Blood Bond 3 (2 page)

“I'd hate to send you out for water, then,” Matt grinned the words.

Sam laughed. John Lee and the others did not see the humor in it. John Lee said, “You boys need to be taught a lesson, I'm thinking.”

“You're wearing a gun,” Matt told him. “Why don't you get your butt and your mouth out of that saddle and let's see what you can do besides flap your gums.”

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. He sputtered for a moment. Nobody talked to him like that. He'd show the young pup a thing or two.

“That's Matt Bodine, boss.” Blackie tossed the words out before John could leave the saddle.

One of the riders behind John expelled air slowly. Another one grunted. All of them kept their hands in sight.

“So it figures that's got to be Sam Two Wolves with him,” Blackie added.

John Lee was a man used to getting his own way. He'd come out to that part of New Mexico and Texas years back, when life on the frontier meant facing death every day. It took hard and rough men to stay. The graveyard at his ranch was filled with men who'd died riding for the Broken Lance. But John Lee was not an ignorant man. He knew that if anyone started shooting, he'd be the first one Bodine would blow out of the saddle.

Everyone in the West had heard of Matt Bodine. Killed his first man at age fourteen. A year later, the man's brothers came to avenge the killing. When the smoke drifted away, Matt was standing amid the bodies, both hands filled with Colts. When he was sixteen, rustlers hit the ranch. Matt killed two more and wounded two others. He'd lived with the Cheyenne for more than a year. Then he was a guard, riding shotgun for gold shipments. Four more men went to rest in lonely graves. He scouted for the Army and put more so-called bad men in the ground.

Sam Two Wolves was just as fast as Matt Bodine and jut as quick on the temper as he was on the trigger. John had heard the stories about Sam's high education at an Eastern university and about his white mother's wealth. John quickly surmised he was in the middle of a very volatile situation there.

“We didn't bring any cookin' utensils,” John said.

“That's too bad,” Bodine told him. “ 'Cause we're getting hungry.”

“And when we get hungry our tempers get short,” Sam added.

“Why didn't you bring what I asked for?” Matt's eyes met those of John Lee.

John wanted to tell him to go right straight to hell. But he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“I'll tell you why,” Matt said. “Because you allow your men to ride roughshod over anything and anybody and think it's funny when other people's possessions are destroyed. You thought you were going to come out here with your pack of hyenas and leave our bodies for the buzzards and the coyotes. You think you're God Almighty. Untouchable. I don't like people like you. At all.”

Pen Masters rode down the slope. “Come on, Matt,” the gunfighter said. “You and me know each other from our days back on the Tongue. I don't want this to turn into no shootin'. Not over some damn pots and pans.”

“It isn't about pots and pans, Pen,” Matt told him. “You know that.”

“Matt,” the gunfighter said, “you're the fastest man with a gun I've ever seen. But you'll be shot to ribbons if you start anything here.”

“And you'll all be dead,” Sam spoke. “And Lord of the Manor there,” his eyes touched John, “will be the first to go.”

“Copper!” John said. “Go on back to the ranch and fetch a goddamn coffeepot and other crap. Bring some food. We'll wait here for you.”

The puncher left at a gallop. John's eyes were hard and mean as he looked at Bodine. “I don't take water from no man,” he told Bodine. “Maybe my boys were wrong in what they done. So I'll replace your gear and provisions. Then you best ride on out of this area. No man wants to die before his time, Bodine. But if you ever brace me again and talk to me like you just done, as God is my witness, one of us will die. Come on, boys. Copper don't need no nursemaid to find his way back.”

He wheeled his horse and rode away. Pen stayed for a moment, looking at Bodine while Blackie and Childress mounted up and rode off.

“Back off of this one, Bodine,” he warned, not in an unfriendly tone. “John Lee runs this part of the country. He owns everything and everybody. John Lee says ‘frog,' people jump.”

“Then maybe he needs somebody to muddy up his pond,” Matt replied.

Sam grinned. He had a hunch that he and Matt were going to stick around for a time.

“So what's the plan?” Sam asked, as Pen rode away.

Matt shrugged his shoulders. “What plan? I just took a dislike for the man, that's all.”

“He's easy to dislike,” Sam agreed. “Be interesting to see if our gear is replaced.”

“Oh, I think it will be. I'm sure he considers himself to be a very honorable man . . . and he might be in a very peculiar and self-serving fashion. I think as soon as our gear is replaced, we'd best pull out. That fellow back on the trail told us there was a little two-bit town about ten miles south of the New Mexico line. Half a dozen stores and a fleabag hotel. What do you think?”

“I'm game.”

Within the hour, the puncher called Copper rode back in and dropped a sack on the ground. “I ain't got a thing in the world agin you fellers, so I'm gonna give you some friendly advice. Get gone. John Lee is all of a sudden hirin' hardcases and payin' fightin' wages. And it ain't 'cause of the Comanches neither. Quanah Parker and his bunch shot their wad a couple of years back. They's still Injuns around, but not many. I don't know what's goin' on, but was I you boys, I wouldn't stick around and get caught up in the middle of it.”

Copper turned his horse and rode off.

“The Southern Cheyenne rode with Quanah and his bunch for a time,” Sam said. “But not many of them. Most of the others were Kiowa, Kwahadi, and Arapaho.”

“What do you think about Copper's claim to know nothing about what John Lee is up to?”

Sam did a squatting motion, cupped his hands to indicate a large mound, and made a mooing sound. Cheyenne for
bullshit.

 

 

John Lee had returned more than had been destroyed. There was a side of bacon, some flour and beans, potatoes and onions, and a skillet, cook pot, and coffeepot. Matt and Sam quickly packed up and headed south.

It was well after dark when they rode slowly into the town. A sign had proclaimed the town's name as Crossing.

“Crossing what?” Sam questioned.

“First town after crossing the territory line, I reckon,” Matt replied.

“That is as good a reply as any,” Sam said.

Crossing had a big general store, a bigger saloon, a blacksmith shop/livery stable, a combination saddle and gun shop, a barber shop, a café, a marshal's office, and a hotel that was over the saloon. “Bustling little place, isn't it?” Sam said.

They had seen no signs of life. The only building lit up was the saloon.

“Let's see to our horses,” Matt suggested.

They swung into the livery stable and dismounted. A middle-aged man who smelled like he slept inside a barrel of whiskey walked out and greeted them sourly.

“Treat them right,” Sam told the man. “All the corn they want.”

“You got any money?”

They paid him in advance and the man grumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” Matt asked, taking his saddlebags and rifle.

“I said: you boys ain't got no sense. John Lee told you to git, you oughtta git!”

“News travels fast,” Sam said.

“John Lee don't just own the biggest spread in the county, he owns the county. You're not welcome here, boys.”

They found that out when they tried to register at the hotel.

“Full up,” the desk clerk told them.

The saloon was on the other side of a partition. No sounds came from the saloon area.

Matt spun the registry book, glanced at it, then lifted his eyes to meet the nervous eyes of the desk clerk.

“I got orders, boys,” he said, his voice breaking.

Matt took the pen, dabbed it in the ink bottle, and started to register.

“I wouldn't do that, Bodine,” the voice came from behind him. It was a familiar voice. John Lee.

Matt turned, surprised to see the man alone. The surprise must have been quite obvious, for John smiled.

“Did you think I have to have bodyguards around me at all times?” he questioned.

“The only thing I know about you is that I don't like you.”

John's smile widened. “You don't even know me, Bodine.”

Matt studied the man. A big man, wide of shoulder with hard-packed muscle and lean of hip. Big hands, thick wrists, heavily muscled arms. Matt guessed him to be in his early forties. “I know the type.”

Sam had given the outside a careful once-over. “He's not alone.”

“I didn't expect him to be.”

This time, John's smile vanished. “The hotel is closed to you boys. But without malice. I have guests coming in, that's all there is to it.”

“All right,” Matt said with a shrug. “We understand that. You object to us sleeping in the stable?”

“No. Just be gone by morning.”

Riders pulled up in the front of the hotel. Their horses moved like they were weary. John Lee's back was to Sam, and he didn't see the hand signal Sam gave Matt. Trouble.

“Mind if we have a drink in your saloon?” Matt asked.

“I'd deny no man a drink to cut the dust of the trail.” John's smile was once more in place. “As a matter of fact, I'll buy the first one.”

“Kind of you.”

“Tell the barkeep.”

He seemed anxious for them to leave the small lobby of the hotel, so they accommodated his silent wishes. “Thank you,” Sam told him. Saddlebags and rifles in hand, the men walked into the bar. It was empty except for the barkeep.

“Evenin', gents. What'll it be?”

Neither was a hard-drinking man, so they both ordered beer. “Got some eggs and bread and cheese left from lunch,” the barkeep told them. “It'll have to do for supper, seein' as how the café's closed.”

“That'll be fine,” Sam told him, as they sat down at a table next to a rear wall. The table was farthest away from the lanterns and in the shadows.

The barkeep brought their beer and food. Setting the mugs down on the table, he whispered, “I heard the exchange in the lobby. All hell's fixin' to bust loose around this part of the state. Ride south in the morning until you come to the Circle S spread. Ten miles south of town. They set a good breakfast and will turn no man away from a meal. Talk to Jeff Sparks.”

After the barkeep had returned to his position behind the long bar, Sam whispered, “Now what was that all about?”

“I don't know. Some damn weird things going on around this place. Makes me curious.”

“Me too. And I do admire a hearty breakfast.”

The blood brothers grinned at each other and fell to eating, both of them conscious of the talking going on in the lobby of the hotel. A lot of voices. Hard voices, profane language. The men from the lobby began drifting into the bar in pairs. They were uncurried and uncouth, with most of them packing two guns in leather and another six-shooter tucked behind the gunbelt.

“Well, now,” Bodine said softly. “Would you just look at that.”

“I see it. I know a couple of them. You?”

“Yeah. Harry Street's the biggest one. Dean Waters is the one with a scar on his face. The two standing near the batwings are Carl Jergens and Dexter Campbell. That's as worthless a quartet as ever wore boots.”

“That's Jack Morgan and Jim Johnson sitting at the far table. Arizona gunfighters. Pukey Stagg is the little one off by himself. He's vicious and snake-quick. I don't know the other one.”

“His name is Mack. If he has a last name, I never heard it. He's out of Utah. Gunfighter.”

“Any of them know you?”

“Several of them. And I'm not on their list of best-liked people.”

“I can certainly understand that,” Sam needled him. “You have such an abrasive personality.”

“Look who's talking,” Matt fired back. “Everywhere you go you start trouble.”

“What are you two a-whisperin' about over yonder?” Big Harry Street bellered.

“None of your damn business,” Sam told him.

“See what I mean?” Matt said.

The no-counts all stopped talking and looked at the two men sitting in the shadows.

Big Harry turned slowly from the bar, looking hard at Matt and Sam. He was a huge man, about six inches over six feet and weighing a good two hundred and fifty pounds. And he was as worthless a human being as they came. A killer for hire who would kill a baby as quickly as he would an adult. He enjoyed killing children's pets just to see the child cry.

Matt took the handles of the beer mugs in his left hand, got up, and walked slowly to the bar, his spurs jingling softly as he walked. The crowd of crud fell silent as they recognized him. The room got very silent when they heard Sam jack back the hammer on his Henry.

“Relax, people,” Dean Waters said. “We ain't here to start no trouble with Bodine or his half-breed brother.”

Sam laughed softly. But Bodine knew that behind that laugh was no humor.

“Nothin' meant by that, Two Wolves,” Dean said. “I just called you what you is.”

“If I called you what you are,” Sam retorted, “I would probably be put in jail.”

“Fill them up,” Matt told the barkeep.

“You a long way from Wyoming, Bodine,” Harry said.

“Quite a ways, Harry.”

“You still rescuin' kids and dogs and cats and little old ladies, Bodine?”

“You still hiring your gun out to shoot people in the back, Harry?” Matt fired back.

Dean stepped between the two men before Harry could think of a comeback. He needn't have hurried, for thinking was not one of Harry's strong suits.

“Stand easy, Harry,” Dean told him. He turned to face Matt. “What the hell are you on the prod about, Bodine?”

“I'm not on the prod about anything. I'm just passin' through, Waters. Having a couple of beers before turning in. But I'm not going to take a lot of mouth from this buffalo here.” He looked at Harry.

“Who you callin' a buffalo, Bodine?” Harry blustered.

“You. I don't see anybody else around that looks and smells like one.”

The barkeep laid a sawed-off shotgun on the bar. “No trouble in here, boys. And I mean it. I just had this floor mopped and blood is hard to get up.”

Dean jerked his head at a couple of gunslicks and they led Harry off to a table, the big man mumbling and cussing. He turned to Bodine. “I hope you're not buyin' into this, Bodine. This is none of your damn affair.”

“I don't even know what you're talking about, Waters. But don't crowd me. Just leave me alone and everything will be jam-up and jelly.”

Matt took his refilled mugs and walked back to the table.

“Whatever is going on, it's big,” Sam said. “Do we want to stay in the middle of it?”

“No. Tomorrow we'll ride out to the Circle S and look it over. At first guess I'd say that John Lee is land hungry and wants to swallow up the Circle S. But he just might be finding it tough chewing.”

“And you intend to put a couple of more rocks in the stew?”

Matt smiled. “Yeah. Like you and me.”

“And you call me a troublemaker.”

 

 

The blood brothers rode out of town before dawn began streaking the eastern skies. The lamps were lit at the café, but while both men longed for a cup of coffee, neither man wanted to push their luck. A dozen more men, hardcases all, had ridden in during the night and put up their horses, obviously thinking the stable was deserted. They had talked and confirmed what Matt and Sam had already guessed: John Lee wanted the Circle S spread and was hiring gunslicks to help him get it.

Among the newly arrived gunmen were Bam Ford, Bob Grove, Mark Hazard, and Dave Land—all Texas gunslingers from around the Big Thicket area. Jack Lightfoot and Gil Lopez had come in around midnight. They worked as a team, both of them notorious ambushers and back shooters. Leo Grand had come in alone. He was from up around the Four Corners. And the Oklahoma gunhawk, Trest, had ridden in with Lew Hagan.

“The scum are gathering,” Matt said, after about a mile on the trail.

“Yes. And it's costing John Lee a good deal of money for those men. They're all top guns.”

“And I'll bet there are more coming in.”

“If so, then he's building an army. But why all this to take over a ranch? According to the talk, Jeff Sparks barely has enough hands to run his ranch, much less fight.”

“Maybe we can find that out over breakfast.”

“I hope they make good coffee.”

“I hope they don't shoot us before we can find out!”

They left the road at a battered hand-painted sign that was just legible. Circle S—3 miles. An arrow pointed the way. About an eighth of a mile from the ranch house, a closed gate blocked the way.

“Now what?” Sam asked.

“We wait.”

It wasn't a long wait. Less than five minutes had passed before a tall old man with a handlebar mustache that was wider than his face rode out. He did not immediately open the gate. He sat his horse and stared at the blood brothers. He gave them the once-over very slowly and very carefully, his sharp eyes not missing a thing, and Matt knew he had pegged them as gunfighters right off the bat.

“We got the reputation of gunslingers, mister,” Matt told him. “But it isn't something we wanted or work at. The barkeep at the saloon in Crossing told us the Circle S set a fine breakfast.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, and the old man picked up on the “sir” and smiled.

“Them's Cheyenne necklaces.”