“Make my day a delightful one and tell me you boys are pullin’ out,” Tom said to Ben.
The gunslick smiled. “Sorry to disappoint you, Marshal. But as of ten o’clock last night, more or less, we all went to work for the Circle JC spread. Bull suddenly got religion, or some such crap as that.”
“What did his kids think about that?”
“Why don’t you ask them, Marshal? I’ve never been one to carry tales. You care for a taste of Who Hit John?” He lifted his shot glass.
“It’s a little early for me, Ben.”
Ben sipped his drink and said, “A man should never refuse a free drink, Marshal. Never know when it might be his last one.”
“I could take that as a threat, Ben.”
“But you won’t, ’cause it ain’t.”
Tom knew there was no point in pressing this gunfighter for details of what might be around the bend, or any of the other gunhandlers in the room, for that matter. All he could do was wait.
But he could put a crimp in their conversation and gently push just a bit. Tom called for a pot of coffee and cups and took a table. Matt and Sam and the young deputy joined him.
They all noticed that George was very nervous as he set the tray on the table. His eyes looked haunted.
“That man is scared out of his wits,” Sam whispered, after George had returned to his post behind the long bar. “He’s overheard something.”
“Yeah,” Tom agreed softly. “But you’ll never get anything out of him. He’s John Carlin’s man all the way. Look at them,” Tom said, shifting his eyes. “Must be twenty-five or thirty of the randiest ol’ boys west of the Mississippi in this room. Each man has ten to fifty dead men behind him. And here we sit, like bumps on a log, not able to do nothin’.”
The batwings pushed open and three men, all of them looking to be in their thirties, stepped in. They were slightly bow-legged and their clothing trail-worn. They did not wear their guns like gunfighters, but carried them more like tools.
“Punchers,” Matt said. “On the drift looking for work.”
The cowboys walked to the bar and ordered beer. One of them said, “We’re lookin’ for work. Anybody around these parts hirin’?”
“A smart man would drift,” Gene Baker said, a surly tone to his voice.
“Well,” the lanky cowboy said. “I ain’t never been known for my smarts. I’m just lookin’ for work, not trouble.”
“Trying the Flying BS,” Tom called from the table.
“The what?” the cowboy asked, turning to look at the marshal.
Tom smiled. “Take the southwest fork at the hotel. It’s not too far out of town. Man’s name is Bull Sutton. He’s hirin’, so I hear.”
“Much obliged, Marshal.”
One of the young gunslicks looked at the trio of working cowboys and laughed nastily. “Would you boys just take a good look at them three saddlebums. This is gonna be as easy as target practice.”
One of the cowboys, a short stocky man with flame red hair and freckles, and whose nickname just had to be Rusty, looked at the gunslick. “I ain’t no hand with a short gun, sonny boy. But anytime you want to try me with fists, you just come on and throw your best punch.”
“You boys finish your beers and walk on across the street to the Bull’s Den if you want another one,” Tom verbally stepped between impending trouble. “Or ride on out to Bull’s spread.” He looked at the loudmouth gunhandler. “As for you, you shut your goddamn mouth.”
“Damn saddlebum challenged me,” the surly gunslick said.
“He challenged you to fists,” Tom said. “You want it, step up and toe the line. You pull iron on that puncher, and I’ll shoot you myself.”
The young punk muttered something under his breath and looked down at his shotglass. But he shut up.
The trio of cowboys knew they had ridden into trouble, but they’d seen that before. Besides, they were weary of riding the grub line and wanted a bunk house and a payday for work.
“The beer’s on me,” Bodine called to them.
“Thanks, friend,” the redhead said. “My name’s Rusty.” He grinned easily. “But you probably figured that out already.”
“Matt Bodine.”
The cowboys looked at each other. They knew without being told that the man sitting with Bodine was Sam Two Wolves, the half-Cheyenne who was almost as good with a gun as his blood-brother. They also knew that when the blood-brothers were in an area, trouble seemed to pop up sudden like.
“Pleased,” Rusty said. “This here’s Hicks and the skinny one is Slim. Back when I was just a youngster, I rode right up on a band of Cheyenne. Like to have scared the bejesus out of me. I had a horse goin’ lame and about ten cartridges in my belt. This real regal-lookin’ man rode up even with me and said, ‘Your horse is tired and you look hungry. Come with us.’ Well, I shore figured I didn’t have no choice in the matter. Come to find out, that was Medicine Horse. He and them others was out huntin’ game, not trouble. They fed me right good, and we swapped horses. His son was with that bunch, and a white boy, too. Both of them about eight or nine years old. That would be Bodine and you, Mister Two Wolves.”
“I remember,” Sam said with a smile. “The women were fascinated by your red hair. You had nothing to fear. My father and those who followed him never harmed a white man who was friendly with them.”
“Ain’t that sweet?” another young gunslick had to pop off. “Makes me want to puke. I figure the only good Injun’s a dead one.”
Sam pushed back his chair and stood up, all in one fluid movement. He faced the mouthy punk. “You want to try to make this Indian a dead one?”
Tom opened his mouth.
“Stay out of it,” Matt said quietly. “This is none of your affair.”
Tom didn’t like that one bit. But he nodded his head and remained silent. It’s overdue, he thought. Way past time.
“Get up!” Sam spoke sharply. “Get up and let iron back up your big mouth.”
It was all up to the mouthy gunslick now. He had but two choices: stand up and drag iron, or turn tail and run. He had been brought up to hate Indians. Brought up to feel that he was far superior to the red man. He looked up from his drink and saw behind all his prejudice and hate, saw the bottom line. Fear. And it infuriated him. He wasn’t afraid of no damn Injun.
He slowly stood up. “No damn breed talks to me like that,” he said, his words coming out hoarsely.
“Then shut my mouth,” Sam said calmly. “You know how. Let’s see if you can.”
The other gunhands waited, all of them being careful to keep their hands in sight. Not out of fear, simply following the unwritten code of the time. A man saddles his own horses and stomps on his own snakes.
“Like stealin’ a cookie from a baby,” the young gunslick said.
“Yes,” Sam said. “I’m sure you would know all about that.”
The self-proclaimed gunfighter cursed Sam and grabbed for his guns, his face shiny with sweat and his eyes wild. Sam’s hand flashed and his .44 roared, belching fire and smoke. The gunman never got his .45 clear of leather, the .44 slug striking him in the chest and knocking him backward. He coughed, cursed, and straightened up.
“Fast,” Paul Stewart muttered. “Real fast.”
Other hired guns in the room were thinking: Faster than me. A couple made up their minds right then that when the smoke cleared, they were gone from this area.
The young gunslinger lifted his .45 from leather and jacked the hammer back. With blood leaking from his mouth, and a curse on his lips, he leveled the Colt.
Sam shot him again, the big .44 slug taking him in the belly and doubling him over. The kid rocked back on his bootheels and sat down hard on the floor. The .45 dropped from his hand and went off when it landed on the hardwood, the slug gouging a hole in the boards.
“I don’t believe it!” the mortally wounded young man gasped. “A damn Injun beat me to the draw.” He fell over and started yelling as the white-hot pain st
ruck him hard.
No one made a move to help the dying man. No one did anything with their hands except keep them still.
Doc Blaine had heard the shots and came on a run, as did the mortician and his helper. Blaine pushed open the batwings and walked through the gunsmoke to the fallen man. He knelt down and tried to unbutton the man’s bloody shirt. The kid pushed his hands away.
“Just as well,” Blaine muttered.
“About five-nine,” the mortician said. “I think we have one that will do nicely.”
“You go to hell,” the dying man said.
Matt and Tom had stood up. Sam punched out empties and reloaded full.
“You have any money?” the mortician asked, squatting down beside the dying would-be gunslick.
“I want a gospel shouter to pray over me,” the kid gasped.
Sam turned his back to the dying man and started walking toward the batwings.
“By God!” Gene Baker shouted, shoving back his chair and standing up. “I’ll not let this go unavenged. Turn around and face me, you goddamn greasy Injun!” He was dragging iron as he spoke.
Sam drew as he turned, and the entire room exploded in gunfire as other gunnies pulled pistols and Matt and Tom and young Parley did the same. Doc Blaine, the undertaker, and his helper flattened out on the floor, and all three said a prayer that no one would shoot low. George hit the boards behind the bar, crouching behind a barrel of beer. This was probably the most dangerous situation he’d been in since he’d left his wife and kids back in St. Louis and headed for the Wild West. George had questioned the wisdom of that many times, but never so much as in these lead-flying seconds.
Gene Baker took a .44 just below the throat and was flung backward by the shock of it. He leaned against a post and tried to return the fire, but the blood was gushing from the horrible wound, and his gun was slick with it. He could not cock his pistol; his thumb kept slipping off the hammer.
“Damn your eyes,” Gene gasped as he used his left hand to cock the .45.
Norm Meeker lifted his .45 and fired just as Gene lurched to one side. The slug caught him in the back of the head and blew out one eye.
“Oh, my God!” Norm yelled.
Gene dropped like a rock and landed on top of the dying kid, bringing a wild shriek of pain.
Matt lined up Norm and put a .44 slug right between the man’s eyes just as Tom fired and dropped a gunslick dead to the floor. The kid whose mouth had brought all this on wrapped his hand around the butt of a .45 that had fallen from Gene’s hand and let loose one round. The slug tore through the bar and punched a hole in the barrel of beer. George let out a yelp and crawled on hands and knees to another location behind the bar.
Rambling Ed Clark quickly sized up the situation and dived headfirst through a window and rolled off the boardwalk, wanting no part of this close-in gunfight.
Matt, Sam, Tom, and Parley had dropped to the floor, behind the dubious protection of tables, which had about as much chance of stopping a .44 or .45 slug as an elephant doing the ballet.
A half dozen gunhands crawled on hands and knees into the storeroom and out the back door. Others were stretched out on the floor taking no part in the shootout in the Carlin House. Their thinking was that they didn’t owe that damn stupid loudmouth kid anything. And anyone who would open a dance in a close barroom was totally ignorant.
Deputies Van Dixon and Nate Perry ran up to the shattered windows of the saloon with Greeners in their hands, saw where their friends were, and cut loose at anyone standing up. The effects were terrible at the close range. Big Ed MacGreagor took a full load in the chest and was sent spinning across the room. He slammed against the upright piano, and his wildly jerking fingers played a horrible tune as the life left his buckshot shattered body.
Bob Lortin took a full blast from a sawed-off ten-gauge in the face, and his head disappeared. Paul Stewart, Simon Green, and Ned Kerry jumped behind the bar, and Paul landed right on top of George, knocking the wind out of the bartender.
A wild bullet sailed across the street and knocked a hole in the coffee grinder of the general store. Another slug whined down the street and ruined a bolt of cloth in Miss Charlotte’s Fashionable Gowns.
Men and women and kids and dogs and cats and chickens were yelling and screaming and barking and shrieking and clucking and running in all directions up and down the street.
Rev. William Fowler and his wife, Melinda, who had been out calling on the Godless and other residents of the town who they felt needed a good dose of the Lord, jumped into the Bull’s Den as the lead started flying and stretched out on the floor. They stared up in horror at a painting of a nude lady hanging behind the bar.
Back in the Carlin House, Tom Riley yelled above the roar of gunfire, “I command you all to cease and desist in the name of the law!”
His words got his hat blown off his head. He leveled his pistol and drilled the gunman about two inches above the belt buckle.
A shopkeeper leaned out of his store, sighted in with his shotgun, and blasted away at the running Ramblin’ Ed Clark as the man tried to reach the livery and his horse. A few of the birdshot caught the gunman in the butt, and he hollered and jumped into an alley.
Paul Brown, Big Dan Parker, and J.B. Adams crawled out of the saloon, on their bellies, and slipped out the back door. They wanted no part of this craziness.
Utah Bates, Henry Rogers, and Bob Coody were others who took no part in the shooting. They had all run into a storeroom and slammed the door.
As quickly as the shooting began, it ended. Those outlaws who had taken part in the gunplay were either dead or dying. Slowly, those on the side of the law stood up, their hands filled with .44s and .45s.
“You boys who took no part in this hit the air,” Tom said, then coughed from the thick gunsmoke that smarted the eyes and burned the throat.
“We’re gone, Tom,” Jack Norman said, standing up from his belly-down position on the floor. The remaining gunhands rose from behind tables and off the floor and trooped out. They wasted no time in exiting the town.
Doc Blaine and the undertaker and his helper rose up to their knees and looked around at all the carnage the few moments of gunplay had produced. Doc Blaine glanced over at young Parley, who was punching out empties and loading up his guns. “Get some men in here to help carry the badly wounded out,” he said. “Where’s my bag?” he asked, looking around him.
“Help me, Doc,” a wounded gunhand moaned.
“George,” Tom called. “George! Damnit, get out here with some sawdust and cover up this blood. It’s slippery as an icehouse in here.”
A man wearing an expensive suit and low-heeled shoes stepped into the barroom. Neither Matt nor Sam had ever seen this citizen before. He shook his head at the sight.
“Mr. Singer,” Tom said. “Good to have you back. How was your trip?”
“Fine, Tom. Just fine,” the big man replied, his eyes touching the blood brothers. A smile was on his lips, but his eyes were cold and hostile. “New deputies, Tom?”
“Young Parley is. And Nate and Van. These are friends of mine. Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves. This is Miles Singer, boys. Owns the bank and a right nice spread north of town.”
The brothers nodded their greetings, then looked at each other, their secret suspicions now almost solidly confirmed. The town of Crossville a.k.a. Carlin-Sutton held quite a mystery, and the brothers held the key to the long locked door.
Now all they had to do was stay alive long enough to open it.
10
“A lot of speculation with no proof, brother,” Sam said.
“Has to be, though,” Matt replied.
The brothers had saddled up and ridden out of town, to sit and talk by the side of a little creek about a mile from the town. There was no way anyone could slip up on them to eavesdrop.
“So of the three men, how many of them know the truth?”
Matt chewed on a blade of grass for a moment. “Singer, for sure. Maybe John Car
lin. I think Bull is totally in the dark.”
“Their kids?”
“Ah, now that might be a possibility.”
Sam chunked a stone into the creek. “And what business it is of ours?”
“Absolutely none.”
They were silent for a moment, Sam finally saying, “So who do we tell of our suspicions?”
“No one,” Matt said. “At least, not yet.”
“Agreed. We sure have no proof, and a gut-hunch won’t stand up in court.”
The brothers looked at one another and grinned, mischief shining in their eyes.
“We could have some fun,” Sam suggested.
“You have an evil mind, Redskin,” Matt said.
“Evil is contagious. So I probably caught it from you.”
The brothers rode back to town, both of them reining down in front of the telegraph office. They sent their wires and then went back to their room at the hotel and sat by the window overlooking the main street. They waited for the fireworks to start.
They watched as the telegrapher locked up his office and hustled over to the bank.
“Just like we thought he would,” Sam said. “You know, there is yet another person who just might be involved in this mystery.”
“Ladue,” Matt said.
“Very good, brother. Yes. But how and why?”
“How, I don’t know. Why, might be that if he sits back, he might pick up some of the pieces after the big blow. I got the feeling that he wasn’t leveling with us that day we talked at length.”
“He’s crazy, you know?”
“I picked up on that. He just might feel—like a few of those old mountain men do—that since he was here first, all this belongs to him. Mountain fever might have got him.”
“All right, answer me this: who are the gunfighters really working for?”
Matt slowly built a cigarette, licked it and lit. “I’d say that some of them are really on John’s payroll. The majority of them are working for Singer.”
“Agreed. Must have thrown a kink into things when Bull fired his pack.”
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