Texas Timber War Read Free

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.
    â€˜â€˜I’ll hold this,’’ Fargo told the young woman. ‘‘Get me some sort of rod, about the thickness of a gun barrel.’’
    â€˜â€˜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.’’
    â€˜â€˜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.’’
    â€˜â€˜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.’’
    â€˜â€˜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.’’
    â€˜â€˜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?’’
    â€˜â€˜I think he’ll live,’’ Fargo replied. ‘‘Give us some steam!’’
    Even from up in the wheelhouse, he could