Sidewinders (2 page)

When they reached the creek they turned west, following the stream as it gradually curved south. The creek flowed lazily between eight-foot-tall banks lined with cottonwoods and live oaks.

A short time later, Bo and Scratch spotted the steeples of the Baptist church and the Methodist church, which sat at opposite ends of the settlement. That hadn't changed in the decade since they had been here last.

The town of Bear Creek had grown some, though, Bo saw as the trail he and Scratch had been following turned into the main street. A number of businesses stood on either side of the road, including the Bear Creek Hotel and the First State Bank. The office of the Bear Creek
Sentinel
was on the right. The town hadn't had a newspaper the last time the two drifters were here. Brantley's Livery Stable was still operating, but it had some competition now in the form of Hersheimer's Livery. Old Doc Perkins's shingle still hung in front of his office, and it appeared that Ed Tyson was still practicing law.

The biggest change was on the east side of the creek, which was spanned by a sturdy wooden bridge. The last time Bo and Scratch had been in Bear Creek, there were two saloons over there, and that was all. Now there were more than a dozen buildings on that side of the stream, and even though it was just the middle of the afternoon, Bo heard the rinky-tink strains of piano music in the air. The so-called bad side of town had grown a lot.

Scratch licked his lips, nodded toward the proliferation of drinking establishments, and said, “Would you look over there? Progress has come to Bear Creek.”

“Some people might argue about your definition of progress,” Bo said. “Vice and respectability usually go hand in hand, though. They call it civilization.”

That brought a laugh from the silver-haired Texan.

“Let's go across the creek and cut the trail dust,” Scratch suggested. “You reckon Lauralee Parker still owns the Southern Belle Saloon?”

“One way to find out,” Bo said. He headed his horse toward the bridge.

Several people were on the boardwalks of Bear Creek's business section. As he and Scratch rode past, Bo noticed the way they were looking at him. Some shot apprehensive glances in his direction, while others stared in open disbelief. When they had ridden a few more yards, he said quietly to Scratch, “Looks like these people are just as spooked to see me as old Avery was.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Scratch said. “What in blazes is goin' on here, Bo?”

“I don't know,” Bo replied with a shake of his head, “but I don't like it much.”

“I don't cotton to it, either. You want to turn around and get out of here?”

Bo thought about it for a second, then shook his head again.

“No, we've come this far. I want to see my pa, and Riley and Cooper and Hank and their families. I'm sure you want to see your kinfolks, too.”

“Yeah, that's true. Plus it'd sort of feel like we were running away from trouble, and you know how that rubs me the wrong way.”

Bo smiled.

“Yeah, any time there's trouble, you generally light a shuck right toward it, don't you?”

Scratch didn't answer that question. Instead he said, “Look, there's Jesse Peterson.” Without waiting for Bo to reply, he reined his horse toward the boardwalk on the left side of the street and hailed a man who stood there. “Hey, Jesse.”

Peterson was about their age and owned a saddle shop. Bo and Scratch had known him since all three of them were youngsters. Peterson was a stocky man with graying red hair and bushy side whiskers. His beefy face wore a frown as Scratch rode toward him, followed by Bo.

“Scratch Morton,” Peterson declared dubiously. “That really is you, isn't it?”

Scratch grinned and said, “Yep. And Bo's with me, too.”

“I see him,” Peterson said. The man's voice was as chilly as the blue northers that sometimes swept down across Texas from the Panhandle.

Bo brought his horse alongside Scratch's mount. He said, “What's going on here, Jesse? You act like you're not glad to see me, and when we ran into old Avery Hollins out on the trail, he seemed like he was scared of us.”

“You didn't hurt him, did you?” Peterson asked with a note of alarm in his voice.

“Hurt him?” Scratch repeated. “Why in tarnation would we hurt a harmless old coot like Avery?”

“Figured you'd be just as bad as he is,” Peterson snapped. “The two of you always were peas in a pod. Why don't you go away and leave us alone?”

Scratch flushed with anger. He started to swing down from his saddle, saying, “By God—”

Bo reached over and touched his friend's arm.

“Don't,” he said. “Just let it go.”

“But it's startin' to look like everybody in the whole town's gone loco,” Scratch protested.

Peterson said, “You're a fine one to talk about somebody going loco.” He slid a hand under his coat. “I've got a pistol here. If you try anything, I'll—”

“If we wanted to gun you down, some little pistol wouldn't stop us,” Scratch said.

Peterson kept his hand under his coat and backed toward the doorway behind him.

“Leave me alone,” he said. “The only reason I haven't started yelling for the marshal is because the two of you used to be my friends, but if you bother me, I swear I'll—”

Scratch interrupted him again.

“Come on, Bo,” he said as he hauled his horse's head around. “I can't listen to any more of this craziness. Maybe if we get drunk enough, things'll start to make sense.”

Peterson's florid face paled.

“You're going across the creek?” he asked in a hushed, frightened voice.

“What business is that of yours?” Scratch demanded.

Peterson didn't answer. Instead he turned abruptly and broke into a run along the boardwalk. Bo and Scratch were both startled. Scratch exclaimed, “What the hell!”

“Something's mighty wrong here, partner,” Bo said. “Come on. Maybe we'll get some straight answers on the other side of the creek.”

“Folks were always more plainspoken over there, that's true.”

During the conversation with Jesse Peterson, the boardwalks on both sides of the street had cleared out, Bo noted. It was like everybody had scurried for cover when they saw him and Scratch. That made no sense.

Scratch had come to the same conclusion. He said, “Folks cleared out like ol' Santa Anna his own self just rode into town with the whole blamed Mexican army behind him. None of this makes a lick of sense, Bo.”

“Not so far,” Bo admitted, “but maybe there's a logical explanation.”

As they reached the western end of the bridge and started across it, four men on horseback were riding onto the bridge from the eastern end. Judging from the way a couple of them swayed in their saddles, they looked like they had been drinking. When they saw Bo and Scratch riding toward them, all four men stopped short.

The bridge was about sixty feet long. Despite their age, both Bo and Scratch still had excellent eyesight, so they could see the faces of the men at the other end of the bridge. Bo didn't recognize any of them, but they were all young, in their early twenties, he judged. That meant they would have been just kids the last time he and Scratch were in these parts, if they had even been around Bear Creek back then.

All four men wore range clothes and had lariats looped on their saddles. Bo figured them for cowhands who worked on the ranches along Bear Creek. This was good, fertile rangeland around here, and the first herds of longhorns that had gone up the cattle trails to the railroad in Kansas after the war had come from this area.

Bo and Scratch kept riding. The cowboys stayed where they were, sitting in their saddles and regarding the two older men with hostile stares. Their horses blocked the eastern end of the bridge.

“I don't much like the looks of this,” Scratch said under his breath. “Those fellas look like they're on the prod.”

“Yeah, and I think they've been drinking, too,” Bo said. “That's not a very good combination.”

“Want to turn around and go back?”

“We talked about that,” Bo said, his eyes narrowing. “I don't cotton to it, either.”

Scratch chuckled.

“We're outnumbered two to one,” he pointed out. “And they're a heap younger than us.”

“That just means they'll underestimate us, doesn't it?”

They were in the middle of the bridge now. Suddenly one of the cowboys nudged his horse forward. The other three followed suit. Bo and Scratch had to rein in as the four riders clattered toward them. The cowboys didn't stop until they had closed the gap to about ten feet.

The one who had started forward first asked, “Is your name Creel?”

“That's right,” Bo said. “Do I know you, son?”

“No, but you match the description,” the young man shot back. He was slender, with a foxlike face and fair hair under his Stetson. Now that Bo was closer, he could see that the young man's clothes were a little cleaner and more expensive than a cowboy's usual garb. The fella might not be a typical forty-a-month-and-found puncher after all, although the other three certainly were. He went on, “And I'm sure as hell not your son, so don't call me that.”

“No offense meant,” Bo said. “If you and your friends will move aside a mite, we'll go on past. This bridge is wide enough for all of us.”

“The hell it is,” the young man snapped. “And if you think I'm gonna let you go across the creek after what you've done, you're crazy.”

“After what I've—mister, you're the one who's crazy. My partner and I just rode into Bear Creek a few minutes ago. I haven't done anything around here for a long time.”

The young man sneered.

“Yeah, it figures you'd lie about it,” he said. “No-account bastard like you.”

“By God, that tears it!” said Scratch. “Get out of our way, you young pup, or—”

“You're not going anywhere,” the young man said. “We're holding you here for the law. Grab 'em, boys!”

With that the riders surged forward, charging the startled Bo and Scratch.

The attack might have taken them somewhat by surprise, but they had ridden into trouble so many times they were in the habit of being ready for it. They yanked their horses apart, Bo going left, Scratch going right.

The youngster who had done all the talking so far hung back a little so that his three companions were in the lead. Typical of a troublemaker to start a fight and then let somebody else run the risk, thought Bo.

The only good thing about this confrontation was that they didn't seem to want to turn it into a gun battle. The nearest of the cowboys lunged at Bo, reaching out in an attempt to drag him from the saddle. Bo leaned to the side to avoid the grab, caught hold of the man's arm, and heaved. Instead of Bo being unhorsed, the cowboy suffered that fate, toppling from his mount as he let out a startled yell. He crashed down on the wide planks that formed the bridge. The impact cut short his shout and turned it into a pained “Ooof!”

Meanwhile, one of the other men forced his horse against Scratch's mount. Scratch's horse shied away so violently that the silver-haired Texan's leg was rammed against the railing on that side of the bridge. Scratch snarled a curse as he caught hold of the cowboy's shirt in his left hand and leaned across to slam his right fist into the man's jaw. The blow landed cleanly and caused the man to slew sideways as Scratch let go of him. The cowboy made a grab for his saddle horn but missed. He fell off his horse, too.

The third man left his saddle voluntarily in a diving tackle aimed at Bo. Unable to get out of the way in time, Bo barely had time to kick his feet free of the stirrups before the cowboy slammed into him. They both fell over the railing and plummeted toward the surface of the creek some ten or twelve feet below.

With the cowboy's arms wrapped around him, Bo twisted in midair so the other man hit the water first. A huge splash exploded around them as they went under. Bo had been able to grab a breath just before they landed in the creek, so he didn't have to worry about air for a few seconds.

His opponent, on the other hand, must have swallowed quite a bit of water, because he started thrashing and flailing and forgot all about hanging on to Bo. The creek wasn't that deep, only five or six feet. One good kick took Bo back to the surface, even with the weight of his boots and his wet clothes holding him down. As he broke into the air, he heard a shot.

So much for this not turning into a gunfight, he thought.

But as he looked up at the bridge, he saw that Scratch had one of the Remingtons leveled at the youngster who had provoked the ruckus. The young man thrust his hands in the air as he yelped, “Don't kill me!” Bo knew Scratch had only fired a warning shot over the man's head.

Scratch looked mad enough to ventilate the fox-faced troublemaker, but he held off on the trigger and glanced over the side of the bridge.

“Bo!” he called. “Are you all right?”

The man who had tackled Bo had fought his way back to the surface, but he was coughing and gagging and seemed to have lost any urge to fight. When Bo saw that he told Scratch, “Yeah, I'm fine,” and started wading toward the bank. He spied his hat floating on the water nearby and snatched it on his way to shore.

With water streaming off of him, Bo climbed back onto solid ground. Two of the cowboys were lying on the bridge, momentarily stunned, and Scratch had the other man covered. Bo hurried to his horse and swung up into the saddle. He shook the water out of his hat and clapped it back on his head.

“Until we find out what the devil's going on, let's get out of here,” Bo said.

“I think you're right,” Scratch replied. “We don't want to have to shoot our way out of our own hometown!”

They wheeled their horses and galloped back the way they had come. Behind them, the young man jerked his gun from its holster and began firing after them.

“You won't get away!” he yelled. “You'll pay for what you did to those two girls, Creel!”

Bo and Scratch leaned forward in their saddles to make themselves smaller targets. They were already at the outer edges of effective handgun range, so they weren't too worried about the young troublemaker scoring a hit as he blazed away at them.

Still, lucky shots happened sometimes, so it didn't hurt anything to make it more difficult for a bullet to find them.

Bo didn't know who the marshal was in Bear Creek these days, but he was worried the lawman might try to stop them. He and Scratch didn't like to swap lead with a peace officer unless the man was obviously crooked. They had run into a few dogleg sheriffs and marshals in their time, but when a man wore a star you had to assume he was truly on the side of law and order until you knew different.

Nobody else tried to stop them as they reached the end of the bridge and turned south. The street was still deserted. As they left Bear Creek behind, Bo looked over his shoulder at the town. He didn't see any signs of pursuit.

“Now what?” Scratch called to him over the sound of their horses' hooves.

“Head for the Star C,” Bo said. That was his father's ranch. He and Scratch ought to be safe there, Bo thought, and maybe his pa could tell them why the folks in Bear Creek seemed to have declared open season on Creels.

John Creel's ranch was located on the western side of the creek, where a smaller, nameless stream flowed in from the hills to the west and joined it. That smaller tributary watered the valley that formed the elder Creel's range. John had settled there in 1835, before the revolution, with his wife, Esther, and their three sons, Bo, Riley, and Cooper. The youngest son, Hank, had been born there after Texas won its freedom.

Esther Creel was buried there now, in the little family plot on the hill behind the ranch house. Alongside her were the two daughters who had died in infancy. It seemed that Esther had been destined never to know the joy of raising daughters, and that had been her particular burden to bear. Bo had gone on the drift with Scratch by then, but when the news caught up with him he had mourned the sisters he'd never met.

He had mourned his mother, as well, when a letter from his father containing the news of her death finally caught up with him. As fiddlefooted as he was, getting word to him of anything was usually difficult and time-consuming.

He hoped that his father hadn't passed away, too, and he just wasn't aware of it yet.

His brothers were all married now and had families of their own, but as far as Bo knew, they all still lived on the Star C, helping old John Creel run the ranch. John had settled on the land intending to farm it, but over time he had discovered that it was more suitable to raising cattle. Longhorns ran wild on the range in those days. John had rounded them up, fashioned a brand, and burned it into the hides of the tough, rangy beasts.

Eventually he had built up a fine herd. The War of Northern Aggression had left him cash-poor, though, like everybody else in Texas, and those longhorns were the only asset he'd had in those postwar days, some fifteen years earlier.

At first he had driven them to the Gulf Coast, where the booming hide and tallow business in Fulton provided a market for them. Then, when the expansion of the railroad into Kansas opened up a route to the eastern half of the country, which was starved for beef, John had turned his eyes northward, like most of the other ranchers in Texas. They began driving their herds that direction, through Indian Territory to the railheads over the line, and the true Texas cattle empire was born.

There were a lot bigger and more lucrative spreads than the Star C, but it had always supported the Creel family comfortably. And it was home, which was one reason Bo was looking forward to seeing the place again.

Replaying that family history in his head had helped distract him from the fact that he was soaking wet and utterly confused. He couldn't avoid facing the problem forever, so he said, “That young fella who was shooting at us yelled something about me hurting a couple of girls.”

“I thought that's what he said,” Scratch replied, “but I wasn't sure. That tells us right there this whole blamed mess is a big misunderstandin', Bo. For one thing, you and me haven't been anywhere around these parts lately, and for another, you'd never hurt a gal. That sort of sorry behavior just ain't in you.”

“No, and I thank the Good Lord for that,” Bo said. “But I reckon it's pretty clear folks around here
think
that I did. Whatever happened, it must have been something pretty bad, too. Avery Hollins and Jesse Peterson both acted like they were afraid I was going to haul out my gun and shoot them at any second, without warning.”

“Plumb loco,” Scratch said, shaking his head.

“What we need to do when we get to the ranch is talk to my pa and find out exactly what happened. Then maybe he can ride to town and convince everybody that I didn't do what they think I did.”

“We could always just ride on without stoppin' to see the folks,” Scratch suggested.

Without hesitation, Bo said, “No, I don't want to do that. I want this cleared up. I don't fancy the idea of people believing that I would do such a thing. And you know that if we don't get it settled, some of them always will.”

“Yeah, you're probably right about that,” Scratch admitted. “Once some folks get an idea in their heads, no matter how crazy it may be, they won't ever let go of it unless you can show 'em absolutely, positively, that they're wrong.”

“And even that doesn't always work,” Bo said. “If it did, most politicians would never get elected a second time.”

Scratch had to laugh at that, but it was a rueful laugh because he knew Bo was right.

The sun was bright and warm enough that Bo's clothes had begun to dry by the time they reached the smaller creek. They turned and headed west, following the stream toward the Star C headquarters, which lay a couple of miles in that direction.

“You don't have to come with me if you don't want to,” Bo said. “You've got family to visit, too.”

The old Morton home place lay on the other side of Bear Creek, several miles away. Both of Scratch's parents had passed away, but his sister and her family lived there now, and he had a brother close by, as well.

“There'll be plenty of time to visit once we get this mess squared away,” Scratch said. “We're not in the habit of splittin' up when one of us is in trouble unless there's no way around it.”

“Well, I appreciate that. I hope it won't take very long to put things right.”

They began seeing cattle grazing almost right away. John Creel still ran some longhorns, but he had brought in Herefords and Angus as well to strengthen his herd. Some cattlemen resisted change, but John had always been open to experimenting with things to make his operation better.

“Those are some fat, healthy-lookin' beeves,” Scratch commented. “Appears that the spring roundup ought to be a good one.”

“That's because the drought hasn't been as bad here as it was up north,” Bo said. Most of the upper half of Texas was scorched and dry because of lack of rainfall, leading to conditions that had caused a giant wildfire in which both of the trail partners had almost perished a few weeks earlier. Bo nodded at the fields they were passing and went on, “Everything's a lot greener down here.”

“Yeah, and it's a pretty sight, too—”

Scratch's words stopped short at the sight of several men on horseback emerging from a stand of trees about a hundred yards away.

“That must be some of your pa's riders,” Scratch continued. “I expect they'll be glad to see you—”

His voice came to an abrupt halt again as the riders kicked their mounts into motion and started galloping toward the two drifters. Shots began to pop, and powder smoke spurted into the air from gun muzzles.