Gunsmoke and Gold Read online

  A large crowd had gathered around, friendly and unfriendly faces about equally divided.

  “That’s nonsense,” Sam said. “We’ve been riding around the country all day, visiting people. We had dinner at the Box H. You can ask Pete Harris and family.”

  “That don’t cut no ice,” Linwood said. “This happened about an hour ago; two, three miles west of town. You ambushed some Lightning and Circle V hands at them rocks.”

  “We most certainly did not,” Matt said. He drew his Colts so fast the sheriff was startled, the crowd gasped, and Mayor Dale ducked behind Linwood. Matt handed his pistols, butt-first, to the sheriff. “Check them; they haven’t been fired.”

  Jack sniffed the barrels of the Colts, then checked Sam’s pistol. “Shore haven’t,” he muttered.

  “They was usin’ rifles!” a Lightning hand called Dixon yelled. “Check them rifles.”

  The rifles were checked and found to be clean and powder free. “The rifles ain’t been fired either,” the sheriff said with a strange half-smile.

  “Come on!” a Circle V man yelled. “We’ll take you right to the spot and show you. They musta fired thirty or forty rounds.”

  “Suits me,” Sam said.

  “Me, too,” Matt said. “I want to show you all that these men are damn liars.”

  A Lightning hand cussed and lunged for Matt, and the sheriff pushed him back. “Just get in the saddle and come on. Let’s get this settled.”

  Half the town’s citizens, including the mayor, made the trip out to the rocks. They found two busted rifles in the rocks, but not one bit of brass was found in the timber. Not a heelprint or a sign of disturbed brush.

  “I told you they were lying,” Matt said. “Are you satisfied now?”

  “No, I’m not,” Linwood said. “But I can’t charge you ’cause there ain’t no proof you two done anything.”

  “Do you get the impression that we’re being hassled, brother?” Sam asked.

  “I sure do. I think it’s time we found us a lawyer and laid this in his lap.”

  Mayor Dale grinned. “There are no lawyers in Dale.”

  “But there is in the next town down the road, I bet,” Matt said with a smile.

  Mayor Dale’s smile vanished. “Why would you want to see an attorney?”

  “To sue the town, the mayor, and the sheriff,” Sam said.

  “Now wait a minute!” Mayor Dale yelled.

  “And we’d win, too,” Matt said.

  “How do you figure that?” the sheriff asked, again with that strange smile.

  “Because you’re harassing us,” Sam picked it up. “You took the word of a bunch of no-count bums, that bunch over there . . .” He pointed at the Lightning and Circle V hands; one of them gave him an obscene gesture. “. . . And placed us under arrest even after we—two prominent Wyoming cattle ranchers—protested our innocence. You have maligned our good names . . .” Sam was really getting into it now, raising his voice and waving his arms. “. . . Insulted our parentage, accused us of being low-down, dirty, filthy scum-of-the-earth ambushers, like that murderous pack of hyenas over there.” Again he pointed to the Lightning and Circle V bunch.

  Two of the Circle V boys were holding back another hand who was red-faced and ready to fight at that insult.

  “And we’re not going to take it anymore,” Sam wound down. “We’ll see how a court of law views these terrible grievances.” He put on his best Indian face and glared stony-eyed down at the mayor.

  “Now wait a minute!” Mayor Dale yelled. “We don’t need a bunch of lawyers in on this.” Lawyers were the last thing he needed in town. “We apologize for, ah, doing whatever it is you think we did. Don’t we, Sheriff?”

  Linwood mumbled something under his breath.

  “What was that?” Matt leaned closer. “I couldn’t hear that. Was that an apology?”

  “Yes, yes!” Linwood shouted. “Sorry.”

  “And I want an apology from those snakes over there,” Sam said, looking at the ambushers.

  “You’ll play hell gettin’ one!” a Lightning hand called Ned yelled.

  “You ain’t heard the last from us, neither!” a Circle V hand yelled. “You gonna be sorry you ever lied on us.”

  Matt started to call out the nursery rhyme about sticks and stones, but he decided he’d pushed enough for one day. It was the same one who’d given them an obscene gesture moments earlier, so Matt returned it, waving the finger in the air.

  “Stop that!” Mayor Dale said. “There are ladies present.”

  * * *

  That evening at the café, Juan and family and staff were all smiles. Matt and Sam could pay for nothing. News of their visiting around the area had spread fast. The brothers ate until they could hold no more, then returned to their shack and turned in for the night.

  * * *

  About three days’ ride from the town an old gunfighter was cooking his bacon and heating his coffee. He speared the strips of bacon and dumped in a cut-up potato and stirred the spuds around a bit. He added a bit of wild onion he’d pulled earlier and leaned back against his saddle. He listened to the wind that was rapidly closing in with the night. Charlie Starr was a contented man. He really had very little—his guns, his good horse, a saddle, and a few articles of clothing—but he’d never wanted for much. He sipped his coffee and stirred the potatoes and smiled. All in all, he’d had a good life, he reckoned. Not that he was figurin’ on cashin’ in his chips anytime soon, he was quick to think. But . . . he just didn’t have anything to complain about. Charlie filled his plate and went to eating.

  Not too many miles away, Louis Longmont sat in his tent and enjoyed a fine wine with his meal, served on expensive china and eaten with silver utensils. The millionaire adventurer/industrialist/gambler/gunfighter could have been staying in Monte Carlo, or his suite in New York City, or in any one of a dozen elegant places; but Louis enjoyed the rough-and-tumble ways of the American West. The rest of the world was becoming just too tame for his liking.

  Louis craved excitement, challenge. He thrived on it. And his advisers had warned him that investing in sheep in the West was a risky business. That was enough to sway Louis. The sheep were on their way; Louis was just looking for a good spot for them. He’d heard the area around Dale was just right.

  * * *

  The brothers stepped out to a fine day, the sky blue, the sun warming the earth, and at first glance, everything looked just dandy.

  Then they looked up the street and saw the hitchrails in front of the Red Dog lined with horses.

  “Wonderful,” Sam muttered. “And I woke up in such a good humor.”

  “For a change,” Matt replied.

  “I always arise in a good humor.”

  “If that’s the case, I’d hate to see you in a bad mood.”

  The brothers stood for a moment on the dirt path in front of their rented shack, staring toward the town.

  “I’m hungry,” Matt said. “If that pack of no-goods tries to keep me from breakfast, there’s going to be trouble.” He started walking toward the main street, Sam beside him. Matt had noticed that Sam had taken his second gunbelt from his saddlebags and was now wearing it. Both young men wore their guns loose in leather.

  The horses at the hitchrails were from the Lightning and Circle V ranches. There were none from the Box H. But there was one horse with a brand that neither of them recognized.

  “Think that’s part of the Raley gang?” Sam asked.

  “I doubt it. I don’t think they’d be that open. From what I hear, most of those boys are wanted.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But . . . who knows? I’ve sure never seen that brand before.”

  The brand was a grinning death’s head. Macabre even for the wild and wooly West.

  “Wait a second,” Sam said, pausing to stare at the brand. “Sure. You remember that cowboy who rode along with us for a few days several months back? What was that he said about that French-speaking gunfighter?”

  “Yeah! LaB
arre—a French Canadian. The Mounties were looking for him. Rode a horse with a death’s-head-brand. Supposed to be one of the top guns around. Some say he’s better than Smoke Jensen. I guess that’s his horse.”

  “He’s supposed to be a top-money gunfighter.”

  “Well, if he braces me before breakfast, he’ll damn sure earn it,” Matt said.

  But no one stepped out of the saloon as the brothers walked to the Mexican café. The place was crowded but strangely quiet for so many people.

  “Is there a funeral this morning?” Sam asked Victoria when she came over, without her usual smile, to take their orders.

  “The town has been tense ever since those men rode in before dawn,” she told them. “Poppa says they haven’t set one foot outside the saloon.”

  “So maybe it’s payday and they’re getting tanked up?” Matt suggested.

  She shook her head. “The word is they’re planning to kill the both of you today.”

  Matt grinned up at her. “Don’t worry, Victoria. That’s been tried by better men than that pack of saddlebums over at the Red Dog. We’re still here.”

  But the worry did not leave her eyes. “Be most careful today,” she cautioned. “Don’t be so flippant. Raul sent word in late last night that the Raley gang has ridden in. They’re camped on Lightning range.”

  “That news does make one tend to be a bit more cautious,” Sam said. “But not just us. That gang of no-goods are in here to make trouble for the sheepmen and the farmers. Have they been warned?”

  “Sí. They are frightened.”

  “They better stay that way,” Matt said. “And they better be willing to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Victoria shook her head. “You know they will not—at least, not many of them. They are peaceful people for the most part.”

  She left them, taking their orders to the kitchen. The brothers sipped their coffee and kept one eye on the door.

  “That’s got to be him,” Sam said softly, cutting his eyes to the door.

  Matt turned. A man dressed all in black was entering the café. He was clean-shaven and neatly dressed. He even took off his hat once inside and hung it on a peg. His hair was dark and slicked back. His twin .45’s were pearl-handled, the leather tied down. He walked directly to their table and sat down without being asked.

  The man looked at the blood-brothers. “You are, of course, Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves?”

  “Is that a question or a statement?” Sam asked.

  The man ignored that and said, “I am LaBarre.”

  “Big deal,” Matt replied.

  LaBarre smiled. “You’re very impudent.”

  “Nope. I’m just hungry. What do you want, LaBarre?”

  “Breakfast. Some conversation. A chance to meet and get to know my enemies.”

  “We’re not your enemies,” Sam told him.

  “Ah, je vous demande pardon, but you most certainly are. You stand in the way of my employers. So therefore you must either ride on, or be removed forcibly.”

  Matt studied the gunfighter. LaBarre was not a young man; he guessed him to be around forty. But he was rugged looking and appeared to be in very good physical shape.

  “I hope whoever is paying you pays you well,” Matt told the man, meeting his eyes. “ ’Cause if you brace me, I’m going to get lead in you, LaBarre. Count on that. Unless, of course, you’re a back-shooter.”

  The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed at that. “When the time comes, my impudent and arrogant young foe, I will meet you face to face. And you can count on that.”

  Matt sighed and put down his coffee cup. “It always happens right when I’m about to eat. Did you ever notice that, Sam?”

  Sam returned the sigh. “Do you have to do this before breakfast, brother?”

  “Do what?” LaBarre asked.

  “This,” Matt said, and busted the man in the mouth with a hard right fist.

  Matt didn’t want any shooting in the crowded café. But he did want to put the gunfighter out of commission for a time. And Matt didn’t believe in waiting around. LaBarre’s butt hit the floor, blood streaming from his busted lips, and Sam reached down with both hands and literally ripped the man’s gunbelt from him.

  “I’ll just keep this for a time,” he said, smiling at LaBarre. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the tools of your trade. I’m such a considerate fellow, aren’t I?”

  With a curse, LaBarre jumped to his feet and took a swing at Matt. Matt sidestepped, ducked, faked the man with a left, and then snapped a right to LaBarre’s head. LaBarre took it flush on his honker. The hard-thrown punch broke the nose and backed the gunfighter up, blood leaking from his bent blower. He screamed in rage and kicked up with a right boot.

  Matt grabbed the foot and twisted, sending the man crashing to the floor. LaBarre was very quick; he rolled away and jumped to his boots, his face dark with anger. He backed up and raised his clenched fists. He said something in French that Matt figured was nothing complimentary.

  The crowd had left their tables, most of them taking their plates with them, and backed up next to the walls, eating and enjoying the fight.

  “Come on, LaBarre,” Matt taunted the man. “Let’s see how good you are without your guns.”

  LaBarre flicked a left that Matt pushed out of the way and the Canadian came boring in with a right that jarred Matt down to his boots. Matt backed up and took a vicious left on his shoulder. It hurt; it would have floored him if it had connected with his jaw.

  Matt shuffled out of the way and shook his head to clear away the roaring and worked his left arm to unkink the muscle. LaBarre pressed and got sloppy for an instant. Matt knocked the crap out of the man with a right and left that twisted LaBarre’s head and sent blood flying.

  Matt hit him in the belly and whoosed the air from LaBarre. The Canadian backed up, sucking in great lungfuls of air. His face was white from the sudden shock of losing all his wind.

  The breakfast diners were quiet now, their eyes riveted on the combatants. Sheriff Linwood and Mayor Dale had entered the café, along with Hugo Raner and Blake Vernon and some of their hands. They stood along the wall and made no move to interfere. What they might do after the fight was anybody’s guess, but for now, they let the two men slug it out.

  LaBarre was wary now; he’d experienced the power in Matt’s big, hard fists, and knew he could not afford to risk a clench to rest. He had to keep moving, always moving, darting in, striking, and getting out.

  Matt pressed the man, never taking his eyes from the eyes of his opponent. He flicked a left at LaBarre, but the man didn’t take the bait. He ducked the punch and kept his balled fists in a protective position. Matt kicked at the man’s knee and LaBarre danced back. Matt spun, jumped, and showed the gunfighter some Indian wrestling moves. He got his legs around LaBarre’s legs in a scissor-lock and twisted, bringing them both to the floor. Matt rolled over quickly, came to his knees, and hammered at the man’s face with both fists.

  LaBarre’s eyes were glazing over and he was mumbling incoherently and spraying blood with each exhalation when Matt hauled him to his boots and turned him around. With one hand on the seat of his tailored pants and the other on the collar of his expensive shirt, Matt tossed him out the door. The paid gunhand landed on his belly in the alley, slid for a few feet, then lay there moaning and cussing. Matt jerked LaBarre’s hat from the peg and sailed it out to him. It was heavy, the hatband adorned with silver dollars. Unfortunately, the hat landed in a big mud puddle and sank up to its pinch.

  Sam had unloaded LaBarre’s guns and replaced them in leather. He walked to the doorway and held them out for Matt. Matt took aim and hurled the rig out into the alley just as LaBarre was slowly getting to his knees. The heavy double rig caught him on the back of the noggin and knocked him flat on his face. This time, LaBarre did not move.

  “You may wash up back here, Senor Bodine,” Juan said with a huge grin. He pointed. “And your breakfast will be ready in a moment.”


  Mayor Dale, Hugo, Blake, and hands left sullen and red-faced to the sound of everybody in the place applauding Matt’s just-concluded actions with LaBarre.

  Jack Linwood was smiling.

  Eight

  Sam stood by the door, just in case some of the hands broke from the crowd just leaving and came back in trouble-hunting. He watched as LaBarre was lifted out of the dirt and half-dragged, half-carried to the boardwalk, a hand following along, shaking the muddy water from the gunfighter’s fancy hat. The hand looked back at the café and spotted Sam. He said something, but he was too far away for Sam to make out the words. It was probably the distance that saved the hand’s life, for Sam was in no mood for any more insults.

  Matt reentered the café and the brothers enjoyed a quiet breakfast.

  “So what’s on for today?” Sam asked.

  “Staying close to town. I got an itchy feeling in the middle of my back. I don’t think a ride in the country is wise.”

  “I agree. I’d like to know what’s being discussed over in the Red Dog.”

  “Killing us, probably.”

  “How’s your hands?”

  “A little stiff. I think I’ll buy some salts and soak them for a couple of hours.”

  “At least doing that will keep you out of trouble,” Sam remarked.

  A larger crowd of hands had gathered at the saloon by midmorning, and by midafternoon, it appeared that every hand on the Circle V and Lightning payroll was in town. And they were getting rowdy. A small boy appeared at the door carrying a tray of food and a note from Juan. The man had wisely decided to close his café early and not reopen until the next day. He had gotten word that there was to be much trouble that night.

  Matt had soaked his hands several times during the day and what stiffness had been in them was gone. The evening shadows were lengthening when Matt buttoned up his shirt and swung his gunbelt around his hips.

  “I’m not a prisoner, and damned if I’ll behave as one,” he said. “I’m going to the Plowshare for a beer.”

  Sam pulled on his boots and buckled on his iron. “I thought you’d never suggest it.”

  They checked on their horses, making sure they had plenty of water and hay, then began the short walk to the gathering place of farmers, sheepmen, and local townspeople who had no desire to rub elbows with the riders of Hugo Raner and Blake Vernon.