Moonshine Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  Frankie gave a little snort. “Spook them and run them all off again, that’s what you’d be liable to do. Just stop, like I told you.”

  Matt brought his mount to a halt, biting back a comment as he did so about how bossy she was. Bossy she might be, but that didn’t make her any less lovely.

  Frankie slid down from the horse’s back with an agile grace and ran lightly toward the runaway team. They were still harnessed together, so they couldn’t move that well. Matt heard her call out softly to them as she approached. The horses danced around skittishly for a second and let out a few nervous nickers, but then they settled down and allowed her to come up to them. She got a firm grip on the harness of one of the leaders. When he responded, so did the others. They followed docilely as she led them back to Matt.

  “Here,” she said as she handed him the trailing reins. “Can you hang on to them?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “Move your foot out of the stirrup so I can get back up there.”

  Matt gritted his teeth a little as he moved his foot. She really liked to give orders.

  Frankie climbed aboard the horse behind Matt and took the reins back from him. Then they started toward the spot where the buckboard had turned over.

  When they got back to the vehicle, Sam reported, “I went over everything, and there’s no major damage to the undercarriage. Whoever built this buckboard did a good job of it.” He reached for the reins. “I’ll get the team hitched up.”

  Frankie slid down from the horse’s back. “I’ll do it,” she said. “They’re used to me.”

  Sam looked at Matt, who gave a little shrug in answer to the unasked question of who had put the proverbial burr under Frankie’s proverbial saddle.

  Frankie was as good as her word. She hitched the team to the wagon in a matter of minutes and had the buckboard ready to roll again.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said as she settled herself on the seat, although to Matt’s ears it sounded like she had to drag the expression of gratitude out of her. “I’ll be fine now. You two can go on about your business.”

  “Forget it,” Matt said. “Tonight our business is seeing to it that you get home safely. We’re comin’ with you, Miss Harlow, in case those blasted special marshals decide to jump you again.”

  “I told you—” she began angrily, then stopped short. “What did you say?”

  “That we’re comin’ with you in case those special marshals—”

  “Hold it right there. Is that who you think bushwhacked me tonight?”

  “Well, who else could it have been?” Matt asked. “We ran into a bunch of ’em earlier in the day, and attack-in’ a young woman seems like just the sort of lowdown, no-good thing those skunks would pull. Why, they blew up a whole cabin with a bomb just because some fellas were inside it who’d been makin’ whiskey!”

  Matt heard the sharp intake of breath between Frankie’s lips, and an awful possibility occurred to him. Maybe that cabin had belonged to her family.

  “Where was this?” she asked in a voice pulled taut with strain.

  “A ways further west from here,” Sam replied. “Probably another three or four miles.”

  A held breath came out with a sigh from Frankie’s mouth. “That would be the Bourland place. They never brewed much ’shine, just enough for themselves and a few friends of theirs. I thought for a second…Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “You thought it was your family’s place that got blown up,” Matt said. “Nobody could blame you for bein’ worried about that.”

  “Were any of the Bourlands hurt? Or…killed?”

  Sam said, “None of them appeared to be hurt badly. They got out of the cabin in time, although just barely. They were all arrested, though.” He looked over at Matt. “Come to think of it, I’m surprised the marshals didn’t bring their prisoners into Cottonwood so they could be locked up in the local jail for the time being.”

  Frankie shook her head. “Those regulators who call themselves special marshals don’t need to use jails. They’ve got jail wagons of their own that they cram their prisoners into and tote them around. They take them back to Wichita when they get a full load.”

  Matt heard the scorn and hatred in Frankie’s voice when she referred to the special marshals as “regulators.” Such men, who often were hired to support one side or the other in a range war, were regarded as no better than hired killers. Having met Bickford and Porter that afternoon and seen their handiwork, Matt thought they fit that description pretty well.

  “You’re wrong about them, though,” Frankie went on. “They’re not the ones who bushwhacked me.”

  “Who else would have done a thing like that?” Sam asked.

  “The Kanes.”

  Her voice was cold and flinty with hatred as she answered.

  Matt said, “You mean Cimarron Kane and his bunch?”

  “That’s right.” Suspicion suddenly entered Frankie’s tone again as she asked, “How do you know Cimarron Kane?”

  “We don’t,” Sam said. “His name was only vaguely familiar to us, until Marshal Coleman in Cottonwood told us about him tonight.”

  “Oh. You’re friends of the marshal, are you?”

  “I reckon you could say that,” Matt replied. “We helped him round up and arrest three of Kane’s cousins who showed up in Cottonwood today and started causin’ trouble.”

  “That’s right!” Frankie said. “I heard something about that in Loomis’s place. That was you two?”

  Matt nodded. “Yep.”

  Sam asked, “Why would Cimarron Kane and his family attack you?”

  “Because they want to take over the whiskey business in these parts. They’ve got a good-sized still out there on that spread they call a ranch. They’d like nothing better than to wipe out all the Harlows so they wouldn’t have any competition.” Frankie laughed humorlessly. “They’ll have to kill us all, because they sure as hell can’t make ’shine as good as we can.”

  “How do you know it was them and not the marshals who were lying in wait on that ridge?”

  “Because I heard Cimarron himself yelling orders at the others just as the shooting started,” Frankie replied.

  “We should go back into Cottonwood so you can report that to Marshal Coleman,” Sam suggested.

  Frankie laughed again, but this time there was a trace of genuine amusement in the sound.

  “What’s funny about that?” Sam asked with a frown.

  “Coleman’s the town marshal. He’s got no jurisdiction out here. What am I gonna do? Go to the county sheriff or, better yet, those special marshals and tell them that I got ambushed while I was on my way home after delivering a load of illegal whiskey to Ike Loomis’s place?”

  “You don’t have to tell them what you were doin’,” Matt pointed out, “just that you were attacked.”

  Frankie shook her head. “I’m not going to do anything to draw the law’s attention to my family, Bodine. That would be a mighty stupid thing to do.”

  She was probably right about that, considering her family’s line of work, Matt thought.

  “I don’t like the idea of Kane and his bunch gettin’ away with such a thing,” he said.

  “We’ll deal with the Kanes in our own way,” Frankie said in a flat, hard tone. “That’s a promise. In the meantime, the two of you can head back to town. They won’t bother me again tonight.”

  Matt shook his head. “You can’t be sure of that. We’re comin’ with you.”

  “I told you—” Frankie stopped and heaved a sigh. “You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you, Bodine?”

  Matt grinned at her. “I’ve been accused of it,” he admitted.

  “Actually, he’s been accused of a lot worse,” Sam added.

  “What about you, Two Wolves?” Frankie asked. “Do you have any sense?”

  “I like to think so. But in this case, I happen to believe that Matt’s right. There’s no guarantee that Cimarron Kane and his relatives won�
�t double back and try to ambush you again.”

  “All right. I’m tired of arguing with the two of you.” Frankie lifted the reins and slapped them against the backs of the team. “Do what you want to,” she went on as the buckboard started rolling. “Whatever happens, it’s your own damned fault.”

  “That sounds a little worrisome,” Sam commented as he and Matt rode side by side behind the buckboard.

  “Aw, she’s just blowin’ off steam,” Matt said. “You can’t blame her, after gettin’ ambushed like that. If we hadn’t come along, there’s no tellin’ what might’ve happened, and I’ll bet she knows it.”

  They followed the buckboard as Frankie drove another quarter of a mile or so along the main road, then turned south on a smaller trail. It led through a range of low, rolling hills, then cut through a series of rocky ridges that thrust up from the prairie almost like waves from the sea. The trail ran between cut-banks that rose just above the height of a man’s head on horseback.

  Matt and Sam were following Frankie’s wagon through one of those cuts when dark shapes suddenly sailed out from the banks on both sides with no warning. The blood brothers saw the figures leaping toward them but didn’t have time to avoid them. The attackers slammed into Matt and Sam and knocked them out of their saddles, sending them crashing to the hard ground.

  Chapter 12

  The impact knocked the breath out of both Matt and Sam, momentarily stunning them. Matt blinked his eyes and gasped for breath. He had twisted as he fell, so that he landed on his back, and he could see the dark figure looming above him and raising a club of some sort.

  The realization that the varmint intended to bludgeon his brains out galvanized Matt’s muscles. His iron will allowed him to shake off the effects of the fall. He heaved up from the ground and threw his right fist at his attacker. At the same time, his left hand shot up and grabbed the man’s wrist as the killing blow started to fall.

  Because of his position, Matt’s blow didn’t have much power behind it, but it landed cleanly on the man’s jaw. That was enough to make the man lean to the side, and from there, Matt was able to buck him off.

  A few yards away, Sam had his hands full, too. He recovered his wits and jerked his head aside just before a club came smashing down on it. His attacker was bending down close enough so that Sam was able to reach up and lock his hands around the man’s neck. The two of them went rolling across the ground, grappling desperately.

  Matt leaped after the man who had knocked him off his horse. He drove a knee into the man’s side, eliciting a gasp of pain. Matt clubbed his hands together and swung them in a powerful blow that stretched his opponent out on the ground.

  Sam had the upper hand by now, too. The man he was fighting was small and wiry, but his strength was no match for Sam’s. Keeping a steady pressure on the man’s neck, Sam continued choking him. He intended to ease off as soon as the man passed out from lack of air and went limp.

  Before that could happen, a shot blasted. Sam heard the bullet whine over his head.

  “Stop it!” Frankie Harlow yelled. “You’re killing him! Let him go!”

  Matt’s attacker seemed to be out cold. He saw Frankie fire the warning shot over Sam’s head and surged up from the ground, worried that she might fire again and not miss that time. She was standing beside the buckboard holding the ivory-handled revolver as Matt lunged at her and grabbed her from behind. He wrapped his left arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet as he reached around her with his right and snagged her wrist. He jerked her arm up. The gun went off again, but this time the bullet was directed harmlessly into the sky.

  “You’re the one who’d better stop it,” Matt told her as she writhed and struggled in his grip. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt if you’re not careful!”

  “Damn right,” a new voice threatened, “and it’s gonna be you if you don’t let go o’ my little girl!”

  Sam had climbed to his feet, but he froze, as did Matt, as three shadowy figures pointing rifles closed in around them.

  “Take it easy, mister,” Matt said to the man who had spoken. “You can’t shoot me without runnin’ the risk of hittin’ Frankie, too.”

  “No, but my boys can sure ventilate that friend o’ yours,” the man replied. “And don’t count on me not bein’ able to blow your brains out. I growed up knockin’ squirrels outta trees with an old flintlock, back in the Smoky Mountains. My aim’s as good as it ever was, even at night like this.”

  Matt didn’t really believe that, but he didn’t see any point in pressing the issue, especially since he had figured out by now that this was all just a misunderstanding. He said, “Put your gun down, Mr. Harlow. We’re friends.”

  The man gave a little grunt of surprise. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Who else could you be? You called Frankie here your little girl.”

  “You know Frankie?”

  Sam said, “Why do you think we were riding with her?”

  “Didn’t know,” Thurman Harlow responded. “That’s what we was aimin’ to find out.”

  Frankie had stopped struggling. She snapped at Matt, “You can let go of me now.”

  “Not just yet,” Matt said. “Your pa and your brothers might decide to start shootin’.”

  Besides, although it wasn’t very gentlemanly to admit it, he enjoyed having his arms around her.

  “Nobody’s gonna do any more shooting,” Frankie said. “You hear that, Pa? Put your gun down. Alf, you and Quint lower yours, too.”

  “You know these fellas, Frankie?” Thurman Harlow asked.

  “Yeah. They gave me a hand earlier when Cimarron Kane and his bunch ambushed me on the road back from town.”

  “Kane!” Harlow exclaimed bitterly. “That son of a bitch. Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” Frankie replied. “Thanks in part to Bodine and Two Wolves here.”

  Harlow lowered his rifle and motioned for his sons to do likewise. “Help your brothers,” he told them. “Get ’em on their feet and take ’em back to the house.”

  “All right, Pa,” one of the younger men said.

  Frankie turned her head toward Matt. “Are you convinced you can let me go now?”

  “I’ll risk it,” he said. He released her.

  She slipped out of his arms, whirled around suddenly, and jabbed the barrel of her gun under Matt’s chin. He stood absolutely still, knowing that it would take only the slightest pressure on the trigger for her to send a bullet into his brain.

  “Don’t you ever lay hands on me again,” she said between clenched teeth, “unless I ask you to.”

  She was a tall girl, and her face was only inches from his. He felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. Maybe it was foolish under the circumstances, he thought, but he wanted to lean forward and kiss her. Instead, he said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Wrong with me?” she repeated, clearly surprised by the question.

  “All Sam and I have done tonight is try to help you, and not only do we get jumped by your brothers, you keep actin’ like you want to bite our heads off every time you turn around!”

  She stared at him for a second, then sputtered in outrage, “You…you…”

  “I’ve had enough of this.” Matt reached up, closed his hand around the gun she was digging into his neck, and wrenched it aside. Another twist pulled it out of her fingers. He turned and extended the gun toward Thurman Harlow, saying, “Here. Until you teach your daughter some manners, maybe she shouldn’t be packin’ iron.”

  Harlow chuckled and said, “Your mistake, mister, is thinkin’ that I can teach that little wildcat much of anything.”

  Frankie gasped, evidently as mad at her father now as she was at Matt for grabbing her.

  “What we all need to do is sit down and talk,” Sam suggested, the voice of reason as usual. “We’re not looking for trouble, Mr. Harlow. We just wanted to make sure Miss Frankie got home safely after that fight with Cimarron Kane and his men.”

&nbs
p; “His relatives, you mean,” Harlow said. “Everybody on the Kane spread is blood kin in one way or another, even if they ain’t all called Kane. Cimarron’s got a bunch of nephews and shirttail cousins, and they’re all a sorry lot.” Harlow tucked his rifle under his arm, another sign that the hostilities were over, at least for now. “Come on to the house and have a drink. If you boys helped out Frankie, then I owe you.”

  Matt said, “If the drink you’re offerin’ is the same stuff you sell to Ike Loomis for his saloon, then we accept.”

  Harlow chuckled again. “Like it, do you?”

  “It’s prime drinkin’ whiskey,” Matt declared.

  “Frankie, bring the buckboard on in,” Harlow ordered. “You fellas come with me.”

  Frankie’s disgusted snort said that she didn’t like being given orders like that, but she didn’t argue. She climbed back onto the buckboard’s seat while Matt and Sam picked up their hats, took the reins of their horses, and led the animals as they followed Thurman Harlow. The four brothers had already disappeared through the cut.

  The trail came out into the open beyond the ridges, and Matt and Sam saw the light from a cabin that backed up to the last ridge. It was a sprawling structure that had probably started out as a small soddy before being expanded with timbers and more blocks of sod. Several tin stovepipes stuck up through the sod roof. A barn and a corral sat beyond the cabin.

  The door stood open, letting yellow lantern light spill out into the night. As Harlow led Matt and Sam toward it, he said, “You boys put your horses in the corral. You’re welcome to spend the night in the barn, if you’re of a mind to. It’s a mite late to be headin’ back to town tonight.”

  The blood brothers had been planning to return to Cottonwood. They had rooms in the hotel, after all. But when Matt glanced over at Sam, he shrugged and said, “It’s up to you, Matt.”

  “Well…it is pretty late,” Matt said. “We might just take you up on that, Mr. Harlow.”

  “You’ll be welcome. Any friend o’ Frankie’s has got a place to stay with us.”

  “You did see her shove a gun barrel in my throat, didn’t you?” Matt asked.