Blood Bond 5 (9 page)

Lamps were being turned on from one end of the town to the other, and Tom and a deputy were running up the street, both in various stages of undress.

“Head for cover, Tom!” Sam called. “We don't know how many there are.”

Tom jumped behind a water trough, and Van Dixon stopped and knelt down beside the high boardwalk.

A horse galloping away told the rest of the story. The one left had had enough for this night.

Both gunmen were still alive, and both had been stretched out beside each other on the boardwalk that ended at the livery and picked up again at Wo Fong's. But Doc Blaine shook his head at the unspoken questions in Tom's eyes.

“Who hired you to gun me?” Matt asked.

“Go to hell,” the gutshot man gasped.

“I got their horses, Tom,” Van said, leading two horses up to the livery door. “But I never seen these brands before. It's a double saddle riggin'. Probably Texas.”

“Damn right,” the other assassin said.

“You should have stayed there,” Doc Blaine bluntly told the man. “Because both of you are going to be buried in Idaho Territory.”

“That's disgustin',” the man said.

“What the hell difference do it make?” his dying partner asked. “We ain't gonna know it.”

“Maybe you'll tell me who hired you?” Matt asked.

“When pigs fly like eagles, Bodine.”

“Sutton or Carlin?” Sam asked.

“Nope. I can tell you that much for shore. And I ain't lyin' 'bout that. Gimmie some laudanum, Doc.”

“You'll be dead before it could take effect, Mister,” Doc Blaine told him.

“Name's Poe,” the man whispered. “Hank Poe. I got money in my britches for a marker. Somebody see to that, will you?”

“We'll see to it.”

Hank Poe closed his eyes and never opened them again.

“What's your name?” Tom asked the other gunny.

“John Smith. And don't laugh. It's the truth.”

“You got anyone you want us to notify?”

“Naw. Just wrap me up good and bury me deep.” He cut his fading eyes to Matt. “Poe was speakin' the truth to you, Bodine. It wasn't neither Sutton nor Carlin who hired us.”

“Tell me who it was.”

The gunman laughed out of his bloody mouth and shook his head. “You'll find out in time. But I know it all. I know the whole story. And it's a strange one. Mighty queer. You see, Bodine. There was . . . There was more than . . .” The man coughed up blood and began gasping for air. Blaine quickly cleared his throat. But it was to no avail. Smith's head lolled to one side.

“There was what?” Sam asked.

But Smith was dead.

“This thing is gettin' more twists and turns than a damn snake hole,” Tom said.

“He knew the whole story,” Sam mused. “How did he know it? Ben Connors admitted on the trail that he didn't.”

“What about Ben Connors?” Tom asked.

“In the morning, Tom,” Matt said. “You'd stay awake all night if we told you the news now.”

“Now I'll stay awake all night just wondering what the news is,” the marshal groused.

Over breakfast at the hotel, Marshal Tom Riley stared in disbelief at the words the brothers told him. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Halfway through his eggs, young Parley ran in and whispered in Tom's ear.

“I gotta see it to believe it,” Tom said. “Come on, boys.”

On the porch of the hotel, the men watched as all the gunfighters from the Flying BS rode into town and reined up in front of the Carlin House.

“Looks like Bull meant every word he said,” Tom muttered. “And he was right about John hirin' those bad ones as soon as Bull fired them. I applaud Bull for tryin' to end this years-long war, but he may have committed suicide by doin' it.”

“Let's take a walk over to the Carlin House,” Sam suggested. “The conversation should be quite lively.”

“That's one way of puttin' it,” Tom said.

As expected, the crowd in the saloon fell silent as soon as the marshal, the young deputy, and the brothers walked in. But the line of gunmen at the bar and seated at tables were a sullen-faced lot.

Bartender George looked awfully nervous.

Tom Riley walked straight up to Ben Connors, while Sam and Matt separated to better watch the room filled with some of the most notorious gunmen in the West. Parley stood to the right of the batwings. The deputy was young, but he had more than his share of sand.

“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 struck 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.