Blood Bond 5

by William W. Johnstone

  “Both sides are hiring gunfighters?” Matt asked.

  “You bet. A lot of them.”

  “Name fighters?”

  “Some of them. Ned Kerry, J.B. Adams, Paul Brown, Dick Laurin have signed on with the Flyin’ BS.”

  Sam almost spilled his beer. “The what?”

  The marshal allowed himself a smile. “That is one hell of a brand, ain’t it? Bull Sutton’s brand. And he’s full of it, too. Henry Rogers, Rod Hansen, Ramblin’ Ed Clark, and Bill Lowry is on the Circle JC’s payroll. And them’s just the known guns. Every manjack on both spreads is now drawin’ fightin’ wages, and there don’t seem to be no end in sight.”

  “You can add two more to the list,” Sam said, looking out the fly-specked window of the saloon to the street. “Simon Green and Peck Hill just rode up.”

  Tom clenched his hands into fists and quietly did some pretty fancy cussing for a moment.

  “I hate to ask this, Marshal,” Matt said, “and I hope you don’t take it the wrong way, but which side are you on?”

  Tom shook his head. “No offense taken, Matt. It’s a fair question. I’m sittin’ smack in the middle of this mess. No man, or no two men, own a Western town of this size. We have us a mayor and a town council, and they hired me. Only they can fire me. I’m paid to keep the peace in this town. I intend to do just that and to hell with what goes on outside it.”

  The batwings shoved open, and Simon Green and Peck Hill stomped in. They each wore two guns tied down low. Matt and Sam and the marshal were sitting in the semi-gloom at the far end of the saloon. They received a glance from the hired guns, but at that distance the faces of the trio were hard to make out. The gunfighters walked to the bar.

  “Whiskey with a beer chaser,” Simon said, in a voice too loud. “Both of us. And which way to the Flying BS?”

  “Now you know, Marshal,” Sam muttered low.

  “Look there,” Matt said, glancing out the nearest window. “Gene Baker and Norm Meeker riding up. It’s getting real interesting around here.”

  “You boys best leave this saloon,” George told the pair at the bar. “You’re on the wrong side of town. Get on over to the Bull’s Den.” He had one hand under the bar, out of sight, and both gunslingers knew that in all likelihood, he was gripping a sawed-off shotgun. Some called them Greeners.

  “Easy, now, friend,” Simon said. “Just hold your water. We didn’t know.”

  “Now you do,” George told him.

  “For a fact,” Peck said.

  Gene Baker and Norm Meeker walked in, and the four gunfighters stared at one another for a moment.

  “Well, well,” Simon broke the short silence. “Look who the tomcat done drug in. Baker and Meeker. I guess you boys signed on with the wrong side again.”

  “It damn shore ain’t the side you’re on, Green.” Meeker scowled at him. “It never is. You and me, we’ll end our quarrel this go around. Now get out of my way.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s it!” Marshal Riley said, standing up and stepping into the light from the window. His badge glinted brightly. He pointed at the gunslicks. “Take your difficulties outside of town. There will be no trouble in this town. You two,” he said to Green and Hill, “take your butts across the street. Right now.”

  “Why, sure thing, Marshal,” Peck said easily and with a smile. “We sure don’t want no trouble with the law, now do we, Simon?”

  “Oh, absolutely not,” Simon added in a mocking tone. The two men grinned at each other and walked out onto the boardwalk, then across the wide street.

  Baker and Meeker looked at the marshal, nodded their heads, and walked to the bar. Tom sat back down at the table. Two men were dabbing at Prince’s face with wet towels. He was coming around, but slowly. Sam had really blown out his candle with that last punch on the button.

  “What ran over me?” Prince mumbled. “A beer wagon?”

  “No,” one of those attending him said. “That half-breed Injun.”

  “I think I better make friends with him,” Prince said. “I damn sure don’t want him for no enemy.”

  “Marshal,” Sam said, confusion in his eyes. “Do you mean that this country is about to explode in a shooting war because of a proposed wedding?”

  Tom toyed with his beer mug for a moment. He sighed and shook his head. “That’s the reason both men give. But this has been simmerin’ on the back burner for a long time. The kids seein’ each other is just an excuse.”

  “Lone rider coming in,” Matt said.

  Baker and Meeker left the bar and walked to the batwings, looking out. “Ben Connors,” Baker said. “Somebody is spendin’ a lot of money gettin’ him in here.”

  Connors reined up and swung down from the saddle in front of the Bull’s Den.

  “Seems like a whole lot of people arriving in this town in one day,” Matt remarked.

  “For a fact,” Tom agreed. “And I hope the two I’m sitting with have decided to leave,” he said hopefully.

  Matt and Sam looked at each other and grinned.

  “Oh, hell!” Tom said. “That’s what I figured.”

  “Jesus!” Prince said with a groan. “I feel like I been kicked by a mule.”

  2

  The brothers got a room at the hotel, which was located at the end of the street in a fork of the road, and which had been declared neutral ground by both warring ranchers. That was because of the hotel’s dining room. The chef had been brought in from New York City, and his food was praised by all.

  Sam stood by the window of the room and looked up the wide street of the split-apart town. “I wonder what the real reason is behind this war? And I wonder why we don’t just saddle up and ride away from this silly mess?”

  “The real reason is probably a power struggle, and the reason we’re staying is because of curiosity. You can’t keep your nose out of other folk’s business.” Matt ducked his head to hide his smile.

  “Me?” Sam said, turning from the window on the second floor. “You’re the one who is the busybody.”

  Matt tried his best to look hurt. He couldn’t pull it off. “You really want to ride out?”

  Sam smiled and shook his head. “No. We’ve been on the trail for several weeks, and I’d like a few days sleeping in a real bed. Not to mention some time off from your lousy cooking.”

  “At least I can cook,” Matt told him. “You have a tough time getting water to boil.” He stretched out on the bed with a sigh. The brothers had taken baths in the tubs behind the barber shop, then had gotten a shave and a haircut while fresh clothing was being brushed and ironed and their trail-worn clothing was sent to the Chinese laundry, run by a pleasant enough fellow named Wo Fong.

  “Whatever is going to happen must be close,” Sam said, still standing by the open window. “Two more riders coming in, and they look like they’ve been on the trail for a time.”

  “Recognize them?”

  “One of them does look familiar. The little man.”

  Matt heaved himself off the bed and took a look. “That’s Little Jimmy Dexter. Texas gunhand. He’s little but he’s mean as a snake. I don’t know that other fellow.”

  Dexter and his partner swung down in front of the Bull’s Den and disappeared inside the barroom.

  “I’m hungry,” Sam said.

  “I could use a bite myself.”

  The words had just left Matt’s mouth when a dozen riders and two buggies came into view, racing down the street and kicking up a lot of unnecessary dust, sending people on foot scrambling for the safety of the boardwalks.

  “Must be somebody terribly important,” Matt said.

  “Or somebody who thinks they are,” Sam added. “More than likely, the latter.”

  “Let’s go take a look.”

  At first, the blood brothers thought they were experiencing double-vision. The desk clerk cleared it all up.

  “Identical twins,” he told him, after smiling at the confused looks on their faces. �
�Bull Sutton’s girls. Willa and Wanda. Don’t get in their way, boys. They’re pretty as all get out, but both as mean as snakes. And if you repeat that, I’ll call you liars.”

  The twins sashayed across the boardwalk and wiggled into the lobby. One of them spotted Sam and pointed to him. “You there!” she hollered. “Water our teams and see to our buggies and be quick about it.”

  Sam looked at her, one eyebrow arched. “See to your own buggies,” he told her.

  “Oh, Lord,” the desk clerk muttered. “And this started out to be such a nice afternoon.”

  The Flying BS riders who had crowded into the lobby stopped in their tracks and slowly turned, facing Matt and Sam, giving them hard looks. The desk clerk quickly dropped on all fours behind the counter.

  “Boy, you don’t talk to Miss Willa like that,” a puncher said. “You better do like you’re told and do it quick.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sam replied.

  “Let’s drag him,” Wanda said, a wicked look in her eyes. “Somebody get a rope.”

  “What nice young ladies,” Sam muttered.

  “Yeah,” Matt agreed. “They were at the top of their class in charm school, for sure.”

  Several of the Flying BS riders took a step toward the brothers, and Matt and Sam braced for trouble.

  “Break it up!” Marshal Tom Riley spoke from the doorway. “Right now.”

  “Aw, hell, Tom,” Willa said, and with those words, the brothers knew she was not a lady. “We were just gonna have some fun with this drifter.”

  “That drifter is Sam Two Wolves,” the marshal quietly informed the crowd. “And that’s his blood brother, Matt Bodine, standing to his right. If you people want to see blood all over this lobby, just crowd those two about one inch more and see what happens.”

  The punchers stood easy, being careful to keep their hands away from their guns. They weren’t afraid of the blood brothers—they were all drawing fighting wages and rode for the brand—but they knew well the reputation of Bodine and Two Wolves, and this close in, confined to the lobby of the hotel, the brothers would get lead into a lot of punchers, and Willa and Wanda stood a very good chance of getting hurt or killed.

  “Miss Willa asked that breed, or whatever he is, to see to her buggy,” a puncher said. “The breed got lippy about it. Bull ain’t gonna like that one bit.”

  “You think anybody who doesn’t work for your brand is your servant?” Sam asked. “I have news for you.”

  Tom stepped between the men. “Well, Shorty, why don’t you see to the buggies and then everything will work out?” the marshal suggested.

  Shorty looked at Sam, an ugly expression on his ugly face. “We’ll meet up again, Breed.”

  Sam smiled thinly at the man. “Anytime you feel lucky, Shorty. Just anytime at all.”

  “My daddy will hear of this,” Wanda hollered. “You can bet on that.”

  “The people in the next county over probably heard it,” Matt said, recklessness swelling up in him. “A pack of coyotes don’t make as much racket as you.”

  “What?” Wanda shrieked. “What did you call me? Did you hear that man, boys? He called me a coyote. I’ve never been so insulted.”

  A big brute of a man stepped into the lobby. The man must have stood at least six-feet-six and carried the weight to go with it. He filled the whole doorway. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  Wanda pointed at Matt. “That saddle bum called me a coyote, Papa!” she bellered, rattling the wheel-spoke lamps overhead.

  Bull Sutton cut his eyes to a puncher. “Is that right, Laredo?”

  “Well . . . sort of,” the man said, shuffling his boots. “But not rightly.”

  Bull sighed. “Laredo . . .”

  “What I said was, she made more noise than a pack of coyotes,” Matt explained.

  A very small smile creased the big man’s lips for an instant, and then was gone. “Well, now, she can do that for a fact,” Bull said.

  “Daddy!” Wanda hollered. “How can you say things like that in front of trash?” She threw her hands to her face in total mortification.

  “Be that the truth,” Bull said, “I can’t let you insult a daughter of mine.”

  Matt shrugged his shoulders in total indifference. He stood with his hands by his side. Bull studied the young man. There was a flatness in the rider’s eyes that he did not like. Then he realized what that flatness represented. Death. He cut his eyes to Sam. The same flatness and lack of emotion was in his eyes, too.

  “That’s Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves, boss,” Laredo said quietly.

  The big man’s eyes narrowed. He cocked his head to one side and studied Matt, then Sam. His eyes shifted back to Matt. “So you’re workin’ for the Circle JC, now, huh?”

  “Wrong. We’re just passing through.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, you just keep right on passin’.”

  “Wrong,” Sam stuck his mouth into it. His back was stiff with anger, and Matt could see it. And when Sam got mad, the odds were pretty good that somebody was going to get hurt—or dead. “We like it around here. So we think we’ll stay for awhile. And that is with or without the permission from your lordship.”

  “That’s the breed who insulted me,” Willa hollered.

  “Lordship,” Bull said softly. He grunted and shook his head at the careless and flippant manner of the two young men. “You boys just stay in trouble, don’t you?” He cut his eyes back to Sam. “You don’t much look like an Injun.”

  “I really don’t know how to respond to that, so I won’t.”

  “You boys want to work for me?”

  “No,” they said together.

  “I pay top dollar.”

  “Thanks, but we both own working ranches ourselves,” Matt told him.

  Bull’s eyes narrowed at that. He nodded his head. “So I heard. All right, boys. The hotel is off-limits for trouble. But that’s as far as the limits go. Outside, you’re on your own.”

  Matt started to tell the man that they didn’t need nursemaids, but wisely decided not to push his luck. Bull Sutton looked like he ate chuck wagons for lunch—wheels, rims, and all. And picked his teeth with the wagon tongue.

  “Get your shoppin’ done, girls,” Bull said, turning his back to the brothers as a way of dismissal. “But stay on my side of the town.”

  Willa and Wanda looked at the brothers, both went, “Huumph!” and swished out the door, followed by several punchers who acted as bodyguards. Bull and several of his men went into the hotel dining room. Matt and Sam stepped out onto the long porch of the hotel.

  Matt studied the town for a moment. “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, at least it makes the town look twice as big,” Sam said cheerfully, his good mood fast returning.

  Matt said, “You want to check out the Bull’s Den?”

  Sam grinned. “Why not? Might as well make both sides mad at us.”

  They angled across the dusty street and walked up the boardwalk, on the Flying BS side of the town, tipping their hats to the ladies and howdying the men. The ladies smiled, and the men frowned at them.

  “Why are the citizens giving us such dark looks?” Sam questioned, just before they reached the entrance to the Bull’s Den.

  “They don’t know what side we’re on, I suppose. You ready for a beer?”

  “I’d rather have something to eat. They probably have a free lunch in there.”

  “And we’re probably going to get in a fight once inside. It’s better to fight on an empty stomach. I keep telling you that, but you never listen.”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Sam said drily. “But I’m still hungry.”

  “I thought Indians could go for days without eating?”

  “They do now,” Sam popped right back. “After listening to the white man’s lies and getting stuck on reservations.”

  Chuckling, the two men pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the Bull’s Den.

  Those s
eated at the tables and lined up along the bar turned and fell silent as the brothers walked in and stood for a moment on either side of the batwings.

  “Paul Stewart,” Matt muttered, his eyes shifting to a man standing at the long bar. “That’s who rode in with Little Jimmy Dexter.”

  “I recognize him now. The beard fooled me. He probably grew it as a disguise because he’s got warrants out on him.”

  “No doubt.”

  The brothers walked to the bar, spurs jingled softly in the silence, and leaned against it. The barkeep made no move to take their orders.

  A lunch of meat and cheese and hard boiled eggs had been set up on a table near the far end of the bar. Sam walked over to it and began building a thick sandwich, spreading the mustard liberally on the bread.

  “That’s for regular customers,” the barkeep told him, a sour note to his voice.

  “I’m regular,” Sam said with a smile. “A little rhubarb now and then sees to that.”

  The barkeep blinked and Matt laughed. “Two beers, please,” he called.

  The bartender ignored Matt’s order. “Are you makin’ light with me?” he asked Sam.

  Sam finished building his sandwich, which now weighed about two pounds and was so thick a moose would have trouble getting its mouth around it. He stuck two hard-boiled eggs in his pocket and turned to the bartender. “Light of you? Oh, no. I thought you were inquiring about my health.”

  “I don’t give a damn for your health! And you don’t either, comin’ in here.”

  “Hey, Breed,” a gunhand called from a table. “Why don’t you go on back to the reservation?”

  “The general character and disposition of the immediate company would certainly improve dramatically if I did,” Sam popped right back.