Gunsmoke and Gold Page 9

  “Oh, you have heard of me?”

  “How else would I have known your name? Damn if you ain’t an ignorant feller.”

  LaBarre looked at Jimmy with a sneer on his lips. “Are you going to let this poor old ragged man do your fighting for you, little baby?”

  “Look at me!” Charlie roared.

  Angry to the core, LaBarre turned to face Charlie. “I think, old man, you need to be taught a lesson in manners.”

  “You don’t have the time, LaBarre. You were pushin’ hard at the kid, knowing you’re a slicker gunhandler than him. But you ain’t slicker than me. I don’t usually stick my nose in other’s folks’ affairs, but I’m makin’ an exception this time. From the looks of you, somebody done whupped your head proper. Now you want to strike out at anybody.” Charlie stepped away from the table. “Well, here I am, LaBarre. Will Charlie Starr do?”

  Pete chuckled, then laughed out loud. “Why, you old tumbleweed,” he said. “I ain’t seen you in twenty-five years.”

  Charlie never took his eyes off LaBarre. “Who you be, mister?”

  “Pete Harris, you old gray wolf. You get done with this tinhorn here, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  LaBarre was shaken to his boots. Charlie Starr!

  Some say Starr was the very first fast gun.1

  LaBarre had backed himself into a corner and knew it. Now his honor was at stake. And his life, he reminded his monumental ego.

  “Come on, LaBarre,” Charlie said. “Drag iron agin this poor old ragged man.” He sneered the last words. “I don’t think you got the sand to do it.”

  “What’s your stake in this, Starr?” LaBarre asked in a soft voice.

  “I like the kid.”

  LaBarre’s hands dropped to the butts of his guns. Charlie drilled him twice, the old Colts seeming to jump into his hard hands. LaBarre backed up against the bar, a very peculiar expression on his face. He managed to get one pistol clear of leather and cock it. Charlie shot him again, the hammer blow exploding against his chest, seeming to blow all the wind from his lungs.

  “Damn you!” LaBarre told Charlie. He thought he lifted his pistol. He did pull the trigger. The slug blew a hole in the floor and almost hit his foot.

  His pistol fell from numbed fingers to clatter on the floor. LaBarre hung on to the edge of the bar. “I’m dead because you liked the . . . kid?”

  “Yep,” Charlie told him.

  “What a stupid thing to die over.” LaBarre whispered the words.

  “Yep,” Charlie agreed.

  LaBarre slumped to the floor to sit spraddle-legged for a moment. He toppled over and tried to reach his pistol. Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves stepped inside, curious as to what all the shooting was about. Sam kicked the pistol away.

  LaBarre looked up. “Goddamn breed,” he said.

  Sam met his eyes. “Do the world a favor, LaBarre, and just go ahead and die.”

  He did.

  Eleven

  Charlie looked over at Jimmy. “I didn’t mean no disrespect toward you by hornin’ in on your play, son. But you’d never have taken LaBarre. He was a bad one.”

  “I thank you for my life, sir,” Jimmy said.

  “Knock off the sir, deputy. My name’s Charlie.”

  “Yes, sir—Charlie.”

  “You quittin’ your job now, Charlie?” Pete called, as LaBarre was being dragged out to the boardwalk. The swamper had been sent to fetch the undertaker.

  “What job?” Charlie asked, after taking a bite of his sandwich and a sip of beer.

  “Under the laws of this brand new state and the laws of this county, you’re a deputy sheriff now. I was a witness.”

  Chrisman and Dale had both gone inside the Red Dog, stepping back to allow LaBarre’s body room to be dragged out. It was dumped on the boardwalk just as a group of ladies walked up.

  “Get that disgusting thing off the boardwalk!” one shrieked. “And do it now!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bert the bartender said. He rolled LaBarre off into the dirt, between boardwalk and hitchrail.

  “Is that Charlie Starr?” Dale asked.

  “Sure is,” Pete told him. “And I’m going to speak to the sheriff as soon as he gets back about making Charlie a full deputy.”

  “I’m against it,” Chrisman surprised everyone by saying.

  “Me, too,” Dale agreed.

  “That’s the first time those two have agreed on anything in ten years,” Shorty said.

  “Twelve,” Dale corrected.

  “LaBarre’s got a thousand-dollar bounty on his head,” Charlie said. “See that I get it, will you, deputy?”

  “I sure will, Charlie.”

  “That ought to be enough for you to ride on out, then,” Dale said. “Come over to the bank as soon as that reward amount is confirmed and I’ll let you have the money. Then you can ride out.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Chrisman said.

  Matt and Sam and Pete gave one another curious glances at this strange exchange of agreements between two men who were supposed to hate each other.

  “Jimmy,” Charlie said. “Go strip LaBarre’s guns from him. They’re yours. You and me got some working out to do.”

  “Yes, sir!” Jimmy said.

  Charlie looked at Matt and Sam, taking in the stone necklaces both wore. “You boys’d be Bodine and Two Wolves. Me and some other old boys was jawin’ about you two not long ago.”

  The men shook hands and Pete moved them all to a bigger table. Dale and Chrisman left the saloon.

  “Now what do you make of those two?” Sam asked Pete.

  “Durned if I know, boys. Some strange goin’s-on in this town.”

  “How come them two wanted me gone from here so sudden?” Charlie asked. “I took a bath in a crick just this mornin’. I know it ain’t that.”

  The men laughed and Pete said, “I don’t know the answer to that neither, Charlie.” He slapped the man on the knee. “But it’s good to see you again. Man, I didn’t recognize you when you first walked in.”

  ‘Well,” Charlie drawled, “I reckon the years ain’t been real kind to me. Lord knows, I never wanted the name of gunfighter. But it got hung on me anyways. Takes a toll on a man. A terrible toll.”

  Charlie looked at Matt and Sam. “You boys ought to head right back to Wyoming and hang them guns up—right now, while you still got a chance. Another two, three more years and you ain’t gonna never shake loose from them. No matter how hard you try. Look at me, boys, I’m fifty-nine, I think. But I’m still draggin’ iron. Still got to move like I’m ridin’ the hoot-owl trail. Always lookin’ over my shoulder.”

  “No more, Charlie,” Pete said. “No more. You can either take the deputy’s job, or go to work for me. I just signed papers with the government for a lot more acres. I need someone to run it. I heard about you helpin’ out over in the other part of the state, you and Louis Longmont and Monte Carson and Luke Nations. I was sorry to hear about Luke catching the bullet.”

  “Punk kid, damn tinhorn little craphead name of Lester Morgan—shot Luke in the back. Smoke slapped him around a bit, then shot one ear off. So’s people would know him wherever he went. I hope that no-good lives a long time, duckin’ and hidin’ and livin’ like a poor old stray dog. I’m tired, Pete. I’ll take either job. But from the way you people talk, seems to me like I’d be best suited—for a time—totin’ a star.”

  “I’d sure like to see you wearin’ one,” Pete agreed.

  Jimmy came back in and laid LaBarre’s rig on the table. He had wiped it free of blood. “That’s sure some fancy rig,” the young man said.

  “It ain’t the rig that matters so much as the man carryin’ it,” Charlie said. “If you’re gonna tote a badge, and I’ve toted a lot of them, there’s some things you’ve got to learn. I’ll teach you.” He smiled sadly. “Maybe I can teach you enough to keep you alive.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Jack Linwood rode in late that afternoon and was clearly stunned when he learn
ed that the grizzled gray-haired man who had killed LaBarre was the legendary Charlie Starr, and very pleased that the gunhandler would consent to wear a badge. He swore him in formally and gave him a badge. Jimmy and Charlie would share a room back of the sheriff’s office.

  Linwood had spoken with the hands from the Spur ranch and also with Coop about the ambush, but he had lost the hours’-old trail of the unknown ambusher.

  And Linwood showed he was a changed man when he said, “Jimmy, tomorrow you ride out to the Reed farm and speak to the father and his boys. They’ve all got Springfield rifles. Be polite but firm with them. Ask to see their rifles and tell them why you’re doin’ it. If any of them get nervous about it, well, just act like nothin’ has happened and come on back and tell me. But I don’t think they had anything to do with it. Still and all, we’ve got to check it out.”

  The sheriff looked at Charlie. “Charlie, you ride out to the Circle V and I’ll ride out to the Lightning spread and nose around. It’s not going to do us any good, but by God, they’ll know we’re not going to back up from them. Both you boys ride easy. That sniper is on somebody’s payroll, and we got to figure that somebody don’t like us no more than he likes Matt or Sam.” He shook his head. “Place is gettin’ weirder and weirder.”

  Matt and Sam had an early supper at Juan’s and hit their blankets early.

  Sam was asleep within minutes, but sleep came hard for Matt. Something was nagging at his brain and he could not pin it down. It darted and ducked and hid in the shadows. And it was the answer to the strange behavior of Dale, Chrisman, and the two holdout ranchers. But it remained a mystery as sleep finally took Bodine.

  Bodine’s eyes popped open and every sense was working overtime. He had no way of knowing what time it was, but he figured it was very late, after midnight. What had pulled him out of a deep sleep? He didn’t know, but he sensed danger.

  Bodine eased from his blankets and silently reached for his guns. Sam slept on. Bodine stood in the center of the room in his longhandles, a pistol in each hand. Something whispered against the side of the house. Bodine turned to face the west window, the top half of the window boarded up. A shadow fell, a movement followed silently. Matt caught the glint of light off a gun barrel and moved away from the center of the room. He watched as the unknown gunman lifted the weapon. It was a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun. The gunman pointed the twin muzzles toward the sleeping Sam.

  Matt lifted his guns, cocking them, and fired, the slugs striking the assassin in the face and throwing him back. The shotgun roared, discharging its lethal load into the night skies. Sam was rolling out of bed, grabbing for his guns.

  “Stay down,” Matt urged. “And keep your eyes on the back. I’m going out the front.”

  Jack, Jimmy, and Charlie were out of their beds and running down the street toward the sounds of shooting, all only partly dressed, but all with their hats on and each hand gripping a six-shooter.

  “Be careful!” Matt called from his crouch near the rotting front porch. The dewy grass was cool under his bare feet and the cold draft reminded him that one very essential button was gone from the rear flap of his underwear.

  “Did you get him?” Jack called.

  “I got him,” Matt said. “But I doubt he came alone.”

  “I’ll swing around back,” Charlie said. “Cover that area.”

  But before he could move, a rifle report smashed the night air and a slug tore into a support post about two inches from Matt’s head. Matt fired at the same time Sam cut loose. There was a choked-off cry and the sound of a body thudding to the ground.

  “Coming up behind you,” Jack said. He hurried to Matt in a doubled-over run and squatted down beside him. “You need to get you some needle and thread,” he said. “You got a half-moon shinin’ back here.”

  “Believe me, the breeze reminded me before you did.”

  Jack chuckled. “Charlie, you in position?”

  “The back of the house is clear,” Charlie called.

  “I’m coming out,” Sam said. “Using the back door.”

  “It’s clear over here,” Jimmy called. He had worked his way to the vacant meadow on the west side of the shack.

  “Get some lamps,” Jack ordered.

  Lamplight shone on the faces of the dead men. The twin .44’s had made an unpleasant mess out of the face of the shotgun toter, the slugs taking him under one eye and in the center of his forehead.

  “I never saw either one of these men in my life,” Jack said. “Jimmy, you were born around here; you know them?”

  “No, sir. Never saw them before this night.”

  “What the Sam Hill’s going on?” Mayor Dale asked, panting after the run from his place over the bank.

  “You know these men, Mayor?” Jack asked, pointing to the dead assassins.

  Dale peered at them. “Never saw them before in my life. You know them?”

  Linwood shook his head. “Let’s find their horses. Maybe they got something in their saddlebags.”

  Dale looked at Bodine. “You need to do something about that backflap, boy.”

  * * *

  The men got dressed and went over to the sheriff’s office to go through the contents of the dead men’s saddlebags. It was already four o’clock in the morning, so more sleep was out of the question.

  The contents of the saddlebags at first offered no further clues. They each contained a box of shells, a change of clothing, a few dollars in coin and greenbacks, a spare six-gun, and the usual odds and ends a cowboy or a drifter might carry: a length of rawhide, some blank sheets of folded paper and a stub of a pencil, a tintype of a gray-haired lady, spare socks.

  “Damn!” Linwood said, walking to the potbellied stove and pouring a fresh cup of coffee.

  It was Jimmy who found the first clue toward unraveling the mystery. “Look here,” he said, pointing to a slit along the inside lip of the saddlebags.

  Sam pulled out a small piece of folded paper. “Meet R. and D. at . . .” That word was smudged and unreadable. “. . . For payoff and inst.”

  “R. and D.?” Jack said. “Raner and Dale?”

  “Could be,” Matt said. “But I bet there’s two dozen people within walking distance whose names begin with R. and D.”

  “Let’s say it is Dale,” Charlie said. “Why’d he want to kill you boys?”

  Matt and Sam shrugged. “No reason,” Sam said for both of them.

  Matt said, “He welcomed us back to the hotel, wanted us to deposit some money in his bank, and apparently wants peace in this region. Dale being involved doesn’t make sense.”

  “I-n-s-t must mean instructions,” Jimmy said. “So maybe that means the killing wasn’t going to stop with you two.”

  “That’s right,” Jack said. He looked at the men gathered in his office. “No Springfield rifle was in either saddle boot, so this R. and D. is probably paying the sniper. So I got this to think about: I wonder who’s next on the list?”

  * * *

  The would-be assassins were buried within hours in unmarked graves on the edge of the town’s cemetery while the sheriff and his deputies rode out into the county to question people. Matt and Sam decided to do some prowling on their own.

  “Let’s find the Raley gang,” Matt suggested.

  “What do we do with them if we find them?” Sam asked thoughtfully.

  Matt grinned. “I bet we can think of something.”

  Sam swung into the saddle. He looked at his brother and grinned. “I bet you’re right.”

  They took provisions for three days, heading straight for Lightning range. Two miles out of town, they stopped and watched a slow-moving wagon come toward them. It was driven by a boy of no more than ten or eleven years old with a bloody bandage around his head. The brothers rode up to the wagon. The boy, with dried tear-streaks having lined grooves on his sooty face, looked up at them.

  “Big brave cowboys,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong. “Well, I ain’t got no gun, so you can sho
ot me like you done them back there last night and then go somewheres and brag about it.” He jerked a thumb toward the wagon bed.

  “What do you mean, son?” Matt asked. “What about those in the back?”

  “My ma, my pa, and my sis. Box H riders hit us last night. Burned us out and left me for dead. But I fooled ’em. I put my family in this wagon before dawn this morning.”

  Matt rode up to the bed of the wagon for a look before it dawned on him what the boy had said. Box H riders. Couldn’t be. He looked at the bullet-riddled bodies in the bed and gritted his teeth. This was needless and brutal and vicious. The man and woman and girl had been shot to rags. Each one had to have been shot twenty times or more.

  “How do you know they were Pete Harris’s hands?” Sam asked.

  “Seen the brand.”

  “Son, we’re awful sorry about your family. I’m Sam Two Wolves and this is my brother, Matt Bodine. We had nothing to do with this, and I’ll bet you that Pete Harris didn’t either . . .”

  He let that trail off. The boy’s eyes had gone blank. The lad suddenly dropped the reins, fell over backward, and landed on his father’s dead body.

  Matt stepped from his horse and gingerly climbed into the bed of the wagon, trying not to step on any bodies. He quickly checked the boy. “He’s alive. His eyes are open. But he doesn’t seem to be seeing anything.”

  “He’s probably in shock. Is his skin sort of clammy to the touch?”

  “Yes, and his breathing is all fouled up.”

  “Wrap him up in a blanket and hand him to me. I’ll head fast for town and you bring the wagon, okay?”

  Matt wrapped the boy—he appeared so thin as to be malnourished—in his own blanket and handed him over to Sam. “See you in town, brother. Sam! Have someone head out and find Linwood, get him back to town as quick as possible.”

  “For a fact,” Sam said. “This could blow the lid off this bubbling pot.”

  “You know it. Take off, I’ll be along.”

  Sam left at a gallop, holding the boy tightly against him. Matt tied the reins of his horse to the rear of the wagon and climbed onto the seat. He picked up the reins. One horse looked back at him, uncomfortable with this stranger. “Come on, team,” he said. “I don’t like this any better than you do.”