Bleeding Texas (8 page)

The workday was always long and hard on a ranch, stretching from dawn to dusk, from can to can't.

For the next two weeks on the Star C, that was more true than ever.

Scratch came over to join in the roundup. He and Bo had worked plenty of similar gathers during their years of drifting. Whether it was Texas, Montana, or anywhere in between, the work of pushing the cattle out of the brush, driving them to a central location, branding the ones that needed branding, and keeping them from scattering again was pretty much the same. Long hours in the saddle fighting dust and tedium. A man couldn't afford to get bored, because that might cause him to let his guard down, and then some proddy old bull would be just waiting to stick a horn in him or knock his horse down and bust his leg.

One thing that worried Bo was the possibility that Ned Fontaine might get wind of what was going on. If John Creel was right about Fontaine having something to do with Gilbert Ambrose threatening to call in the note, then Fontaine had a vested interest in keeping the Creels from paying it off.

Bo didn't know how far Fontaine would go to stop the drive from being successful, but given the probability that he was behind the rustling, it seemed likely he wouldn't worry too much about staying on the right side of the law. So Bo suggested to his father that they set up a regular patrol along the western bank of Bear Creek, to make sure no one from the Rafter F snuck over and witnessed the roundup.

That was why Lee Creel found himself riding slowly along the creek one day a week or so into the gather. He would have rather been working the range, but his uncle Bo thought this was an important job, too, and everybody was taking a turn at it. In fact, Uncle Hank was on guard duty nearly all the time, since he wasn't much good when it came to the other chores involved in getting ready for the drive.

Lee hadn't seen Samantha in more than a week. With all the activity on the ranch, there just hadn't been a chance for him to slip off and meet with her. Since he had missed several of their regular rendezvous, he figured she was mad at him by now. She probably wasn't even coming to the creek to watch for him anymore. He'd be lucky if she didn't hate him.

Despite feeling that way, he kept an eye on the far bank anyway. That was his job, wasn't it, watching out for Fontaines who weren't where they were supposed to be?

He wasn't really expecting to see anything, so he stiffened in the saddle as he caught a flash of color in the brush on the far side of the stream. He reined his horse to a halt, straightened in his stirrups, and peered across the creek.

The brush parted, and a vision stepped out.

Samantha wore a red blouse over a black, divided riding skirt. Her hat, also black, hung on her back from its chin strap. Instead of being tucked up, today her long dark hair was in braids that dangled on the front of her shoulders.

As he looked at her, Lee felt like his heart was trying to punch its way out of his chest.

He figured the other fellas riding the boundary line right now were at least half a mile away. Without thinking too much about what he was doing, he turned his horse, heeled the animal into motion, and found a spot where the bank was gentle enough to get down to the creek. The stream was shallow here, so the horse didn't even have to swim as it forded to the other side with water splashing around its hocks.

Lee swung out of the saddle and jumped onto the other bank as soon as he was close enough. Samantha had come to meet him. He took her in his arms, brought his mouth down on hers as she tilted her head back.

The kiss packed a whole week's worth of frustration and longing. Lee felt the impact all the way to his core.

Judging by the way she moaned deep in her throat and pressed her body to his, so did Samantha.

Finally, Lee lifted his head and said, “Whew. I reckon you must've missed me as much as I missed you.”

“Don't get a swelled head,” Samantha said with a musical little laugh. “I can get along without you perfectly well, Lee Creel.”

He knew that wasn't true, but he didn't say so. Instead he said, “Well, I can't get along without you.” He couldn't contain the sigh that came up inside him. “Problem is, I reckon I'm gonna have to, at least for a while.”

That statement made Samantha's forehead crease in a frown.

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “Why can't you be here?”

“I, uh, got some place I have to go,” Lee answered awkwardly. When he'd made his previous comment, he had spoken from the heart and hadn't considered the implications of it. Of course Samantha would want to know why they couldn't continue meeting.

But how much could he tell her? The reason he was out here patrolling along the creek, after all, was to make sure the Fontaines didn't find out about the planned cattle drive to the coast.

Samantha wasn't like the rest of her family, though. She didn't want to see any harm come to the Creels. She wanted to have peace between the families so that she and Lee could be together without having to sneak around.

Lee knew that none of his brothers, cousins, uncles, father, and especially his grandfather would agree with him, but he trusted Samantha Fontaine.

“I don't understand,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“We've got a roundup goin' on. We're takin' a herd down to Rockport, on the Gulf Coast.”

Samantha's eyes widened in surprise. She said, “I never heard of anybody doing that.”

“From what my pa and my uncles have said, folks used to do it all the time right after the war, before somebody got the idea of takin' the cattle north through Indian Territory to the railroad in Kansas. Back then they mostly used the hides and then rendered the carcasses down for tallow, but they shipped beeves to New Orleans and on around Florida to the East Coast, too. The buyers down there don't pay as much as they do at the railhead, but we ain't got time to take a herd north.”

“But why is it so pressing that your family has to sell some cattle right now?”

Since he'd already told her as much as he had, Lee figured he might as well go whole-hog.

“Because Mr. Ambrose at the bank is threatenin' to call in a note on the Star C in a little more than a month, and if my grandpa can't pay it, he'll lose the ranch.”

“That's terrible!”

Lee nodded and said, “Yeah, but it's legal. So we're doin' the only thing we can to raise the money Grandpa needs.”

“And you have to go along?”

“Can't very well stay behind,” Lee said, bristling slightly. “It's my family we're talkin' about. I got to help out any way I can.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “You're a decent, honorable man, Lee. I wouldn't expect any less of you, and I didn't mean to sound like I did. It's just . . .” She sighed. “I'm going to miss you so bad!”

“I feel the same way. But maybe we can get together another time or two before I have to leave. And then it'll only be a couple of weeks before I'm back. It ain't like we're goin' all the way to Kansas. Just down to Rockport and back.”

She kissed him and whispered, “You'll be careful, won't you?”

“Sure,” he told her as he nuzzled his cheek against hers. “You don't have to worry about me.”

“And you don't have to worry about me. I won't say anything to any of my family about this.”

He was glad she'd brought that up without him having to say anything about it.

“I never thought you would,” he said, although the possibility had indeed crossed his mind.

But you had to trust somebody in this world, and for better or worse, he trusted Samantha Fontaine.

 

 

Today was paying some dividends that he had never expected, Trace Holland thought as he sat his horse in the shadow of a live oak thicket and watched Samantha Fontaine riding back toward the headquarters of the Rafter F.

All he had planned to do when he followed her was keep an eye on her, maybe catch a moment or two alone with her if circumstances arose so that he could do so without alarming her.

Far, far back in his mind lurked the idea that he might risk getting a kiss or even more from her. If he did that, likely it would have to be by force, and that would mean he'd have to move on immediately. His job at the Rafter F would be over.

But there were always other places where a man who was good with a gun could make a living. Now that his wounded arm was just about healed, Holland knew he could draw and fire again as swiftly and accurately as he always had.

His main worry was Nick Fontaine. If he assaulted Samantha, her brothers probably would try to track him down and kill him. He wasn't worried about Danny. Holland knew he could take care of the kid without much trouble.

Nick Fontaine was a different story. He could be dangerous.

But all of those thoughts had evaporated instantly when he saw Samantha kissing one of the Creel boys. Lee, Holland thought it was.

That lying little slut, always acting so prim and proper, and all along she'd been sneaking off to spark one of the enemy!

That would be enough to interest Nick right there, but when Holland had crept closer, using all the stealth of a natural-born owlhoot to slide soundlessly through the brush, he had discovered something even better. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of Samantha with her clothes off, but instead he had overheard Lee Creel telling her about how the Star C was getting ready to drive a herd to the coast and sell it in Rockport.

There was only one reason they'd be doing that, Holland knew. They were desperate to raise money. He wasn't sure why that would be the case, but every instinct he possessed told him it had to have something to do with Nick's scheming against them. Nick didn't share all of his plans with his henchmen, but Holland knew his speculation made sense.

Samantha and the Creel boy hadn't done anything except kiss and talk. Considering what they'd talked about, Holland couldn't be disappointed about that. He'd waited, well-hidden in the brush, until they parted reluctantly. Creel went back across the creek. Samantha headed home.

Holland was eager to get back to the Rafter F headquarters himself. He wanted to talk to Nick Fontaine. He was already figuring out exactly what he wanted to tell his boss. There was no real need to muddle the situation by bringing Samantha into it, he decided.

Once he passed along what he'd learned today, he thought with a self-satisfied smirk, there was no question who would be Nick's second-in-command among the hired guns.

And that was the thing about being second in line.

One of these days you could move up to first . . . even if it took a knife in the back or a bullet in the dark.

Sulphurous curses leaped from Nick Fontaine's mouth as he slammed a fist down on the table, making the coins in the pot and the cards in the discard pile jump a little.

“Are you sure about this, Trace?” he demanded.

“Heard it with my own ears,” Trace Holland replied.

Nick's eyes narrowed.

“What were you doing over on Star C range?” he asked.

Holland's narrow shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. He said, “It's been a while since any of us went across the creek. I thought I'd mosey over there and see if I could find out what those Creels have been up to.” He chuckled. “I found out more than I'd bargained for.”

“You're lucky you didn't get your hide ventilated, Trace,” said one of the men who'd been playing poker in the bunkhouse with Nick. “Those Creels see a Rafter F man over there, they're liable to shoot first and not bother with any questions.”

“I know. That's why I was careful.”

Nick picked up the glass of whiskey at his elbow and threw back the liquor that was left in it. As he thumped the empty glass back down on the table, he said, “So you heard a couple of the Creel boys talking about driving a herd to the coast, did you?”

“That's right. One of 'em was Lee Creel, and I can't recall the other one's name. But the roundup's going on now, Nick. A few more days and they'll be ready to start the drive.” Holland paused, then added, “Wonder why they're doin' such a thing.”

Nick scowled. He knew that Holland was angling for information. The gunman didn't really need to know any more than he did right now, though. Nick's arrangement with Gilbert Ambrose was between just the two of them, and he figured it was safer if they kept it that way.

He threw in his cards, no longer caring about the game, and stood up.

“I appreciate you telling me about this, Trace,” he said. “Next time, though, let me know before you go wandering off across the creek. If it comes down to a shooting war with the Creels, I want to be the one to pick the time and place.”

“Sure, boss,” Holland said. Nick could tell he was disappointed that he hadn't learned more about what was going on, but that was just too damned bad.

And Trace Holland was maybe just a little too ambitious, Nick mused. It might be a good idea to keep an eye on the
hombre
. Ambition in a man who wasn't as smart as he thought he was could be a dangerous thing.

“Good game,” he told the men he'd been playing cards with. He left the bunkhouse and headed for the main house.

Samantha came out of the barn, and her course intercepted his. He could tell from her outfit that she'd been riding, which she did way too much as far as Nick was concerned. Samantha didn't seem to understand just how much trouble a gal could get into when she went riding alone, even on her father's ranch.

“You look upset about something,” she said as she fell in step beside him.

“No, I'm fine,” he told her. “Just have some ranch business on my mind, that's all.”

“You can tell me about it if you want to,” she offered.

He started to snort in disbelief but stopped himself before the noise came out. Talk over ranch business and his plans for the Star C with a woman, even if she was his sister? Not damned likely.

“That's all right,” he said instead. “It's nothing I can't take care of.”

“I have a stake in this ranch, too, you know,” she reminded him.

He let that pass. She
didn't
have a stake in the Rafter F. When it came time for their father to hand over the reins,
he
would be the one taking control. Not Samantha, and sure as hell not Danny. Neither of them seemed to be aware of it, but for all practical purposes, Nick was already running things around here.

He had already started to think of the Rafter F as his spread.

And he would do anything to see that it grew and succeeded.

He stopped and turned around.

“I thought you were going inside,” Samantha called after him as he headed for the barn.

“I thought of something I need to check on,” he said over his shoulder without slowing down. “Tell Pa I'll be back later.”

Nick went into the barn and saddled one of his string of horses. He kept a sheathed Winchester in the tack room, and he strapped it onto the saddle. While he was doing that, one of the wranglers came in and asked if he needed a hand. Nick shook his head and said no.

The job he was about to do had to be carried out alone.

 

 

Bo and Scratch were taking their turn at the branding fire when John Creel rode up, tall and ramrod-straight on a black horse.

Bo was in shirtsleeves, because branding was hot, dirty work. He thumbed his hat back, wiped sweat from his forehead, and said, “You don't have to be out here, Pa. Everything's going along just fine.”

“I've been out here every day since we started this fandango, haven't I?” John asked.

“Well, yeah, but that's my point. You're going to wear yourself out. You know you're not—”

Bo stopped short without finishing his sentence.

His father leaned forward in the saddle, eyes flashing.

“Not what?” John Creel demanded. “Not as young as I used to be? Is that what you were about to say?”

Scratch grinned and said, “Shoot, Mr. Creel, ain't none of us as young as we used to be. Most mornin's when I get up, I feel like I'm a hundred years old.”

“Well, I'm twenty years closer to it than you are, boy,” John snapped.

Scratch looked at Bo and said, “That's why I like comin' over here. It's the only place where anybody ever calls me ‘boy' anymore.”

“Neither of us have been boys in a long time,” said Bo.

“Hell, you don't know what it's like to be old,” his father said. “You just wait. Your time's comin'.”

“If nobody shoots us first,” Scratch said.

“Yeah, there's always a chance of that,” John Creel agreed. “How many head have been brought in today?”

“Somewhere around forty, I'd say,” Bo replied.

“Slowin' down, ain't it?” John asked with a frown.

“We knew it would. The longer a roundup goes on, the harder it is to find all the places where those stubborn old mossyhorns are hiding. Most of the ones that are left are way back in the brush.”

“Anybody had a look in those gullies over by Caddo Knob?”

Bo shook his head and said, “I don't know. Scratch and I haven't been over there. Maybe some of the others have.”

John Creel lifted the reins and turned his mount's head.

“I'll go see for myself,” he said.

“Be careful,” Bo told him. “That's rough country over there.”

John snorted disgustedly.

“You figure I don't know that? I'd been all over every foot of this country while you were still in short britches, boy.”

“Now there's something I don't reckon I've ever seen,” Scratch said. “Bo Creel in short britches.”

“Better stir up that branding fire,” Bo said. “It's fixing to get cold.”

Grinning again, Scratch did as his old friend suggested while John Creel rode off.

The work continued, and Bo didn't think much more about his father's visit. One thing nagged at his brain, however. He knew that his father intended to come along on the drive to the coast, and he wasn't sure that was a good idea.

It was true that John Creel was a lot spryer than most men his age. He could still work as hard as punchers who were forty or fifty years younger than him . . . but only for short periods of time. John didn't possess the stamina he'd once had.

And if there was one thing a man needed on a cattle drive, it was stamina. All the long hours in a saddle required it.

Bo had started to think that the job was going to be too much for his pa. John Creel had always ramrodded his own drives, but this was different. They would have to push the herd pretty hard to reach Rockport in time to sell the cattle and get back with the money to pay off the bank loan. Bo didn't think it would be worth it to save the Star C if his father collapsed because of the trip, his health ruined—or worse.

Of course, John Creel probably wouldn't see it that way. The Star C meant more to him than life itself. And after all the years of running things, he didn't want to relinquish the reins. That was understandable.

Riley could trail boss the cattle drive, though. He'd been the old man's
segundo
on dozens of harder drives than this one would be. Bo was confident that his brother could get the herd to Rockport.

“What're you woolgatherin' about?” Scratch asked.

Bo was about to pass it off as nothing, but before he could say anything, a distant sound drifted to his ears and caused him to lift his head.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Scratch said, apparently unconcerned. “Sounded like a shot.”

Hearing a gunshot out here on the range was nothing unusual. Sometimes a man came across a rattlesnake and blew the fanged varmint's head off. Or he might see a coyote loping across the range and take a shot at it. It wasn't even uncommon to encounter a javelina, one of the vicious wild pigs that haunted the chaparral country to the southwest. Sometimes one of those tuskers strayed this far.

But something about this shot bothered Bo. After a moment, he realized what it was.

The sound had come from the direction of Caddo Knob . . . and that was where John Creel had been headed when he rode away from the branding fire a while earlier.

That fact sunk in on Scratch at the same time. The silver-haired Texan frowned and said, “That's the way your pa went. But there could be lots of other explanations for that shot, Bo. Likely it didn't have a thing to do with John.”

“I know that,” Bo said.

“But you ain't gonna be satisfied until you see for yourself, are you?”

“I wouldn't mind making sure he's all right.”

“Well, don't think I'm gonna argue with you.” Scratch tossed the branding iron he was holding into the edge of the fire and started tugging off the thick leather gloves he wore. “Let's go have a look at Caddo Knob.”