William Johnstone: Texas Bloodshed

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.