Bleeding Texas (5 page)

Ned Fontaine entered first, as befitted the patriarch of the clan. He stepped in, paused and looked around the big room with a hawk-like gaze, then extended a hand back through the open double doors.

A very attractive, dark-haired young woman took Fontaine's hand and allowed him to lead her into the school. That was Samantha Fontaine, the old man's daughter, Bo knew. She had been pointed out to him a few times here in town.

Close behind Samantha came her two brothers, Nick and Danny. The older, more solemn brother, Nick, looked uncomfortable in a gray suit, as if he didn't like being dressed up or having this many people around him.

Danny, on the other hand, was in his element. A blond, sharp-featured young man, he wore a flashy brown tweed suit and had a cocky grin on his narrow face. Danny was always looking to start a fight or steal a kiss from a pretty girl. He had been in plenty of trouble in the past but had always skated out of it due to his father's money and influence.

Right behind the Fontaine brothers were several men who rode for the Rafter F, including Trace Holland. The gunman's right arm wasn't in a sling, but he held it a little stiffly, Bo noted. That bullet crease had to still be bothering him some.

Scratch watched the newcomers just as intently as Bo did. He said quietly, “You reckon they got any hide-out guns on 'em?”

“I doubt it,” Bo said. “Marshal Haltom has deputies posted outside the door to pat down all the men who come in. Anyway, I don't reckon Ned Fontaine would allow it. He knows that folks here in town have tried to stay neutral when it comes to the trouble between him and Pa. If Fontaine or his men were to try to stir up a ruckus at one of these socials, though, the people would turn on him.”

Scratch grunted and said, “Reckon you're right. That don't mean I trust the varmint.”

“No,” Bo allowed, “me, neither.”

The Fontaines' entrance into the school had had a ripple effect. The fiddle players had slowed their sawing with their bows and then stopped. The guitar players quit picking. The Creels and their men who had come into town with them bristled like a pack of dogs that has just spotted a rival pack. The Fontaine riders did likewise. The crowd parted slowly and opened a lane between the two factions.

Likely no one really believed powdersmoke was about to roll, but just on the off chance that it was, nobody wanted to be in the line of fire.

John Creel stood up from the bench where he'd been sitting and stepped forward so that he was at the front of his group. Bo could tell that his father and Ned Fontaine were looking directly at each other. Each man had his face set in a hard, expressionless mask.

Then, as if some unfathomable signal had passed between them, both men nodded. Each moved his head only a fraction of an inch, but it was enough.

The truce was declared.

With a screech of strings, one of the fiddlers started to play again. The rest of the musicians followed suit, and a spritely tune soon filled the schoolhouse. The couples on the floor began to dance again.

“Looks like war's been averted,” Scratch said. “For now.”

“Yeah,” Bo agreed. “I hope it lasts.”

 

 

Samantha Fontaine danced the first dance with her father, then had a dance with each of her brothers. Lee watched her as she twirled around the floor with them. In the yellow dress that she wore, she had never looked prettier, he thought.

He tried not to stare. In fact, he danced with several of the girls from town and from some of the smaller ranches in the area. Some of them were mighty nice, too, and sent unmistakable indications of interest in his direction.

But none of them were Samantha.

He was careful not to stare. Danny Fontaine was a known hothead. If he saw a Creel staring at his sister, he was liable to lose his temper and start a fight over it.

Lee didn't want that. He was determined to dance with Samantha tonight, but he was going to pick his moment. If everyone was going to see the two of them in each other's arms, everything had to be right.

Lee hoped he could stand to wait that long. Samantha was so beautiful that the temptation was mighty fierce . . .

As the evening progressed, a couple of squeezebox players joined the fiddlers and guitar pickers. Given the number of settlers in the area who had German ancestry, it was inevitable that they'd play a few polkas. Lee thought he might be able to switch off with somebody and claim Samantha for a dance during one of those numbers, but it didn't work out that way.

But a square dance was coming up. That was even more inevitable than the polkas. And one of the main features of a square dance was that the dancers had to change partners while it was going on.

Lee was going to make sure he was in the right place in the dance's intricate pattern.

He was starting to think the right moment was never going to arrive, but then one of the fiddle players, an old man with a short white beard, began to call out the opening moves of a square dance. Everybody here knew what to do, of course, and moved eagerly into position. Those who weren't dancing began to clap out the rhythm. All grudges were forgotten in the joy and excitement that gripped the room.

The caller's words, like those of an auctioneer, spewed out almost too swiftly to understand. But people knew what to do, and they whirled and twirled around the floor, feet stomping and shuffling, big grins on their faces as they dosey-doed. Breath came fast, and the air in the room heated up some.

During the evening, some of the men slipped outside to smoke and take nips from flasks and tell bawdy stories. The music of the square dance drew them back in, though, and the schoolroom was packed. There wasn't much room for a misstep.

When one came, it was at the worst possible time for Lee. He figured that in another ten seconds or so, they'd be switching partners again, and this time it would be Samantha who wound up in his arms.

But no, that was when Danny Fontaine had to go and bump into Lee's older brother, Jason. The impact was hard enough to stagger both men for a second.

And Danny, being Danny, had to yell, “Hey, watch where you're goin', you damned clumsy Creel!”

That outburst made an apprehensive hush fall over the room. Jason, who sported a thin mustache and a goatee that made him look a little like a Confederate cavalry commander during the Late Unpleasantness, responded into the tense silence, “It was you who bumped into me, Fontaine.”

“That's a damned dirty lie!” Danny blazed back at him.

Jason reacted to that insult the way any man would. He balled his hands into fists and took a step toward Danny.

Before any punches could be thrown, though, Marshal Haltom got between them. The burly lawman held up both hands and said, “There's not gonna be any fighting in here, and you boys know it. That's against the rules.”

“No man calls me a liar and gets away with it,” Jason said.

“You got any scores to settle, you do it outside,” Haltom snapped.

Danny sneered and said, “Fine by me.” He turned and stalked toward the door, stripping off his suit coat as he went. It was an undeniable challenge that couldn't go unanswered.

Jason stomped along behind him, yanking his tie and shirt collar loose in preparation for battle.

Lee was left standing there with Samantha only a few feet away from him, almost within arm's reach.

But he wasn't fated to reach her, because the crowd began to flow between them as an exodus started. If Danny Fontaine and Jason Creel were going to fight, people wanted to get a good look at the combat.

Samantha's eyes met Lee's just before the view between them was blocked. Their gazes held mutual disappointment.

Then the press of people around them carried them toward the doors, too.

 

 

Bo said to his brothers, “Should we try to stop this?”

“Stop it, hell,” Cooper said. “My boy's not gonna stand for what that little Fontaine coyote said to him. If he did, I'd kick his behind myself.”

“Could be this is a trick of some sort?”

“No, it's not,” Riley said. “You saw it with your own eyes, Bo. This is just Danny Fontaine being the hotheaded fool he always is.”

Riley was probably right about that, Bo thought.

The Creel brothers, along with Scratch, emerged from the schoolhouse. A large group of men surrounded an open area under the trees where the kids played during their recess. The women all stayed inside, since it wouldn't be fitting and proper for them to witness a fight like this . . . but that didn't stop them from peeking avidly out the windows.

Several men had found lanterns and lit them, and the light from them washed over the area where Danny Fontaine and Jason Creel faced each other.

Both young men were in shirtsleeves now. Danny rolled his sleeves up, and Jason followed suit. Danny lifted his fists in a boxer's stance and moved them back and forth slightly in front of his face.

Somewhat awkwardly, Jason did the same thing. As soon as his arms came up, though, Danny dropped his and charged, ducking under Jason's arms to tackle him around the waist.

The unexpected collision knocked Jason off his feet. He crashed down on his back with Danny on top of him. Danny began hammering punches at Jason's head, while at the same time trying to dig his knees into Jason's groin and belly.

Jason grabbed Danny by the head. He was a little bigger and stronger than his opponent. He flung Danny off of him and rolled away. Jason tried to get to his feet first, but Danny was too quick for him. He swung his legs up and kicked like a mule. The heels of Danny's boots thudded into Jason's chest and knocked him sprawling again.

This time Danny sprang up and tried kicking and stomping the other man. He landed a couple of kicks to Jason's ribs that must have been painful, but when he tried to bring his heel down in the middle of Jason's face, Jason was able to grab Danny's foot and wrench it savagely. Danny yelped in pain and toppled as Jason twisted his leg.

The onlookers shouted encouragement to the two brawlers as the fight continued. In the garish lantern light, the blood that began to well from Danny's nose after Jason landed a wild punch looked even redder than it really was. Danny gouged at Jason's eyes and missed, but his fingernails left ragged scratches down Jason's cheeks that oozed crimson.

Bo looked around and saw his father and Ned Fontaine standing on opposite sides of the circle around the fighters. They were glaring at each other as much or more than they were watching the clash.

It was almost like they were the ones who were really battling here tonight, Bo thought. The two younger men were just surrogates, stand-ins for this festering conflict between two old-timers.

Eventually, Jason's superior size and strength began to prevail, although not until he and Danny had battered each other bloody and nearly senseless. Danny must have sensed that he was on the verge of losing, because he threw everything he had into one final, reckless rush.

Jason met him with a solid, well-thrown punch that landed cleanly on Danny's jaw and stretched him out on the ground. Danny tried to push himself up again, then groaned and fell back. All the fight went out of him. He lay there gasping for breath as his chest heaved. He seemed to be only semiconscious.

Men thronged around Jason to slap him on the back and congratulate him. Bodies bumped and pushed all around Bo. He had gotten separated from Scratch in the crowd, as well as from his brothers.

He was looking around for them when something struck him from behind. He felt as much as heard cloth rip, and then he felt the unmistakable touch of cold steel as it slid along his ribs.

The icy touch of the blade turned hot as it sliced into Bo's skin.

But he was already twisting away from the knife and throwing an elbow up and around behind him. Bone struck bone, and he knew he had caught his opponent in the head.

By the time he got turned around, though, someone grabbed his arm and demanded, “Whoa there, Bo! What are you doin'?”

He saw the familiar round face of Orin Moody, one of Bear Creek's storekeepers. Moody wouldn't have tried to knife him. Bo was certain of that. His assailant must have ducked behind the merchant when he realized that his thrust had failed to kill his intended victim.

“Orin, did you see who was just standing here behind me?”

“You mean the fella you hit with your elbow? I saw him, but I didn't get a good look at him.”

“You don't know who it was?”

Moody shook his head and said, “Nope, afraid not. He had his hat pulled down so I couldn't see much of his face, and I wasn't really payin' attention, you know. I was watchin' all those fellas slappin' your nephew on the back. Heck of a fight, wasn't it?”

“Yeah,” Bo said. “A heck of a fight.”

He knew that finding the man who'd attacked him was hopeless now. There had to be more than a hundred men out here. The would-be killer could blend into the crowd and be completely safe.

Bo's left side stung. He put a hand to it, felt the tear in his coat where the knife had gone through. Under it, he touched the warm wetness of blood. He was pretty sure that he wasn't hurt badly, but the wound would need to be cleaned up.

Scratch appeared at his side and asked with a worried frown, “Bo, are you all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can tell something's got you shook. You don't ride with a fella as long as I have with you and not be able to tell when something's wrong.”

“Somebody just came within a couple of inches of putting a knife in my heart,” Bo said, quietly enough that only his friend would hear in the continuing commotion.

Scratch's eyes widened in surprise.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I'll go find Doc Perkins—”

“I don't think the wound is that bad. Find Lauralee instead.” Bo smiled grimly. “If you don't get her before the dancing starts again, those
hombres
in there will never let her leave.”

Scratch hurried off and returned a few minutes later with Lauralee, who had draped a white lace shawl around her shoulders.

“Scratch says you're hurt,” she said anxiously to Bo.

“It doesn't amount to much,” he assured her, “but I thought maybe we could go back to your place and patch it up.”

“That's a good idea. Come on.”

The three of them started to walk away from the school. As they passed Lee Creel, the young man asked, “Where are you goin', Uncle Bo? The dance ain't over.”

“Just getting some air,” Bo said. “Maybe we'll be back later.”

Lee shrugged. He seemed to have something else on his mind. Probably that young woman he'd been waiting for earlier.

Bo, Scratch, and Lauralee crossed the bridge over Bear Creek and went to the Southern Belle, which was open but not doing much business on this night of the semi-annual town social. The saloon would be busy later, though. With so many people in town, a lot of them would want a drink after the social was over.

Roscoe the bartender greeted them by saying, “Didn't expect to see you back this early, Miss Lauralee.”

“The social wasn't as exciting as usual,” she said dryly. She took Bo and Scratch through a door at the end of the bar and into her office. Once the door was closed, she told Bo, “Get that coat and shirt off.”

Bo complied with the order, revealing a thin gash that stretched for several inches along his ribs. The wound had bled quite a bit, but it wasn't deep. The would-be killer's aim had been off.

That made Bo wonder if the man had struck it with the wrong hand. Trace Holland was right-handed, but his right arm would be too stiff for him to use it to stab someone. Trying it left-handed could have been responsible for making him miss.

That was pure speculation, though, Bo cautioned himself. He had no proof Holland had tried to kill him again.

Lauralee used a rag soaked in whiskey to clean the blood away from the wound. Bo's jaw tightened at the stuff 's fiery bite, but he didn't make a sound.

“I don't think it'll need any stitches,” Lauralee announced after she had studied the injury. “I'll just clean it up a little better and then bandage it.”

“I'm obliged to you,” Bo told her. He trusted Lauralee's judgment. She had helped out Doc Perkins enough in the past that she was probably better qualified to practice medicine than some of the pill-pushers on the frontier.

Scratch tilted his hat back and asked, “Which one of those Fontaine skunks you reckon did this, Bo?”

“What makes you so sure it was a Fontaine man?”

Scratch snorted.

“Does anybody else around Bear Creek have a reason for wantin' you dead?” he asked.

“Well . . . to be honest, I can't think of anybody,” Bo admitted. “It sort of crossed my mind that Trace Holland might have made another try for me. He's a better gunman than he is a knife artist, though.”

“Lucky for you . . . and lucky for him, too.”

Bo raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“If he'd killed you, then I'd have had to kill him,” Scratch explained.

For two
hombres
who had been trail partners as long as these two, that made perfect sense.

 

 

Samantha could tell that her father was angry because of how thin-lipped his mouth was when he rejoined her in the schoolhouse. He always looked like that when he was trying to hold in hot words.

“Is Danny all right?” she asked him.

Fontaine snorted disgustedly.

“Better than he deserves, the arrogant young pup,” he said. “I told him I didn't want any trouble here tonight. I specifically told him to watch his step around that Creel bunch.”

Samantha had been hoping to catch a moment alone with one particular member of “that Creel bunch” in the aftermath of the fight, but that hadn't worked out. Lee was in the middle of his relatives, where she couldn't very well approach him.

Fontaine's expression softened a bit as he went on, “Still, I suppose Daniel didn't have much choice. I didn't raise him to back down from trouble when he's in the right.”

That was the problem, Samantha thought. Danny was always in the right as far as their father was concerned, especially if there were any Creels involved. Ned Fontaine let his dislike of the family color all of his opinions.

“Anyway,” Fontaine continued with a curt gesture, “the boy's going to be bruised and sore, and his pride is certainly wounded, but other than that he's fine. Some of the men dumped a bucket of water over his head, and he came around right away. I told them to get him cleaned up and take him back out to the ranch.”

“Are we leaving, too?” Samantha asked, trying to keep the despair out of her voice.

“Yes, I think so. We don't really belong here with these ruffians.”

Samantha sighed, causing her father to frown.

“What's the matter?” he asked. “Did you want to stay?”

“I don't see other people very often . . .”

She couldn't explain to her father that she'd been hoping to dance with Lee Creel tonight. He had promised that they would.

Of course, she was logical enough to know that it was probably better if they didn't. That would be just asking for more trouble, and there had already been enough of that tonight, thanks to Danny.

She summoned up a smile and went on, “But that's all right. We can go. It
is
awfully warm in here.”

Fontaine grunted agreement and took her arm to lead her out of the schoolhouse.

Samantha glanced around and asked, “Where's Nick? I don't see him.”

“I don't know. He can come back in his own good time.”

Samantha started to ask why it was all right for Nick to stay at the dance but she had to leave. She bit back the words before they came out, knowing they would just annoy her father. Anyway, the answer was obvious.

Nick could do whatever he wanted because he was male, and because their father trusted him.

After all, Nick practically ran the ranch these days, didn't he?

 

 

A few yards away from where Nick Fontaine stood under an oak tree, two of the Rafter F punchers were helping a still-groggy Danny Fontaine into his saddle. Once he was on the horse, Danny swayed back and forth so perilously that one of the men had to grab his arm to steady him.

As Nick leaned against the rough-barked trunk, he dragged deeply on the cigarette he had rolled. As the coal on the end of the coffin nail flared up, its orange glow cast faint shadows over the harsh planes of his face.

“It'd serve him right if he fell off and broke his fool neck,” Nick said. “Try to keep him from doing that, though.”

“Sure, boss,” one of the men said. “We'll ride on either side of him so he can't topple clean off. Mulligan, I'll hang on to him while you fetch our horses.”

The other cowboy hurried off to do that.

A dark shape sidled up to Nick in the shadows under the tree. The newcomer started to say something, but Nick lifted a hand to stop him for the moment. The two men stood there until Danny and his minders had ridden off.

Then Nick said in a low, angry voice, “That's twice you've missed, Trace. You reckon you deserve a third try?”

“I don't see how Creel's not dead,” Trace Holland replied, equally quietly. “He must've shifted a little just as I went to put the knife in his back.”

“Or else your aim was off. Either way, Creel's alive. Was he at least hurt bad enough to lay him up for a while?”

Holland hesitated, then answered, “The way he walked off under his own power with Morton and that saloon gal, it didn't really look like it.”

Nick blew smoke out his nose and stood there stiffly for a few seconds before he muttered, “I'm tired of this.”

“I'll get Bo Creel, boss, I swear it—”

“I'm not talking about your feeble attempts to kill Bo Creel. I'm talking about this whole damned dance we've been doing with his family for the past year. I'm tired of trying to ease them out of the way. It's time to take more direct action.”

Holland's lean form practically trembled with anticipation as he said, “Are you talkin' about a raid on the Star C? Because if you are, I can get enough good men together to wipe that bunch off the face of the earth. If we bring in Palmer's bunch alone—”

“Don't be a damned fool,” Nick snapped. “That might have worked ten years ago, but if we tried something like that now we'd have the Rangers down on our necks. We've kept things quiet enough so far that we haven't drawn their attention, and I'd just as soon keep it that way.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Nick flicked the butt of the quirley away from him in the darkness and said, “We're going to let the law do all the hard work for us.”