Bleeding Texas

by William W. Johnstone

  “What about—”

  “We’ll tell Jed to come see about the old man on our way out. Maybe we can still beat Bo Creel to the bank.”

  CHAPTER 38

  It was a bloodied and battered bunch that paused on the banks of Bear Creek late that afternoon.

  “Reckon this is where we split up,” Bo said. “Scratch and I will take the money on into town and give it to Ambrose. The rest of you go on to the ranch. We’ll see you there later.”

  “Damn it,” Riley said. “After all we’ve been through, we ought to get to see you hand that money over, Bo.”

  Samantha said, “Lee’s too weak after being shot.”

  “I never said that,” Lee put in. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” she told him. “You need rest and some proper medical attention. So do your uncle and your brother.”

  Bo said, “We’ll send Doc Perkins out from town right away.” He paused. “Right after we’ve delivered the money.”

  “All right,” Riley said, but he still didn’t sound happy about it. “You be careful, though. Nick Fontaine’s still around somewhere, and he can’t be trusted.”

  Samantha looked pained at that blunt statement, but she didn’t argue the point. She knew as well as anyone that her older brother had turned bad.

  “Am I free to go?” Danny asked.

  “Go ahead,” Bo told him. “But remember, you know the truth now. Don’t let Nick talk you into doing anything foolish.”

  “He’s not going to talk me into anything,” Danny promised. “I don’t like you Creels and I never will, but hell, I’m not an outlaw. Nick tried to turn me into a killer. We’re gonna have some words about that.” He lifted his reins. “Come on, Samantha.”

  She shook her head and said, “I’m going to the Star C with Lee. I’m going to stay with him until the doctor has taken care of him.”

  “They’re still our enemies—” Danny started to bluster.

  “No, they’re not. If you’ll just give them a chance, they can be the best friends we’ve ever had.”

  From the look on Danny’s face, Bo didn’t expect that to ever happen. The young man jerked his horse around and galloped away, splashing across the creek as he headed for the Rafter F.

  “I’m sorry, Samantha,” Lee said. “He’s just a hotheaded hombre. I know somethin’ about that. He’ll come around.”

  “He’ll have to,” she said, “if he wants me to still be his sister.”

  Jason spoke up, saying, “I can come with you and Scratch to town, Uncle Bo. Just in case there’s any trouble.”

  “You’re the only one who’s not shot up, Jason,” Bo told him. “You get everybody else back to the ranch safely. That’s the best thing you can do right now.”

  With obvious reluctance, Jason accepted that decision. With him and Samantha on horseback and the three wounded Creels crowded into the buggy, they started for the Star C.

  That left Bo, Scratch, and Lauralee to ride on into town.

  As they headed in that direction, Scratch asked Lauralee, “Was it as big an adventure as you thought it’d be?”

  “It was pretty exciting,” she said. “Pretty scary at times, too. I’m not sure I’d like to live like that after all, if that’s the kind of trouble you two always find yourselves in.”

  Scratch chuckled and said, “Shootin’ scrapes do seem to follow us around.”

  “Well, at least this one’s over,” Lauralee said.

  Bo didn’t say anything.

  But his instincts told him she might be wrong about that.

  A short time later they rode into Bear Creek. They passed the wooden bridge over the stream that divided the more respectable business district from the saloons and gambling halls on the other side of the creek. The bank was up ahead, one of the few brick buildings in the settlement.

  There were no hitchracks directly in front of the bank, so Bo, Scratch, and Lauralee reined in and dismounted at the hardware store on the corner.

  “You didn’t have to come all the way with us,” Bo told Lauralee. “You could have gone across the creek, back to the Southern Belle.”

  “I’ll be there soon enough,” she said. She smiled. “I’m like Riley. I want to see this through to the end.”

  Bo returned her smile and leaned his head toward the bank.

  “Let’s go on and give Mr. Ambrose his money, then.”

  The three of them started to walk the short distance remaining on this journey, and as they did, two men stepped around the corner of the hardware store into their path.

  Bo just had time to recognize them as Nick Fontaine and Trace Holland before he realized the men were drawing their guns.

  “You’ll never save that ranch, Creel!” Nick shouted. Insane hatred twisted the lines of his face.

  As always when he was confronted with danger, Bo let his instincts and reflexes take over.

  But instead of reaching for his own Colt, his arm shot out and swept Lauralee back and down, out of the line of fire. He heard a gun roar, felt the shock of a bullet. The impact rocked him back, but he managed to stay on his feet.

  Beside him, Scratch had the twin Remingtons out, flame belching from their muzzles. Trace Holland’s gun erupted, but the bullet went into the ground in front of him as Scratch’s slugs tore into his body. Scratch fired both Remingtons again and Holland fell. The front of his shirt was already a bloody mess.

  Nick Fontaine got off a second shot, but he hurried this one and it whipped harmlessly past Bo’s ear. Bo’s Colt seemed to weigh a ton, and he thought he was slow as molasses getting it out of the holster.

  But then the gun came up and bucked in his hand as he slammed out a shot, and he saw the black leather vest Nick wore jump a little as the slug went through it into Nick’s chest. Nick staggered and fired a third time as blood welled from the corner of his mouth. The bullet kicked up dirt to Bo’s right.

  Bo fired again, but just as he squeezed the trigger his legs buckled under him. The bullet went high and chipped brick splinters from the wall of the bank. Bo hit his knees and caught himself with his left hand. His right thrust the Colt toward Nick and triggered it again.

  This shot went home and knocked Nick halfway around. Bo was close enough to see the life go out of Nick’s eyes. The gun slipped from his finger and thudded to the ground, and Nick followed it a second later, sprawling in death.

  Bo dropped his own gun and toppled onto his side.

  Lauralee had hold of him a second later, throwing her arms around him as she sobbed, “Bo! Bo!”

  Scratch was on Bo’s other side, grabbing hold of him, as well.

  A great weakness filled Bo. But he knew he couldn’t give in to it. Not yet. He still had something to do.

  Two things to do.

  “Help me . . . up,” he breathed through teeth clenched against the pain.

  “Bo, you need a doctor,” Lauralee said.

  “Help me . . . to the bank,” he insisted.

  “Reckon we better do it,” Scratch said. “I think I know what he wants.”

  Together, they lifted him, and then, with Scratch and Lauralee flanking Bo and holding him up, the three of them made their halting way past the bodies of Nick Fontaine and Trace Holland toward the bank entrance. The shooting had drawn a lot of people out of the buildings, including Gilbert Ambrose. The banker stood there with a shocked expression on his face.

  Bo, Scratch, and Lauralee stopped in front of him. Bo’s hands fumbled awkwardly under his shirt for the money belt. It was slick with blood when he touched it. He found the buckle, unfastened it, and pulled the belt out.

  “Paid in full,” he said as he dropped it at Ambrose’s feet.

  Then he turned to look at Lauralee and did the other thing he had to do before it was too late.

  “I . . . love . . . you,” he said.

  He saw the mingled grief and happiness on her face, her beautiful face with the tears streaming down her tanned cheeks, and as darkness washed over him he th
ought that if she was the last thing he ever saw in this world, that wouldn’t be a bad memory to take with him across the divide.

  Bo leaned on the cane as he walked out of the First Baptist Church in Bear Creek. Lauralee was beside him, her hand on his arm in case he needed her to help him, but Bo didn’t expect that to happen. He was getting around pretty good these days.

  The bullet from Nick Fontaine’s gun had put him flat on his back for a month. Doc Perkins had expected him to die. The medico admitted that much, then added, “What I failed to take into account was that you have the constitution of a man twenty years younger than you really are, Bo.”

  “Plus he’s too damn stubborn to die,” Scratch had put in, prompting the doctor to nod and agree, “Yes, that, too.”

  As usual, Scratch wasn’t far from Bo’s side today. He and Emmaline Ashley had followed Bo and Lauralee out of the church. Now they all turned, along with everyone else in attendance, to watch Mr. and Mrs. Lee Creel emerge into the autumn sunlight.

  Samantha was beautiful in her wedding gown, Bo thought. He was glad to see her happy again. She was a fine young woman and deserved to have some good things in her life after the death of her older brother and the illness that had laid her father low.

  Ned Fontaine was strong enough to attend his daughter’s wedding today, and there was that for the family to be thankful for. He and his remaining son followed Samantha and Lee out of the church. Fontaine was gaunt and wan, and he had to lean on Danny.

  Fortunately, Danny had been sober for the past couple of months and seemed to be taking seriously the idea that he had to be responsible for running the Rafter F now.

  Lee, completely healed from the wound he had suffered when Trace Holland shot him, helped his new bride up into the buggy that was waiting for them and climbed in beside her. He grinned and waved his hat at the crowd, then took up the reins and sent the buggy rolling away from the church as the wedding guests cheered and applauded.

  The ones loudest in their approval were the Creels, from old John Creel down to the youngest grandchild.

  Lauralee said to Bo, “Cooper looks happy to have a new daughter-in-law . . . even if she is a Fontaine.”

  “All that’s over and done with,” Bo said. “Pa even rode over to the Rafter F the other day with Riley. They had a talk with Ned and Danny and told them that if they ever needed any help with anything, the Star C was ready to pitch in.” Bo chuckled. “From the sound of what Riley told me, those two old-timers were about as wary around each other as a couple of old dogs, but at least they didn’t go to biting and snapping.”

  “That’s good to know,” Lauralee said. She hesitated, then went on, “How long does Mr. Fontaine have?”

  “A few months, according to Doc Perkins,” Bo said. “A year at the most. But from the way things are going, Danny might make a hand after all. Fontaine can go to his grave knowing that his ranch will be all right.”

  Scratch added with a grin, “And he might even have a new grandson by then. You can’t ever tell.”

  “Don’t be crude, Mr. Morton,” Emmaline told him. “Now come on with me. We’re having dinner on the grounds, and I brought an apple pie you have to have a slice of.”

  Scratch’s grin widened as he linked arms with the widow and said to Bo, “Can’t argue with fresh apple pie, now, can I, partner?”

  “You sure can’t,” Bo told him.

  As they watched Scratch and Emmaline walk away, Lauralee said, “You think they’ll be the next ones getting married, Bo?”

  “Scratch?” Bo shook his head. “He thinks the world and all of Emmaline, but one of these mornings he’s going to lift his head like an old bull scenting something on the air, and he’ll have to go charging off to find out what it is. Scratch Morton will never change, the old sidewinder.”

  “What about you, Bo Creel?” Lauralee asked.

  “I don’t know,” he told her honestly. “I reckon time will tell.” He linked his arm with hers and went on, “Right now, why don’t we go try some of that pie Emmaline brought?”

  Lauralee nodded, and together they walked toward the tables set up in the shade of the trees next to the church where the people of Bear Creek were gathering. An autumn breeze moved across the Texas plains, rustling the leaves and carrying the call of distant places.

  J. A. Johnstone on William W. Johnstone “When the Truth Becomes Legend”

  William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.

  “I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.”

  True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in Beau Geste when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences, that planted the storytelling seed in Bill’s imagination.

  “They were mostly honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man’s socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”

  After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff ’s Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah, which would last sixteen years. It was there that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn’t be until 1979 that his first novel, The Devil’s Kiss, was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (The Uninvited), thrillers (The Last of the Dog Team), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983, Out of the Ashes was published. Searching for his missing family in a postapocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians of the Resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation’s future.

  Out of the Ashes was a smash. The series would continue for the next twenty years, winning Bill three generations of fans all over the world. The series was often imitated but never duplicated. “We all tried to copy the Ashes series,” said one publishing executive, “but Bill’s uncanny ability, both then and now, to predict in which direction the political winds were blowing brought a certain immediacy to the table no one else could capture.” The Ashes series would end its run with more than thirty-four books and twenty million copies in print, making it one of the most successful men’s action series in American book publishing. (The Ashes series also, Bill notes with a touch of pride, got him on the FBI’s Watch List for its less than flattering portrayal of spineless politicians and the growing power of big government over our lives, among other things. In that respect, I often find myself saying, “Bill was years ahead of his time.”)

  Always steps ahead of the political curve, Bill’s recent thrillers, written with myself, include Vengeance Is Mine, Invasion USA, Border War, Jackknife, Remember the Alamo, Home Invasion, Phoenix Rising, The Blood of Patriots, The Bleeding Edge, and the upcoming Suicide Mission.

  It is with the western, though, that Bill found his greatest success. His westerns propelled him onto both the USA Today and the New York Times bestseller lists.

  Bill’s western series include The Mountain Man, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, Preacher, The Family Jensen, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Eagles, MacCallister (an Eagles spin-off), Sidewinders, The Brothers O’Brien, Sixkiller, Blood
Bond, The Last Gunfighter, and the upcoming new series Flintlock and The Trail West. May 2013 saw the hardcover western Butch Cassidy, The Lost Years.

  “The Western,” Bill says, “is one of the few true art forms that is one hundred percent American. I liken the Western as America’s version of England’s Arthurian legends, like the Knights of the Round Table, or Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Starting with the 1902 publication of The Virginian by Owen Wister, and followed by the greats like Zane Grey, Max Brand, Ernest Haycox, and of course Louis L’Amour, the Western has helped to shape the cultural landscape of America.

  “I’m no goggle-eyed college academic, so when my fans ask me why the Western is as popular now as it was a century ago, I don’t offer a 200-page thesis. Instead, I can only offer this: The Western is honest. In this great country, which is suffering under the yoke of political correctness, the Western harks back to an era when justice was sure and swift. Steal a man’s horse, rustle his cattle, rob a bank, a stagecoach, or a train, you were hunted down and fitted with a hangman’s noose. One size fit all.

  “Sure, we westerners are prone to a little embellishment and exaggeration and, I admit it, occasionally play a little fast and loose with the facts. But we do so for a very good reason—to enhance the enjoyment of readers.

  “It was Owen Wister, in The Virginian who first coined the phrase ‘When you call me that, smile.’ Legend has it that Wister actually heard those words spoken by a deputy sheriff in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, when another poker player called him a son of a bitch.

  “Did it really happen, or is it one of those myths that have passed down from one generation to the next? I honestly don’t know. But there’s a line in one of my favorite Westerns of all time, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, where the newspaper editor tells the young reporter, ‘When the truth becomes legend, print the legend.’

  “These are the words I live by.”

  BAD MEN OF THE WEST . . .