Moonshine Massacre Read online

  “We’re not moonshiners, Marshal, and if we get thirsty enough, I suppose we can head for Nebraska or Texas, or turn around and go back to Colorado. I assume they still have plenty of whiskey in those places.”

  “I reckon they do.”

  “I have to say, though,” Sam went on, “I don’t envy you your job. I have a hunch you’ll be a very unpopular man wherever you go.”

  “Like I said, a lawman’s got to have a thick hide. So long, Mr…. What is your name anyway?”

  “Sam Two Wolves.” Sam nodded toward his blood brother, who was riding about twenty yards ahead of them now. “That’s Matt Bodine.”

  “Bodine.” Bickford repeated the name like it meant something to him. “I’ve heard of him. You, too. I used to be a Dickinson County deputy sheriff, over Abilene way. You fellas have quite a reputation among lawmen.”

  “For helping them out, you mean?”

  Bickford grunted, and after a second Sam realized the sound had been a laugh. “More like for always being around whenever there’s trouble.”

  “Unfortunately, there’s something to what you say, Marshal. But we try to avoid it when we can.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bickford didn’t sound convinced, and in truth, it was a pretty feeble claim considering the evidence, Sam thought. “Are you headed for Cottonwood?” Bickford asked.

  “We need supplies. That would be the closest place to get them.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it would. Well, be careful. I’d better get back and help transport those prisoners.”

  Bickford lifted a hand in farewell and wheeled his horse around. Sam heeled his mount into a faster pace and drew even with Matt again a moment later.

  “You finish talking to that loco hombre?” Matt asked without looking over at his blood brother.

  “He didn’t strike me as loco.”

  “Anybody who thinks he can stop folks from drinkin’ is plumb crazy,” Matt said. “When people get thirsty, they’ll find a way to take a drink.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Sam admitted. “Still, Marshal Bickford and the others are just trying to do their jobs.”

  “Like I said, it’s a sorry excuse for a job.”

  Sam let the subject drop. He knew there wouldn’t be any changing of Matt’s mind, and anyway, Sam thought that Matt was pretty much right in his opinions this time.

  “We’ll stop in Cottonwood and pick up some supplies. That’ll take just about all of our cash, though, so we might have to try to find a poker game.”

  “Didn’t you hear Bickford?” Matt asked. “There aren’t any saloons in that town. They’ve all been closed down because of that stupid law.”

  “They may not be selling liquor anymore, but I’ll bet there’s someplace in town where poker games still go on.”

  Matt shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll have a look around.”

  He was an excellent poker player, and could usually run up a stake for them when their funds ran low. If they were in a town where there was a telegraph office, they could wire home for money. Each of the blood brothers owned a cattle spread in Montana, and thanks to the efforts of the crews who worked for them, those ranches were quite successful. From time to time, Matt and Sam talked about returning to Montana to live and work on their range, but that idea was soon discarded. They weren’t ready to settle down yet, not by a long shot.

  Half an hour later, they began seeing smoke from the chimneys of Cottonwood. A little later, the town itself came into view, a good-sized group of buildings scattered along the bank of a creek. The trees that gave the place its name grew on the other side of the stream. Cottonwood had a couple of churches with their steeples standing tall above the settlement, along with a large, whitewashed building at the edge of town that was probably the school. A number of business buildings lined the main street, with residences on the other side of town from the creek. It looked like a typical cow town, maybe a little sleepier and more peaceful than some.

  That tranquil atmosphere was the main reason Matt and Sam were both surprised when, for the second time today, they heard the roar of gunfire fill the air.

  Chapter 3

  Sam didn’t even try to talk Matt out of galloping toward the shots this time. They were headed for the settlement anyway. They would just get there a little quicker this way.

  The gunfire continued as the blood brothers raced toward town. They rode past the school, which was empty at this time of year, and as they started along the main street, they saw that the boardwalks were deserted. Obviously, people had scattered to hunt for cover when the shooting started.

  Matt and Sam saw a man kneeling behind a water trough and firing a revolver at a wagon across the street. Several men were behind that wagon, blazing away with rifles. Once again, Matt and Sam were in the position of not knowing which side was in the right, if indeed either was.

  Then a couple of the men behind the wagon solved the problem by turning and throwing lead at the oncoming riders. To Matt’s way of thinking, anybody who took a shot at him deserved whatever happened, and Sam’s opinion was almost as pragmatic. Matt dropped his reins, guided his horse with his knees, and filled both hands with his Colts.

  The revolvers roared and bucked as he began squeezing off shots. The hurricane deck of a galloping horse wasn’t a very good platform for accurate firing, but Matt was better at it than most. Some of his slugs ripped through the canvas cover on the back of the wagon, while others kicked up dust around the feet of his targets.

  Instead of putting up a fight, the men broke and ran. Clearly, they were the sort of hombres who liked a battle only when the odds were overwhelmingly on their side.

  The man behind the water trough stood up and waved his gun arm after the fleeing men. “Stop them!” he called to Matt and Sam. “Don’t let them get away!”

  The blood brothers sent their horses pounding after the gunmen. The race, such as it was, was over in a matter of seconds. Matt pouched his irons, kicked his feet out of the stirrups, and left the saddle in a diving tackle, spreading his arms so that he took down two of the men. They all went crashing to the street, rolling over and over in the dust.

  Meanwhile, Sam snatched the coiled lasso from his saddle and shook out a loop with the practiced ease of a man who has spent a lot of time working cattle. He twirled the rope over his head a couple of times and then let fly with it. The loop spread out and dropped perfectly over the shoulders of the third man. Sam jerked it tight, dallied the rope around his saddle horn, and then brought his mount to an abrupt, skidding halt.

  The rope went taut with a twang! and pulled the running man off his feet. He went backward and crashed down hard enough to stun him.

  A few yards back up the street, Matt made it to his feet at the same time as one of the men he had knocked down. The man was tall and scrawny, wearing greasy buckskins. Long, lank hair tangled around his head, and he had a ragged beard sprouting from his lean jaw. He yelled a curse and came at Matt, swinging knobby-knuckled fists.

  Matt ducked under the wild punches and stepped in to hook a hard left into the man’s midsection. The man grunted and started to double over as Matt’s fist sank into his gut. Matt threw a right cross that slammed into the man’s perfectly positioned jaw. That blow sent the hombre to his knees.

  Matt didn’t have time to feel any elation at his apparent victory, though, because just then a heavy weight landed on his back and drove him forward. “I got him, Dud, I got him!” a voice yelled in his ear. The sharp stench of long-unwashed flesh filled his nostrils.

  Matt knew the other man must have jumped on him, and also realized that if he went down, they would probably try to stomp him to death. He was confident that Sam would stop them, but his blood brother might not be able to do that before they had inflicted some damage on him. As he stumbled and fought to keep his balance, he reached behind him and clawed at the man’s face, trying to jab his thumbs in the varmint’s eyes.

  One of them came close enough to make the man let out a howl o
f pain and loosen his grip. Matt reached higher and tangled his fingers in long, greasy hair. He heaved as hard as he could, which sent the man’s yells up another notch. When Matt spun around, the weight came off. He used his left hand to hang on to the man’s hair while his right fist hammered the man’s face.

  This one was shorter and rounder, but just as ugly and dirty. Matt hit him a couple of times, then shoved him toward the boardwalk. The man stumbled backward until his heels hit the edge of the boardwalk. He tripped and fell, landing heavily on the planks.

  Matt barely had time to catch his breath before the first man was on him again, grappling with him this time. The man’s arms and legs were so long and skinny, it was almost like wrestling with a spider. He lowered his head and butted Matt in the face, which set bright-colored sparks to dancing in front of Matt’s eyes and made his head spin.

  He shook off the dizziness and got his hands up. His fingers went under the scraggly beard and locked around the man’s throat. Matt spun him around and drove him toward the boardwalk. Both of them fell, but Matt made sure he landed on top. He used his grip to bang the man’s head against the planks a couple of times. The man went limp under him.

  They were lying next to the other man, who was still half stunned. He appeared to be recovering, though, shaking his head and trying to push himself up. Matt muttered, “Oh, no, you don’t,” and reached over to hit that one again. The man subsided into a stupor.

  From horseback, Sam called, “You hit him while he was down.”

  Matt climbed shakily to his feet, started knocking some of the dust off his clothes, and said angrily, “Damned right I did. I didn’t want him gettin’ back up again. I thought for a minute there they were just gonna take turns tryin’ to kill me!” He glared up at Sam. “I notice you didn’t fall all over yourself helpin’.”

  Sam smiled and gestured toward the man he had lassoed. “I got the one you left me. Figured you thought you could handle the other two.”

  The man who had been behind the water trough came up to them, still holding his gun. He wore a black hat and a black vest over a white shirt. A string tie was cinched at his collar, and a tin star pinned to his vest reflected the sunlight. He was in his fifties, still a pretty tough-looking hombre despite his age. Bushy gray eyebrows crooked over a pair of deep-set eyes.

  “I’m much obliged to you boys,” he said. He had Matt’s hat in his left hand, having picked it up as he came up the street. He held it out, and Matt took the Stetson and began using it to slap dust from his jeans.

  “You’re the law around here?” Sam asked.

  “That’s right,” the older man said. “Marshal of Cottonwood. The name’s Marsh Coleman.”

  “Short for Marshall?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I go by Marsh, so folks won’t call me Marshal Marshall. Wasn’t funny the first time I heard it, and it still ain’t.”

  Sam made an effort not to grin. “I’ll remember that, Marshal Coleman.” He inclined his head toward the three men who had been trying to kill the lawman. “What was this all about?”

  “Those strangers got into a ruckus with Pete Hilliard at the general store,” the marshal explained. Sam noted that the wagon was parked in front of Hilliard’s General Merchandise and Sundries. Coleman went on. “Somebody ran down to my office and told me there was trouble, and by the time I got here those hombres were roughing Pete up and threatening to tear up his store. I threw down on them and told them to stop, and the bastards started shooting at me. I had to run for cover. Barely made it across the street to that water trough.”

  “They’re strangers, you say?”

  Coleman nodded. “Yeah. Drove into town in that wagon just a little while ago. I saw ’em come in but didn’t know they were going to be troublemakers.”

  Matt grunted. “Ought to be able to tell that by lookin’ at ’em. They’re as dirty and greasy as buffalo skinners.”

  “Yeah, well, skinning buffalo was legal last time I checked, young fella. Anyway, there’s not any buffalo hunting going on around here anymore. All the herds have moved down to the Texas Panhandle.”

  “I didn’t say they were buffalo skinners, just that—” Matt broke off with a shake of his head. “Never mind. I’m just glad we came along in time to give you a hand, Marshal.”

  “So am I. Three-to-one isn’t very good odds.”

  The man Sam had roped spoke up, saying, “Hey! Lemme go! You can’t do this to us! We didn’t do nothin’!”

  “The hell you didn’t,” Coleman said. “I saw you with my own eyes when you were pushing Pete Hilliard around.”

  “We were just funnin’ with the old codger,” the man argued. Like his companions, he was bearded, wore buckskins, and smelled like he hadn’t been anywhere near soap and water for at least a year. “We wouldn’t’a really hurt him.”

  “You threatened to pull the whole store down around his ears.”

  “He tried to cheat us! He said he couldn’t take no Confederate money!”

  “I can see why, you dang fool. The war’s been over for fifteen years. Anyway, you did plenty to justify being locked up for disturbing the peace, and that’s just what I’m gonna do.” Coleman looked at Matt and Sam. “Could I prevail on you boys to help me get them on their feet and march them over to the jail?”

  Matt clapped his hat back on his head and nodded. “It’d be our pleasure.”

  Sam dismounted and went over to the man he had lassoed. Leaving the rope in place so that the man’s arms were pinned to his sides, Sam lifted him onto his feet. The powerful muscles in Sam’s arms and shoulders didn’t even seem to strain much at the task.

  Matt drew his guns and prodded the men on the boardwalk with the sharp toe of a boot. “Get up,” he told them. “You can walk.”

  The men were groggy, but they managed to climb upright and stumble toward the squat stone building where the marshal’s office and jail were located. Coleman pointed it out to the men and covered them with his gun, just as Matt and Sam were doing. As they escorted the three prisoners along the street toward the jail, doors began to open along the street and the citizens of Cottonwood started emerging again, now that the shooting was over.

  The door of the marshal’s office opened, too, just before they got there, and a young woman stepped outside with a worried look on her face and a rifle in her hands.

  Despite that expression of concern causing her to frown, she was still pretty enough to almost take the breath away from Matt and Sam.

  Chapter 4

  She stepped forward, her blue eyes widening as she looked at the prisoners. “Dad, are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, thanks to these two young fellas,” Coleman replied. “They came along and pitched in on my side.”

  The young woman hefted the rifle she held. “I was about to come help you. I heard the shooting and got here as fast as I could.”

  It was Coleman’s turn to frown as he shook his head. “I’ve told you before, Hannah, you ain’t my deputy. You need to stay out of any law business. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “Well, I don’t want you getting hurt,” she said right back at him. “And if the town council won’t let you hire a deputy, I’ll just have to volunteer.”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” the marshal said with a weary shake of his head. “I got to lock these gents up.”

  He prodded the prisoners past his daughter, who stepped aside to let them go into the office. Matt and Sam watched through the doorway as Coleman marched the three men across the room to the heavy wooden door that led into the cell block. That door had a small, barred window set into it. Before Coleman put them in cells, he had the man Sam had lassoed take the rope off and drop it on the floor.

  Matt glanced over at his blood brother. Like Matt, Sam was keeping an eye on what happened inside, just in case the prisoners tried to escape, but he also shot quite a few quick, intent looks toward the young woman called Hannah.

  She was well worth looking at. Probab
ly in her early twenties, she had fair hair that fell in thick waves around her shoulders and framed a lovely face. The simple, dark blue dress she wore hugged a well-shaped body. Sam clearly appreciated her beauty. Matt did, too, but he thought his blood brother was a mite more thunderstruck by it than he was.

  Sam cleared his throat and said, “You’re Marshal Coleman’s daughter?”

  “That’s right. Hannah Coleman.”

  “You’re not married, then.”

  “No, I’m not, Mr….”

  “Oh.” Sam gave a little shake of his head. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Sam Two Wolves.”

  Hannah shifted the Winchester to her left hand and held out her right. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Two Wolves.”

  “Make it Sam,” he told her as he took her hand.

  “Thank you so much for helping my father. I always worry every time he leaves the house to come to the marshal’s office. You never know what’s going to happen.”

  “No, you sure don’t,” Sam agreed, still holding her hand. He realized that and let go.

  Matt leaned forward and said dryly, “I’m Matt Bodine, by the way.”

  Hannah turned toward him. “Thank you, too, Mr. Bodine. Exactly what happened? There was so much commotion I couldn’t really tell what was going on.”

  Coleman came out of the office coiling Sam’s rope. As he handed it over, he said, “I’ll tell you what happened. Those ornery varmints attacked old Pete Hilliard because he wouldn’t take their blasted Confederate money.” Coleman snorted. “I’ve got a hunch this is the first time they’ve ever been out of the mountains of Tennessee.”

  “What are you going to do with them?” Hannah asked.

  “That’ll be up to the judge. Attempted murder’s a pretty serious charge, though. It could be they’ll wind up in the state prison.” Coleman looked at Matt and Sam. “Again, I’m obliged to you boys. If there’s anything I can do to repay you for your help…”