Blood Bond 9

by William W. Johnstone

  Petty laughed.

  The jail was at the end of the street. The building was small and looked in even worse shape than the rest of the town. A man lounged in a chair in front of the building. His belly stuck out of an unbuttoned shirt, and his suspenders were almost off his shoulders. Apparently he hadn’t shaved in days. Lilly wondered why the marshal didn’t run the bum out of town or put him inside the jail where he belonged.

  The woman parked the wagon and climbed down. The unkempt man opened his eyes and watched her approach. He said nothing as she brushed past him and entered the jail, her son close behind. The room was a mess, with papers scattered on the floor and the cell doors open.

  Lilly went back outside, but nobody was on the street except for the man still sitting in front of the jail.

  “Howdy doing, ma’am,” he said. “Looking for somebody or something?”

  “Do you know where I could find Marshal Holt?”

  “Reckon I do. You’re looking at him.”

  Lilly’s heart sank. If this was the law in Snake Creek, she knew there’d be little or no chance of bringing her husband’s murderer to justice. Even so, her daddy, and then her husband, had stressed the importance of the law and following the law. Now that she was on her own, she had to try.

  “My name’s Lillian Brandom. My husband, son, and me have been working that valley a few miles outside of town.”

  “Your husband Jack Brandom? I’ve seen him around town a few times. Quiet man. Doesn’t make much trouble. I like that.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Holt blinked and scratched his belly. “The hell you say. How’d it happen?”

  “He was murdered. And I want you to bring the murderer to justice.”

  The marshal stood slowly, pulling up his suspenders and looking thoughtful. “Murdered, you say? That’s not an easy crime to solve. You need evidence. Eyewitnesses. Investigation takes time. Months. Maybe years.”

  “I have all the evidence I need. I can identify the murderer.”

  “Might not even be in my jurisdiction if it happened outside the city limits.”

  Tommy took a step forward. “We saw my dad’s killer when we came through town,” he said. “Go arrest him.”

  “And who do you think that was?” Holt asked.

  “Don’t know his name. He was down at the Black Bull Saloon.”

  Holt’s face turned white. “Come to think of it, I’m remembering your husband real well,” he said. “Got into lots of fights. Couldn’t handle his liquor. I’m surprised he didn’t get killed before now. He probably got what he deserved.”

  Lilly threw herself at the marshal, trying to hit him with her fists. “You’re a liar!” she cried. “My husband was a good man. What are you trying to do?”

  Rough hand suddenly grabbed her, pinning her arms to her side. She struggled but could not get away. Holt had hold of the boy.

  “What’s happening here, Marshal?”

  “Hey, King. This woman claims her husband was murdered.”

  Lilly looked around her, saw that King Petty was the man who had her in a viselike grip. Several of his men were spaced around them.

  “That’s the murderer!” Tommy screamed. “That’s the man who killed my father!”

  “Yeah, I killed the bastard this morning. He was causing trouble.”

  “Just like I thought,” Holt said, wiping his face with a dirty arm, holding on to Tommy with the other. “Jack Brandom was a troublemaker. So it wasn’t murder. Looks to me like an open and shut case. Glad you stopped by, King, to straighten out the mess.”

  Lilly tried to spit at Holt, but King kept her off balance and she missed. Lilly struggled even harder, but King Petty held her so tight that it hurt.

  “The woman is upset about the loss of her husband, though from what I’ve seen it was a small loss,” Petty said. “I think, however, there is a law against spreading rumors about law-abiding citizens such as myself. Isn’t there, Holt?”

  “You’re right. There is a law like that. Want me to arrest the woman?”

  Tommy struggled, almost got away. Petty gestured to one of his men. “Conn, take the kid and keep him out of my hair for a while. Don’t hurt him too bad, unless he gives you trouble. Marshal, you’ve done your usual fine job; now go on about your business.” He dragged the woman toward the Black Bull. “I’ve got my own business to handle. Me and the widow woman are going to do some talking. We need to reach some kind of understanding before she says anything else bad about me. I think she’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  Sam Two-Wolves whistled softly as he stopped his horse in front of the general store in Snake Creek. He had enjoyed the ride in the sunshine into town, the spring weather warmed his soul, and he was going to have some fresh fried fish for supper. He felt at peace with the world and planned to let nothing interfere with his happiness—not even this shabby little town. All he needed was a few supplies. He’d quickly take care of his business and be back in camp in a matter of hours. Matt was a fair fisherman, but Sam knew a few tricks that his father had taught him that should let him even up the catch in spite of Matt’s head start. It was a friendly rivalry, and Sam chuckled at the contest in which both blood brothers would be the winners when it came time to cooking the catch that night.

  The town itself was better than some he had seen in his travels, worse than others. With a practiced eye he noted the arrangement of buildings on the short main street, the alleys, the places where a man might hide if he wanted to ambush another. Few people were out, and most of them seemed to be drifters or unsavory types who didn’t bother to hide their hostility as they watched him pass. Sam pretended to pay them no mind but made sure his gun was within easy reach, if necessary.

  The general store was located a few buildings down from the jail, surrounded by saloons. As Sam tied his horse to a rail in front of the general store, he noticed a slim, attractive woman and a boy walk around a dishevelled man to enter the jail. He smiled at the warm sight of a mother and son and entered the store to take care of his business.

  An older man and woman were behind the counter, stacking cans of peaches. Sam decided to take a few of those, as well. It’d be a good dessert following the fish that night.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “I’m looking for some supplies.”

  “You’re new in town. You one of King Petty’s men?”

  “Shush,” the man said nervously. “Let’s not look for trouble.”

  “Oh, you hush,” she answered.

  “I’m nobody’s man but my own,” Sam replied.

  “Good answer. What do you need?”

  Sam walked toward the counter, taking a closer look at the woman. She had high cheekbones and dark skin, as if she also had Indian blood in her. Her eyes were dark, but with a slight twinkle. He couldn’t tell how old she was, though there was gray in her hair. He handed her the list of supplies.

  “We can help you,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. My name’s Clarissa Ponder. This is my husband, Henry.”

  “Throw in some of those peaches,” Sam said. “And who is King Petty?”

  “Thinks he owns the town,” Clarissa said.

  “He does,” her husband added. “He’s a helluva mean sonofabitch. Fast with a gun. Dangerous. He and his men do pretty much what they want, when they want. They come in here and take without paying for it. It’s kind of a sore point with my wife.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d be too pleased, either,” Sam said.

  “Damned right I’m not, but I don’t see that we have much choice in the matter. If it’s a question of losing a few dollars in goods or losing your life, I’ll choose living every time.”

  Sam acted as if he were looking at a barrel of coffee, but was actually watching the man’s face. There was anger and hurt in his eyes. It bothered him to have to give in to Petty and his men, but he was obviously not a gunfighter. He was an older man trying to run a business in a struggling town. He wouldn’t have a chance against Pet
ty. Henry Ponder was just doing the best he could.

  “Come to think of it, I could use some of this coffee, as well,” Sam said.

  Clarissa came out from behind the counter. Her eyes looked over Sam, stopped at the necklace around his throat, made up of multicolored stones pierced by rawhide. Matt wore an identical necklace. She glanced into Sam’s face, started to say something, then changed her mind as she returned to the other side of the counter.

  “You just passing through?” Henry asked. He wrapped the items while Clarissa totalled the bill.

  “Planning to do a little fishing,” Sam answered.

  “Good pastime. Always figured a man couldn’t get in too much trouble with a fishing pole in his hand.”

  Loud voices started to drift through the open door. Henry looked nervously toward the street. Clarissa said angrily, “You wanted to know about King Petty. I’d lay odds that he’s out there, causing trouble again.”

  Sam stepped casually to the door and looked toward the jail in time to see a young man grab hold of a woman and start to drag her down the street. Another man held the boy.

  “Who are they?” Sam asked.

  “The woman is Lilly Brandom,” Clarissa said. “The boy is her son. It’s odd to see her in town. Usually her husband comes in by himself to buy supplies.”

  “And the man holding her?”

  “King Petty himself.”

  Sam sighed. He knew better than to get involved, but he couldn’t walk away and let a woman and her son be treated that way. He placed some cash on the counter and said, “I may be in town for a while, after all. Go ahead and start an account for me.” He checked the action of his Colt and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes to pick up my stuff.”

  “I told you that Petty is dangerous and mean,” Henry said. “He’s killed lots of men. I’d think twice before I go out there.”

  Sam shrugged.

  Clarissa added, “We never did catch your name to put on your bill.”

  “Sam Two-Wolves.”

  Henry looked surprised and Clarissa smiled. Henry exclaimed, “The gunfighter?”

  “No . . . just a fisherman. If I’m lucky.”

  It was nothing unusual to see King Petty throwing his weight around town, though it still generated a certain amount of attention. Faces had gathered at doors and windows up and down the street to watch the scene in front of the jail. On the street itself were Petty’s men. Everybody, law-abiding citizens and criminals, all knew the plans that Petty had for Lilly, but nobody lifted a hand to help her.

  Petty knew they wouldn’t.

  “Come along, woman, spend a little time with a real man and you’ll forget that dead husband of yours. Hell, you’ll probably even thank me!”

  The woman still struggled, even though Petty gripped her arm so tightly that she knew escape was impossible. Behind him, Petty could hear the kid yelling, trying not to cry. It was a nuisance and a distraction that he would deal with later. For now, he had the woman.

  Petty stopped as a tall, dark-haired man stood in front of him.

  “Move. Out of my way.”

  “I’d like to talk with the woman.”

  “Nope. She’s mine.”

  Petty was surprised that the other man not only didn’t move, but he spoke directly to Lilly. “Am I to assume that this gentleman’s attentions are uninvited and unwanted?” he asked.

  “I want nothing to do with him, except to see him dead.”

  “The name’s Sam Two-Wolves, and I’ll see what I can do.” He turned to Petty and said conversationally, “Let her go.”

  The street was suddenly quiet. Sam stood his ground, apparently unconcerned that he was outnumbered and that Petty was supposed to be the most dangerous man in the area. Petty looked Sam over as he motioned some of his men forward.

  “You’re not even worth the trouble it’d take to kill you,” Petty said. “Giles, Hamm, take care of this for me, would you?”

  Giles was the first to draw, but was dead before the gun could clear leather. Sam had pulled his own Colt with blinding speed and sent a slug of death toward the outlaw. The bullet hit Giles cleanly in the chest, throwing him backward into the dusty street.

  Sam pivoted, and fell to the ground as Hamm managed to squeeze off two shots, both missing their target by a wide margin. Sam rolled, came up in a crouch, took aim and fired another shot. This one hit Hamm in the neck. The outlaw dropped his gun, staggered three steps, and then fell lifeless near the other dead man.

  Petty remained cool. This was something new, for somebody to be almost as good with a gun as he was. Sam had drawn and fired with a casual grace and with unerring accuracy. Petty knew this man could be trouble. He loosened his grip, and the woman pulled away, running toward her son.

  Sam stood and said, “Let the boy go, as well.”

  Conn did so. Tommy ran and wrapped his arms around his mother.

  “Any other discussion?” Sam said.

  Petty smiled. “Not right now. But we’ll meet again. You can count on it.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Petty started for the Black Bull. He said to his men without looking back. “Get rid of that trash on the street. I’m going for a drink. All this excitement’s made me thirsty.”

  Sam gently guided the woman and child out of the street toward Ponder’s store.

  Chapter Three

  Matt Bodine took his time as he selected the sapling to use as his fishing pole, attached the line and hook, then walked along the creek bank with a can of worms, looking for just the right spot. He knew how to use the fancy gear that the Easterners seemed to prefer, and he could patiently stalk fish with spear and net as the Indians did. Sometimes, however, he preferred a simple pole on a creek bank and let nature take its course. It was less work and a lot more relaxing.

  He finally found what he was looking for: a gentle hill, covered with short grass, with a tall tree to provide shade. In the creek itself was enough brush to provide shelter for the fish, but not so much as to tangle the line. Matt expected no trouble, but still made a quick search of the area before he sat down on the bank. He had learned a long time ago a person couldn’t be too careful, that trouble often came when least expected. All he found this time was cattle sign.

  Matt leaned back, dipped the hook in the water, and waited. The first nibble came within minutes. Matt watched the line patiently, set the hook at just the right instant and yanked the fish from the water, chuckling softly to himself. Matt knew that Sam considered himself an expert fisherman, and that when he got back there would be a friendly competition about who caught the most fish for supper. Maybe it wasn’t fair for Matt to get a head start, but it would be funny to see Sam’s face when he saw he was beat before he even started! Matt would make things even by cooking supper that night without complaint. If his luck continued, he’d have plenty of time to get the meal cooked before Sam returned.

  After an hour, the nibbles slowed, but not enough for Matt to move on. He was putting another worm on a hook when he heard sounds around him from two different directions. He instantly crouched down and pulled his Colt revolver from its holster. One sound was soft as the grass swayed. Matt knew it was a snake of some kind and turned his attention to the louder sound of something crashing through the underbrush.

  A large bull stuck its head through the bushes and glared at Matt with red eyes.

  Matt laughed. He had been around cattle all his life, owned a ranch in Wyoming, and could cowboy with the best of them. A bull, even a mean one, didn’t bother him. If it waded into the creek, however, it would disturb the water and probably ruin fishing for the rest of the day.

  “Go on, old boy,” Matt said, putting his gun back in its holster. “Just move your hide and get your drink elsewhere.” The bull snorted. It was a solid-looking animal that appeared as if it could be the sire of a good herd. Matt could appreciate such an animal, but he didn’t want the blamed thing looking over his shoulder as he fished. Matt moved a step
closer, ready to slap the animal in the face to get it started. “I said get out of here.”

  The bull snorted again and took a step away from Matt, putting its foot down on the tail of a snake that was slithering through the grass. The snake, startled, bit the bull on its hind leg. It turned its red eyes on Matt, as if it blamed the man for the pain, and attacked.

  Matt jumped and sidestepped. He could feel that animal’s large horns whistle past his head. The bull kicked as it raced past, overturning Matt’s bucket of worms and the fish he had caught, then turned to face him again. Matt glanced at the empty bucket. The results of the afternoon’s effort were gone. It aggravated Matt, who was tempted to shoot the critter on general principle, but he hated to waste such a fine-looking animals if it could be helped. Matt generally worked with cattle from the back of a horse, not on foot, and he didn’t particularly like being at the disadvantage.

  The bull charged again. Matt waited until the last minute, then ducked beneath the sharp horns and grabbed the animal by the neck, trying to wrestle it to the ground. Most men would have been thrown within seconds, but Matt held tightly, his muscles bulging with the effort. He finally got the leverage he needed, and the bull started to fall slowly to the ground. Matt released his grip and jumped out of the way as the animal finally hit the dirt.

  Matt took off his hat to slap the critter’s behind and send it along its way. He wanted only to go back to his fishing—if there were still any fish that weren’t scared away—when an angry voice called out, “I got you in my sights. You’ve rustled the last of our cattle, and I don’t care what your boss says. You got our cows. I seen your tracks. But damned if you’re going to take my bull.”

  Ralph Smiley was having a good time. He had been in the cattle rustling business for a long time, but the job had never been as easy as it had been since joining up with King Petty’s outfit. In the old days, Smiley always had to watch his back trail, since some irate rancher or lawman seemed to be after him, just because he took their critters. It made for some close calls.