Blood Bond 5 Read online

  Matt and Sam had just about made up their minds to pull out. It looked like to both of them that with the fight, Bull and John had settled their differences. Neither had won, but then neither had lost.

  Matt and Sam were sitting in the marshal’s office when a lone rider reined in and stepped up on the boardwalk. “Frank Anderson,” Tom said. “Rides for Bull. He’s a cowboy. Period. Never had a moment’s trouble out of him.”

  “He’s packed to ride,” Sam noted. “His saddlebags are full, and his war bag is tied to the horn.”

  Frank stepped into the office and took off his hat. “Just thought I’d stop and say adios, Tom. I’m haulin’ my ashes.”

  “What’s the matter, Frank?”

  “Little Jimmy Dexter and Peck Hill are about an hour behind me. Bull is sendin’ them in to brace Bodine, there.”

  “Why?” Matt asked, surprise on his face. Sam was as surprised as his brother.

  Frank shrugged his shoulders. “No particular reason, I reckon. Other than just to keep things stirred up. I can’t take no more of it. Laredo is the only hand left out there that’s worth a damn. All the real punchers have pulled out one by one. I figured I was the only real drover left. I got me a job down in Utah, doin’ what I do best, and that’s lookin’ at the ass-end of cows.”

  Frank nodded his head at the marshal, and said to Bodine, “Good luck.” Then he rode out.

  “This makes no sense,” Tom broke the silence. “They must know that you two are no longer deputized, and that you have never taken sides against either rancher. Why single you out, Bodine?”

  Bodine shrugged and checked each pistol, loading up the chamber usually kept empty under the hammer. “None of this has made any sense to me. Not from the very first. But I won’t run, and if they call me out, I’d feel obliged to meet them.”

  “We will meet them,” Sam corrected, as he also loaded his pistol full. He stood up. “I’m going back to the hotel for my second gun. Be back in a minute.”

  “You boys could ride out,” Tom suggested.

  “That’s not an option,” Matt told him. “And there is no law in this territory that says a man can’t protect himself. Not yet anyway. Was I you, Tom, I’d clear the streets.” Matt stepped out of the office and pulled his hat brim lower, shading his eyes. He waited.

  The blood-bonded brothers were waiting on the boardwalk of the now deserted street when the riders came into view. Four of them.

  Sam grunted. “I recognize Dexter and Hill. I don’t know the other two.”

  “Local toughs,” Tom Riley spoke from the open door of his office. “Les King and Willie Durham. Thugs. They’ll do anything for a dollar.”

  “Well, Tom,” Matt said without looking around, “you be sure and bury their dollars with them.”

  7

  Now it all came down to what many called the way of the West. People back in the settled East, with police officers and plenty of courts and judges, abhorred the unwritten code of what they called the savage West. But in the West, if a man sold you three thousand head of cattle, the buyer didn’t count them. It was done on the seller’s word. And if a man wore a gun and was called out into the street, he went, or in the minds of many, wore the brand of coward for the rest of his life. Honor was everything. Without honor, few folks would trust or do business with a person called coward. Most of those who subscribed to the code would tell you it wasn’t right. But it was there, and for as long as it existed, it would be the way of the West.

  The brothers watched the gunhands rein up and dismount and walk into the Bull’s Den for a shot or two of amber-colored courage.

  The brothers rolled cigarettes and waited.

  Nothing moved on the wide and rutted street. No chickens pecked the ground, no dogs lay tranquil in the warm sun, and only the four horses of the gunslicks were tied to hitchrails.

  “No point in trying to get you boys to back out of this, is there?” Tom asked.

  “Nope,” Matt replied.

  “You know better than to even ask,” Sam added.

  “I reckon,” Tom said. The brothers heard the door close behind them.

  “The street isn’t deserted,” Matt said. “Look up by the newspaper office.”

  Ralph Masters was hurrying up the boardwalk, carrying his bulky photographic equipment.

  “Ralph!” Sam called, pointing. “Set up in that alley and stay out of the line of fire. Don’t get killed or hurt for a damn picture.”

  “I’m a reporter,” Ralph countered. “I go where the news is.”

  The batwings suddenly slammed open, and the Wyoming Kid stepped out.

  “Where in the hell did he come from?” Matt questioned.

  “He must have come in the back way. Remember we’ve seen them do that.”

  “I wonder where Utah Bates is.”

  “Isn’t five enough? You want an even six?”

  “I like round numbers.”

  “Well, you are about to get your liking, brother. Here they come and the sixth is Utah Bates. Stupid punk.”

  “I hope you don’t think we’re going to stand out in the street and face six men, Sam.”

  Sam smiled. “We stand right where we are until after the first volley. Then I drop down behind that water trough, and you duck into the alley. How’s that sound?”

  “You’re so sneaky, Sam. Is that the Cheyenne coming out in you?”

  “Indians aren’t sneaky. We’re just courageous. Why you do think the white man calls us Braves?”

  Both Matt and Sam laughed, and the laughter seemed to grate on the nerves of the approaching gunmen. “What the hell are you two gigglin’ about?” Peck called.

  “A private joke,” Sam told him. “Why are you after us?”

  “Why not?” was his reply.

  “That makes about as much sense as any of this,” Matt whispered.

  “And maybe ’cause you is you, and we is us,” the Wyoming Kid said.

  Sam’s mouth dropped open, and Matt said, “Don’t even attempt a reply. It isn’t worth the effort.”

  The six men moved closer, all spread out.

  “You boys are brave, aren’t you?” Matt called. “Six to two. I guess they really are scared of us, Sam.” And with that said, Matt drew his right hand .44 and took out Little Jimmy Dexter, the slug catching the evil little gunman in the stomach and doubling him over.

  Sam was only a split second behind Matt, and he ended the career of Peck Hill just as the man was clearing leather, his slug striking the tall hired gun directly in the center of the chest and exploding the heart. Hill stretched out on the street and kissed the earth.

  Sam jumped for the protection of the trough, and Matt beat it for the alley just as Ralph Master’s flash pan popped. The Wyoming Kid spun around, both hands filled with .45s, and started firing at the reporter. He saw his mistake too late. Just as the Kid tried to turn, Sam leveled a .44 and dusted the Kid, from right side to left. The Kid toppled over in the blood-stained street, hollering for his mother.

  Watching from the window, but down on his knees behind the wall for protection, were the marshal and his deputies. Tom said, “He should have listened to his mother ten years back. It’s a little late now.”

  The remaining three toughs had seen the error of the open street, and while their friends were going down, they were high-tailing it to cover. When one of their shots went wild and shattered a window in the marshal’s office, the code of the West went flying out the same busted window. Tom grabbed up a Winchester and went out the back door, circling around and coming up the same alley where Ralph Masters had set up his equipment and was flash-panning away.

  “You damn fool!” Tom shouted at him. “Are you tryin’ to get killed?”

  “Just doing my job, Tom,” the editor called over the rattle of gunfire. “This is great stuff. The folks back East will eat it up.”

  A wild shot tore off a chunk of board just over his head and ricocheted off, whining down the alley. The newspaperman yelped and droppe
d to his knees.

  “Good,” Tom said. “Now stay there.” He crouched at the edge of the building, looking the situation over. Tom took a deep breath and yelled, “You Flyin’ BS riders. This is Tom Riley. Give this up, right now.”

  His reply was several bullets that thudded into the building. Tom leveled his Winchester and gave as much as he received, working the lever as fast as he could, his fire pinning down the punk who called himself Utah Bates.

  Utah jumped through a window and landed on the floor of the dressing room of Miss Charlotte’s Fashionable Gowns, a curtain around his head and neck. A young lady who had been in the process of changing clothes stood before him, clad only in the scantiest of underthings. She let out a wail that would have given a cougar heart failure just as Miss Charlotte came around the corner, a shotgun in her hands. Utah Bates scrambled to his boots and went back out the same window he had entered just as the shotgun roared. Several pellets caught him in the ass, and he bellered out his pain, hit the ground, and crawled under the building next to the dress shop. A dog had just given birth to a fine and healthy litter of puppies under the building, and she was in no mood to be trifled with. Utah and the dog came face to snout in the cool semi-gloom. Seemed to Utah this dog had enough teeth for two. Utah yelped, the dog barked, and the protective new mother bit Utah on the nose, and he went rolling and hollering out the back of the building, bleeding from the snoot and the butt.

  Les King broke and ran, leaving his buddy, Willie, to fend for himself. Willie quickly assessed the situation and found it not to his liking. The hired tough hit the air and headed for the country. He could always steal a horse.

  Matt and Sam and the marshal stepped out into the street, reloading as they walked. The Wyoming Kid was still moaning in pain and calling for his mother.

  Dr. Blaine came running, carrying his little black bag, and the undertaker was two steps behind him.

  “Get after those others!” Tom yelled to his deputies. “Bring them back here. And I don’t give a damn whether they’re sittin’ a saddle or tied across it.”

  The brothers and the marshal stood over The Wyoming Kid. The doctor looked up at them. “He might live, but I doubt it. All depends on what the slug destroyed as it passed through.”

  “To hell with him,” Little Jimmy Dexter cried out. “What about me?”

  Doc Blaine checked him quickly. “You’re finished, man. Make your peace with God.”

  “You go to hell, sawbones,” Dexter gasped.

  “Now, now,” the undertaker soothed. “You can be assured that you will be stretched out fine.” He thought about that. “How fine depends on whether or not you got any money. You got any money on you?”

  “Git your nasty hands offen me, you leech!” Dexter told the man.

  “Ungrateful wretch!” the portly mortician said.

  “You,” Tom Riley said, pointing to a citizen. “Go get their horses and take them to the livery. They now belong to the town and all their possessions with them.”

  “Well, now,” the undertaker beamed. “I suppose you will have a nice service after all.”

  “Bastard!” Little Jimmy Dexter gasped. He cut his eyes to Matt. “You’re quick, man. And sneaky, too. I like that. You’re all right, Bodine. I’m glad it was you who done me in.”

  “I’m not,” Matt said quietly.

  “Born to the gun,” the small man said. “Both of you. No matter what you do, you’ll never get shut of the smell of gunsmoke.”

  “We can try,” Sam said.

  “Won’t do you no good. You’re just like Hickock and Longley and Masterson and the Earps. So long, boys.” Dexter closed his eyes and died.

  Matt noticed that the man’s clothing was frayed and patched, and his boots were worn out. He took a double eagle from his vest pocket and handed it to the owner of the general store. “Get him a new suit for burying.” He and Sam turned as one and headed for the hotel.

  “Strange man,” the shopkeeper remarked.

  “No,” Tom said. “He’s just good with a gun, but not a killer. There is a world of difference ’tween the two.”

  The Wyoming Kid lay leaning toward death in the doctor’s small clinic, unaware of the quick burial of Little Jimmy Dexter and Peck Hill. Willie Durham, Utah Bates, and Les King had beat it back to the Flying BS range and safety.

  The sheriff rode down from the county seat and said he couldn’t see any charges that might be brought against the men. It was a simple case of men calling out other men. There was no law against it. He admitted that it didn’t make any sense, but added that since when did Bull Sutton or John Carlin do anything that made any sense?

  Tom Riley certainly had to agree with that.

  As far as Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves were concerned, they felt free to pull out and were packing up to do so when Sam noticed an envelope someone had slid under the door. Sam picked it up and opened it, removing a single sheet of paper. Someone had printed, “CHECK THEIR BACKTRAIL.”

  “Check whose backtrail?” Matt asked.

  “Sutton and Carlin, I suppose. Why ask us to do it? Why have we become the central players in this mystery? What business is it of ours?”

  “Let’s go see Tom.”

  Tom studied the words on the paper for a long time. “No idea who slipped this under your door?”

  “No,” Matt said. “We didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Who would know about Sutton and Carlin?” Sam asked.

  “Ladue,” Tom said quickly. “He’s older than dirt and was here before anybody else.”

  “I’ll wager Ladue didn’t slip the note under our door,” Sam said. “Someone in this town did that.”

  “Who and why?” Tom asked.

  Both brothers shrugged, Matt saying, “That’s a mystery to us, too.”

  “I don’t like mysteries,” Tom said, leaning back in his chair. “They irritate me. Someone in town either knows something about Sutton and Carlin, or they want us to think they do. If it’s the latter, why?”

  “To throw us off the real trail,” Sam said. “But I tend to think they don’t know as much as they suspect something might be down their backtrail.”

  Tom pointed a finger at him. “You’d make a good lawman.” He paused. “If you boys were to stick around, the county would pick up your hotel tab. But not your food,” he was quick to add. “You two eat like lumberjacks.”

  “You want us to go see Ladue?” Matt asked.

  “If you would.”

  “You boys totin’ badges?” the old mountain man asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Sam replied. “If you know what I mean.”

  “You is and you ain’t,” the man said. “Sure. You’re hepin’ out Tom Riley. Tom’s a good man. And he don’t kowtow to nobody.” Ladue studied the pair for a few seconds. “You wanna know about Carlin and Sutton. Well, pour some coffee and park your butts, and let’s get to jawin’.”

  They sat around a rough table, and Ladue slowly spoke. “There was somethin’ odd about them two. I sensed it right off. Bad blood between ’em right off the mark. They come in here with their wives and their kids and a bunch of no-count men a-trailin’ cattle with the brands reworked so sloppy a one-eyed drunk could have seen it a week away. And them two wasn’t a month apart gittin’ here. It was like it was . . . well, planned. But the way they feel about each other, you know it wasn’t. It was just one of those things, I reckon. But . . . give ’em credit for a few things howsomever. They fought Injuns and outlaws and so forth and settled this area. They done that, all right.”

  He took a sip of whiskey and said, “I think they come in from Missouri. Both of ’em. But they wasn’t Missouri borned. I disremember the cowboy’s name who told me that. Not that it makes any difference, ’cause shortly after he did, he was found shot stone dead. Him and me we got on right good—the cowboy, I’m talkin’ about—and he said . . . Kaintucky! By God. That’s where he said Carlin and Sutton come from original. Sure did. ’Bout fifty mile from one anoth
er back yonder. I asked if Carlin and Sutton knowed each other back there, and he said he didn’t think so.”

  “Did they ever socialize?” Matt asked.

  Ladue shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. And that seemed odd to me. You see, other than the few mountain men who stayed in this area, them two was the first whites to come in and settle. But I don’t never recall them gettin’ together for no funnin’.”

  “Not even the women?” Sam asked.

  “No. And the kids hate each other. ’Ceptin’ for Daniel Carlin and Connie Sutton.”

  “What happened to make the kids hate each other?”

  Again, Ladue shrugged. “I guess the parents taught them to hate. Hell, ’ceptin’ for Connie and Dan, all them kids is as squirrely as a tree full of nuts. And the girls is just as unpredictable and dangerous as the boys. The boys has all killed. Ever’ one of them. They like to kill. You can see it in their eyes. Mean, rattlesnake eyes. Rabid coyote eyes. You both have seen the type. And there ain’t nothin’ wrong in their heads neither. They’re just mean. Bullies. They like to hurt people and animals, and I ain’t got no use for none of them. I told Johnny Carlin to his face that if I ever caught him on my property, I’d kill him on sight with no words needed to be spoken. They all leave me alone. One of these days, the Carlin kids and the Sutton kids is gonna meet up somewheres, and they’s gonna be the God-awfulest shoot-out this territory’s ever known. You just mark my words on that.”

  “What you’ve told us today,” Sam said. “Have you ever told anyone else?”

  Ladue shook his shaggy head. “No. No reason to. Nobody ever asked me.”