Texas Timber War (2 page)

Beyond Caddo Lake, Big Cypress Bayou continued to flow westward and took the paddle wheelers all the way to Jefferson. That was as far into Texas as the river traffic could penetrate, but it was far enough to open up all of eastern Texas to the rest of the world.

As a result, Jefferson wasn't the backwoods settlement it might have been otherwise, but rather a sophisticated, fast-growing city that rivaled Galveston in importance as Texas's second-largest port.

The flow of commerce wasn't all one way, either. Numerous cotton plantations were located in the area, and in the past decade, logging operations had moved in as well to harvest the riches of the hardwood forests. On the return trips, the riverboats that came to Jefferson were loaded with bales of cotton and stacks of timber. At first the loggers had tried floating the felled trees down the bayou, but the current was so slow that it proved to be impractical. Riverboats had turned out to be the answer.

Fargo was well aware of all this, his fiddle-footed ways having taken him through the region several times in the past. He knew this riverboat wouldn't have stopped along here unless something else was wrong, so he swung down from the saddle and looped the reins around the horn. The Ovaro was well trained and would stay put.

‘‘Hello the boat!'' Fargo called in his deep, powerful voice. ‘‘Permission to come aboard?''

He gathered his muscles to make the leap from the bank to the deck. Instead he jumped backward as a shot rang out and a bullet smacked into the bank ahead of him.

‘‘Permission denied!'' a man's voice bellowed.

The voice and the shot both came from the thicket of crates on the main deck. Fargo's hand dropped instinctively to the butt of the big Colt revolver holstered on his right hip, but he left the gun where it was since he couldn't see anybody to shoot at. Anyway, he figured that had been a warning shot, rather than one intended to hit him.

‘‘Hold your fire, damn it!'' he said. ‘‘I don't mean you any harm.'' A grim smile tugged at his mouth. ‘‘Fact of the matter is, I'm the hombre who chased off those pirates who were trying to board you, back down the bayou.''

A man emerged from behind the pile of cargo, carrying a rifle. ‘‘That so?'' he asked. The thick wooden peg that replaced his left leg from the knee down made a clumping sound on the deck as he moved. He was tall and scrawny, with a gray spade beard and a battered old river-man's cap crammed down on a bald head. He went on. ‘‘What the hell business was it of yours, anyway?''

‘‘It looked to me like you folks were in trouble, so I decided to help,'' Fargo replied. ‘‘Simple as that. Just like I figure something else is wrong now, or you wouldn't have stopped here. You'd have gone on and made port in Jefferson.''

‘‘Got it all figured out, ain't you?'' The man spat into the bayou but kept the rifle trained on Fargo. ‘‘What's your name, mister?''

‘‘Skye Fargo.''

The gaunt old-timer's eyes widened in recognition. ‘‘I heard of you,'' he said. ‘‘You're the fella they call the Trailsman.''

‘‘Sometimes,'' Fargo admitted.

‘‘And you ain't an outlaw nor a pirate, leastways not that I recollect.'' Finally, the man lowered the rifle he held in his gnarled but strong-looking hands. ‘‘All right, come aboard, if you're of a mind to.''

Fargo's powerfully muscled form made the jump from the bank to the deck of the riverboat without any trouble.

‘‘I'm Caleb Thorn, the engineer o' this boat,'' the old-timer went on. ‘‘We're obliged to you for your help, mister. If you hadn't come along when you did, that dad-blasted bunch o' river rats might've boarded us.''

‘‘Where is everybody?'' Fargo asked. ‘‘You can't be the only one on board.''

‘‘The passengers, what few there are of 'em, are in their cabins. They all run for cover when the shootin' started, and I don't blame 'em. There ain't no crew 'cept for me and a couple o' firemen, and one o' them got shot during the ruckus. The other boy's tendin' to him now. And the cap'n's up in the wheelhouse, along with—''

Thorn was interrupted by a voice that called down from the tall wheelhouse perched on top of the riverboat's two decks. ‘‘Caleb! Whoever that is, if he knows anything about doctoring, send him up here! I think the captain's about to bleed to death!''

The voice belonged to a woman, and as Fargo looked up at the wheelhouse, he saw the sunlight that penetrated along the bayou shining on blond hair. He caught just a glimpse of her face as she leaned out one of the wheelhouse windows for a moment before ducking back inside, but that was enough to tell him that she was lovely.

‘‘Damn it!'' Thorn burst out. ‘‘Cap'n Russell was hit by one of them bastards durin' the shootin'. Can you give the gal a hand, Fargo?''

‘‘I'm already on my way,'' Fargo said as he strode toward one of the steep sets of stairs that led to the upper deck and the wheelhouse.

It took him only a moment to reach the wheelhouse. When he opened the door and stepped inside, he saw crimson splashed across the chart table. On the other side of the room, which had windows all around for an unimpeded view of the bayou, a man sat on a three-legged stool and leaned against a cabinet. His face was pale and drawn, and his eyes were closed as if he had passed out. The left sleeve of his shirt was soaked with blood.

The young woman who leaned over him, holding an equally blood-soaked cloth to his upper arm, turned a frantic gaze toward Fargo and said, ‘‘I can't stop the bleeding.''

Fargo didn't have time to appreciate her beauty. He stepped past her, reached to the wounded man's midsection, and unbuckled the belt that was cinched around his waist. Fargo pulled the belt free, wrapped it around the man's arm above the injury, and twisted it as tight as he could. The blood welling out of the bullet hole in the captain's arm slowed to a trickle.

‘‘I'll hold this,'' Fargo told the young woman. ‘‘Get me some sort of rod, about the thickness of a gun barrel.''

‘‘Where would I—'' the woman began.

The wounded man opened his eyes, demonstrating that he wasn't unconscious after all. ‘‘There are some . . . spare wheel spokes . . . ,'' he rasped, ‘‘over there in . . . that cabinet.''

He pointed with his right hand, which trembled quite a bit. The woman looked where he was indicating and came back with a wooden spoke that she handed to Fargo.

He thrust it into a loop he had made with the belt and turned it, tightening the makeshift tourniquet even more. ‘‘Now I need some strips of cloth to tie this in place,'' he said. ‘‘Your petticoat will do.''

She flushed but pulled up the long skirt of her dark blue dress. She tore several strips from the bottom of her petticoat and, following Fargo's directions, tied them around the captain's arm so that the spoke couldn't move and release the pressure on the belt.

The bleeding from the wound had almost stopped, and the man's eyes were closed again. This time he seemed to actually be unconscious.

Fargo said to the woman, ‘‘You can't leave that tourniquet on there for very long, but it ought to be all right until you can get to Jefferson. There'll be a doctor there who can patch him up.''

‘‘That's all well and good,'' she said, ‘‘but we may not be able to get to Jefferson. Captain Russell's pilot quit in Shreveport, so he's been navigating by himself. He's the only one who knows where all sandbars and snags are. He has to handle the wheel.''

‘‘He's in no shape to do that,'' Fargo muttered. ‘‘But a boat with such a shallow draft as this one doesn't need much water to get through. I'll take the wheel.''

The woman stared at him. ‘‘Are you sure you know what you're doing?''

Fargo smiled and said, ‘‘You can take over if you want.''

‘‘No, that's all right,'' she said with a quick shake of her head. ‘‘I've been on a lot of riverboats, but I never piloted one.''

‘‘I have,'' Fargo said, ‘‘but it's been a while.''

In truth, his wandering life had been so eventful, as he crossed the frontier from the Mississippi to the Pacific and the Rio Grande to the Yukon, that there weren't very many things he
hadn't
tried his hand at, at one time or another.

He leaned out the open wheelhouse window and called, ‘‘Thorn!''

The old-timer appeared two decks below, on the boat's bow. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, ‘‘How's the cap'n?''

‘‘I think he'll live,'' Fargo replied. ‘‘Give us some steam!''

Even from up in the wheelhouse, he could see Caleb Thorn's eyes widen in surprise. ‘‘You're assumin' command?'' the engineer asked.

‘‘That's right.''

‘‘Well, then, aye, aye, Cap'n Fargo!''

Fargo grunted. He had been called a lot of things in his life, but as far as he could recall, Captain Fargo hadn't been one of them until now.

But there was a first time for everything, even for the Trailsman.

Fargo whistled to the stallion, then moved to take the wheel. He spotted a rubber speaking tube hanging from the wheelhouse ceiling. He grabbed it, blew into it, and yelled, ‘‘Reverse one-quarter!''

The rumble of the engines grew louder, and the big paddle wheel at the stern began to turn, making slow revolutions in the opposite of its usual direction. As the paddles bit into the water of the bayou, the boat moved away from the bank. Fargo turned the wheel, adjusting the rudder so that as the boat backed up, it straightened its course as well.

‘‘Ahead one-half!'' Fargo called into the tube.

The paddle wheel slowed to a stop. Water sluiced off the paddles. Then it began to revolve in the other direction, forcing the vessel upstream against the sluggish current. The three boilers and the twin engines they powered were more than enough to overcome the current.

‘‘Well, we're moving,'' the young woman said. ‘‘I just hope you know what you're doing.''

Fargo smiled at her. ‘‘You and me both, miss.''

He had to keep his attention on the bayou in front of him, but in the brief glance he had just taken at her, he had noted that her eyes were a beautiful shade of blue. Her fair hair was thick and piled on top of her head in an elaborate arrangement of curls. The dress she wore was elegant rather than flashy, but its square-cut neckline was low enough to reveal the upper third or so of her breasts. The creamy, smooth-skinned swells were as lovely as the rest of her.

‘‘What's your name?'' Fargo asked.

‘‘Shouldn't you be concentrating on piloting this boat?''

‘‘Don't worry. I'm paying attention to where I'm going,'' Fargo assured her. He glanced over at the bank and saw the Ovaro moving along it, keeping pace with the riverboat.

Fargo went on. ‘‘Ideally, we'd have a pilot who knows these waters here in the wheelhouse, and a boy up on the bow with a line and a plumb bob, marking the fathoms and calling them up to us. But we'll manage. It's not far to Jefferson.''

‘‘Captain Russell managed to get the boat to shore before he passed out. I didn't realize he was wounded so badly until I saw all the blood.'' A shudder ran through her at the memory.

‘‘He'll be all right.''

‘‘You're awfully sure of yourself, Mr. . . . ?''

‘‘Fargo,'' he supplied his name. ‘‘Skye Fargo.''

‘‘Really?'' She sounded surprised. ‘‘I think I've heard of you.''

‘‘You didn't tell me your name,'' Fargo reminded her.

‘‘It's Isabel Sterling.''

‘‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Sterling. Wish it had been under better circumstances. Like across a poker table.''

He heard her sharply indrawn breath. ‘‘How did you know I'm a gambler?''

‘‘Your hands, mostly. They look like they'd be good with cards. You're young and beautiful and well dressed, not your everyday riverboat passenger. I reckon maybe you could have a different profession, but you don't strike me as that type.''

She gave a short laugh. ‘‘I suppose I should be grateful you don't think I'm a harlot.''

‘‘So I'm right about you being a gambler?''

‘‘You're right,'' she admitted.

Fargo had seen quite a few lovely young women who worked the salons of the Mississippi riverboats as gamblers. Men didn't mind losing their money quite so much when they lost it to a lovely young woman. They figured they had gotten the pleasure of her company out of the game, anyway.

It was a little unusual to see a woman as striking as Isabel Sterling in a place like this, though. Even though there was steady riverboat traffic on Big Cypress Bayou, Fargo doubted that there were many high rollers among the passengers. Isabel could have made a lot more money on the Mississippi.

Which meant she probably had a good reason for being here and not there, he reflected.

He pushed that thought aside, since it was really none of his business. Spotting a slight discoloration in the water ahead of the boat, he turned the wheel to send the vessel slipping past it on the right. When they went by, he saw that he was right—a sandbar lurked just below the surface.

‘‘That was pretty good,'' Isabel said. ‘‘Maybe you
have
done this before.''

Fargo looked at the unconscious Captain Russell and wondered if he ought to push the boat to a faster speed. The engines could take more, easily. But it wouldn't help Russell any if he ripped the boat's hull open on a snag that he hadn't seen until it was too late.