Blood Bond 3

by William W. Johnstone

  “Who the hell are you?” the hard-faced man demanded.

  “Matt Bodine.”

  The gunny drew and Matt shot him in the belly before his Peacemaker could clear leather. He hit the floor moaning, both hands holding his .44-caliber-punctured belly.

  The saloon emptied of men, all running for the general store and all with guns in their hands. Matt pulled his other .44, stepped to the door, and emptied both .44’s into the knot of gunslicks. When he was through, not a man was left standing, and several weren’t moving.

  “Are you really Matt Bodine?” the shopkeeper asked. “The Wyoming gunfighter?”

  “I’m Matt Bodine,” he said, reloading.

  “Holy crap!” Gene said, running inside and looking out at the bloody, body-lined street.

  Sam looked. “That’s my brother,” he said. “Subtle is his middle name.”

  “Shore cut the odds down some,” Red remarked.

  “Oh, God!” the gun-shot gunny on the floor moaned. “Get me a doctor.”

  “We ain’t got none,” the shopkeeper told him. “Had one, but he moved down to Fort Stockton. Sorry, mister. Got a barber with some leeches, though.”

  “Hell with you,” the man groaned.

  “Leeches!” Sam looked at the man. “Nobody bleeds people anymore.”

  “Well, he does!”

  “Get the stuff loaded up,” Matt said and stepped out into the street, walking over to the men lying moaning and twisting in the dirt.

  One pointed a .41 derringer at him. Matt kicked it out of his hand. It went off as it hit the ground and shot a shoulder-wounded gunhand in the leg.

  “Goddamn you!” the twice-shot man hollered.

  Matt didn’t know if the man was cussing him or his buddy. He counted three dead and four wounded, one of them hard hit.

  “You played hell, mister,” the hard-hit man gasped, looking up at Matt. “I’d be obliged to know the name of the man who done me in.”

  “Matt Bodine.”

  “Damn my luck!” the man moaned. “At least it weren’t no tinhorn.” He closed his eyes and died.

  Sam walked across the street to his brother’s side. “An ugly day, I-tat-an-e.”

  “Yes. And this is sure to blow the lid off. But damned if I was going to let them reach the store.”

  “I would have done the same.”

  A crowd had gathered around, gawking and whispering.

  A portly man shoved his way through the crowd. He was a part-time undertaker, part-time preacher, part-time waterfinder, and part-time rainmaker. He was, Matt was told, a fair undertaker, a pretty good preacher, a better-than-average deviner, and a lousy rainmaker.

  Little boys and girls peeked around their mothers’ skirts, staring at Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves.

  No one noticed the lone rider walking his horse showly from the east side of the settlement.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do with all these wounded men?” a man asked.

  “Patch them up or let the hogs have them,” Matt said shortly. “I really don’t care.”

  “Pretty tough way of lookin’ at it, son,” a soft-spoken voice came from behind Matt and Sam.

  They both turned. The small man—not more than five feet six or seven and slender built—stood alone, but the guns belted around his waist made him larger than life, and the badge pinned to his vest said it all: Texas Ranger.

  “They opened this dance,” Matt told him.

  “Is that right? I heard the shootin’ a mile out of town. Thought I’d see what was happenin’. Who are you?”

  “Matt Bodine.”

  The Ranger nodded his head. “Heard of you. Wyoming gunhand.”

  “I’m a Wyoming rancher who happens to be blessed—or cursed with the ability to use a short gun.”

  “Blessed or cursed,” the Ranger said. “Interestin’ way of puttin’ it. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Help me!” a gunhand shot in both legs hollered.

  “Shut up,” the Ranger told him. “I’ll get to you in due time.” He looked at Matt. “I’m Josiah Finch. Texas Rangers. I’m trackin’ two murderers. Been after ’em for three weeks. I ain’t particular interested in your doin’s, but it’s a rare thing to see one man standin’ and six or seven on the ground, some of them gettin’ stiff.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened, Ranger!” a citizen yelled.

  “I don’t want to know what happened,” Finch told him. “You tell me and then I’ll have to spend hours writin’ out a damn report. ’Sides, I ain’t seen no complaints in anybody’s hand.”

  “No complaints on this side of the issue,” Sam said.

  Finch cut his hard eyes to him. “I reckon you’d be Sam Two Wolves.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Heard of you, too. Your daddy was a Cheyenne chief name of Medicine Horse; educated fine back East.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m bleedin’ to death!” a gunslick bellered.

  “No, you ain’t,” Finch told him. “Wound’s damn near closed up. Terrible wounds do that. You’ll probably die, but it won’t be from bleedin’ to death.”

  “Well, the hell with you, too!” the gunhawk told him.

  “Get the wagons ready to roll,” Matt told Red.

  As Red walked away, Finch said, “You come into a town, leave three or four dead a-layin’ around, and then just leave like you would a church picnic when the fried chicken run out. I find that interestin’.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Matt asked. “Squat down here in the street and hold their hands?”

  Finch took off his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and chuckled. “I’ve known a bunch of hard men, son. Sam Bass, Hardin, Baker, Allison—to mention a few. You’re a hard man, Matt Bodine. I think we better talk.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “It could be,” Finch said softly. “If you push me to it.”

  “You a drinking man, Ranger?”

  “I have been known to tipple now and then.”

  “Let’s find us a quiet table and a cool beer.”

  “That’s the best offer anyone’s made me in some time.”

  The wagons were moved to a shady location just outside of town while Matt and Sam talked with the Ranger.

  “Yeah,” Finch said, draining his beer mug and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “John Lee’s name has been mentioned around headquarters more’un once. The governor is gettin’ tired of people sayin’ there ain’t no law west of the Pecos. I’m a-fixin’ to change all that.”

  “By yourself?” Sam asked.

  “Yep,” the small quiet man said. “Soon as I track down these murderers.”

  “Finch,” Matt said, “John Lee probably has fifty gunhands on his payroll . . .”

  The men looked out the window as Terry Perkins and Jay Hunt rode slowly out of town. Perkins had a bloody rag tied around his mouth and Jay Hunt’s hat was sitting his head cockeyed from the big knot put there by an axe handle.

  “I guess you done that, too?” Finch questioned.

  “Me and an axe handle,” Matt said.

  Finch sighed and shook his head.

  “As I was saying, Lee has a lot of men on his payroll. Some of them snake-mean. How do you propose to bring law and order when you’re looking down the barrels of that many guns?”

  “You don’t shoot a Texas Ranger, son. Makes other Rangers irritable. I know a Ranger tracked a man for five years. Finally found him in a fancy eatin’ place in New York City. Whupped him right there in front of God, the mayor, and everybody else. Throwed him on a train and brung him back to Texas. We allowed him a fair trial and then hanged him. Bad business shootin’ a Texas Ranger.”

  Matt then realized all the wild tales he’d heard about the Texas Rangers over the years were more than likely true—or at least had a vein of truth running through them. Matt had a hunch this small, quiet Ranger would track a man through the gates of Hell and if braced would kill you
in a heartbeat.

  “Jeff Sparks and Ed Carson are good decent men, Finch. If they weren’t, neither Sam nor me would have thrown in with them.”

  “I don’t doubt that at all.”

  “And as you saw today, if lead is to fly, then so be it.”

  “I shore enough seen that. But you hear this: if the governor has to send in the militia, he’s gonna be one irritated man. It’s bad enough we had all them goddamn Yankee carpetbaggers and reconstructionists in here; now things are gettin’ back to normal and we’re beginnin’ to run our own lives. The last thing he needs is a range war.”

  “He’s got one,” Sam said bluntly.

  “I’ll be along in about a week,” the Ranger said. “I found out where these murderers is hidin’ and I’ll head there. I hope to take them alive, but I ain’t countin’ on it. I figure they’ll go down smokin’. If that’s the case, I won’t have to tote them back, and that’ll save me some time.”

  Sam looked at the man closely to see if he was kidding. He was not. If Finch even had a sense of humor, he kept it well hidden.

  “You married, Finch?” Sam asked, interested in this small intense lawman.

  “Was. Outlaws killed her back in sixty-six. I’d just come home from the war and we was tryin’ to pick up the pieces of our lives. We was just kids when we got married. Took me four years to track those no-goods down. But I done it. Found the last one in a canyon in Idaho. Shot him in the belly and left them there. I hope it took him a long time to die. I don’t like outlaws. At all.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “Have you heard that some learned people are saying that home environment has a great deal to do in the making of a criminal?” Sam asked.

  Finch blinked. “Hell’s fire! That’s the silliest damn thing I ever heard of. I didn’t even have shoes when I was a-growin’ up and I never stole nothin’ nor done a harmful thing to no innocent person in my life.”

  Josiah Finch walked out of the saloon. The way he walked told anybody with a lick of sense that this was a man to be given a wide berth. Josiah might be small in stature, but he was one hell of a big man.

  “That, brother,” Matt said, “is one man I would not want on my trail.”

  “Nor me. You ready to head out?”

  “Yeah. We’ll camp alongside the road—well off the road. John Lee is liable to go on the warpath after today.”

  “If we’re lucky, he’ll wait until Josiah Finch returns. I have a hunch Finch would willingly take on the entire bunch of them and come out on top!”

  Chapter 6

  “I already heard what happened,” Jeff said, meeting the wagons as they came to a stop in front of the house. “John Lee sent a rider over early this morning. His message was short and sweet. He’s ordered any Circle S or Flyin’ V rider shot on sight if they come into Crossing.”

  “If I’d a backed down, we wouldn’t have any supplies. John Lee’s boys were waiting and had already told the shopkeeper not to sell to the Circle S or the Flying V.”

  “I understand. I’m not blamin’ you. It had to come at some point. We’ll just stay out of Crossing.” He smiled, a grim moving of the lips. “I told the messenger that any Broken Lance riders found on my range will be shot on sight.”

  “Do you mean it?” Matt asked, after climbing down from the wagon seat.

  “Yes, I do. Ever seen a range war, son?”

  “Not really.”

  “They’re mean and ugly. And a lot of blood will be spilled on each side. The blood of men and women. I’ve ordered the girls to stay within sight of the house when they ride. You’ve seen how this land can fool you. You think you’re alone on the range and the next instant fifty riders come out over a swell not three hundred yards away from you.”

  “Will they pay any attention to you?” Sam asked, a dubious note in his voice.

  “Yes. They know how serious this is. Now tell me this: how did the Broken Lance gunslicks know we were going to the settlement for supplies?”

  “I imagine Cindy tipped off Nick,” Matt said.

  “Ed just left here. He thinks the same thing. He got the same message I got this mornin’.”

  “His reaction?”

  “Open the chute and let ’er bump. I ’spect right now Cindy’s rear end is on fire. He was talkin’ strong about takin’ a razor strop to her butt.”

  “That would be a sight to see,” Gene said with a grin. “If anyone deserves it, she does.”

  “I hate you!” Cindy screamed at her father. “You can’t whup me like a damn plow horse!”

  Mrs. Carson had left the room in tears.

  “Don’t you even care that because of you your brother might have been killed?”

  “Nick’ll kill you for slappin’ me around!” she screamed at him.

  The father stood dumbfounded, staring at his girl. “Is that what you want, Cindy? Me dead?”

  “Yes!” she screamed. “I despise you. I love Nick. I’m carrying his baby.”

  “I know that.” The father spoke with a calmness he did not feel. “I’ve known it for several weeks. Pack your bags, girl,” he told her. “Take the buggy. Leave it in town. I’ll pick it up someday. I want you out of this house in one hour. I’ll give you money to get you a room at Fanny’s. She takes in boarders from time to time. The baby I could live with and love, if that was all there was to it. It would be my grandbaby. Your treachery is something I can’t and won’t abide. I’ll arrange to have money sent to you from time to time—”

  “I don’t need your goddamn money!” she screamed at him. “Nick will take care of me.”

  Ed shook his head. “You poor little fool. That punk doesn’t care about you. He used you like a whoor. He told ever’body in the damn county about it. I’ve known it for months. But I never let on to your mama; I didn’t know that she knew too. Now listen to me. I’ll see that you get proper care and arrange for you to go on to an unwed mother’s home. I think there’s one in Fort Worth. I—”

  She started cussing her father. She cussed him until she was breathless. She sucked in air and started all over again. She was still cussing and screaming when Ed left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Hitch up the buggy for your sister, Noah,” he told his son. “She’ll be leavin’ us.” He turned to go into his office to get Cindy some money.

  “For how long, Papa?” the young man asked.

  “Forever.” The man’s words were just audible over the sobbing of his wife in the bedroom.

  “Boss,” Red said, standing in the doorway, hat in hand. “I was over by the road about an hour ago. Cindy Carson come along drivin’ a buggy. Eyes all red from cryin’. Buggy was loaded down with trunks and valises.”

  “Which direction was she headin’?”

  “Toward Crossing.”

  “She’s either run away from home or Ed’s tossed her out. Thank you, Red.”

  The puncher nodded and walked back to the bunkhouse to clean up for supper.

  Jeff turned to his family. “I’d like to comfort my old friend,” he said. “But I don’t know what to do or what to say.”

  “If Cindy thinks Nick is going to welcome her,” Lia said, “she’s sure in for a rude surprise there.”

  “I think we’re all in for a whole bunch of surprises, girl,” father said, his face grim. “None of them are goin’ to be much fun.”

  The drovers hired by the Army showed up early the next morning and that day was a busy one, with no one allowed much time to ponder the fate of Cindy. Jeff put the money from the sale of his cattle into his big safe and breathed a little easier. Now he had some working capital, hands to help fight John Lee—whenever the man made his move—and a thousand less head of cattle to worry about. There was nothing he could do now except wait. And worry and wonder.

  John Lee sat behind his desk and smiled at the news. His son sat before him, looking very unhappy.

  “I guess you’re gonna tell me marryin’ her is the honorable thing to do?” Nick finall
y broke the silence.

  “Honor has nothing to do with it,” his father said. “But you are going to marry her.”

  The young man cussed.

  “Use your head for a change,” John admonished his son. “Think. If something were to happen to the Carson family, you would own the Flying V.”

  Nick lifted his head, and the eyes of father and son met. Hard eyes, cruel eyes.

  John said, “It’s a good thing to have a wife and children. Makes a man respectable. After a time you can keep you a woman in town for variety. Just as long as it’s a discreet affair. I’ll ride in and talk to Cindy. It wouldn’t be proper to have her staying out here before the wedding. But the wedding will take place here, of course. We’ll invite all the townspeople. They’ll come, don’t worry. Is Cindy showing yet?”

  “Huh?”

  John grimaced. “Is her condition noticeable?”

  “Oh. Naw.”

  “Good. I’ll have the dressmaker do it up right then. Oh, it’ll be a grand affair, son. A grand affair.”

  “If you say so,” Nick said.

  John Lee smiled. “I’ll be a grandfather. My, my. If it’s a boy, he’ll be named after me, of course. If it’s a girl, we’ll name her after your mother. No finer woman ever lived than your mother. Go get my horse saddled, son. And tell the boys we’re riding into town. I love parties,” he mused. “And I’ll make sure this party is one that the townspeople will never forget.”

  He was right on that count.

  “I’d a not believed it,” Jeff said, when he heard the news of the upcoming marriage. “John’s pulled in the horns of his gunfighters and his son is getting married. Incredible.”

  Matt and Sam were sitting in the big den of the ranch house with the Sparks family, having coffee. The foreman sat on the lower outer hearth of the cold fireplace.

  “Oh, perhaps it’s not so incredible,” Sam said, after taking a sip of coffee.

  “How do you mean?” Jeff asked.

  “Should something happen to the Carson family, the Flying V is John’s without his having to fire a shot.”

  The rancher said a very ugly word that caused his wife to give him a dirty look and his girls to giggle. He nodded his head in agreement with Sam. “Of course. You’re right. I never thought of that.