynolds was on his knees. The bullet punched into his chest and drove him halfway around. He dropped his gun and crumpled.

  “The stranger shot Joe!” one of the onlookers yelled in outrage. “Get him!”

  That was what Scratch had been afraid of. Reynolds had friends here. The silver-haired Texan and Cara didn’t.

  As he turned toward the doorway, Scratch saw most of the townspeople scattering. Three remained, and Scratch recognized them as the men who had been playing poker with Reynolds in the Red Top. They looked like cowboys, too, and probably rode for the same spread as him.

  Two of them had their guns out, and the third man was trying to draw his. Still on one knee, Scratch palmed out his left-hand Remington. With his hands full, he triggered a pair of swift shots from both guns.

  The bullets smashed into the men who already had their guns drawn and sent them reeling backward. The third man had finally cleared leather, but as Scratch turned toward him, a rifle shot cracked and the man was knocked backward, his Colt flying from his hand as his arms flung out. He landed hard on his back in the street, dust flying up around him.

  Scratch glanced over and saw that Cara had grabbed the rifle Reynolds had dropped. The blonde’s lips were drawn back from her teeth in a grimace of hate. Smoke curled from the repeater’s muzzle.

  Reynolds was down, lying on his side, apparently not breathing. The other two men Scratch had shot had dropped their guns and fallen in the street. One of them clutched his side and moaned as he writhed around in the dirt. The other lay still, but his chest was rising and falling, and as the echoes of the shots faded away, Scratch could hear the rasp of the wounded man’s breathing.

  The man Cara had blasted lay on his back, arms and legs spraddled out. Scratch had a hunch he was dead.

  So, two men dead, more than lik
ely, and two more wounded.

  That wasn’t a very good way for him and Cara to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

  They got to their feet at the same time. Cara worked the lever on the rifle to throw another shell into the chamber. She looked like she was ready to put some more slugs into the fallen cowboys, just on general principles.

  Scratch said sharply, “Wait a minute. Don’t shoot anymore, Cara.”

  “Some of them are still alive!” she protested, as if that state of affairs couldn’t be allowed to continue.

  “I know it, but we don’t want to kill any more of ’em than we have to.”

  Her mouth twisted in a snarl.

  “Anybody gets in my way, they deserve killin’!”

  Well, if he’d had any lingering doubts about her, if he’d wanted to talk himself into believing that she was really sweet and innocent and she’d only done the things she did because she was terrified of Hank Gentry, that kind of attitude pretty well took care of it, Scratch thought.

  Cara LaChance was a loco, cold-blooded killer ... just like she had seemed to be all along. It was the other part that was an act.

  Keeping one eye on Cara because there was no telling what she might do, Scratch took a closer look at Reynolds and confirmed that the cowboy was dead.

  “Stay here,” he ordered firmly. “I’m gonna check on those other fellas.”

  “Be careful that somebody else in this hick town doesn’t try to shoot you from ambush.”

  Scratch was well aware of that danger. Before he emerged from the blacksmith shop, he looked up and down the street as best he could. He didn’t see anybody moving around. The citizens of O’Bar seemed to have retreated into the buildings in case any more bullets started to fly.

  Scratch stepped out into the street. With both Remingtons still in his hands, he approached the man Cara had shot. The man’s glassy eyes staring sightlessly at the sky left no doubt that he was dead.

  The man who’d been moaning had fallen silent. He was still breathing, though, and as far as Scratch could tell without really examining the wound, he thought that a bullet had just plowed a furrow in the man’s side. He had lost some blood and likely passed out because of it, but he ought to survive, Scratch decided.