Bleeding Texas

by William W. Johnstone

  Turned out the idea wasn’t totally successful. Even filthy, Lauralee Parker was a beautiful woman. No amount of trail dust could hide that completely.

  She took off her hat, revealing a distinct line across her forehead above which the dust hadn’t settled.

  “I look ridiculous,” she said.

  “Not really,” Bo said, and this time he was telling the truth.

  “You stuck me back there with a bunch of teenage boys.”

  Bo shrugged and said, “The less experienced hands usually ride drag. That’s just the way it is on a cattle drive.”

  Lauralee clapped her hat back on and muttered, “All right, all right, I’ll quit bellyaching. I don’t want to prove your point for you.”

  “What point is that?”

  “That I shouldn’t be on this drive in the first place.”

  With that, she hauled her horse around and rode off toward the herd, which some of the hands were gathering in a big meadow between stands of cottonwoods.

  Scratch rode up beside Bo and said with a smile, “Stubborn gal, ain’t she?”

  “In more ways than one,” Bo agreed.

  The next day they crossed Coleto Creek, again without incident. It was not far from here, Bo reflected, where James Fannin and a force of Texas volunteers had engaged the Mexican army in battle during the revolution. Facing overwhelming odds—and plagued by Fannin’s own indecisiveness, to be honest, Bo recalled from those days—the Texans had been defeated and the survivors taken prisoner and marched into the town of Goliad.

  It was near there where those prisoners had been herded together and massacred by their Mexican captors, with only a few escaping to carry word of the bloody atrocity.

  That massacre had come back to haunt the Mexicans a few weeks later when the Texan army under Sam Houston charged across a grassy field near the San Jacinto River screaming the battle cry, “Remember the Alamo! Remember Goliad!”

  Bo Creel and Scratch Morton had been among them.

  The Texans had carried the day and won their independence. And a lifelong bond of friendship had been forged.

  Scratch rode up beside Bo as he sat watching the cattle cross the creek.

  “Rememberin’ back to the Runaway Scrape days?” Scratch asked.

  “Yeah, and San Jacinto.”

  “A mighty long time ago.”

  “In some ways it seems like yesterday,” Bo said. “But it wasn’t. Texas has changed a lot since then.”

  “So have we,” Scratch said. “My knees and my back tell me about it every mornin’ when I crawl out of my bedroll and stand up.”

  It would take several days now for the herd to reach the San Antonio River. That would be the last major ford the cattle would have to make, although there would be a number of little streams to be crossed as they came closer to the coast. There was a bay northeast of Rockport they would have to circle, too, before they reached the seacoast settlement.

  The next two days were uneventful. Cattle drives were a little like war, Bo thought—long stretches of utter tedium, punctuated by occasional outbursts of heart-stopping danger.

  He hoped the stampede they’d had to cope with back on the other side of the Guadalupe was going to be the only instance of the latter on this drive.

  In camp that night, Bo sat down next to his nephew Lee, one of Cooper’s boys, who was perched on a log near the fire. Lee had proven to be a good solid hand, one of the best in the bunch, in fact. The young man wore a pensive look on his face tonight, though.

  Bo took a sip of the coffee in the tin cup he held and asked, “Something bothering you, Lee?”

  “No, not really, Uncle Bo. Just, uh . . . missin’ somebody, I guess you’d say.”

  Bo grinned and thumbed his hat back.

  “That somebody being a girl, I reckon,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. A mighty special girl.”

  “Been courting her for a while, have you?”

  Lee hesitated, then said, “In a manner of speakin’, I guess.”

  “Are you thinking you might marry her?”

  A bit of a grim cast came over Lee’s face in the firelight as he said, “I’d like nothin’ better . . . but I don’t know if it’ll ever happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well . . . her pa . . . Ah, there ain’t no use talkin’ about it.”

  Bo nodded sagely and said, “Yeah, if the girl’s pa doesn’t like you, that can make it harder. But it doesn’t mean it’ll never happen.”

  “You think so?” Lee looked and sounded like he didn’t want to let himself hope as he asked that question.

  “Sure. If a couple of people want to be together bad enough, they’ll find a way to make it happen. You just keep that in mind, son.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Bo. I will.” Lee tossed the dregs of his coffee in the fire and stood up. “My turn to ride nighthawk, so I reckon I better get at it. ’Night.”

  “Good night,” Bo said.

  Lee walked off to saddle a horse. Bo sat there sipping his coffee for a couple of minutes before Lauralee came up and sat down on the log beside him. She wasn’t quite as filthy tonight because Bo had taken pity on her and moved her from drag to one of the flanks.

  “I heard what you told Lee,” Lauralee said. “About two people finding a way to get together if they want to bad enough. You really believe that, Bo?”

  Well, he had set a nice little trap for himself, he thought. But he wasn’t going to lie this time, so he said, “Yes, I do.”

  “No matter what the obstacles between them, eh?”

  “That’s right.” He paused. “But both of them have to want it, not just one.”

  “You’ll never make me believe you don’t want me, Bo Creel. You’re just too damn stubborn to admit it.”

  Bo looked down into his coffee cup and muttered, “I reckon I’m not the only one around here who’s stubborn.”

  Lauralee laughed and leaned closer to him. Lowering her voice so that only he could hear her, she asked, “You know what I’m going to do when we get to the San Antonio River, Bo?”

  He figured she would tell him whether he answered or not, so he didn’t say anything.

  “I’m going to take a bath,” she went on, so close to him now he felt the warmth of her breath against his ear. “I’m going to find me a nice swimming hole and take off all my clothes and climb in. I’m going to scrub all this trail dust off every inch of my skin. Every single . . . little . . . inch of me.”

  Lord, have mercy, Bo thought.

  It wasn’t really a prayer, but even if it had been, the Almighty would have picked a pretty odd way to answer it.

  Because the next instant, gunshots roared from the direction of the herd’s bedground, and their echoes rolled like thunder across the prairie.

  CHAPTER 27

  Bo and Lauralee leaped up from the log as the gunfire continued. Confused, angry shouts rang out. The men here in camp raced for their horses.

  “Stay here!” Bo told Lauralee. “Must be rustlers hitting the herd.”

  “The hell with that!” she responded. “I can shoot!”

  Alonzo Hammersmith came around the end of the chuck wagon holding the big wooden spoon he’d been using to stir a pot of mulligan stew. Bo grabbed Lauralee’s arm and practically threw her at Hammersmith. The grizzled old cook had no choice but to catch hold of her.

  “Hang on to her, Alonzo!” Bo shouted as he ran toward his still-saddled horse. “Whatever you do, don’t let her go!”

  Lauralee screeched angrily as she tried to writhe out of Hammersmith’s grip. The cook’s arms were heavily muscled from wrestling around barrels of flour and sugar and salt, though, so she couldn’t pull free.

  Scratch came running up as Bo swung into the saddle.

  “Rustlers?” the silver-haired Texan asked as he hit the leather right after Bo.

  “Must be,” Bo replied.

  He lifted his reins, kicked his horse into a run, and headed for the herd. Scratch was right beside hi
m.

  Up ahead, Colt flame bloomed redly in the darkness, deadly crimson flowers that split the night for an instant and then disappeared.

  There was no way to tell who was doing the shooting around the herd. Swift hoofbeats and furious yells competed with the booming gunshots and added to the confusion.

  Bo headed in the direction he had seen his nephew Lee ride off a short time earlier. He shouted, “Lee! Lee Creel!”

  “Over here, Uncle Bo!”

  Gunfire almost drowned out Lee’s response, but Bo heard it and veered his horse toward his nephew. He spotted a large dark shape on the ground and realized a second later that it was the body of a horse.

  Flame spouted from the muzzle of a gun as someone fired over the top of the dead animal. That had to be Lee, thought Bo. The young man’s horse had been shot out from under him, but he was using it for cover as he fought back against the attackers.

  Bo and Scratch galloped toward him. So Lee wouldn’t think he was being jumped from behind and start shooting at them, Bo called, “Hang on, son!”

  Riders charged out of the shadows, their guns blaring as they threw lead at Lee. Bo opened fire from horseback and Scratch did likewise. Both men knew the back of a running horse was no place for accuracy, but they wanted to take some of the heat off Lee.

  Besides, a shot that found its target through blind luck could be just as deadly as one that was aimed.

  The diversion worked—in a manner of speaking. Several riders peeled off from the group of attackers and came at Bo and Scratch with their guns blasting. Bo felt the hot breath of a slug passing close to his cheek and knew that blind luck could work both ways.

  With the instincts they had developed over years of fighting side by side, Bo and Scratch split up, Bo going left and Scratch angling right. The maneuver was well-timed. The men who had charged them wound up going between them, unable to stop in time.

  Lead from the Texans’ guns raked through the raiders in a lethal crossfire. Now the range was close enough for a degree of accuracy, even in bad light, especially when the men doing the shooting were experienced gun-handlers.

  A couple of men tumbled out of their saddles. The others wheeled around, though, and returned slug for slug. The air around Bo buzzed with bullets like a swarm of angry hornets was after him.

  The sharp cracks of a rifle began to sound. Bo looked around and saw that Lee had gotten his Winchester in action. The young man was up on one knee now, firing as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever.

  Bo heard something else over the chaos around him. It was a rumble like the sound of distant drums, accompanied by a hellish clacking as if Satan’s imps were playing castinets. The rumble came from hooves, the clacking from horns banging together.

  The cattle were on the move.

  Bo wasn’t surprised. With all the shooting and yelling going on, it would have been shocking if the herd hadn’t stampeded. As long as the cattle bolted in the right direction, they were doing the rustlers’ work for them.

  Bo had no doubt it was rustlers hitting the herd. He had worried that the drive would draw too much attention, and so it had.

  A choking cloud of dust rose from the stampede and rolled across the landscape to mix with the acrid billows of powdersmoke. Bo called for Scratch to follow him and headed for the last place he had seen Lee, as best he could determine where it was. The dust and smoke blotted out the moon and stars now.

  “Lee!” Bo called to his nephew, knowing that by doing so he might attract some bullets. “Lee, are you there?”

  “Here, Uncle Bo,” the reply came through the murk.

  A lot of the shooting had died away quickly once the cattle stampeded. The rustlers would be busy keeping the spooked beasts headed generally in the direction they wanted them to go.

  Bo knew he had to round up his brothers and nephews as quickly as possible and light a shuck after the thieves.

  He couldn’t let them get away with that herd. The future of the Star C depended on it.

  “Uncle Bo!” Lee said as he stumbled out of the clouds of dust and smoke carrying his rifle.

  Bo hauled back on his reins and brought his horse to a stop.

  “Did they get you?” he asked.

  “No, but they came close enough I can still hear the angels singin’. The varmints came out of nowhere—”

  There was no time for explanations now. Bo holstered his Colt, took the reins in his right hand, and held his left down to Lee while he took that foot out of the stirrup.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to get after them.”

  “I’ll just slow you down,” Lee protested.

  “We’ll find a horse for you. There are bound to be some running loose.”

  Bo knew that because he had seen at least two of the rustlers fall. And although he hated to think it, with all that lead flying around there was a good chance some of his family members had been hit, too. Maybe even killed.

  If that turned out to be the case, the Creels would have an even bigger score to settle with those rustlers.

  Lee clasped wrists with Bo, stuck his foot in the stirrup, and swung up behind his uncle. He had just settled down on the horse’s back behind Bo’s saddle when a fresh fusillade of gunfire racketed through the night.

  These shots came from a different direction. Bo’s head jerked around as he peered toward them and spotted muzzle flashes winking in the darkness.

  These sounds of battle came from the camp . . .

  Where he had left Lauralee.

  CHAPTER 28

  Bo and Scratch hauled their horses around and galloped toward the chuck wagon. Bo was already worried sick about Riley, Cooper, and his other nephews besides Lee, and now fear lanced into him as he thought that Lauralee might be in danger. He wished she had gone on back to Bear Creek a few days earlier like he wanted.

  Wishing was a waste of time, though. He had known that for more than forty years.

  The dust was a lot thinner around the campsite. Bo could see the bedrolls scattered around, all of them empty now, as well as the chuck wagon and the rope corral where Alonzo Hammersmith’s team of mules and the extra horses of the remuda were kept.

  Some of those horses were down, probably shot deliberately by the attackers. That would make it more difficult for Bo and his relatives to go after the rustlers.

  This new attack was designed to slow down pursuit, too. Whoever was in charge of the gang was crafty and cunning. He had held some of his force in reserve to strike the trail drivers’ camp after the main thrust to steal the cattle had been made.

  Now instead of going after the herd, Bo, Scratch, and Lee were rushing back to help those at the campsite fight off this new attack. Bo figured some of the others were doing the same thing.

  The campfire was still burning. By its garish light, Bo spotted several figures crouched behind the chuck wagon, returning the fire of raiders farther out in the darkness. He hoped one of those defenders was Lauralee, but when he searched for the bright flash of her blond curls, he didn’t see it.

  A shotgun boomed, sending out twin tongues of flame a foot long from its muzzles. That would be Alonzo Hammersmith. Pistols roared and rifles cracked. Somebody was stretched out under the wagon, shooting at the rustlers.

  As Bo reined in, Lee jumped off the horse and landed running. Bo and Scratch weren’t far behind him.

  Hammersmith’s white spade beard jutted out belligerently as he waved them to the cover of the wagon. The three men fired on the run. Scratch’s pair of Remingtons kept up a deadly tattoo as he triggered each revolver in turn.

  They darted behind the wagon and were safe for the moment, or at least safer. The chuck wagon was constructed of thick, sturdy boards that would stop most bullets.

  “If those bastards shoot up my foodstuffs, I’ll skin ’em and nail their hides to the wall!” Hammersmith bellowed.

  Bo ignored that and asked, “Where’s Lauralee?”

  To his great relief, he heard her call from under
the wagon, “I’m here!”

  When he looked down, she stuck her head out and grinned at him. Her hat hung behind her neck by its chin strap, and she had a rifle in her hands. As she worked the repeater’s lever, she went on, “Are you all right, Bo?”

  “I’m fine,” he assured her. “How about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I think I’ve winged a couple of the sons of bitches.”

  Bo was glad to hear that but even gladder to know that she hadn’t been hit so far.

  The fight wasn’t over yet, though.

  The rustlers were still out there, hammering the chuck wagon and the rest of the camp with bullets.

  Lauralee squirmed back around to start shooting again. Lee knelt at the rear corner of the wagon and opened up with his Winchester, which he had just reloaded. Hammersmith stood behind him and fired over his head with the shotgun. Lee winced from the scattergun’s deafening roar.

  “Try not shootin’ that thing so close to a fella’s ears, why don’t you?” he called to Hammersmith.

  “Try shootin’ and not bellyachin’ so dang much!” the old cook responded. “Your ears’ll stop ringin’ in a week or so!”

  Bo and Scratch used the driver’s box and the wagon tongue for scanty cover as they blazed away at the rustlers. All they had to aim at were muzzle flashes, so Bo couldn’t tell if they were doing any good or not. It seemed to him the rustlers were shooting just as much as they had been to start with.

  Then a swift rataplan of hoofbeats welled up, and more riders rushed to the defense of the camp. Bo heard Riley shouting his name and called to his brother, “Over here!”

  Half a dozen men rode up, leaped out of their saddles, and started throwing lead at the attackers. That was enough to turn the tide. Bo saw fewer and fewer muzzle flashes from the enemy position.

  “They’re pulling back!” he said.

  Not all of the rustlers fled, however. For long minutes, the shooting back and forth continued.

  The knowledge that he and his companions were doing exactly what the rustlers wanted them to do gnawed at Bo. With every minute that went by, the stolen herd was getting farther away. But he and the others couldn’t go after it as long as they were pinned down here defending the camp.