Gunsmoke and Gold Page 4

  The food was delicious, the plates held plenty of it, and the café did a brisk business. The brothers lingered over coffee and watched the café slowly empty of patrons. It was eight-thirty when Juan hung up the Closed sign and pulled down the blinds.

  “I think,” he said to the brothers, “it would be wise for you two to leave by the side door. I was just told that the front and back is watched.”

  “By Linwood and the deputies?” Sam asked.

  “No. By riders from the Circle V and the Lightning. Keep this in mind: more than one or two people have been dragged by those men. One was killed and another badly crippled. You walk among snakes, boys. Be careful where you put your feet.”

  He led them through a storeroom, then blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Matt and Sam removed their spurs. Juan opened a door that swung on well-oiled and soundless hinges. “Vaya con Dios,” he whispered, as Matt and Sam stepped out into the darkness.

  They spoke with Cheyenne hand signals. Sam went one way and Matt the other, the brothers hugging the outside wall of the café/cantina. Men were posted front and back. The brothers swung around them in the darkness and slipped away from their watchers, coming out through an alley that ran alongside the Red Dog.

  “Care for a drink before bedtime?” Matt asked.

  “But of course,” Sam replied.

  The brothers stepped into the Red Dog, startling several riders from the Circle V and the Lightning. They ordered whiskey and took their drinks to a table, sitting down with their backs to a wall.

  “One of you boys needs to go fetch your buddies over by the café,” Matt said to no one in particular. “They’re probably getting scared standing out there in the dark; the boogeyman might get them. They sure aren’t very attentive.”

  A hand cursed and stomped out of the saloon.

  “It’s just a game to you boys, ain’t it?” a Circle V hand asked.

  “Staying alive can hardly be called a game,” Sam said. “Actually, it’s rather nerve-racking.”

  “Then why don’t you move on? You’re not welcome in this town.”

  “We’ve probably read too much about Robin Hood,” Sam replied. He pointed to Matt. “He’s the hood.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” the cowboy asked.

  “Forget it,” Sam told him. “It would take entirely too long to explain.”

  The small town of Dale was settling in for the night; few homes still had lamp or candlelight in the windows. The night was void of moonlight, the sky heavy with dark clouds that threatened rain.

  Those inside the Red Dog were silent, one group sullen and ill-tempered as they stared with open hostility at the blood brothers. Boots sounded on the boardwalk as those who had been watching the café entered the saloon and took seats, ordering drinks.

  “Maybe they left slidin’ on their bellies like snakes,” one said, staring directly at the brothers.

  Matt and Sam stared back and made no comment.

  “Stinks in here,” a Lightning hand remarked. “Smells like sheepdip and dirty Injuns.”

  A drummer who had ridden the stage in that day and who was leaving the next day looked nervously around him. He wanted to leave, but had to pass directly between the two factions. He decided not to chance it. But he sure wished he had taken the afternoon stage instead of laying over.

  Jack Linwood and his deputies walked in and sized up the situation.

  “Knock it off, boys,” Jack ordered. “You’d best be ridin’ if you’re gonna miss the rain.”

  The hands took the hint and trouped out. The drummer left his unfinished drink and got the hell gone from the Red Dog.

  Jack’s deputies stayed at the bar. Jack walked to the table and pulled out a chair, sitting down.

  “Do sit down,” Sam said.

  When Jack spoke, his voice was low. “I don’t know why you boys are stickin’ your noses in this town’s troubles, but I’m gonna give you some free advice: saddle up and ride. Maybe you boys are quick on the shoot. I don’t know. I’ve never seen you in action. But you can’t fight sixty or seventy top hands and expect to win. There is a range war shapin’ up here. And they’re ugly things to behold. I ’magine you’ve both seen what happens.”

  “We’ve seen it,” Matt replied, his eyes studying Jack Linwood. The man was in his late thirties, Matt guessed. Solidly built. But like most men who depended on their guns to earn their living, Jack was going to fat around the middle. His hands looked soft; like he hadn’t done any real work in a long time. But Matt wasn’t going to underestimate the man. Jack Linwood was tough and dangerous.

  “I’m not goin’ to nursemaid you boys,” Jack said. “Me and the deputies was makin’ our night rounds when we come in here. That’s the only thing that saved your bacon this time. Them ol’ boys you was facin’ would have et you up and spit you out in chunks and pieces.”

  “It’s been said that we don’t chew so good,” Sam told him. “Meat’s too tough. Unpalatable.”

  “Whatever that means,” Jack said. “You got a smart mouth for a damn breed, you know that?”

  “And you’re wearing a gun,” Sam spoke the words very softly. “Would you like to stand up and we’ll settle this?”

  Matt knew the insulting ‘Injun’ and ‘breed’ business was beginning to stick in Sam’s craw. Sam, by nature, was not a pushy person or a trouble-hunter. But neither was he the type of man to do much backing up.

  Linwood’s face held a strange expression, as did his eyes. Matt misread it, thinking that Linwood wanted desperately to stand up and see who was the better gunhand. Matt already knew. Linwood, if he chose to drag iron, was in for a shock.

  Linwood cut his eyes for a heartbeat. The new bartender, Bert, his back to the trio, was out of earshot, polishing glasses. The three of them were alone. No one knew of this except them. There would be no loss of face.

  Linwood slowly exhaled and placed his hands on the table. “No, I don’t think so. Not just yet, anyways.”

  “Yeah, run along, Linwood,” Sam told him, with a mean smile on his lips. “I would imagine you have to go tuck Mayor Dale into bed and empty out his chamberpot.”

  Linwood’s face mottled with rage. He whirled around and stalked out of the saloon, slamming open the batwings.

  Matt leaned back in his chair. “We’re not exactly winning friends in this town.”

  Sam shook his head. “This place is bringing out the worse in me, brother.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Matt said cheerfully. “I thought you looked fairly natural all sprawled out on the café floor.”

  Sam smiled at him. Matt had not seen him ease his boot under the chair. He jerked his foot and Matt hit the floor. Sam lifted his drink and said, “Salud!” He downed his drink and walked to the batwings and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

  Four fast shots cut the night.

  Five

  Bert the bartender hit the floor and Matt was on his boots and running toward the batwings, both hands filled with .44’s. “Sam!” he yelled.

  “I’m all right,” Sam called. “Stay behind the wall. One of them slipped in the mud just as he lifted his pistol. I heard the sound and jumped. The shots came from right across the street. In the alley.”

  “You got a good position?”

  “Behind a horse trough.”

  “I wonder if they have the back covered?”

  “Probably.”

  “I think I’ll take a look.” He ran to the bar and grabbed the sawed off shotgun off the rack. He broke it open. Full. He put the small sack of shells into his pocket and told the bartender, “Stay down.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, mister. I ain’t leavin’ this floor.”

  Matt slipped into the dark storeroom and made his way to the back door. The rain was coming down hard, hammering on the roof. Matt found a large, empty wooden box and eased the door open. He kicked the box out the door. Muzzle flashes licked the night as guns roared from a few feet away from the back door. Ma
tt stepped into the doorway and pulled both triggers of the shotgun. The express gun roared and bucked in his hands, spewing flames out the barrels like a cannon, and also hurling out rusty nails, buckshot, ball bearings, and whatever else whoever loaded the shells could find to stick in there.

  Someone screamed horribly in the stormy evening. Lightning lanced the night and Matt could see one man down, his belly torn open and his lifeless eyes filling up with rain, and another man trying to pull himself away with his hands. The leg he had left was bloody and mangled.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on in there?” Jack Linwood yelled from the barroom.

  Matt reloaded the ten-gauge and snapped it closed. “Ambush, Sheriff. Come on in and see for yourself.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, coming cautiously into the storeroom. “I know. Bert backs that up. But damn it, there wasn’t supposed to be any of this, Mister . . .” He shut his mouth.

  “Mister Dale said that if nothing happened, we’d get bored and leave,” Matt finished it.

  Linwood’s silence confirmed that.

  Matt pointed to the open door and the storm-ravaged night. “You know these boys?”

  Linwood took a look when lightning flared. He grunted. “I hate a shotgun. I hate them.” He turned to Matt. “Will you tell Bert to fetch Doc Lemmon?”

  “Sure.” Matt relayed the request and sat down at a table. Sam joined him.

  “You got one?”

  “One dead and another with one leg blowed off; he probably wishes he was dead.”

  The brothers sat in silence as the barroom began filling up with men in various dress, or undress. Mayor Dale bulled his way in. He looked at the blood-bonded brothers with open disgust in his eyes and on his face.

  “I want you two out of this town,” he ordered. “Now, by God. Move!”

  “We didn’t start this thing,” Matt told him. “And Bert over there has already told the sheriff that. There is no law anywhere west of the Mississippi that says a man can’t defend himself.”

  Doc Lemmon came back in, dressed in a slicker, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. They’re both gone. That shotgun cut one almost in two, and the other one bled to death. They were a couple of Hugo Raner’s Lightning riders.” He shook his head. “They’ll be hell to pay now.” He looked at the brothers. “You men all right?”

  “Fine,” Sam told him.

  Doc Lemmon was not much over thirty, but there was age in his eyes. He looked at Mayor Dale. “Why in the devil can’t you people get along with each other?”

  He walked out before the mayor could reply—if he intended to reply.

  The undertaker and a helper came in, toting stretchers. “Some of you boys help me,” he said. “I got dressed as soon as I heard the shots—or when there wasn’t no more of them, I should say. How many dead?”

  “Two,” Jack Linwood told him.

  “They got any money?” the undertaker asked bluntly.

  “Just haul them off and get them ready!” Mayor Dale snapped peevishly.

  The undertaker glared at him. Then he smiled. “Don’t get uppity with me, Dale. Just bear in mind that someday I’ll work on you, too.”

  Mayor Dale shuddered.

  Matt and Sam stood up and faced Sheriff Jack Linwood. “You got any questions for us?” Matt asked.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Nope. Right ’fore he died, Doc Lemmon heard that one with the blowed-off leg say it was a deliberate ambush. You had a right to defend yourselves. I just wish to hell you’d both leave town.”

  The brothers walked out of the saloon and trudged through the rain to their rented house.

  * * *

  It had stopped raining before dawn, but the skies were angry-looking when the brothers saddled up the next morning and rode the short distance to the café for breakfast. They planned to ride out into the country that day, to check around.

  Many of the townspeople were friendly to them, waving and speaking. Others stared hate at them. It was easy to see where the battle lines were drawn.

  The café was filling up when the brothers stepped inside, savoring the rich smells coming from the kitchen. Victoria took their orders while openly flirting with Sam. Doctor Lemmon came in and walked up to the table.

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Matt said, pulling out a chair.

  Victoria took his order and brought them all coffee.

  “Just in case you’re curious,” the doctor said, “I’m not new to the West. I’m Colorado-born and -reared. But I don’t support the cattlemen in this fight.”

  “No one with any sense would,” Sam replied. “It isn’t really a question of right or wrong; it’s a question of power.”

  “Exactly. The cattlemen know that responsible handling of sheep won’t harm the range. Vernon and Raner are just too hardheaded to admit to that.” He took a sip of coffee. “Teal—that’s the one who was alive in the alley when I got there last evening—told me about somebody coming in. He said Raley was coming in. That mean anything to you men?”

  “Red Raley,” Matt told him. “Hired gun out of New Mexico. If he’s coming in, someone paid big money to hire him and his boys.”

  “It’s not just a single gunfighter, then?” Doc Lemmon asked.

  “No,” Sam picked it up. “It’s a gang. And they’re as vicious as pirates.”

  “You read about the Chester County range wars?” Matt asked.

  “Oh, yes. A terrible thing down in Texas.”

  “Red and his boys did most of the killing. The Rangers finally came in and ran them out. Red doesn’t dare show his face in Texas. They’ll hang him for sure. We were down there a couple of months ago. A ranger name of Josiah Finch told us all about the Raley gang.”

  “How many men in his gang?”

  Sam shrugged. “It might be ten or twelve, it might be twenty-five or thirty. No way of knowing until he shows up.”

  “And you men intend to do what?”

  Matt smiled at the doctor. “Sticking around for a while. You have a nice, peaceful, friendly little town here.”

  The doctor returned the smile, then sobered. “Before this range war is over, somebody will rename this place and call it Hell.”

  * * *

  The brothers rode out into the country and it was a beautiful part of the state. This area of Colorado had it all, from placid, lush valleys, where cattle could walk belly-deep in grass, and crystal clear and cold streams, to towering mountains. Lakes dotted the region and many gold mines were working, miners also panning the streams and running placers.

  “Beautiful country,” Sam remarked.

  “Almost as pretty as Wyoming,” Matt replied. He pointed to a blaze of slow-moving white against the green grass on a gentle slope. “Sheep. Let’s go pay a visit.”

  “Let’s also be careful,” Sam cautioned. “Those sheepmen might be quick on the shoot.”

  “With good reason,” Matt added.

  But the word had spread quickly among the farmers and sheepmen and the man tending the herd—that they could see—greeted the brothers warmly, inviting them into the camp for coffee.

  Few cowboys ever turned down coffee.

  Squatting around the fire, Sam said, “You better stock up on ammo. Word we got this morning is that Red Raley and his gang of cutthroats have been hired to come in here.”

  “I am not familiar with that name,” Raul said.

  “You will be,” Matt told him. “Where is the Box H ranch house from here?”

  “Straight north, over that ridge a few miles. Pete Harris is a fair man. He’s caused us no trouble since he learned that we do not intend to destroy the range. I will not say that we are friends, but I can truthfully say that we are not enemies.” He shook his head. “I cannot say the same thing about Hugo Raner and Blake Vernon.”

  “Hugo Raner strikes me as being a very unreasonable man in just about any situation you could put him in,” Matt said. “Either do it his way, or you’re wrong.”

  “
That is a very accurate statement, Mister Bodine.”

  “Matt. Just Matt will do.” He watched as one dog came into camp and another dog went out. He grinned. “Just like regular hands. One takes a break and another takes his place. I’ll be darned.”

  Raul’s face turned grim. “Hugo and Blake had both threatened to kill our dogs. That would be a very serious thing for them to do. These dogs are not only highly trained and intelligent animals, they are our friends. I would kill a man who tried to do harm to my dogs.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Sam said. “Many Indian tribes revere the dog and would not lift a hand to help someone who did harm to a dog.”

  “You’re Indian?” Raul inquired.

  “My father was Medicine Horse, a chief of the Cheyenne. He was killed in battle.” Sam had learned the hard way not to say where.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sam shrugged it off. “It was his choice. That is something I had to accept.”

  “Do you sell the sheep for meat?” Matt asked, changing the subject.

  “No. These are woolers. Some of the finest wool in all the world comes from these animals. And believe it or not, some of the sheep are just as much a friend to us as our dogs. You get to know them after a time. Poor foolish creatures. They must be protected at all times.”

  Matt refilled his coffee cup. “I was told in town that you’ve lost sheep.”

  Raul’s look was serious and his eyes were flint hard. “Several hundred. But I will lose no more. Several of my people have arrived.” He stood up and shouted words in a language that neither man had ever heard before.

  But both heard the snicking of levers working rounds into rifles. Neither Matt nor Sam moved.

  “It is all right, my new friends,” Raul said. “They know you are friendly to us. If they did not think that, they would have blown you out of the saddles with those Sharps .52’s and Remington .45-caliber buffalo rifles.”

  “Impressive,” Matt said. “What language was that?”