Blood Bond 7 Page 2

“Well?” Sam continued. “What kind of man are you?”

  Parrish suddenly took three steps and dived at Sam, driving his shoulder into the other man’s belly. The gunfighter had telegraphed his move, however, and Sam had prepared himself by bracing his feet on the ground and tensing his muscles. To Parrish it felt like he was hitting a brick wall. Sam brought down a clenched fist on the back of the other man’s neck.

  The man in black staggered and dropped to his knees. As he fell, he reached out and grabbed Sam’s legs and pulled. Sam was caught off balance, but managed to fall backwards, away from the river. As he hit the ground, he kicked upwards. The toe of his well-worn but polished boot caught Parrish in the chin, snapping his head backwards.

  The gunfighter, though dazed, caught himself and jumped back to his feet. He tried to stomp at Sam’s groin. Sam moved, caught most of the force in his side, forcing him to gasp slightly. Parrish dived and tried to pin Sam. They rolled on the river bank and both came up swinging. Parrish’s fists moved rapidly, but each blow was blocked by Sam, who responded with a similar attack.

  Though the two men seemed to be fairly evenly matched, Sam was in better shape. Parrish tired first. He let his guard down slightly and it was the only opening Sam needed. He took a quick step inside of Parrish’s swings and with a quick upper cut slammed his rock-hard fist into the gunfighter’s chin. The crack of bone sounded loudly across the crowd and Parrish’s eyes grew glassy.

  Still, Parrish tried to come after him one more time. He was now quite slow and could not dodge Sam’s final blow to the face.

  The gunfighter started to slump to the ground. Sam caught him by his short collar, lifted him and walked into the river toward Shannahan, who was watching the spectacle in wide-eyed amazement. Sam picked up the whip, now floating lazily on the surface of the river.

  “My brother and I apologize for interfering in your business, but I have this thing about whips,” Sam said in an apologetic tone. “Hope you took no offense.”

  “None taken,” Shannahan said.

  “Then that’s settled,” Matt said from the river bank. “Let’s go get a beer!”

  “Good idea“” Sam agreed, dropping the gunfighter with a splash into the river, throwing the whip in after him.

  As Sam and his new Irish friend waded back onto the river bank, a small crowd of newcomers came into sight over a hill. In the lead was a large man. He was wearing no shirt and had specks of gray in his hair. Even in the fading light, his eyes shown with a fierce determination. Following him were several other men with similar expressions on their faces. A few carried guns. They all marched steadily toward the river.

  “Have we got another fight/” Matt asked quietly. “We’re outnumbered, but could still take them on—”

  “Oh, no,” Shannahan said cheerfully. “It’s just my boss, Clarence Hart, come to help me! Except you’ve already saved him the trouble!”

  Sam and Matt stood side-by-side, where they could greet the newcomers and also keep an eye on Parrish, who was dripping on the river bank and then stomping away from the scene. Others in his group were quietly retrieving their guns and disappearing into the night. Matt figured that he and Sam hadn’t seen the last of Parrish, but that he would probably lay low for awhile, at least.

  Hart stopped in front of the two brothers, looked them up and down, and then glanced at Shannahan.

  “Well, William McFey Shannahan, I heard you were in trouble,” Hart said. His voice was as big as he was. “I gather it wasn’t with these two?”

  “No, Mr. Hart,” Shannahan answered. “I was in the river, doing my usual evening work for myself, as you encourage. And suddenly on the river was that new gunslick, Jack Parrish. He had me with my pants down, so to speak, when up came these two and evened the odds somewhat. I have to thank . . .” He paused and looked to Sam. “I don’t even know your names!”

  “He’s Smith,” Matt said. “I’m Jones.”

  “No, I’m Smith, and he’s Jones,” Sam corrected.

  Hart raised one eyebrow at both of the two brothers, which caused them both to break out laughing.

  “Oh, alright, you’ve got us,” Matt said, grinning. “It’s an old joke, anyway. My name is Matt Bodine. That is Sam Two-Wolves.”

  “I’ve heard of you two,” Hart said.

  Sam rolled his eyes toward the sky. He said, “I think I preferred the days when nobody knew who we were!”

  “Fame is the price we pay for being good!” Matt said.

  Hart ignored the wisecracks and said, “I’ve heard you’re good with guns. Are you looking for work?”

  “No, we don’t need the money,” Matt said. “We’re just drifting.”

  “Besides, if we were looking for work, we’re more the ranching type, not the mining type,” Sam said. “I have better things to do with my time than dig in wet gravel. And I have an aversion to being underground while I’m still breathing.”

  “Mining’s not the work I had in mind.” Hart motioned to his men. “I’ve got some good men, some honest, hard-working men. But that won’t be enough. I need a couple of men who are good with a gun. Trouble’s shaping up, and I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  “And you think we could do the job?”

  “I don’t want anybody to get killed, on either side. I just want to protect my men, and let them do their jobs. You handled that situation a few minutes ago real nicely. And nobody got killed. I like your styles.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Sam said. “But we don’t hire out our guns. We may fight if we think the fight’s worthwhile, but it’s never for money.”

  “We would be willing to listen to your story over a few beers,” Matt added. “I have a feeling we walked into a hornet’s nest, and it might be a good idea to find out more about what all the buzzing’s about.”

  “We’ll listen to your story, then decide if we’ll stay around for awhile or ride on.”

  Hart’s face finally broke into a smile.

  “In that case,” he said, “the first round is on me!”

  Chapter Three

  Outside the window was the picture of an 1870s mining operation: rock crusher, smelter, piles of rubble and men still at work. Inside was the picture of luxury: large desk, padded leather chairs, and Nelson Jordan, dressed in an expensive eastern suit, smoking a large cigar. He was surprisingly young, not more than the mid-20s, leaning back in his chair, puffing the cigar as the three men in front of him shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  “So what happened?” Jordan asked. “Did you teach our pig-headed Irish friends a lesson?”

  “Not exactly,” the man on the right said. He was big, thick-bodied, with black curly hair.

  “What do you mean . . . not exactly,” Jordan said.

  “Parrish was handling himself well until these two strangers came along . . .”

  Jordan blew out some cigar smoke and asked in a deceptively mild voice, “And then what happened?”

  “And the Irishman got away.”

  “Well, well. Parrish, what have you got to say about this?”

  “They got the jump on me . . .” Parrish started. His clothes were still dripping with river water. His hat was soggy and his boots squeaked as he stood.

  “Shut up!” Jordan suddenly roared, his voice filling the room. “I already know what happened. I don’t want any panty-waist excuses.”

  Parrish’s face turned purple, and he started to reach for his gun. The two large men on either side of him took a step closer to him, touched his arms. It was warning enough, and Parrish again dropped his hands.

  “I expected much more from you, Parrish. You were supposed to be good with a gun and good with your fists. You were hired to do a job. I expected you to do the job.”

  “There were two of them, and one of me,” Parrish said.

  “But it only took one of them to beat you.”

  The man on the left now spoke. He was a littler shorter and rounder, but still looked as if he could take care of him
self in a brawl.

  “Mr. Jordan, to Parrish’s credit, it was a fair fight, except for one thing.”

  “And what’s that, Grant?”

  “The man Parrish fought is Sam Two-Wolves.”

  “So?”

  “Him and his brother are top guns. They’ve been in lots of fights, and whipped butt in all of them. They fight and shoot like the devil himself. And they caught Parrish unexpected.”

  “That’s right,” Parrish agreed. “And when they got the jump on me . . .”

  Jordan blew a smoke ring and said with a deadly chill, “I don’t care if it is the devil himself. I hired you to do a job. Obviously you are inadequate for the job. You’re fired.”

  Parrish’s face turned even redder.

  “You can’t do that! I’ve traveled a long ways to work for you.” Ignoring the cold looks on either side of him, Parrish continued, “I expect my pay in full, in gold or silver . . .”

  Jordan tossed a small wad of paper money at him.

  “You’re luck I’m paying you this. It’s more than you’re worth. I recommend you make yourself scarce around these parts. If Two-Wolves and his brother don’t get you, I might. Now get out of here.”

  Parrish looked as if he might challenge his former boss again, but decided against it. He pocketed the money and stomped out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Jordan ignored the crash and continued to question his men.

  “So what’s the low-down on these two yahoos. Are they really gunfighters?”

  “Sam Two-Wolves and Matt Bodine are some of the best,” Grant said.

  “Are they working for Hart?”

  “Could be. Word has it that Hart was looking to recruit some guns. I haven’t heard though about Bodine and Two Wolves hiring out their guns. From what I hear about them, they’re not for hire. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Enough silver and gold could buy anybody.”

  “I don’t know if Hart has enough gold to buy top guns, but they sure sided with him without any hesitation,” Jordan said.

  The other man spoke up. “Could be another reason,” he said.

  “Look, Strep, what other reason could there be?”

  “Those two also have a reputation for sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. Maybe they were just looking for a little fun. Two-Wolves didn’t even work up a sweat. It may have been a little workout for him. He’s a half-breed. Who knows how Indians think?”

  “So what do you think? Should I have them killed?”

  “As good as we are, Mr. Jordan, it would take a lot more of us to beat those two,” Strep said. “If they’re on Hart’s side, they’ll make it known soon enough. By then we’ll have enough guns in town to match them. And if they’re just passing through, we’ll just let them pass.”

  Jordan flicked ashes from his cigar as he made the decision.

  “Very well. Just keep an eye on them. Let me know what they’re up to.” He put the cigar back in his mouth. “By the way, have either of you two seen Malinda?”

  “Not today,” Grant said.

  Strep shrugged.

  “It’s about show time. I’ve warned her about being so lackadaisical about her comings and goings.”

  “Don’t worry, boss. She’ll show. She always does.”

  Jordan smiled.

  “Yes,” he said. “She always does.”

  Shannahan was doctoring his wounds with raw whiskey. He alternatively doused the gashes caused by the bullwhip with the alcohol and took big swallows from the bottle. Another bottle was being passed around, but Matt and Sam held beers.

  The little saloon was hot and crowded with men much like Hart and his workers. The bar and tables were little more than rough planks and the sawdust on the floor had been well-used and packed down. Even so, the din of the talk of hard-working men was pleasant. And if the place was a little rough, it was nothing compared to some of the places the blood-brothers had seen.

  “I still don’t understand why you helped me,” Shannahan said between dousings and swallows. “I don’t know you from Adam.”

  “I like a fair fight,” Sam said. “Two guns and a bullwhip against an unarmed man in a river isn’t a fair fight.”

  “It’s something to do with the innate honor of the noble savage,” Matt said.

  “You keep it up, and this noble will savage you,” Sam answered.

  Both men, however, were smiling as they traded insults and drank their beers.

  “Seriously,” Matt continued, motioning for another round of beers to the small bartender. “What’s going on here? Isn’t there any city marshall? Or has the law already been bought and paid for?”

  Hart shook his head. He was also drinking beer. “This town is so new it might not even be called a real town. It has no town council. It has no laws and nobody to enforce them. All it’s got is some of the richest gold and silver ore I’ve seen. The vein I’m trying to locate exactly and start working is silver, but there’s gold here, too. You could almost go to any part of the river and start collecting dust. And now lots of men are trying to grab as much of the riches as they can, before going to the next strike. I was one of the first men here to stake claims. I originally just had to deal with the usual type of scum that show up at places like this. Claim jumpers. Robbers. Thugs of all kinds. But I’ve been in this business for a long time, and can hold my own against just about anybody. I managed to get some men together, and some equipment, and start some serious mining.”

  “And now you’re rich?” Matt asked.

  “No. I’ve got most of my money tied-up in equipment and fancy big-city lawyers in the capital trying to protect my original claims. Sam, the man you beat earlier is Jack Parrish, a gunfighter hired by Nelson Jordan.”

  “Is Jordan another would-be claim-jumper?”

  “Worse. Jordan is one of the lawyers that had been working for me. He somehow twisted some deeds around and got himself a toe-hold here. He’s got tons of money to invest, and has been slowly buying or taking over all the area around my claims, trying to squeeze me out. He’s brought in the best mining talent money can buy and has a big operation. But he still hasn’t managed to lay his hands on my claims, which are on the richest deposits here. He couldn’t squeeze me out, and he couldn’t by me out. So now he’s trying to force me out by bringing in his hired guns, harassing my men. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t start some killing. That’s why I offered to hire you two. My men need some protection.”

  The bartender brought over the fresh beers. Matt noticed with approval that in spite of the humble appearance of the saloon, the glasses and the rag over the bartender’s shoulder were clean. Though for most of his life he had slept on the ground with only blankets between him and the stars, he still liked a clean glass for his beer.

  “You might try sticking together a little closer,” Sam said. “And maybe prepare yourselves for a fight at any time. After all, Shannahan all by himself without a weapon of any kind left him in the open.”

  Hart nodded. “We are prepared, up to a point. I try to keep my men working in teams, with at least one standing guard while the others work. It’s a waste of good men, but it’s better than getting them killed. I allow my men, however, to work certain parts of my claims for their own benefit.”

  Matt raised an eyebrow in question.

  Hart continued, “I’ve been involved in mining for a long time. Believe me, there are more ways than you can imagine to steal from a claim or a mining company. Rather than waste all of our time trying to fight thefts, I let my men have a stake in the work—in addition to their pay. This operation is mainly involved with silver—there’s not enough gold to make large-scale mining profitable. But there’s enough for a single man to make money. So Shannahan and the others take an hour or so a day to work on their own, which would make groups a little awkward, don’t you think?”

  “You’ve developed an interesting concept to labor,” Sam said. “That’s not the method they teach back East.”
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  “This is the West,” Hart said. “We make our own rules by necessity.”

  Matt stretched and looked at Sam. “We can understand that. We’ve been known to make a few rules of our own.”

  “We’re not partial to taking sides, but we just might stay in town for awhile,” Sam added. “Just to kind of see what happens.”

  “We could always use a little entertainment,” Matt concluded.

  Shannahan took another drink, smiled broadly. Even though most of the bottle was gone, his words were still clear and his eyes were bright.

  “Entertainment?” he said. “You boys want entertainment? Then you came to the right place!” Hart scowled, but Shannahan continued. “Jordan owns another saloon here in town. He has a singer there—Malinda Melody—and she puts on quite a show. She always plays to a packed house.”

  Sam looked to the sky and said, “Malinda Melody? Are you serious?”

  “It’s a stage name,” Matt said. “You know, like the actresses do back East.”

  Hart scowled again. “Jordan brought in the woman with him when he came to town. From the beginning, she’s packed in the crowds—including my men, at first. Since the trouble started between Jordan’s bunch and me, most of my men have avoided the place.”

  “To avoid fights?” Matt asked.

  “No. We have a problem with using our hard-earned money to enrich Jordan. I don’t know why Shannahan even brought up the subject.”

  “Just being friendly,” Shannahan said with a twinkle in his eye. “These two look like they could appreciate the sight of a pretty woman, and they might be able to meet Jordan in person and draw their own conclusions!”

  “Good idea!” Sam said.

  Matt almost spilled his beer. He asked, “Have you lost your mind? Jordan’s men will be gunning for us anyway. Combine that with a hundred half-drunk and love-starved miners mooning over the only available woman for a hundred miles. And what does that give us?”

  “An interesting evening?” Sam said with a deadpan expression on his face.

  “That might be more entertainment than we really need,” Matt suggested.