Blood Bond 5 (10 page)

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.

“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 Carlin. 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.”

“And didn't Tom say that Singer came back early from his trip?”

“Yes. He was supposed to have been gone several weeks. If I had to take a guess, I'd say that J.B. Adams is Singer's front man in all this. He got word to Singer through the telegraph office. Unless Ben Connors was lying that evening back on the trail.”

“And what about Tom Riley?”

“Do you trust him?”

“Yes, and no. Tom's not a young man any longer. He might be thinking about his future and sees a pretty bleak road ahead of him. But that's just speculation.”

“We're thinking alike. Brother, we are in a very dangerous spot in all this.”

Matt nodded his head. “Here's something else, too: I don't think we could ride out even if we wanted to.”

“Nor do I. I started getting a funny feeling yesterday afternoon that we were being watched.”

“Remember that play we saw last year? The mystery?”

“Yes. What? . . . Oh, yes. The plot, it doth thicken.”

“Let's don't let it get too thick,” Matt said. “It's tough getting out of quicksand.”

 

 

The brothers were conscious of being followed, and whoever was paying the men had obviously told them to be certain the brothers were aware of it. Matt and Sam decided to make the best of it and try to ignore their followers. But it was done with an effort.

Bank drafts that the brothers had wired for came in on the stage from Wells Fargo, and Miles Singer's eyes bugged out when the young men deposited the checks at his bank.

“You boys, ah, planning on investing in property around here?” the banker questioned.

“Hadn't thought about that,” Sam said.

“We just like to have ample spending money,” Matt added with a smile. “We can be real big spenders. You're sure the money will be safe in your bank?”

“Oh, my, yes!” Singer said. “That's the finest safe in all of Idaho Territory.”

“That makes me feel better already,” Sam said, and the brothers left the bank, both of them carrying a large amount of cash, in paper and gold coin.

“Now you can tell me your plan for doing this?” Sam said, once on the boardwalk.

“What plan?”

Sam pulled up short. “The plan, the reasoning for this transfer of funds and for us walking around with too damn much money on us.”

“Oh, I don't have a plan. I just thought it might stir things up some.”

“You don't have a . . .” Sam bit back his words and sighed. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”

Matt just grinned at him and walked on. They watched as Laredo and Rusty rode into town and up to the Bull's Den. Several tired horses, showing the signs of a long ride, were tied at the rail. The brothers walked over and inside.

Laredo waved at them and motioned them up to the bar. He grinned and stuck out his hand, and the brothers shook it. “Man, I can't begin to tell you boys how nice it is now out to the ranch. The boss ain't got a gunslick on the payroll, and these here ol' boys is just signin' on. Boys,” he turned to the punchers at the bar. “This here is Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves. Sutton, Hal, Patton, and Gamble.”

“So the Bull really meant it when he said the war was over?” Sam asked.

“You bet your boots he did. And them no-count kids of his was mad about that. All but Connie. She's a fine girl. But Ross and Hugh and Randy . . . whew, boys, they was some hot.”

“But not mad enough to leave home?” Matt said with a smile.

“Oh, no. They know what side their biscuits is buttered on. But I don't trust none of them. I shouldn't be talkin' family stuff to you boys, but the Bull sorta admires your nerve and likes the both of you. He said if I seen you to tell you to come out whenever you've a mind to. The coffee's always hot.”

“Tell him we appreciate that, and we'll do it. But it might not be a wise thing to do with us being followed all the time,” Matt said.

“Them two hardcases across the street?” Hal spoke up.

“That's two of them, yes,” Sam said. “They work in teams.”

“That's Dud Mackin and Butch Proctor,” the cowboy said. “I knew 'em down Moab way. They're bad ones. Back-shooters and sneak thieves. They usually ride with a heavy set fellow called Donner. Looks like he needs a shave all the time.”

“He's one of them, all right,” Matt said, signaling for a beer. Sam shook his head at the offer. Matt described the other three of the six men they had spotted.

“They don't ring no bell with me,” Hal said. “But you can bet if they're workin' with Proctor and Mackin and Donner, they're bad ones.”

“Where are they stayin'?” Laredo asked.

“At the hotel,” Sam told him. “All six of them.”

“That's odd,” Laredo said. “I ain't never knowed John to put up nobody at the hotel. Not even cattle buyers. They all stay out at his house. Maybe they ain't workin' for the Circle JC.”

“Then . . . ?” Matt trailed that off.

Laredo shrugged his shoulders. “You got me. This thing just keeps gettin' queerer and queerer.”

Laredo and the new men finished their beers and rode out for home range. Matt and Sam walked out on the boardwalk in time to seen John Carlin and his brood come riding into town, the girls in a buggy, flanked on both sides by hired guns, all of them kicking up unnecessary dust.

“The parade comes to town,” Sam muttered. He looked at Johnny Carlin as the young man swung down from the saddle. “Complete with court jester. Brother, if those yahoos following us aren't working for his lord and majesty there, who are they working for?”

“Singer, I guess. I think Ladue would handle his own affairs if it came to that. And I'm still not sure which side he's on. If he's on any side.”

“He is,” Sam said confidently. “His own side.”

John Carlin glanced over at the brothers and gave them a cold look before turning his back to them and walking into the Carlin House, followed by half a dozen gunmen. His daughter and wife walked to the general store and stepped inside, the rest of the hired guns with them. The brothers walked across the street.

“Well now,” Sam said, looking down the street toward the fork in the road. “Things are about to get real interesting.”

Hugh, Randy, and Ross Sutton were riding slowly into town. Johnny, Clement, and Pete Carlin stood on the boardwalk in front of the Carlin House and watched them. The Carlin brothers all slipped the hammer-thongs from their holstered pistols, a move that did not escape the eyes of Matt and Sam.

Two of the Sutton boys reined up in front of the Bull's Den and swung down. They gave the blood brothers a mean glance and stepped inside the saloon. Hugh had reined in by the saddle shop and strangely had disappeared into the alley. Matt watched the action, curious.

Young Parley walked up, a worried look on his face. “Tom and Van rode out early this morning,” he said. “Rustlers hit one of the smaller spreads south of here. Nate's gone out to a farmer's place to talk to him about a horse being stolen. Can I count on you boys to help me if trouble starts?”

“You know you can,” Sam assured the young deputy.

Matt was paying little attention, his gaze on the mouth of the alley. His eyes narrowed as the heavyset Donner stepped out and looked up and down the street before heading into the Carlin House.

“What the hell?” Matt muttered, as Hugh stepped out of the alley, stood for a moment, and then walked up the boardwalk, turning in at the bank. “This stew is getting a little thick,” Matt murmured to himself. Sam and Parley had walked off a few feet and did not hear Matt's comments.

Hugh exited the bank and strolled up to the Bull's Den, looking over at Matt before pushing open the batwings. Before Matt could say anything to Sam or Parley, the Carlin brothers stepped out of the saloon across the street, guns drawn.

“Come on out and let's settle this now!” Johnny yelled. “Come on out, you Sutton bastards!”

“Move, feet!” Sam said, and the brothers and the deputy vacated that area as quickly as possible.

The boardwalk in front of the Carlin House was crowded with Carlins and hired guns, John Carlin standing near the boardwalk's end near the alley, where Matt and Sam and Parley were waiting and watching.

“Draw, you bastards!” Johnny yelled, and the quiet air was filled with gunfire.

Windows were smashed, chunks of board were gouged out, and horses were rearing up and screaming, tearing loose from the hitchrails in fright.

But nobody seemed to be hitting anything except air and glass and wood. Then Matt saw Marcel turn, an evil grin on his lips, and point his pistol at his father. Matt lunged, grabbed the man by the boots and jerked him off the boardwalk just as Marcel fired. The slug howled harmlessly off into the air, and John Carlin hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from him.

Marcel had turned and was once more firing at the Sutton brothers. And just like everybody else, was hitting nothing.

“What the hell?” John Carlin yelled, struggling to get up from the ground.

“Stay down, you damn fool,” Matt told him. “Your own son just tried to kill you.”

“I don't believe that!”

“Why would I lie?” Matt asked calmly, over the cracking of pistol fire. “Look at them, John. They're all standing out in the open and not a damn one of them is hitting anything. Does that tell you something?”

John Carlin sat up, his butt still on the ground, and looked at what was evident now as a mock battle. He turned his eyes to Matt. “What in the hell is going on here?”

“Break this up right now!” Parley yelled. “Or we start shooting. Get back in the damn saloons.”

The firing stopped as if on cue, and the would-be warriors stepped back into the saloons.

“Now that was just too easy,” Parley commented, holstering his pistol. He and Sam stepped up onto the boardwalk.

“Don't turn your back on Marcel,” Matt whispered.

“Or any of your other kids, for that matter. I think your kids and Bull's kids are all in this thing together. And there is a whole lot more, too. It's complicated.”

John stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and heaved himself to his boots and, now standing, took a long and disbelieving look at the deserted street. “My boys are all crack shots. And so are Bull's boys. Those gunfighters are expert marksmen. Yet nobody hit anything.” He turned eyes that were now not quite so hostile toward Matt. “You claim you saved my life. Maybe you did. I reckon we've got to talk.”

“You and me and Sam and Bull. My brother and I have a theory. One hour before sunset, by that creek just south of town where the beaver have the dam. Agreed?”

The man hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Agreed.” John brushed the dirt off his jeans and shirt.

“Is that young man with your wife your son Daniel?”

“Yes.”

“Stay with him. And bring him with you to the creek. I think he's the only one of your kids you can trust.”

“I hope to God you're talkin' nonsense, Bodine.”