Blood Bond 3

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, he can rest forever now,” Sam summed it up.

  Chapter 22

  When Dan did not return, John Lee knew the rifleman was not ever going to come back. He sat on his not-quite-repaired front porch and drank coffee, watching the sun come up to chase away the cool pleasantness of early morning.

  Max walked over from his quarters to join his boss. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down. “Gonna be a hot one, boss.”

  “Yes, it is, Max. For a fact.”

  They sat and sipped in silence for a few moments. Max finally said, “Boss?”

  John Lee looked at him.

  “You wanna pull in our horns and put an end to all this?”

  “You think we can’t win, Max?”

  “Yes, that’s what I think.”

  “You want to go to prison, Max?”

  “Hell, no!”

  “Well, that’s what’ll happen to us if we quit now. We’ve got too many deaths behind us, Max. Think about it. Do you believe that Ranger will just accept our backing down and ride on out of here and forget all about everything that’s happened? That’s not the way they operate, and you know it. Could you ever ride into Nameit and be at peace with your back turned to some of those people? I couldn’t.”

  “No,” the foreman said after a few heartbeats. “I reckon I couldn’t either, boss.”

  “We’ve lost some battles, Max. But the war isn’t over yet. What are the men saying?”

  “As long as you pay, they’ll fight. That’s what they do, and they’ll stay as long as you got the money to pay them.”

  “How many men do we have left?”

  “Forty-one, counting you, me, and Nick.”

  “That’s a lot of men, Max. Dammit, that’s an army!” He looked at his foreman. “Max, did you say forty-one? What happened? Ths time yesterday we had over fifty men on the payroll.”

  “Some rode out this morning, boss. I paid ’em off and they hauled it. All the culls are gone, boss. The ones left are professional fighting men.”

  “Do you have any kind of a plan at all, Max?”

  The foreman shook his head. “Not a clue, boss. Ever’time we do something, they come one up on us. Bodine’s done crippled Monty Brill and killed Dan Ringold, I reckon. ’Least he ain’t come back, and he ain’t the type to run. So I figure he’s dead. The cook’s complainin’ that we’re near out of food, and we shore can’t buy it in Nameit. So that means a run to the settlement.”

  “Who says we can’t buy in Nameit?”

  “Well . . . nobody, I guess. I just figured that you’d—”

  “You figured wrong, Max. Get the wagons ready. Two men on each wagon and two men per wagon as guards. You and me will ride in, too. We’re going to town, Max.”

  Max smiled. “I pick the best, boss?”

  “You pick the best, Max.”

  John Lee and Max took the point. Driving the first wagon was Leo Grand and Trest. The guards were Lew Hagan and Bob Grove. On the second wagon were Jack Lightfoot and Gil Lopez. Their guards were Dusty Jordan and a man called Winslow. When they reached the town, John Lee halted the parade and rode in alone, straight up to the marshal’s office and sat his horse, staring at Pen Masters and Bam Ford.

  “Mornin’,” Pen said. “You want something?”

  “I’d like to buy supplies,” John Lee said. “If you have no objections to my spending money in your town.”

  “No objections at all,” Bam said. “How many men are with you?”

  “I have two wagons. Two men to a wagon and two outriders per wagon. My foreman and me.”

  That was reasonable. Indians still raided every now and then, and a body couldn’t get careless when carryin’ food and other supplies.

  “Your money’s good here, John Lee,” Pen told him. “You might want to pay your last respects to Dan Ringold; he’s over yonder at the undertaker’s place. He tried to bushwack Matt Bodine last night. He didn’t make it.”

  A small nervous tic appeared under John Lee’s left eye. Other than that, he did not change expression. “I didn’t even know he’d left the ranch. What a pity. Did he have enough money on him to bury him?”

  “Oh, yeah. Plenty of cash in his pockets for that,” Bam said. “And he done a right nice thing before he passed on. He give his horse and his rig to Doc Winters. Wasn’t that a grand gesture on his part?”

  “Lovely,” John Lee spoke through clenched teeth—and not many of them.

  John Lee turned his horse and rode back up the street, conscious of the many eyes upon him. He could feel the raw hatred from the onlookers’ eyes. At the wagons, he said, “Ten thousand dollars to the man who kills Matt Bodine, five thousand for the Indian’s death. I’ll pay cash money and give you the fastest horse on Broken Lance. You men talk it over and decide who does the deed. Let’s go in.”

  “He’s up to something,” Josiah remarked, standing between Matt and Sam. “And I got a hunch it involves you boys.”

  “It’s sort of funny,” Bodine said. “John Lee thinks that killing me and Sam would solve all his problems. He can’t understand that we’re just a small part in this play. Our deaths wouldn’t stop the momentum of the people. It might even quicken it. I wonder why he can’t see that?”

  “Because he’s nuts,” Josiah’s reply came quickly. “Doctors probably have a better word for it, but I don’t know what it is. ‘Nuts’ is good enough for me.”

  “Look who he’s got driving those wagons and acting as outriders,” Sam said.

  Matt had picked up on that. John Lee was not using any of his regular hands. The men accompanying him on this day were all top guns. “You can bet that John Lee will stand clear of any action. He’s not ready to bet the whole pot just yet.”

  “Lightfoot and Lopez will double-team you,” Josiah said. “That’s the way they work. You boys stay together. I’ll watch your back.”

  “Look there,” Sam said, shifting his eyes to the other end of the street. “Here comes Vonny and a few of the hands.”

  Josiah cuckled. “This thing just might get settled today.”

  “I wish,” Matt said. “Sam and me have a lot of country to see yet.”

  “You boys sure you don’t want to stay in Texas and join the Rangers? We could use you.”

  “I’m not cut out for carrying a badge,” Sam said. “And Bodine doesn’t have the patience for it.”

  Josiah smiled as he watched the wagons turn down the alley to the loading dock behind the general store. Josiah liked Matt and Sam, this pair of young hellions. They sort of reminded the Ranger of himself, back in his younger days.

  “I wonder if they’ll have a drink and then brace us, or just come straight on with it?” Sam mused.

  “There’s your answer,” Josiah said, as Lightfoot and Lopez stepped out of the store. “John Lee and his foreman have retired to the saloon. They’re out of it.”

  Hagan and Grove appeared in the mouth of the alley and stepped away from each other.

  “Here it comes,” Sam said. “It’s double-team all the way around, brother.”

  Vonny Dodge stood in the center of street, a street that had suddenly become void of traffic of any kind. The tall old gunfighter’s hands were by his sides, inches away from his guns.

  “I reckon it’s time, boys,” Josiah said. “Vonny’s closest to Lightfoot, so we’ll leave him for Vonny. I’ll take Lopez. Matt, Hagan is yours. Sam, take Grove.”

  “There’s four missing,” Matt pointed out. “Over there in the store somewhere or in the alley. Don’t forget them when the shooting starts.”

  Men began moving the last of the horses from the hitch-rails to get them out of the line of fire.

  “You know why we’re here, Bodine,” Lightfoot called from across the street. “Ain’t no need in pussy-footin’ around it.”

  “You’re mine, Lightfoot,” Vonny called. “Turn and face the man who’s about to kill you.”

  Josiah, Matt, and Sam stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. They ste
pped away from each other to offer less of a target mass.

  “All mouth and nothin’ to back it up, old man,” Lightfoot said to Vonny, turning to face him. “You should have stayed in your rockin’ chair, you old coot. Now I’m gonna fit you for a pine box.”

  “Then do it, punk,” Vonny told him. “Don’t just stand there flappin’ that stupid mouth of yours.”

  There had been a slight breeze blowing. The breeze died out and the sun beat down. Somewhere nearby a horse stamped its hoof against the ground. A dog barked. The faint sounds of a baby crying drifted up the street.

  Preacher Willowby and his wife stood in the doorway of the church watching. Dr. Winters began laying out surgical instruments, preparing his operating room for customers. He made a mental note to order more laudanum.

  Monty Brill lay on a cot near the window, his face flushed from pain and fever. “Fools,” he whispered. “Ain’t no man ever going to beat Bodine. You could empty a .44 in him and he’d still find the wherewithal deep inside himself to kill you.”

  “Then what made you think you could kill him?” Dr. Winters asked.

  The badly crippled gunman forced a smile. “I didn’t know whether I could or not. But I had to try. God, I’d rather be dead than live like this.”

  Doc Winters looked out the window. “What are they waiting for?”

  “Those boys of John Lee’s are buildin’ up their nerve, talkin.’ They’re stallin’. They all know they’re lookin’ death in the face.”

  “Each one trying to trick the other into drawing?” Winters questioned.

  “Something like that, Doc. Something like that.”

  “It’s so quiet out,” Winters muttered, staring out the open window.

  “Always is at a time like this.” Monty’s voice was low.

  Matt never took his eyes off Lew Hagen. They were the only two men left in the world, and both of them knew the other’s reputation. At this distance, about thirty feet, Matt could see the sweat dripping off Lew’s face. No point in delaying it any longer, Matt thought. He opened the dance by drawing and shooting Lew in the belly. The street exploded in gunfire and gray smoke.

  Lew was down on his knees, clawing at his pistol, disbelief in his eyes at Bodine’s speed. Matt shot him again, the slug striking him in the center of his chest and finishing it for Lew Hagan.

  Vonny’s guns spat fire and lead and smoke and Lightfoot sat down in the center of the street. He pulled the trigger of first his right-hand Colt and then the left, the slugs blowing holes in the dust. Lightfoot sighed and fell backward, dying with his eyes open, looking up at the clear blue Texas skies.

  Bob Grove was down, the front of his shirt bloody. Sam shot him again and the gun fell from his fingers. “Damn Injun’s fast,” he said, then fell over on his face.

  Gil Lopez was down on his butt in the dirt, gut-shot twice by Josiah. He lifted his .45 and eared back the hammer. Josiah put another round in him and Lopez began his dying with a very strange look on his face. “No,” he said. “No.”

  “Yeah,” Josiah corrected. “It ain’t supposed to happen to you, is it, Gil?”

  “No,” Lopez said. “I shall not die on this day.”

  “I wouldn’t put no bets on it,” Vonny said, looking around for the others.

  “I want a priest,” Gil Lopez said.

  “How about a Baptist preacher, amigo?” Sam asked him.

  “Are you serious?” Lopez said, then fell over dead.

  Leo Grand stepped out of an alley and took aim through the swirling gunsmoke. He put a round into Josiah, the slug knocking the Texas Ranger down. Matt shot him four times, the shots sounding like artillery fired by a precision team. Leo was dead before he hit the dirt.

  The Oklahoma gunfighter, Trest, stepped over Leo’s body. “By God, I’ll end it,” he said.

  Matt, Vonny, Sam, and Josiah all fired at once. Trest’s boots flew out from under him and he landed on his rear, his back to a building, his guns by his side.

  “Git them other two!” Josiah said, his voice strong. “It’s just my leg. Go on!”

  But Winslow and Dusty Jordan, seeing how the battle was going, had ducked into the saloon through the back door and were sitting with John Lee and his foreman when the men slammed open the batwings and stepped inside.

  “Quite a show, boys,” Max said, lifting a mug of beer in a mock salute. “You put that on for our benefit?”

  “Yes, very entertaining, indeed,” John Lee said, but unable to keep the disappointment and the bitterness from his tone. Six more of his men now lay dead in the dirt.

  “Looks like your Texas Ranger friend is all right,” Max said, tilting his chair back and looking out the window. “Doc Winters is with him, and he’s limpin’ off toward the office.”

  “It’ll take more than the scum John Lee hires to kill that Ranger,” Vonny said. “How about it, John?” Vonny laid down the challenge. “You and me in the street, face-to-face? The fastest gunhand walks off.”

  John Lee would not meet the old foreman’s eyes. He stared into his beer mug.

  “Stand up and fight, you yeller-bellied bastard!” Vonny roared.

  John Lee sat his chair.

  “Scum,” Vonny verbally crowded him. “Stinkin’ no-count yeller pile of horse droppin’s. That’s all you are, John Lee. You have to hire your fightin’ done. You ain’t man enough to do it yourself.”

  Max pushed back his chair and slowly stood up. “You’ll not talk to John Lee like that in my presence.”

  “Well, then, you’ll just have to do,” Vonny told him, then jerked iron and shot the Broken Lance foreman in the chest.

  Max swayed on his feet for a moment, feeling the hot stickiness running down his chest, his life’s blood ebbing from him. “But you’re old!” he whispered.

  “Naw,” Vonny told him, twirling his Peacemaker and settling it back into leather. “I’m just good, Max!”

  Max tried to life his pistol out of leather. He gave up. It was just too much effort. His legs could no longer support him, and he sat down in his chair and looked at John Lee. His face was very pale. “I reckon I’m dead, boss.” Max slowly put his head on the table and closed his eyes. His hat fell off and hit the floor with a very small sound.

  “Hot damn!” Josiah yelled from the batwings. “I got to see it again! You’re finer than frog hair with them Peacemakers, Vonny.”

  “Will you please come on to the office!” Doc Winters pleaded. “I’ve got to get that slug out of your leg.”

  “Shoot that damn John Lee,” Josiah urged. “Lemme see you twirl them guns again. I ain’t never got the hang of twirlin’ guns. I give it up when I damn near blowed my toe off one time.”

  “Please, Mr. Finch,” Doc Winters said. “You have got to get off that leg!”

  “You worser than a old woman, Doc,” Josiah told him. “Hell, I got more bullet scars on my hide than an Injun’s got arrows. Stop tuggin on me, I’m comin’ along.”

  “I ’spect our supplies is loaded by now, boss,” Winslow said. “We best be gettin’ on back.”

  “Yes,” John Lee said in a low tone. He could not take his eyes off his dead foreman. “Please . . . remove Max from this place and put him in a wagon. Do it gently. He’s been with me for many years.”

  John Lee stood up, moving like a man in severe pain. He looked at Vonny, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He shook his head and walked toward the batwings.

  “Have a shootin’ iron in your hand next time I see you, John Lee,” Vonny told him. “Either that or leave this part of Texas.”

  John Lee turned slowly. “You dare to give me orders?”

  “Yeah, I’m givin’ you orders. I’ll not kill you now,” Vonny told him. “I reckon even men like you and Max is capable of feeling a man’s comradeship to one another. I’ll let you put him in the ground and get drunk a night or two. Do your grievin’ for a friend. After that, get gone or face me.”

  “You . . . !” John Lee started to bluster. Winslow qui
ckly dropped Max’s feet and grabbed his boss by the arm. “Not now, boss. Now now.”

  “Yes,” John Lee regained control of himself. “I shouldn’t respond to anything this . . . rabble has to say. You’re quite right, ah . . .” He looked at the man. “What is your name?”

  “Winslow, boss.”

  “Certainly. I knew that. It’s . . . the shock, I suppose.” He held Max’s hat in one hand. “Come on.” He pushed over the batwings and walked out.

  “It’s just about over,” Bam Ford said. He and Pen had been about two miles from town when the shooting started and had just entered the batwings in time to see Max get his long overdue comeuppance.

  “It will be the next time I see John Lee,” Vonny said. “Even if he’s standin’ alongside God!”

  Chapter 23

  John Lee buried his friend—his only friend—and then retired to his grand house, sitting on the front porch, drinking not whiskey, but coffee. Nick, his behind resting on several thick pillows, sat with him.

  “When do you think you’ll be able to ride, boy?” his father asked him.

  “Another week or ten days, Papa. We goin’ to attack the town?”

  “I am, you’re not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want you gone from here, boy. I’ll arrange for drovers to come in and move the herd. These damn gunhands bleeding me dry couldn’t manage a herd of goats, much less several thousand head of cattle.”

  “We’re sellin’ out, Papa?”

  “No. Were moving out. Heading west to start over. We’re finished here. I could go on and fight for the next year and all I’d be doing is spending money.” John Lee paused, recalling the words of Vonny Dodge and the gunfighter’s terribly cold eyes.

  “Where are we goin’, Papa?”

  “Montana, maybe. Wyoming. I don’t know. Someplace away from here.”

  The son shook his head. John Lee looked at him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I was born right here, Papa. Not in this house, but on this land. It’s ours. I ain’t leavin’. Besides, Cindy ain’t in no condition for a move.”

  “That’s true,” the father said.