Blood Bond 5 Read online

  “I wonder what he’s got in his head to do?” Matt asked.

  “Finish it,” Sam said. “I’ll make a wager he’s going to take the fight to them this time.”

  “And he’s telling us to stay out of it.”

  “That’s the message I got.”

  “You boys don’t have to stay here,” John said, walking up. “But there is something you can do for me, if you will.”

  “Name it.”

  “Escort Petunia into town and put her on the afternoon stage. She says she doesn’t want to rejoin her brothers and damned if she’ll stay here with her mother and me. Says she wants to go to New York City and become an actress. Both her mother and me said that was just fine with us.” He took off his hat and rubbed his forehead. “I . . . ,” he verbally stumbled for a second, “. . . think this will be the last time her mother and me will ever see her. I view that with mixed emotions, but mostly with relief.”

  “John,” Matt said. “Sure, we’ll escort her into town. But there’s something else. Your boys and Bull’s boys are going to brace me and Sam one of these days. Probably pretty damn quick. I just want you to know . . .”

  John waved him silent. “You do what you have to do, Matt, Sam. You’re dealing with renegades now. Night-riding outlaws. They came here last night to kill me, their mother, their brother, and anyone else who happened to be here. So don’t hesitate on my account. Bull thinks I haven’t made up my mind. But he’s very wrong. You boys ride easy, now. And you’re always welcome out here. No matter what happens.”

  After John had walked away, Matt said, “I think they both got their heads together and planned something. But they don’t want us in on it. They plan to stomp on their own snakes.”

  “A hard thing for them, but I’m glad we won’t be a part of it.”

  “I wonder if we’ll be that lucky.”

  Petunia never said a word on the way into town. She sat on a pillow in the buggy seat and stared straight ahead. Only when they reached town did she speak.

  “I suppose my father asked you gentlemen to personally see that I got on the stage?”

  “Yes,” Sam told her. “He did. You have some objections to that?”

  “Not a one. Just don’t touch me.” She smiled at both brothers, but it was a savage smile. “My brothers will kill you both. My only regret is that I won’t be here to see you crawling in your own blood.”

  “You are really a charming young lady,” Matt said.

  “Thank you. I wondered when you would realize that obvious fact.”

  For two whole days the town of Crossville was quiet and free of trouble. The same bunch of hired guns drifted in and out, but they caused no ruckus of any kind.

  Miles Singer had closed his bank and in its place had opened a land office. The four gunslingers he’d hired as bodyguards hung around and loafed, trailing and fronting him wherever he went.

  The town seemed peaceful enough, but all its residents could detect a slight air of tension. Sort of like when the fellow in the hotel room above yours drops one boot on the floor and never drops the other one. You keep waiting.

  Matt and Sam watched as Batty came fogging into town, waved at them, and then jumped out of the saddle and rushed into the marshal’s office. He came out, waved, and called, “I need me a beer. Talk to you two in a minute.”

  “You boys hang around and help Parley if he needs it,” Tom said, exiting his office and walking up to them, buckling on his gunbelt. “John and Bull lost about five hundred head of cattle last night, apiece.”

  “Next thing you know, they’ll be hirin’ regulators,” Matt opined.

  “Not in this county,” Tom straightened that out real quick. “I’ll shoot a damn back-shootin’ regulator as quick as I will a rustler. And I already told Bull and John that, long before you two come wanderin’ into this Godawful mess. I’ll see you boys later on. I imagine it’ll be a couple of days ’fore we get back.”

  The brothers watched as the marshal, his deputies, and a ten man posse, all heavily armed and with several days’ rations, rode out.

  “Some of the most able-bodied men and best shots in town,” Sam observed.

  Matt looked up and down the street as young Parley joined them on the boardwalk. The smithy had closed up and gone with the posse, as had the man from the saddle and gun shop. The tough young man who ran the livery had gone. The barber, who was a seasoned veteran of the Indian wars had closed up and ridden out. The Mexican, who had fought Apaches and Comanches down south and who ran the café, had gone, leaving his wife and daughter to run the business.

  “There is an interesting look on your face, Mr. Bodine,” Ralph Masters said, joining the group. “Anything I can write about?”

  “I hope not,” Matt replied mysteriously. And that got him a sharp look from Sam.

  The editor wandered on up the boardwalk. “What’s on your mind, Matt?” Sam asked.

  “Same thing that’s on yours.”

  “With some of the best shots in town gone for several days, this would be a dandy time for the Sutton-Carlin boys to hit us.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You think stealin’ those cattle was a trick?” Parley asked.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Now let’s keep our eyes open and watch for gunslingers to start drifting into town. If a lot of them show up, that would be a pretty good sign that something is up.”

  “Parley, you’d better tell the men you know will stand to load up their guns and keep them handy,” Sam said. “You take the other side, and Matt and I will work this side of the street.”

  There aren’t that many left,” the young deputy said.

  “Yeah,” Matt said softly. “We know.”

  Batty had stayed in town after hearing the news, saying, “They’s plenty of hands at the ranch to fight off any attack should that happen. But I think you’re right. I think right here is where it’s gonna pop.”

  “Farmer John’s up and around,” Parley said. “I seen him standing in the Red Dog, and he’s wearin’ two guns.”

  Doc Blaine walked up, and the men were surprised to see that he was wearing a gunbelt, a second six-shooter shoved behind the belt. He smiled at their startled glances. “I only said I didn’t like guns, boys. I didn’t say there wasn’t a need for them or that I couldn’t use one.”

  “There’s Shorty and Cleat ridin’ in,” Batty said. “And a couple with them I ain’t seen before.”

  “That’s the first time they’ve come to town since they quit Mr. Bull,” Parley said. “Or at least the first time I’ve seen them in town.”

  “Look at the south end of town,” Matt said. “There come Dud, Proctor, and Donner.”

  “There’s Coody stepping out of the livery,” Sam pointed out. “Two men right behind him.”

  “Only a couple of real gunhands,” Matt said. “Makes me wonder where the others are.”

  “They’re close by,” Doc Blaine said. “We can all bet on that.”

  The men stood silent for a few moments, watching. “The bank!” Matt spoke the words hard. “That’s what they want. If they could clean out the bank, they’ll have this town on the ropes, along with Bull and John, ’cause it’s their money that started it. Then they’d start rustling all of their cattle and wipe them out. You asked where the other top guns are, Doc? Probably about a mile out on either side of town. When the shooting starts, they’ll come in fast and hit the bank and the stores, cleaning them out of cash. If they could manage that, this town would die, or at best, be so crippled it might not ever recover.”

  “If that’s true,” Doc Blaine said, “somebody planned this very carefully. But I can’t believe it was any of the Carlin or Sutton kids. None of them are that smart.”

  “The man who planned it is standing right over there in the doorway to his land office,” Sam said. “Miles Singer.”

  “Why don’t we just plug the skunk now and be done with it?” Batty suggested.

  “It’s a nice thought,” Doc said.
“But he’s unarmed. As usual. He’s a careful man. It would be out and out murder. Sorry, Batty.”

  “But it was a good thought,” Sam surprised Matt by saying. Of the two blood brothers, Sam had a tad more respect for law than did his brother. And that was odd when one took into consideration that the law almost never treated Indians with the same respect and due process as it did whites.

  “Interesting thing for you to say,” Matt said.

  “I do have my moments when frustration builds to the boiling point,” Sam replied drily.

  “You sure do talk funny,” Batty said.

  A young boy walked out of the alley and up to the men. He had a .22 caliber single shot rifle and carried two fat rabbits hooked onto his belt. “Deputy,” he said, “I seen a whole bunch of really crummy lookin’ men over by the crick east of us. They told me if I said anything about them, they’d skin me alive. I told them to go to hell and took off runnin’.”

  Parley laughed and said, “You did just fine, Billy. Now you go on home and take care of your mother. And don’t leave the house, now, you hear me? It’s gonna get real dangerous out here in a minute.”

  The lad lifted his rifle. “Any of those bad ones come close to me and Ma, they’re gonna get plugged.”

  “That sounds good, Billy, but don’t take any chances. Now, go on home. Hurry!”

  The boy took off at a run, his dog yapping right beside him.

  “Hey, Cleat!” Shorty hollered, stepping out onto the boardwalk in front of the Red Dog. “I betcha a dollar I can hit that runnin’ mutt from here.”

  “You’re on,” Cleat hollered.

  Billy heard every word, stopped, and knelt down, rage on his face. He leveled his little .22 and let it bang.

  He was just a tad off his aim. The little slug, instead of hitting Cleat between the eyes, tore off part of the man’s ear. Cleat howled and dropped his six-gun. “Shoot that goddamn kid, Shorty!” Cleat screamed, the blood pouring down the side of his face.

  Shorty jerked iron and leveled his .45 at Billy, frantically trying to reload and protect his dog at the same time.

  Four six-guns roared from across the street, and Shorty was slammed back by a barrage of .44 and .45 slugs. He fell through the newly installed front window of the saloon and did not move.

  “I’ll kill that goddamn punk kid!” Cleat yelled, and clawed for his other gun.

  He never made it. Doc Blaine drilled him clean from a good eighty-five paces away. “Anybody who would shoot an innocent dog is a sorry enough excuse for a human being,” Doc said, lowering his pistol. “But anybody who would shoot a child is on a level with snake crap.”

  Cleat managed to get up on one elbow, cock and lift his pistol, and Doc plugged him again. He did not move after that. It would have been a miracle if he had, for Doc’s second round took him in the center of the forehead.

  Singer stood in the doorway, stunned by the doctor’s shooting of the man. His bodyguards all looked at one another, as if they didn’t know what to do next.

  Farmer John’s bulk filled the half-pushed open batwings of the saloon. He, too, had a quizzical look on his face.

  Coody and his two buddies stood by the broken window of the Red Dog, along with Les and Willie.

  “Get the hell home, Billy!” Parley shouted. “Like right now, damnit.”

  Billy got.

  Doc quickly reloaded and stepped back into a store stoop.

  “Back,” Matt urged his friends. “Take cover.”

  “What the hell are they waiting for?” Batty asked, backing up and kneeling down behind a quickly overturned bench.

  “Here they come!” a shopowner shouted from the roof of his store. “My God, there must be forty of them.”

  Parley had returned to the marshal’s office for sawed-off shotguns and bags of shells. He passed them around.

  “This is not going to be pleasant,” Sam said.

  He was right.

  5

  Unknown to Matt and Sam and Deputy Parley Davis, a few of the ladies of the town had met secretly during the last few days and formed their own plans as to the protection of life and property. Armed with rifles, shotguns, and various types of pistols, including a few Dragoons, the ladies took their positions inside the Crossville Cattle Exchange Bank, the general store, the dress shop, and a few other businesses. The outlaws who had foolishly decided to attack and loot and attempt to destroy this Western town were going to be in for the shock of their lives. And for some of them, it was going to be a very brief shock . . . the last thing they would know on this earth.

  An outlaw known only as Chub kicked in the back door to Miss Charlotte’s Dress Shop and stomped in, both hands filled with guns. “Git over there agin that damn wall!” he ordered the ladies. “After I see what’s in the money box, I’ll pleasure myself with a couple of you. So you might as well strip and save me the trouble of rippin’ them rags offen you.”

  Mrs. Hortense Pennypacker told the unwashed lout what he could do with his orders, and where he could stick them. Before the startled outlaw could reply, Mrs. Pennypacker lifted a double-barreled shotgun and blew Chub slap out the back door.

  Miss Charlotte picked up the outlaw’s guns from where he had dropped them from lifeless fingers and checked the loads. Full. She smiled grimly and moved to the front of the store. “Courage, ladies,” she said. “Decency and justice will prevail and sustain us through this ordeal.” She lifted both pistols and fired through the show window just as one group of the outlaws began their wild, screaming charge up the main street. The .45 slugs knocked an outlaw off his horse and put him dead in the dust.

  Matt and Sam lined up a racing rider and fired as one. The outlaw threw up both hands and tumbled from the saddle. One boot twisted and hung in the stirrup, and the man was dragged to the point of being unrecognizable to the edge of town, across the bridge, and beyond.

  Singer was quick to realize that his plan was not going to work. “Get back in here!” he told his bodyguards. “It’s going sour. Move. Quickly!”

  “It just started!” Neyburn protested, stepping into the land office.

  “Nobody trees a Western town,” Blue said, coming in right behind him. “I told ever’body concerned it wouldn’t work.”

  “Stop bickering,” Singer shushed them over the rattle of gunfire. “Let’s just keep our heads down. There is always tomorrow.”

  “Not for them boys out yonder,” Donner said bitterly, his eyes on the dust-churned street.

  Doc Blaine was standing inside the dubious protection of the entrance to the barber shop, choosing his targets carefully and firing with deadly accuracy.

  A wild-eyed outlaw who had been thrown from his frightened horse, and sensing that things were not going well for his side, ran up the alley in a panic and burst into the rear of Wo Fong’s laundry. Wo Fong was waiting by the door. Wo very forcefully laid a heavy iron to the side of the man’s head, and the outlaw dropped to the floor, his head busted open and his skull fractured. Wo Fong carefully barred the back door to his shop, picked up the dying man’s guns, and moved to the front of his establishment, muttering dark curses in his native tongue. Wo Fong wasn’t all that familiar with a six-shooter, but he’d seen other men use them, and figured he could, too.

  Les and Willie ran from the rear of the Mexican Cafe, across the alley, and onto the boardwalk by the edge of Wo Fong’s. Wo turned at the sound, lifted both .45s, and started blasting through the window.

  Wo didn’t do much damage, but he sure scared the pee out of the two young gunhands as he let the lead fly just as fast as he could cock and pull the trigger. Les got his hat blowed off, and Willie lost the bootheel on his left boot, the impact of the .45 slug bending his spur and driving part of it through the leather and into his foot. It knocked him down and brought a shriek of fright from the man, sure he had lost his foot.

  Wo started yelling in Chinese, and that only made matters worse for the gunmen, both of them now certain they were under attack from hordes
of wild-eyed foreign savages.

  Les and Willie took off for the protection of the creek bank, Les minus his new hat and Willie limping badly.

  Wo Fong returned to the dying outlaw, took off his gunbelt and reloaded. He slung the belt around his narrow hips and stood ready to repel any other intruders.

  Paul Mitchell and Bobby Dumas ran onto the back porch of the pastor’s residence by the church. Bad move. William and Melinda Fowler had reached their limit of patience when it came to lawlessness. Paul opened the back door, and the reverend shot him with a load of birdshot, the lead taking him in the chest and belly. The light loads didn’t do a whole lot of permanent damage, but they damn sure ruined Paul’s day. Certain he was mortally wounded, the gunhand howled in pain and spun around, his chest and belly bloody. He ran over Bobby and knocked the man off the porch just as Melinda stepped out and tossed a pot of hot coffee on Bobby, the scalding liquid splashing on Bobby’s back and the side of his face. Shrieking in more pain than his buddy was enduring, Bobby joined Paul in running away.

  William reloaded and let fire another load of birdshot. Most of it missed but for the rest of his life, Bobby would carry lead in his ass.

  “Bastards!” William muttered.

  Sour-faced Lawyer Sprague had taken his rifle and moved to a window of his second floor office. A combat-hardened veteran of the War Between the States, Sprague was methodically choosing his targets and dropping a man with each round fired. The lawyer despised lawlessness, and despite his chosen profession, had absolutely no sympathy for those who chose the outlaw trail. “Contemptible scum,” he said.

  Farmer John, after seeing very quickly that the attack was doomed to failure, got him a bottle and a glass and retired to the darkness of a far corner of the saloon. “Bloody day,” the hired gun muttered as he filled a glass. “But none of my blood is gonna be spilt.”

  Most of the older and wiser guns-for-hire felt the same way, and they stayed out of this attack.