Blood Bond: Deadly Road to Yuma
BLOOD BOND
Deadly Road to Yuma
BLOOD BOND
Deadly Road to Yuma
William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 1
“I’m thirsty,” Matt Bodine said.
“When are you not?” Sam Two Wolves said.
“No, really, Sam, my whistle could sure use wettin’.”
“I repeat—”
“We’re stoppin’ up there in that town,” Matt said, interrupting his blood brother.
“Of course we are,” Sam said. He waited a moment, then added, “Do you think we could try to stay out of trouble this time?”
“We always try to stay out of trouble. At least I do.”
Sam just rolled his eyes, shook his head, and hitched his horse forward, starting down the long, gentle slope toward the flat where the settlement was located.
They had crossed the border between New Mexico Territory and Arizona Territory not long before, following the San Francisco River as it twisted through this bleak, rugged country. The Gila Mountains loomed to their right, the Peloncillos to the left. The settlement they were approaching was the first one Matt and Sam had come to in several days.
It had been a long, relatively uneventful ride from Sweet Apple, Texas. The blood brothers were in no hurry to get anywhere, because they didn’t have anywhere to be. They were just drifting, seeing what was on the other side of every hill they came to…the same way they had spent most of the past several years.
One of these days, they would settle down and return to the ranches they owned in Montana…one of these days. But until then, they had good crews running those spreads, so Matt and Sam were free to roam. It suited their restless nature to do so.
Best friends and blood brothers since childhood, Matt Bodine and Sam August Webster Two Wolves could have almost passed for real brothers. Both young men were tall and muscular and had ruggedly handsome faces.
Sam’s longish hair was midnight black, a legacy from his Cheyenne father Medicine Horse along with the faint reddish tint to his tanned skin. Matt’s close-cropped hair was a little lighter, dark brown rather than black.
The Cheyenne ritual that had bonded them together made them onihomihan—brothers of the wolf. They were brothers of the gun as well, because despite what Matt had said about trying to avoid trouble, it seemed determined to follow them wherever they went.
Luckily for their continued survival, both young men were plenty tough and plenty fast with a gun. In fact, Matt Bodine was known to be as slick on the draw as just about anybody west of the Mississippi, in the same league as famous pistoleros such as Smoke Jensen and Falcon MacCallister. He wore two irons in holsters supported by crossed cartridge belts and was deadly accurate with either hand.
Sam carried only one Colt and was a little slower than Matt…which still made him faster than nine of ten men he ran into. A razor-sharp bowie knife rode in a fringed sheath on his left hip.
There was fringe on his buckskin shirt as well, while Matt wore a faded blue bib-front. A battered old brown Stetson was thumbed back on Matt’s head. Squared up on Sam’s head was a black hat with a flat brim, a slightly rounded crown, and a band studded with conchos.
“What do you reckon this place is called?” Matt asked as they reached the bottom of the slope.
Sam shook his head. “I have no idea. I don’t think we’ve ever been through here before.”
“I couldn’t remember. We’ve been so many places.”
“That’s certainly true. And in most of them, they were glad to see us leave.”
“Hey, that’s not our fault.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
This was ranching country—it wasn’t good for much of anything else—and the settlement appeared to be a typical cow town with a wide, dusty main street that stretched for several blocks. Most of the residences, a mixture of adobe and frame houses, were on the cross streets.
A small, whitewashed church with a steeple sat at the far end of the main street, just beyond a wooden bridge that crossed the San Francisco where it looped around the settlement. At the nearer end was a building that was probably a school. That put this place ahead of some frontier towns that had neither of those harbingers of civilization.
In between were businesses, including a livery stable and blacksmith shop, barbershop and bathhouse, a couple of mercantiles, and half a dozen saloons, another sure sign that this was a cow town. Cowboys had to have plenty of places to blow off steam when they collected their forty-a-month-and-found.
A few wagons were parked in front of the general stores, and a couple of men on horseback moseyed along the street. Pedestrians made their way here and there, including several women in long dresses and sunbonnets. A big yellow dog dozed in the middle of the street.
“Peaceful-looking town,” Sam commented.
“Mighty peaceful,” Matt agreed.
Sam looked over at him. “How long do you reckon it’ll stay that way?”
“Now, Sam, why do you have to be such a pessimist? Maybe nothin’ bad’ll happen while we’re here. Maybe it’ll be plumb dull the whole time.”
“I went to college, you know.”
Matt grinned. “Yeah, I seem to remember hearin’ somethin’ about that…like every time you try to convince me that I’m wrong and you’re right.”
“It’s just that I study history. And there’s an old saying about how those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
“And what do you mean by that? I’m just a poor, uneducated cowboy, Sam. You’re gonna have to explain things to me.”
“I’m saying that just because someone annoys you, that’s no reason to start a brawl…or a gunfight.”
“You’re sayin’ that I’m touchy. That I lose my temper too easy.”
“If the Stetson fits…”
“What’s this got to do with my hat?”
Sam held up a hand. “Never mind. Let’s just have a drink or two, stock up on supplies, and sleep in real beds for a change.”
“For a redskin, you sure do like what you call your creature comforts. You must’ve got spoiled back there at that university in the East.”
“Yes, well…I’d say something insulting about you being a white man…but I can’t think of anything right now.”
Matt threw back his head and laughed. “Sam Two Wolves struck speechless! Lordy, I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Just remember what I said about trouble,” Sam grumbled.
He turned his head to nod politely to several ladies who were going into one of the mercantiles, but they didn’t smile or return his nod. In fact, they hustled on into the store as if trying to avoid looking at him.
A man driving a wagon that they met refused to meet their eyes, too, Sam noted. The fellow whipped his team up into a trot instead as he rolled on past them.
A frown creased Sam’s forehead under the broad brim of his hat, but he didn’t mention the odd behavior of the townspeople to Matt, who seemed not to have noticed it.
They reined their horses to a stop in front of a false-fronted building with a gilt-lettered sign on its awning proclaiming it to be the Ten Grand Saloon. More fancy lettering on the big front windows promised cold beer and friendly hostesses.
A stocky, bearded old-timer in bib overalls and a plug hat was sitting in a chair on the saloon porch to the right of the batwings, whittling. He looked up at the newcomers and grunted, “Howdy, boys,” as Matt and Sam swung down from their saddles and looped the reins around the hitch rail. “New in town?”
“That’s right,” Sam said. “What’s this settlement called, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Don’t mind in the least. This here is Arrowhead, territory o’ Arizona.”
“Friendly place, is it?” Matt asked.
“Oh, shoot, yeah. We’re friendly as can be around here.”
Sam said, “I noticed that the folks we rode past didn’t seem to want to look at us, like maybe they didn’t like strangers.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. We get strangers passin’ through here pretty often. Like to think we make ’em welcome.”
Matt gestured toward the windows and said, “If there’s really cold beer and friendly hostesses inside, I reckon I’ll feel welcome, all right.”
“Go on in,” the old-timer urged with a wave of the piece of wood he’d been whittling on.
“What are you carving there?” Sam asked out of idle curiosity as he and Matt started toward the saloon’s entrance.
The old man frowned as he studied the stick in his hand. “I dunno. A snake maybe?”
Matt chuckled as he pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the saloon. Sam was right behind him.
Both of them froze as the batwings flapped closed behind them. Men with shotguns had been concealed on both sides of the entrance, and now those Greeners were pointed at the blood brothers.
“Don’t move, you sons o’ bitches,” one of the men warned. A dozen other men scattered around the room raised revolvers and pointed them at Matt and Sam. The one who had spoken before went on. “You try anything funny and we’ll blow your damn heads off.”
Matt took a deep breath and said, “Oh, yeah. Real friendly town, all right.”
Chapter 2
Being careful not to move, Sam said, “I believe that you gentlemen are making a mistake.”
“Shut your mouth, breed, and get your hands up,” one of the men pointing pistols at them said. “We know exactly what we’re doin’ here.”
“Pointin’ guns at two men who don’t want any trouble?” Matt said as he and Sam slowly raised their hands to shoulder level.
“We just stopped in your town to pick up some supplies,” Sam added.
A disgusted snort came from one of the men wielding the shotguns. “You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?” he asked. “We know damn good an’ well that you’re scouts for that bastard Shade.”
“Shade?” Matt repeated. “Mister, the only shade I know is the shade under a tree…which would feel pretty good right now, come to think of it.”
“They want a tree,” one of the other men said, “let’s give ’em a tree. Let’s take ’em out and string ’em up!”
Enthusiastic cries of “Yeah!” and “Damn right!” and “String up the dirty owlhoots!” came from the crowd in the saloon. Matt and Sam exchanged worried glances.
If they slapped leather, they might be able to shoot their way out of this. On the other hand, chances are they’d get their heads blown off by those Greeners, and no doubt some of the men in the saloon would be killed, too. Those hombres might not be what anybody would call innocent, but they seemed to be laboring under an honest misapprehension and probably didn’t deserve to die for that mistake.
“Listen to me,” Sam said. “We don’t know anybody named Shade, we’re not scouting for anyone, and we’re not looking for trouble.”
“We’re peaceable men,” Matt added.
“Oh, yeah?” one of the men said with a sneer. “Prove you ain’t part of Shade’s gang!”
“It’s very difficult to prove a negative assumption—” Sam began, stopping when Matt shook his head.
“You’ve got my word on it, and that’s proof enough,” Matt said.
“Why should we believe you ain’t lyin’?”
“Because I’m Matt Bodine…and I don’t take kindly to bein’ called a liar.”
Murmurs of “Bodine!” came from several of the men. The name of Matt Bodine was well known across the frontier, from the Mississippi to the Pacific, from the Rio Grande to the Milk River.
“They say that Bodine travels with a Injun,” one of the men said. “This fella looks part redskin anyway.”
“My name is Sam August Webster Two Wolves,” Sam said, introducing himself. He was proud of his Cheyenne heritage and never denied it.
“Yeah, Two Wolves, that was it!” the man said excitedly. “That’s the name o’ Bodine’s sidekick!”
Sam grimaced, and Matt couldn’t help but chuckle at that description of his blood brother.
“Can we put our hands down now?” he asked. “You’ll take my word for it that we’re not workin’ for that hombre Shade, whoever he is?”
“Joshua Shade is a pure-dee hydrophobia skunk,” growled the old-timer who had been sitting on the saloon porch. He pushed aside the batwings and sauntered into the saloon. He had put away his whittling knife. “Put them guns down, boys. Now that I’ve heard these young fellas’ names, I recollect seein’ pictures of ’em in the rotogravures. They’re Bodine and Two Wolves, all right.”
Matt lowered his hands. “Well, I’m glad somebody around here has sense enough to believe us.”
“I got more sense than you’d think to look at me,” the old-timer drawled. He lifted one corner of the bib front on his overalls that had come unbuttoned and fallen down.
Pinned underneath it was a sheriff’s badge.
“I’ve also got a responsibility to protect this town,” he went on. “I’m the law hereabouts. Name of Cyrus Flagg.”
Sam lowered his hands as well and said, “We’re pleased to meet you, Sheriff Flagg.”
The lawman motioned to the other men in the saloon. “Go on about your drinkin’ and gamblin’ and whorin’,” he instructed them. “I’m gonna buy these two boys a drink.”
“We’d be much obliged for that,” Matt said.
“As well as for interceding on our behalf,” Sam added.
“Figured it was the least I could do, seein’ as how it was me who put these fellas up to throwin’ down on you in the first place.”
“And why was it exactly you did that, Sheriff?” Matt asked.
“Let’s have a sit-down, and I’ll tell you all about it,” Flagg suggested.
He gestured toward an empty table in the corner and called to the bartender to send over three beers. Matt, Sam, and Flagg took chairs at the table, and a moment later a pretty blonde in a low-cut, spangled dress came over carrying a tray with three foaming mugs on it.
The young woman smiled and bent over as she placed the tray in the center of the table, providing a good view of her creamy breasts in the provocative outfit.
“Yeah, they’re pretty as a couple o’ speckled pups, Amelia,” Flagg said. “Maybe later one o’ these boys’d like to take a closer look at ’em. Right now, though, the beer’s all we need.”
“You’re a spoilsport, Sheriff,” the blonde said with a pout.
“Yeah, that’s what folks
tell me all the time. Now shoo.”
Amelia flounced off. Flagg sighed and picked up one of the mugs of beer.
“Gals just don’t understand that there’s a time an’ place for ever’thing,” he said. “A fella ain’t all that interested in romance when he’s just had a pair o’ Greeners and half a dozen six-guns pointed at him.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that—” Matt began with an appreciative glance toward Amelia as she walked off.
“You were going to tell us about Joshua Shade,” Sam said, breaking in. “And about why you set that trap for us.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a trap,” Flagg said. “I just believe in takin’ precautions, ’specially when a lobo like Shade’s roamin’ around the countryside with a whole band o’ gun-wolves taggin’ after him.”
Sam took a healthy sip of his beer and found that while it wasn’t really cold, it was pleasantly cool. As he set the mug back on the table, he said, “I take it that Joshua Shade is an outlaw.”
“You’ve heard of him then,” Flagg said.
“Not before we rode in here today.”
“But we’ve been over in Texas for a spell,” Matt added. “They have their own badmen over there.”
“An abundance of them,” Sam said.
Flagg pushed his plug hat back on his thinning, reddish-gray hair. “None as bad as Shade, I reckon, and I’d bet my last dollar on that. Shade’s a plumb devil, and he’s been raisin’ hell all up and down the eastern half o’ the territory for months now.”
“Have you had trouble with him here?”
Flagg shook his head and said, “Not so far, and I’d just as soon keep it that way. But we heard that him and his gang were spotted between here and Springerville a few days ago, so we know he’s in these parts. When I spotted you fellas ridin’ down the hill, I thought you might be scouts for the gang, so I passed the word for ever’body to get off the street without bein’ too obvious about it, and told the fellas in here to be ready and get the drop on you.”