Texas Bloodshed

by William W. Johnstone

  In the end the Texans had persuaded Brubaker to go along with the idea. They had figured out how they would do it, and Bo and Scratch had decided that it would be best to wait until the party crossed the Red River into Texas before putting the plan into operation.

  “We know that area where she says the hideout is pretty well,” Bo had explained. “She must mean over in Parker or Palo Pinto County, deep in the Cross Timbers. That’s rugged country, all right. Rocks and rattlesnakes and ravines, everywhere you look. And plenty of places in those hills for outlaws to hide themselves and their loot.”

  “It’ll take two or three days of ridin’ to get there,” Scratch had said. “But Cara and me will have to take the back trails and try not to be seen, while the two of you can use the main roads and make better time. Even with stoppin’ off at Gainesville to lock up those prisoners, you ought to get to the area about the same time we do.”

  “How will we ever find your trail once we’re there?” Brubaker wanted to know.

  Scratch had grinned and said, “I’ll send up smoke signals. If Cara thinks you’re dead, she won’t be expectin’ anybody to be followin’ us. So she won’t be suspicious if I build a nice big campfire.”

  “Just try not to be too obvious about it,” Bo had advised.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  And so far, he had been, Scratch thought as he rode alongside Cara through the darkness, their way lit only by a three-quarter moon and a multitude of stars glittering brightly in the cold heavens.

  Knowing that she had a rifle within easy reach made his skin crawl a little. Maybe she’d been telling the truth when she claimed that she had never killed anybody, but he wasn’t going to bet his life on it.

  Although, Scratch mused, that was sort of what he was doing ...

  Cara had ridden hard and set a fast pace when they left the camp behind, even though she didn’t have any reason to expect pursuit. Probably that was just instinct, Scratch thought, with her wanting to get as far away from the scene of her captivity as she could.

  Now she had slowed Bo’s horse to a more reasonable gait, especially considering the fact that they couldn’t always see where they were going.

  If things had worked out that way, Scratch would have suggested that Cara take Early Nesbit’s horse. But when she wanted Bo’s mount, Scratch didn’t think it was reasonable to refuse her. Early’s horse was a decent one. Bo could use it, since Early wouldn’t have any need of the animal while he was locked up in the county jail at Gainesville.

  “How come you don’t know this part of the country?” Cara asked as they rode. “You’re from Texas, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but from down around Hallettsville and Victoria. That’s pert near four hundred miles from here. Not only that, but Bo and me left Texas a long time ago, and we ain’t been back much since.”

  That wasn’t far from the truth, Scratch thought. It had been a long time since they rode away from the Lone Star State, following the deaths of Bo’s wife and children.

  But they had been back often enough that they had crisscrossed the state several times and knew all of it pretty well, from the piney woods of East Texas to the mountain desert of West Texas. Scratch knew the area they were going now, knew its thickly wooded hills and dark valleys. The Brazos River angled down across the region, and fifteen years earlier, it had marked the western boundary of civilized Texas. Beyond the river lay Comancheria, shrouded in mystery and menace, home to some of the most ruthless, dangerous warriors in the history of mankind, the Comanches.

  But in that intervening decade and a half, a lot had changed. The bounds of the range controlled by the Comanches had been pushed back farther and farther, and the army had broken their power bit by bit, climaxed by the decisive Battle of Palo Duro Canyon. Since then the threat of the Comanches, while not eliminated entirely, had been reduced to sporadic raids and skirmishes. In the area where they were headed now, Scratch knew they would be in more danger from white savages than red ones.

  “I’m sure I can find the place,” Cara went on. “I helped Hank pick it out. Just be glad it’s winter. During the summer, the rattlers are mighty thick out there.”

  “I ain’t fond of snakes. I won’t bother them if they don’t bother me.”

  “They’ll all be curled up in their holes at this time of year.”

  “Like in that cave where the loot’s stashed?”

  Cara laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll go in first if you’re scared.”

  “Never said I was scared,” Scratch replied. “Just that I don’t like snakes.”

  They rode on through the night. At one point, when they were on high ground, Scratch caught sight of some lights several miles to the east. That would be Gainesville, he thought. Bo and Brubaker would be there first thing in the morning, locking Lowe, Elam, and Early Nesbit in the jail. The county sheriff might not be too fond of the idea, but with Brubaker being a federal marshal, he woudn’t have much choice but to go along with it.

  Finally Cara brought Bo’s horse to a stop in a thick stand of trees and said, “We’ll make camp here. We need to get some sleep, and then we can push on in the mornin’.”

  “You sleep,” Scratch said. “I’ll stand guard. I got some sleep earlier, before Bo woke me up.”

  “We’ll both sleep. Hell, Scratch, nobody’s comin’ after us. Nobody knows where we are. We’re as safe as we can be.”

  Part of Scratch wanted to stay awake all the time Cara was awake, just so he’d be ready if she tried to double-cross him, but he knew that wasn’t going to be possible. Sooner or later, he’d have to trust her, at least a little, so it might as well be now, he decided.

  And if she cut his throat while he was asleep ... well, he knew that Bo would catch up to her sooner or later and settle the score for him.

  As he was picketing and unsaddling the horses, he realized that they had only one bedroll—his—which he’d picked up and lashed on behind his saddle before they left camp.

  That would have been fine if they had taken turns sleeping, as Scratch had sort of figured they would do. But from what Cara had said, she planned on them sharing the blankets.

  Under other circumstances, that might not have been so bad, although Cara was young enough that would have made Scratch a little uncomfortable. But her youth combined with the fact that she was an outlaw and quite possibly a murderer gave him the fantods for sure.

  Still, he didn’t see what else he could do except play along with whatever she wanted.

  She had already crawled into the bedroll when he finished with the horses. She held back the blankets for him and said, “Here.”

  Scratch took off his hat and boots, then unbuckled his gun belt and coiled it around the holstered Remingtons. He set the revolvers on the ground next to the blankets, within easy reach.

  He slid into the bedroll with Cara. He had put his saddle down for a pillow, and as he rested his head on it, she snuggled against him and laid her head on his shoulder. Her curly blond hair tickled his cheek as she moved closer to him.

  He cleared his throat and said, “You know this, uh, this saddle of mine is older than you are, don’t you?”

  “Oh, hush,” she said sleepily. “I’m tired, and it’s damned cold. I’ve just about froze every night since we left Fort Smith because I wasn’t just about to curl up with those two varmints I was locked in the wagon with. I figure with you it’s different.”

  “Different, eh?” Scratch wasn’t sure if he liked the sound of that or not.

  “Well, you’re older. Maybe not too old. But we’ll see about that later. Right now, I just need some sleep.”

  “Me, too,” Scratch said. “Good night.”

  “Night ...” she murmured as she pressed closer against him, seeking warmth.

  If this didn’t beat all, Scratch thought. Curled up in his blankets with a beautiful young gal who was probably plumb loco and a killer to boot, and the two of them on their way to retrieve a small fortune in stolen
money and gold from an outlaws’ cave that might be full of rattlesnakes.

  Well, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, she might cut his throat before morning, but at least he wasn’t likely to die of boredom.

  CHAPTER 24

  Scratch was cold when he woke up in the morning, which meant two things, one good and one maybe not so good.

  The good thing was that he woke up at all, which meant he was still alive. Cara hadn’t killed him while he slept, after all.

  The fact that he was cold meant that she was no longer huddled in the blankets next to him. He sat up quickly, thinking that she might have slipped away and taken both horses with her, leaving him stranded here. He hated to think that she could do such a thing without waking him, but maybe it was possible ...

  “Good morning,” she said. He heard the crackle of a fire and suddenly smelled coffee brewing. When he turned his head she was there, hunkered on the other side of a small campfire. She had gotten the coffeepot from his gear and started the Arbuckles’ boiling.

  “Where’d you get the water?” Scratch asked.

  “There’s a little creek just the other side of these trees,” Cara said. “And I told you good morning. You ain’t very polite, old man.”

  Scratch grunted, and then a grin spread across his leathery face.

  “Good mornin’,” he said. “You sleep all right?”

  “Better than I have in a while,” Cara replied. “You?”

  “Just fine,” Scratch admitted. If he could just forget the errand they were on and the sort of woman she really was, this little adventure wouldn’t be so bad.

  But he couldn’t forget. Not hardly.

  “You want me to fry up some bacon?” Cara went on. “I’m not very good at it. I can make coffee, but that’s about all. So if you’re thinkin’ that just because I’m a woman I’m here to wait on you hand and foot—”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” Scratch said.

  “Good. We’ll head toward Decatur today. I want to stay away from big towns like Fort Worth. Too many blasted people there. Somebody might recognize me.”

  Scratch almost came out with Eighter from Decatur, the county seat of Wise, but he remembered in time that he wasn’t supposed to know this area, so he probably wouldn’t have heard that little saying about the town.

  Instead he told Cara, “You lead the way, darlin’, and I’ll go along with you.”

  He climbed out of the bedroll, his muscles creaking a little and his breath fogging in front of his face in the cold air, and got busy frying bacon and cooking some biscuits. They had slept until after dawn, and the sun was well up by the time they finished breakfast and were ready to ride.

  They spent the day continuing to head southwest, avoiding farmhouses and little crossroads settlements and trying not to skyline themselves atop the rolling hills. Late in the afternoon they skirted east around the town of Decatur that Cara had mentioned that morning. They made camp alongside a slowly moving stream that Scratch guessed was one of the several forks of the Trinity River.

  The day had warmed up considerably, enough so that Scratch had taken off his buckskin jacket while he was riding in the sun. Cara removed her coat, too, and paused from time to time to run her fingers through her thick, curly hair. Whenever she did that, Scratch thought, Lord, she was beautiful, but there were plenty of things in this world that looked pretty but could kill you in a hurry if you let your guard down, he reminded himself.

  Once the sun was down it quickly started getting cold. After supper, Scratch and Cara once again curled up together in the bedroll. She went to sleep immediately. Scratch lingered on the edge of wakefulness long enough to wonder how Bo and Brubaker were doing and how things had gone with the sheriff in Gainesville. Scratch had every confidence in the world that when the time came, Bo would be there. In all the years they had traveled together, Bo had never let him down.

  The next day they followed the river southward. Scratch grinned and said, “If we had a boat, we could float down to where we’re goin’.”

  Cara snorted disdainfully. “Except when it’s floodin’, the Trinity’s not deep enough in these parts to float anything more than a little rowboat. Anyway, I’d rather be on horseback. I don’t like boats.” She sniffed. “I can’t swim.”

  “You can’t?”

  “Never learned. There was no place around where I grew up that was big enough to swim in. We had a little pond on our farm, but it was barely deep enough for the crawdads to paddle around.” She got a reminiscing look on her face. “One time up in the Nations, Hank wanted to go skinny-dippin’ in a creek. I told him I’d take my clothes off, but I wasn’t gonna swim.”

  “You were quite a hellion, weren’t you?”

  She grinned over at him.

  “I still am. You got a problem with that, Scratch?”

  He shook his head and said, “Nope, not me.”

  They had gone only another mile or so when the horse Cara was riding suddenly broke its gait and started limping. She reined in and glared in annoyance.

  “What’s wrong with this jughead?” she asked.

  Scratch swung down from his saddle.

  “Let me take a look,” he said.

  He lifted the horse’s hoof that seemed to be causing the trouble and studied it. Taking a clasp knife from his pocket, he opened it and pried at the horseshoe with the blade.

  “Shoe’s loose and it’s picked up a rock,” he announced after a moment. “We need to find a blacksmith.”

  “Can’t you take care of it?” Cara asked.

  “Maybe, if I had the right tools, which I don’t. Anyway, we’ll be better off lettin’ somebody who knows what he’s doin’ handle it. You don’t want to be left a-foot out here, and if we have to ride double we couldn’t get away very fast if we needed to.”

  “I wanted to steer clear of towns until we got to the hideout.”

  “I know,” Scratch said, “but this can’t be helped. We’ll see if we can find some little settlement where there’s no law and nobody will know you.”

  “All right, all right,” she said with a disgusted tone in her voice. She waved a hand toward the west and went on, “There’s a wide place in the road over that way called O’Bar. Might be a blacksmith there. We needed to start headin’ in that direction anyway if we’re gonna avoid Fort Worth.”

  “Sounds good,” Scratch said. “Why don’t you climb up here with me, so your horse won’t have to carry you? We can ride double for that far.”

  Cara agreed with that idea. She dismounted and handed him the reins to Bo’s horse. Scratch took his left foot out of the stirrup and let her use it to swing up behind him. When she was settled down behind the saddle and had her arms around his waist, he heeled his mount into motion again and started off, leading Bo’s horse.

  Cara told him which way to go. This was still wooded, hilly country, although not as rugged as it would be farther west, where the Gentry gang’s old hideout was located. It took them about an hour to reach O’Bar, which turned out to be a one-street settlement with a couple of blocks of businesses and a few dozen houses scattered around its outskirts. Scratch spotted a church steeple that stuck up on the other side of some cottonwood and Post oak trees lining the banks of a creek just west of town.

  “You see a blacksmith shop?” Cara asked anxiously.

  Scratch nodded to a building on the left side of the street. It had double doors that stood open, and smoke came from a chimney in the middle of the roof.

  Scratch reined to a halt in front of the doors. Cara slid down from the horse first, then he dismounted, too, as a stocky man with rusty hair and a close-cropped beard emerged from the building.

  “Got a horse with a loose shoe that picked up a rock,” Scratch said. “I got the rock out, but the shoe still needs work. Reckon you can take care of it for us?”

  “Not a problem,” the blacksmith replied with a nod. “I got one job to finish up first, but I can get to it in a little while. That be all
right?”

  Scratch turned to look at Cara, but she wasn’t there. He stiffened in surprise for a second before he spotted her walking across the street. He nodded to the blacksmith and said, “Yeah, that’ll be fine, thanks,” and started after her.

  She was headed for a squat building made of red sandstone. The place had a tiled roof that was a darker shade of red. A sign on the overhang above the flat, flagstone porch proclaimed the place to be the RED TOP CAFÉ AND SALOON. Several horses were tied at the hitch racks in front of the porch.

  Scratch’s long legs allowed him to catch up to Cara before she reached the café.

  “I thought you didn’t want to call attention to yourself,” he said quietly.

  “We’re already here anyway,” she said. “I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to get a meal that amounted to more than just bacon and biscuits.”

  “Well, that’s not a bad idea,” Scratch admitted.

  He opened the door, and they stepped into warmth that was thick with the delicious aromas of food cooking. The Red Top was more saloon than café, he saw. There was a lunch counter to the left that formed an L with the long side of it running toward the back of the low-ceilinged room and serving as a bar. The right-hand wall had several booths with leather-covered seats, and round tables were scattered over the open area between the wall and the bar. A poker game with four cowboys playing was going on at one of those tables.

  A couple of punchers were at the bar nursing mugs of beer, while two men sat at the lunch counter with plates of food in front of them. Out of habit, Scratch quickly scanned the faces of all the men in the place. He didn’t see anybody he recognized, which came as no surprise. He had never been to O’Bar before, leastways that he could remember.

  The patrons glanced at the newcomers, curious as anybody would be about strangers in their midst, and several of the cowboys took a second, longer, more appreciative look at Cara. Scratch didn’t think that any of them seemed to recognize her. Like all young men, they were just interested in the sight of a pretty girl.