Blood Bond 7

by William W. Johnstone

  “Can you really resist seeing a woman named Malinda Melody?”

  Matt laughed, finished his beer and put the empty glass on the table.

  “By damned, I do like your philosophy of life,” he said.

  Outside of Jordan’s office, Parrish stopped, pulled each of his revolvers to check their actions and to reload. They would need a thorough cleaning, but he had some fresh ammunition in his saddlebags.

  When Parrish left Jordan’s office, he had no intention of leaving town. It was bad enough to be humiliated by the half-breed, Two-Wolves. It was worse to be talked down to by a young pup like Jordan. So what if he had money and power? It was still only a two-bit mining town, and Parrish couldn’t get by talking to Jack Parrish that way! If he left now, the story would be across the West in a matter of weeks, maybe even days. He would be a laughing stock, unable to get any more jobs. He could not let that happen.

  Parrish felt the small wad of paper money that Jordan had tossed at him. Jordan had gold and silver running out of his ears. It didn’t seem right that he should have all those riches and not share a little.

  Parrish decided to find away to correct that situation.

  Fortunately, he had in his gear another bullwhip, which he would use when the time came. It would require some thought and planning, but he would find a way to teach both Sam Two-Wolves and Nelson Jordan a lesson they wouldn’t forget!

  And in so doing perhaps direct some of Nelson’s gold and silver into Parrish’s outstretched arms.

  Parrish slipped his revolvers back into their holsters, straightened out his damp clothes as best as possible, repositioned his black hat on his head.

  He smiled as he slipped into the night.

  Chapter Four

  Night had fallen, but the small mining town seemed as restless as ever. Rowdy voices drifted from saloons. Miners and drifters and card sharps walked from saloon to saloon. An occasional fight sounded from the alleys between the saloons. Coal oil lamps or crude candles lighted the interiors of the buildings.

  “Can’t say this compares favorably to San Francisco,” Matt said.

  “Can’t say it even compares favorably to any place I’ve ever been,” Sam answered.

  The two brothers had left Hart and his men talking easily among themselves to make their way to Nelson Jordan’s saloon. The town, like most of the boom mining towns of the period, was composed mainly of ramshackle buildings hastily thrown together along streets that were little more than mud in wet weather and dust in dry weather.

  The building containing Jordan’s saloon on the outside resembled most of the others in the ramshackle town and looked as if a solid wind would blow it away.

  “The only thing coming close to class is the two-color sign,” Matt said, pointing to the area of the building above the door reading, “Jordan’s Saloon and Opera House.” The sign was red and the letters were in green.

  A line had already formed and was rapidly moving inside.

  “Think there’ll be any tickets left?” Matt asked.

  “You mean you think they’d really sell us tickets?”

  “I’m ever the optimist.”

  “Yeah. You probably even expect this Malinda Melody to be pretty.”

  “Worse. I expect her to really be able to carry a tune!”

  The two men laughed. As Sam reached the ticket window, some of the miners, overhearing the conversation, started their own rumblings under their breath.

  The ticket seller scowled at the blood-brothers, but finally said, “Twenty-five dollars. Each.”

  “Ouch.”

  “The show is included. The drinks are extra.”

  Sam looked back at Matt. “Well, brother?”

  Matt shrugged. “Not much else going on in town tonight.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small bag and removed some gold coins. “Here. This should cover us.”

  The ticket taker scowled again, but quickly pocketed the money.

  The inside of the building was a variation of the typical saloon. It was bigger than most, with a small stage at the rear. A bar extended down either side. Lighting was provided by lamps hanging from the walls and ceilings and along the stage. The heat combined with too many bodies in too small an area. Most of those in attendance didn’t seem to mind the uncomfortable facilities as they crowded around the bars and pushed each other for positions closest to the stage.

  Sam and Matt also elbowed their way through the crowd. After a few minutes, Sam glanced behind him and said softly, “We’re being followed.”

  “How can you tell in this crowd?”

  Sam motioned behind and around them. The men who had watched them earlier were still talking among themselves but were now encircling the brothers. As they approached, others in the crowd stepped the other way, as if sensing trouble was about to break out.

  “Ambush? Jordan’s men?” Matt asked under his breath.

  “That’s what I don’t understand. They don’t look like they’d be Jordan’s men. They’re not gunfighters. Some of them aren’t even wearing guns.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that too. Seems kind of peculiar.”

  In only a few minutes, it was obvious that the blood-brothers were being encircled. Even in the crowded salon, a space had formed around them. One of the men at the edge of the circle took another drink and finally spoke. He said loudly, “I heard you making fun of Miss Melody!” He was tall, bearded, and looked as if he hadn’t had a bath in months. His eyes were small and mean, as if they were filled with hate.

  The man next to him punched him lightly in the arm and said, “You tell him, Rex.”

  But Rex wasn’t laughing or smiling. “Don’t deny it. We all heard it. You owe an apology to Miss Melody.”

  Sam rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, tilting his head back slightly, revealing the Indian necklace around his neck. Matt wore an identical necklace. Rex spotted it, and said, “Nobody has a right to talk that way about Miss Melody. Especially an Injun.”

  In spite of the crowded conditions, the small space around Matt and Sam was quickly cleared.

  “Pardon me,” Matt said. “But you have it wrong.”

  “Only Injuns wear that jewelry.”

  Matt pulled his own necklace out from under his shirt. “Wrong. About everything. I’m the one who was talking about your entertainer. And it wasn’t intended as an insult. I think it is you who owe Sam an apology.”

  “Like hell.” Rex swung his glass at Matt, who ducked underneath the swing. He punched the other man in the stomach, doubling him over, then stood quickly, flipping him backwards.

  Sam, knowing from long experience working with Matt how he fought, at the same time kicked out at the man standing next to Rex. The kick caught him in the chest, forcing him backwards as well.

  Both men landed with thuds, but were quickly up again as others rushed to their aid.

  Two jumped at Matt, who sidestepped them, causing the two attackers to hit against each other. As they fell, Matt doubled his fists and brought them down on the backs of their necks.

  Three men attacked Sam. One tried to pin his arms, to allow the other two a chance to give a good beating. However, the hold was not solid. Sam twisted, got one arm free, and brought his elbow backwards, giving a bruising hit to this captor just below his ribs, knocking the breath out of him. Sam then pivoted and with the same motion brought a left upwards, hitting the other man’s face with full force and throwing him with full force at the third man.

  Matt backhanded another miner trying to sneak up behind him. The man stiffened and fell like a pole-axed ox, tripping up another would-be attacker behind him. Matt captured the tripped-up attacker by the back of his shirt and hurled him toward Sam.

  Sam grabbed the man nearest him by the back of his shirt and hurled him toward Matt.

  The two mine workers seemed to sail through the air, colliding with each other halfway between the brothers.

  Rex had now recovered enough to reach for his revolver. Almost as one, Matt a
nd Sam pulled their own revolvers so quickly that the movements were barely a blur, though Matt was slightly faster. The guns were in their hands before Rex’s had even cleared leather.

  Suddenly staring down the barrels of two large hand guns sobered Rex up quickly.

  “No . . . no need to shoot,” he said. “I guess I did misunderstand.”

  Matt and Sam weren’t in the habit of shooting men unless it was a fair fight, and drawing against a drunken miner was hardly fair. They weren’t going to shoot in any case, though the man on stage didn’t know that. In a loud voice, he called out, “That’s enough fun! You boys just quiet down now and get ready for the show!”

  Rex, now staring at the two large guns just feet from his face, swallowed hard. He said, “Right, Mr. Jordan.”

  “I think the misunderstanding has been cleared up,” Sam said.

  “You boys can continue your fun if you want—outside, after the show,” Jordan said.

  As Matt and Sam holstered their guns, Rex said softly, “I’ll continue it later. You can count on it.”

  “It’s no business of mine,” Jordan continued. “Now, however, it is my pleasure to present to you the one and only—Malinda Melody!”

  The fight—even the guns in the hands of Matt and Sam—was suddenly forgotten as the men in the bar stared toward the stage. It became so quiet that even the dripping of the beer taps could be heard.

  A young woman walked onto the stage with a smooth grace. She was dressed in a stunning white gown. Her brown hair was styled in tight curls. In spite of the poor lighting, she seemed to fill the stage with her presence.

  Matt’s mouth dropped open as he watched the entrance.

  Sam saw the expression on his brother’s face and said, “Great. I recognize that look.”

  Matt said, “Sssh. I want to see this.”

  “Wonderful. You’re going to fall for this girl and get us all in a helluva lot of trouble.”

  “Sssh.”

  Malinda started to sing. There was no background music, no supporting cast, no fancy lighting. There was just the woman and her singing. The songs were not fancy, and certainly not opera. But by the third note she had the woman-hungry men in the audience eating out of her hand.

  “Such a wonderful singer!” Matt said.

  “A little better than a squeaky wagon wheel, not quite as good as a mockingbird,” Sam answered, expecting to get an argument. In reality, he had to admit Malinda had a fairly strong voice and a natural feel for the music, but he wanted to needle his brother. Matt ignored the remark, watching the woman move across the stage. A hundred sets of eyes followed her. Her dress was far less revealing than most saloon performers wore, but on her it was suggestive of forbidden fun. The fantasies induced in the minds of the miners were perhaps more entertaining than the songs being sung.

  As Malinda finished each song, the formerly quiet bar erupted into a thunderous chorus of applause that grew louder after each song. The men whistled and yelled and cried out for more. After about six songs, Malinda blew a kiss, causing the men to cheer even more.

  “Quite a talent, don’t you think?” a confident voice said behind Sam.

  He pivoted quickly, hand on his revolver, then paused.

  Nelson Jordan stood next to the bar, both hands in plain sight, smiling broadly, smoking an expensive cigar.

  As Malinda left the stage, to still more cheers, Matt also turned. The crowd had moved toward the stage, temporarily giving a little more space to Jordan, Sam, and Matt.

  “Don’t tell me,” Jordan said. “You’re Sam Two-Wolves and Matt Bodine. I’ve already heard about your run-in with one of my former employees.”

  “Former employees?”

  “Jack Parris had worked for me. But what he was doing to that man in the river was uncalled for, don’t you think? So I fired him.”

  Sam and Matt did not take their eyes off Jordan as he smoked. He blew a smoke ring and asked, “So what do you think of our local heroine?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, and you’re a better judge of horseflesh than woman-flesh,” Matt said.

  “Too skinny for my taste.”

  “But not for these lonely miners,” Jordan added.

  “To them, who live in a world where any woman, even a whore, is fairly rare, seeing a real woman like Malinda is a bargain at any price. I’m a businessman. I’m just providing a service.”

  “I bet you provide a lot more services than singing.”

  Jordan shrugged. “Like I said, I’m a businessman.” He paused, then continued, “Speaking of service, I could use a few more men like you. I like the way you handled Parrish. I saw the way you took care of the troublemakers earlier this evening. And I admire your guts—being Hart’s men, and coming into my place this way. What ever he’s paying you, I can double.”

  “Our guns aren’t for sale,” Matt said.

  “Aren’t they?” Jordan’s voice suddenly grew stern. “You came pretty quickly to the aid of Hart’s men. It’s no secret that we’re both recruiting. You think I was born yesterday?”

  “We don’t work for Hart,” Sam said. “We don’t work for you. We’re just a couple of drifters looking for a little entertainment.”

  Jordan blew another smoke ring.

  “Is that so? Well, boys, I’d recommend you move on, in case you’re tempted to take the wrong side. Just because you boys are good doesn’t mean you can’t be beat.”

  “We also don’t take to threats.”

  “Not a threat, boys. Just a little friendly advice. But because I’ve got a big heart, I’ll let you watch the rest of the show.”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” Sam said with mock sincerity. His comment, however, was lost on Jordan, who was now also watching the stage as Malinda returned for her next number.

  Matt continued to watch Jordan, then moved behind him so that he could watch him as well as the woman on stage. Sam also moved slightly, but Jordan had apparently dismissed him and Matt, and had his mind on the woman or possibly some of his other business dealings.

  Jack Parrish remained seated on his horse in an alley a few blocks from Jordan’s Saloon and Opera House. He had been waiting there patiently for most of the evening.

  He had watched Sam and Matt stand in line and enter the building.

  He had watched Malinda ride up to the side of the building in her fancy buckboard, and then as she and Jordan talked angrily among themselves.

  Parrish had then moved closer to the saloon, where he had heard the faint echoes of a fight from inside the building, and then the voice of the girl as she started her show. Through an open door, he had watched as Matt became entranced with the girl, and listened as Jordan talked briefly to the brothers.

  Under cover of darkness, he quickly went back to his hiding place in the alley, until the show was over and the crowd started to stream back into the street.

  He watched as the girl and one of Jordan’s men, the one called Strep, left by the side entrance. They quickly got into the buckboard and started down the street.

  Parrish clucked softly to his horse and followed at a discrete distance.

  He expected the buckboard to take the couple back to Jordan’s hotel, where Malinda was living. It was common knowledge that she was Jordan’s girl. Parrish had also learned that the girl was not particularly fond of the barbaric town to which Jordan had brought her, and often took rides into the surrounding country to try and escape the ever present stench. So Parrish wasn’t too surprised to see the buckboard continue past the hotel toward the edge of town. It turned before the tent city and moved toward the river.

  Now Parrish kept a greater distance, but continued to keep the girl and her escort in sight. He noted the route taken, including the clearing by the river where the buckboard stopped and the girl got out and walked along the river for several minutes. As she walked, she threw rocks into the water, watching the concentric circles rippled outward.

  Finally, the woman got back o
n the buckboard and her guard started the drive back into town.

  Jordan had seen enough. He spurred his horse in the opposite direction to return to town and to finish devising his plan that would teach both the blood-brothers and Nelson Jordan a lesson they would not soon forget!

  Chapter Five

  Even though Matt and Sam had remained in the saloon until very late, they were up at the crack of dawn. Each had slipped out of his bedroll before the sun had risen above the horizon, as refreshed with a few hours sleep as most men would have been on a full night’s sleep. The two blood-brothers took turns with the camp chores. Today Sam was taking care of the horses, making sure they were watered and fed, while Matt tended to the cooking. By the time Sam had led the horses back from the river, Matt had the meat frying and the coffee boiling.

  Sam walked over to the fire, poured himself a cup of coffee, making a face.

  “You know my cooking’s not that bad,” Matt said, pretending to have hurt feelings.

  “It’s not your cooking, it’s the water,” Sam answered. “I thought we’d be far enough out of town to breathe some decent air and drink some clean water. No such luck.”

  “I had to travel quite a ways downstream to find clean enough water for the coffee,” Matt agreed. “All things considered, I’d rather run cattle and horses than mess up the good earth with mining.”

  “You’re talking more like an Indian than a white man,” Sam said, crouching down by the fire and stabbing a slice of meat to his metal plate. “What happened to the idea of progress—meaning making the white men rich?”

  “Don’t forget I spent a lot of years with you and your father, learning Cheyenne ways. I can’t fault any man for making a living or trying to get rich. But some ways are better than others.” He poured coffee into his own cup. “Like the situation in this town. What do you make of it?”

  “You know me. You know I follow my instincts. And I like Clarence Hart. He seems to be a solid, honest, hard-working man. And I liked the way Shannahan stood up to that gunfighter.” He paused, a chunk of meat halfway between the plate and his mouth. “What do you think?”