Texas Bloodshed

CHAPTER 2

Bo turned quickly, too, his hand going to his gun as he did so. He saw the deputy marshal who’d been driving the wagon wrestling with a burly, unshaven man as they fought over possession of the deputy’s rifle.

Another man and a woman were dashing away across the courthouse lawn.

“Those prisoners are escaping!” Bo snapped. “Come on, Scratch!”

It never occurred to him to just stand there and watch the drama unfolding, which is what most people would have done. In fact, there were already a number of bystanders gawking at the struggle behind the wagon or at the fugitives running past them.

The Texans started running, too. Luckily, the direction in which the escaping prisoners had fled sent them on a course that Bo and Scratch could intersect at an angle. If that hadn’t happened, they probably wouldn’t have had a chance to catch up, because the prisoners were younger and faster.

The woman was especially swift. She’d hiked up her long skirt, and her bare calves flashed in the winter sunlight as she sprinted for freedom. Long, curly blond hair bounced on her shoulders and back as she ran. Scratch, who was a little faster on his feet than Bo, went after her, while Bo targeted the tall, skinny hombre with long black hair.

Bo’s pulse was pounding hard after only a few feet. He knew he couldn’t hope to win a distance race with this long-legged gent, so he took a chance and launched himself off his feet in a diving tackle at the man’s legs.

He almost fell short, but he was able to get a hand on one of the man’s ankles. The fugitive let out a startled yell as he pitched forward out of control. The yell turned into a pained grunt as his face plowed into the grass and dirt of the lawn.

The impact of Bo’s own landing on the ground knocked the breath out of him and stunned him for a second. He knew, though, that he didn’t have time to lie there and recover. He scrambled onto his hands and knees and lunged toward the man he had tripped up.

The fugitive rolled over and brought a mallet-like fist swinging up at Bo’s head. Bo twisted so that the blow landed on his left shoulder instead.

The punch packed enough power that it made his arm go numb all the way down. He dropped on top of the man, driving his right elbow into the fugitive’s belly as he did so. Sour breath gusted from the man’s mouth into Bo’s face.

Years of finding himself in such rough-and-tumble brawls had given Bo plenty of experience. He considered himself an honorable man, but when you were fighting for your life, no holds were barred and no blows were too low. He aimed a knee at his opponent’s groin. That was usually the quickest way of ending a fight.

It probably would have been in this case if the knee had landed. But the man blocked the blow with a thigh and slammed clubbed fists into Bo’s jaw. The brutal wallop sent Bo rolling across the lawn.

The man lunged up into a stumbling run and scrambled after him. He bent, reaching for the Colt in Bo’s holster.

Bo had no idea who the man was or why that deputy marshal had arrested him and brought him here to Fort Smith, but he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to let an escaping prisoner get his hands on a gun. Bo jerked his right leg up at the last minute and planted the toe of his boot in the man’s belly.

The man’s own momentum, along with a heave from Bo’s leg, sent him flying through the air above the Texan. He crashed down hard, and this time the soft lawn didn’t cushion his fall. He landed on one of the flagstone walks instead.

Bo rolled over, came up on a knee, and drew his gun. He leveled the Colt at the fugitive, who was also gasping for breath now as he lay on the ground.

“Don’t move ... mister,” Bo warned as he tried to catch his own breath. “I’ll blow one of your knees apart if you do, and you’ll never walk right again.”

The man’s face contorted in a snarl. He started to push himself up and said, “I’ll never walk again after they hang me, anyway!”

That made sense. He didn’t have anything to lose. Bo’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Meanwhile, Scratch had given chase to the blonde. She must have heard him coming after her, because she glanced over her shoulder at him with wide blue eyes. Seeing him closing in on her, she increased her speed.

Scratch didn’t have enough breath left to curse, or he would have. Instead he just tried to run a little harder.

The woman had almost reached the streets that ran through Fort Smith’s business district. If she made it into that maze of hills and buildings and people, she would stand a good chance of getting away. Scratch knew that. If he drew one of his Remingtons and took a shot at her, he could probably bring her down, even on the run like this.

But he had never liked the idea of shooting at a woman, even one who must have broken the law. Nor did he know what crimes this particular gal was charged with. Gunplay didn’t seem called for.

And he couldn’t close the gap, so it was starting to look like she was going to escape.

She likely would have, too, if a man leading a team of mules hadn’t emerged from the mouth of an alley just as the woman rounded a corner and started along the street. She let out a startled cry and had to come to a sudden stop to avoid running into them.

Scratch saw that and poured on the last of the speed he had in reserve. He reached out and grabbed the collar of the blonde’s dress as she tried to dart around the mules and their startled owner.

With a loud rip, the garment tore, splitting down the back and exposing a considerable expanse of smooth, creamy skin. Scratch bunched his fingers in the fabric and didn’t let go. He tried to haul the woman closer so he could get hold of her.

“Help!” she screamed. “This crazy old coot’s trying to rape me!”

Well, shoot! Scratch thought. That was a smart move on her part. They had gone around a corner and were out of sight of the courthouse now, and the folks who’d been walking along this street had no earthly idea what was going on. Naturally, they believed the woman’s apparently terrified claim that she was the victim here.

The man with the mules let go of the reins and came toward Scratch.

“Let go of her, you varmint!” he yelled.

A woman cried, “Somebody fetch the law!”

More men shouted threatening curses as they closed in around Scratch. He couldn’t fight all of them, and he sure couldn’t hang on to the blonde if they jumped him.

So he did the only thing he could. He pulled the woman closer to him with his left land, drew his right-hand Remington, and bellowed, “Everybody back off, dadblast it!”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman’s hand come up. Sunlight flashed on something she was holding. He jerked his head back, and it was a good thing he did, otherwise the small straight razor she had flicked open would have cut his throat neatly from ear to ear.

She grunted in fury as she twisted in his grip. The dress ripped even more. She slashed down at his arm with the razor, and he had to let go of her and yank his arm back to avoid being cut. As it was, the blade sliced through the sleeve of his buckskin jacket.

She could have run again then, but rage made her come after Scratch instead. She swiped the razor back and forth at his face, forcing him to give ground. Scratch was more tempted now to shoot her, but if he did that, some of the bystanders might open fire on him.

Somebody grabbed him from behind, wrapping strong arms around him and saying, “I got him, ma’am! He won’t hurt you now!”

The same couldn’t be said of the blonde. With her face twisted in lines of hate, she kept coming, obviously intent on carving Scratch’s rugged face into bloody ribbons.

Back on the courthouse lawn, Bo was about to fire at the prisoner he’d been battling when somebody suddenly stepped past him and swung a leg in a well-aimed kick. The man’s boot crashed into the fugitive’s jaw and laid him out again. The newcomer moved in and brought the butt of his rifle crashing down on the back of the man’s neck.

Bo recognized the rugged-looking deputy marshal who had driven the wagon up to the courthouse. More law officers swarmed past him and grabbed the unconscious fugitive.

The deputy swung his rifle toward Bo and snapped, “Put that gun down, mister. Better yet, holster it. You’re makin’ me nervous.”

Bo pouched the iron as he came to his feet. Obviously, the deputy had overcome the man he’d been fighting with at the wagon, maybe with help from other deputies who’d come running out of the courthouse.

“Did you see which way that yellow-haired gal went?” the lawman went on.

“She was headed that way,” Bo said as he pointed toward the downtown area. “My partner was after her.”

“Come on, then. She’s the most loco one in the whole bunch!”

Bo and the deputy ran toward Fort Smith’s business district. They heard a lot of yelling, and as they rounded a corner they saw a group of people in the street. Through gaps in the crowd, Bo caught a glimpse of Scratch being held from behind, his arms pinned by a burly townsman.

The blonde that Scratch had pursued was coming at him, a razor in her uplifted hand.

The deputy skidded to a halt and fired three shots into the air, cranking off the rounds as fast as he could work the Henry’s lever. The roar of the shots made people in the crowd gasp, curse, and fall back.

They also made the woman hesitate, and Scratch took advantage of the opportunity to lift his left leg in a kick that caught her wrist and sent the razor flying from her fingers.

Disarmed, the woman whirled around to flee again. The deputy snapped the rifle to his shoulder and fired again, this time through a narrow gap in the crowd. The bullet smacked into the paving stones at the woman’s feet.

The deputy worked the Henry’s lever and called, “Next one goes in your back, Cara! You know I ain’t foolin’!”

The mob that had surrounded Scratch and the woman was vanishing rapidly as people scrambled for cover. There was nothing like a few gunshots for clearing a street in a hurry. The deputy had an unobstructed aim now as he settled the rifle’s sights on the woman’s back.

She must have known he would kill her rather than let her get away, because she stopped and raised her hands. The torn dress hung open almost indecently, revealing her smooth back down to the curve of her hips.

“Marshal, that woman needs something to wear,” Bo said, his chivalrous instincts coming into play even in this situation.

“Don’t worry about that murderous whore,” the lawman muttered.

More deputies who had come running from the courthouse closed in around the blonde. They jerked her arms behind her back and clapped handcuffs around her wrists. Only when she was securely manacled did one of the men take off his coat and drape it around her shoulders where the mutilated dress was threatening to slip down and expose even more of her.

The lawman who stood next to Bo and Scratch finally lowered his rifle and stepped aside to let the other deputies lead the prisoner past them.

“Lock her up, boys, but don’t put her in with Lowe and Elam,” he ordered. He turned to the Texans and looked like he was about to say something else, but a stentorian shout interrupted him.

“Brubaker!”

“Aw, hell,” the deputy muttered. “Here comes Parker.”