Free Texas Blood Feud by Dusty Richards

of sawhorses. Was this being shunned, or were folks simply afraid to join them for fear they’d get a taste of Reynolds’s wrath?
    Reverend Meeks gave a long soul-saving sermon. He was trying to pry anyone not saved to come to the front, and only a few dared go. Those that did go forward had been saved before. The sobbing of women at times about drowned out his strong voice—but in the end he prevailed and led “The Old Rugged Cross” as a final hymn.
    People filed outside talking in low voices and behind their hands to each other. Chet knew he was on trial by the jury of funeral attendees. But they had no right to judge him. The lynching was out of their jurisdiction. His main concern was how far would they carry it to him. They wouldn’t face him. They’d back-shoot at him from cover, and no one branded as a Byrnes from the babies on would be spared.
    He’d prayed in there. Prayed hard for his family’s safety. Prayed hard that God would make the Reynolds clan see their errors in how they’d raised Roy to take up with hard cases with no regard to the consequences of his crime. Took a man’s livelihood lightly when they rustled those horses—they weren’t range horses. They were a remuda for his cattle drive.
    He was so angry, he could hardly concentrate on anything. From the corner of his eye, he saw the serious face of Marla looking at him. Had he soured their affair? No telling. Jake Porter was due back any time. He’d better keep his wits about him. When Susie was loaded in the buckboard, he turned around to look for Louise. He discovered she was standing aside talking privately to Dale Allen.
    “You load her,” Chet said. “We best go home.”
    Dale Allen nodded and took Louise to the front wheel to assist her up into the box. Chet wanted his brother to know he knew and disapproved of his affair with Louise. How would he do that? Maybe just tell him. That should make for a good fistfight. It had been years since they’d had one of those. The last one was a dragged-out struggle that left them both out of commission for a couple of weeks.
    He mounted Strawberry and rode up to the side wheel of the farm wagon to tell Reg, “Take the ridge road, it’s easier to defend.”
    That meant an hour longer ride—he didn’t care. It meant less exposure to potshots.
    “J.C., you go ahead of them. See anything suspicious, ride back and warn them. Don’t fight them by yourself.”
    The youth nodded.
    “What are you going to do?” Susie asked, sitting on the spring seat with a rifle in her lap.
    “I’m going to see if there are any war parties on the low road. They’d expect us to take it.”
    He heard Louise say to her, “Let him go. He wants to get killed anyway.”
    “Dale Allen, stay close to the women.” He jerked the gelding up short to stop his impatient circling.
    His brother frowned at him. “You know, you’re a damn fool. They want you worse than anything.”
    “They ain’t getting me. Take care of ’em.” He tore out on Strawberry.
    In a short distance, he busted him off a steep hillside, sliding him on his heels off the face of the slope. It was a dangerous route he’d chosen, but the big horse was surefooted, and a smaller, weaker animal under his weight and the saddle might have gone end over end. Strawberry hit the flats on a hard run. They were on the Hammerhead Creek’s lower reaches, and he felt if they tried to ambush the family, it would be at the ford a few miles north.
    When he drew closer, he let the horse walk so as not to let them know of his presence. The water ran over enough small rapids to muffle the sound of his approach. A quarter mile from him, he could see a horse standing hipshot in some cedars. How many more were there?
    He left Strawberry hitched in a small grove, and moved like an Indian down the bottoms against the cliff side, staying in the brush. In no rush, for they wouldn’t expect the wagon to arrive for at least another forty-five minutes, he moved with