13
The men met Randy Sutton on the road into town. Bull cut his horse in front of his son, halting him. “The rest of your no-count brothers and sisters packin', boy?”
“Yeah.” The reply was sullen. “You happy about that, you cheap bastard?”
Bull leaned over and slapped the young man clear out of the saddle. Randy's butt hit the ground, and his hand dropped to the butt of his gun.
“Do it,” Bull growled the words. “Just do it, you little turd.”
Randy smiled through his bloody lips. “I reckon not. That would be too easy. We got other plans for you.”
“I'm sure you do.”
Randy got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his jeans. “Do I have your permission to leave now, your great lord and majesty?”
“Why, boy?” Bull asked. “Why you kids did it is all I want to know.”
“Money. What else?”
“But you had everything in the world you ever asked for. What more do you want?”
“To step out of your shadow,” the second son replied. “We're all sick of livin' in your shadow.”
“Well, you're damn sure clear of it now.”
“Suits the hell outta me.” He looked at John Carlin. “And you can go to hell, too.” Randy stepped into the saddle and rode off without looking back.
“What a sorry day,” Bull said, and rode on.
The Sutton kids were all waiting on the front porch for their dad. The girls had not been crying. They were dry-eyed and mean-looking.
“You waiting on a formal invite to carry your butts?” Bull asked them, swinging down from the saddle.
Scarlett gave her father a solid cussing. Bull stood and took it. He knew he had somehow failed his kids, but he wasn't sure exactly how he'd done it. What they were, he figured, he'd had a hand in making them.
Roz stepped out of the house, grabbed her daughter by the shoulder and spun her around. Then she slapped her across the mouth. “You do not speak to your father in such a manner.”
Scarlett gave back what she had just received, smacking her mother across the mouth. Connie stepped out onto the boards, balled up a fist and knocked her sister slap off the porch.
Scarlett turned to Wanda and Willa and said, “Either of you want to try me?”
They didn't.
Shorty and Cleat walked up, leading their horses. “We're leavin' with the kids,” Shorty announced. “We got time comin'.”
Bull threw some money onto the ground. “Take it and clear out.”
“We've proved up the land you give us,” Hugh said. “You can't run us off of that.”
“Oh, I can,” Bull said. “But as long as you stay clear of me, I won't. Just don't try to steal my cattle and don't ever come onto my range. Randy said you all wanted to get clear of my shadow. You're clear. You got some land, enough for you all to have nice spreads. Now you'll see what work is. Now you'll see what it's like to fight blizzards and droughts. Now you'll see what it's like to stay in the saddle for twenty-four hours or more at a time, breaking the ice off waterholes and movie' cattle to keep them from freezin' to death. You'll . . .”
“Aw, hell, shut up!” Hugh shouted at his father. “No one wants to hear your goddamn old stories about how hard you worked. We're sick of hearin' 'em.”
“Then hear this,” Bull said. He told them about the changing of the will, told them about Miles Singer and how John had fired all the gunfighters. “The war is over.”
Scarlett was sitting on the ground in a most unladylike pose, dabbing at her busted mouth with a handkerchief. “That's what you think,” she told her pa. “I'll be servin' tea in the sittin' room of this house before this is all over. You just wait and see.”
“You all have ten minutes to clear out,” Bull told his kids. “I suggest you get movin'.”
“You gonna make us walk?” Ross asked.
“Take your horses and a spare mount. I closed out my bank account in town and opened a small one for each of you. You'll be able to get by. But you'll have to watch every penny from now on. Don't come squallin' to me when your money runs out.”
“I 'spect, Pa,” Hugh said, “we'll be lookin' at each other over gun barrels 'fore this is all over.”
“I hope not, boy,” Bull told him. “I surely hope not.”
The Sutton brood got on their horses and into their buggies and pulled out.
Bull turned to John. “What do you say we combine our spreads and call it the Circle B?”
“Sounds good to me,” John replied. “But what's the âB' stand for?”
“Brothers,” Bull said.
1
John ordered the Carlin House closed and told the bartender and the swamper to report for work at the newly named Crossville Saloon. The Bull's Den was just as gone as the Carlin House. Several gunhands went in and bought the old Bull's Denâwith money provided by the Carlin and Sutton kidsâand renamed it the Red Dog Saloon.
“Not terribly original,” Sam had commented.
The Express
carried the headlines: “PEACE.”
Doc Blaine looked at the thirty-odd gunhands drifting in and out of town, but as yet causing no trouble, and remarked to a patient, “That headline just might be a little premature.”
Matt and Sam were staying on at the newly named Circle B, working as cowhands until more punchers could be found. The combined ranges of the two men were huge, the largest in the territory, and they needed a lot of men to work the cattle, ride fences, cut hay for winter feed, and do the many other jobs that working cowboys did.
Matt and Sam had ridden into town with Daniel and two hands driving wagons to pick up supplies, and they reined in at the new bank, The Crossville Cattle Exchange, where Matt and Sam had transferred their holdings from Singer's bank.
Daniel looked up the street and said, “Trouble coming.”
Hugh and Randy Sutton, with a half dozen of the mangiest looking men Matt had seen in many a day, were riding slowly up the street.
“Where in the hell did he find that motley crew?” Sam asked, just as Donner, Butch Proctor, and Dud Mackin wandered out of the Red Dog Saloon to stand on the boardwalk. “Right on cue,” Sam muttered. “It's a set-up.”
“Big doin's 'bout fifteen miles west of here,” a cowboy from the AT spread said, walking up. “Tom and all his deputies left about two hours ago. Some sort of shootin', I think it was.” He looked north. “Well, now, look there, will you. Something funny goin' on here.”
Matt looked. Henry Rogers, Rod Hansen, and Bob Coody were swinging down from their saddles in front of the Mexican cafe at the end of the main street.
“We're boxed,” Daniel said softly.
“When the shootin' starts, Daniel,” Lars said, “you hit the ground. You're your pa's sole son now. You got to stay alive. And don't argue with me.”
“I can hold my own,” Daniel protested.
“He's right,” Matt told the young man. “Just hit the ground at the first pistol crack.”
“Don't argue, boy,” Slim said. “Just do it.”
“Get the people off the street,” Sam said, turning to the AT rider. “All hell's going to break loose here in about two minutes.”
The AT man took off in a bow-legged trot.
Sam moved to his horse and took his spare six-gun from a saddlebag.
“Look at the bank,” Lars said. “There's Singer standin' in the door.”
The big man was smiling as he stood in the open door to his bank.
“There's Miss Petunia and Miss Wanda on the porch of the hotel,” Slim said. “Looks like they're gettin' ready to enjoy the show.”
“Who knew we were coming into town?” Sam asked, shoving the spare six-gun behind his belt.
“We always come into town on a Wednesday for supplies,” Lars said. “The Circle JC in the mornin', Bull's boys in the afternoon. They worked that out a long time ago. It wouldn't take no dictionary maker to set this up.”
“Comin' up behind us in the alley,” Lars said, cutting his eyes. “I'll handle this bunch. Get ready, it's about to blow up on us.”
“Now!” Hugh Sutton screamed, jerking out both guns and blasting away.
Sam tossed Daniel to the ground, behind the water trough, just as the warm air was filled with hot lead.
Lars hauled out a long barreled Peacemaker and shot one of those sneaking up behind the bunch in the belly. His buddies broke and ran for whatever cover they could find. Lars dropped to one knee and nailed another in the leg, sending the man sprawling on his face in the alley.
Sam lined up a bearded fat man who had ridden in with the Sutton boys and drilled him in the brisket, doubling the man over and dropping him on his butt in the street.
Ross Sutton appeared in the doorway of Singer's bank, both hands filled with guns. Matt snapped a shot at him that missed and knocked a chunk of wood from the door frame just as Slim fired and blew Ross's hat off his head. The young man hollered and fell back into the bank.
“Goddamnit!” Singer yelled from the bank. “Get off me, you buffoon!”
Matt turned and gave Henry Rogers a .44 round that caught the gunfighter in the hip and spun him around and knocked him to the boardwalk. Hollering in pain, the man crawled into the darkness of the Red Dog, trailing blood as he went.
“You're worth a thousand dollars to me!” a man dressed in farmer's overalls and low-heeled boots yelled to Sam. He leveled a pistol, and Sam plugged him, just as he squeezed the trigger recognizing the man as the gunslinger called Farmer John. The Farmer took the round in the side and staggered back, tripping on the edge of the boardwalk and falling heavily to the boards, losing his pistol.
Slim got burned on the shoulder and grunted at the sudden pain. Recovering his balance, he shot one of the Sutton gunmen right between the eyes, the man dropping like a rag doll.
Matt faced Rod Hansen, and the two men blasted away at each other. Matt felt the tug of a bullet on his shirt sleeve and another spat dirt at his boots as Rod was shooting too fast. Matt coolly took aim and put a .44 slug in the center of the hired gun's chest. Rod opened his mouth as his eyes widened in astonishment, and he sat down on the boardwalk, his hands falling to his side, the guns tumbling from them. His head lolled forward, and he died sitting on his butt. Slowly, he fell to one side, resting in death against a support post of the awning.
Bob Coody saw the battle, as lopsided as it was, was going against his bunch and high-tailed his butt into the saloon and ran out the back door, heading for his horse.
Daniel Carlin crawled to a shooting position behind the trough and triggered off a round, the bullet striking one of the Sutton gunfighters in the knee, knocking the man down, hollering in pain all the way to the dirt. He lifted his pistol and managed to jack back the hammer just as Daniel fired again, the slug taking the man in the center of the face.
The Sutton boys had disappeared, leaving the fighting to the men they had hired. The air between the buildings of the main street was filled with gunsmoke and the moaning of the wounded.
Matt and Sam were standing very nearly shoulder to shoulder and taking a dreadful toll on those gunslingers still standing and battling in the street.
Henry Rogers had smashed out a front window of the Red Dog and was blasting away with both guns. Lars turned his guns toward the saloon just as Matt and Sam and Daniel did the same. A thunderous valley of shots tore holes in the front wall, and the hot lead literally shot Henry Rogers into bloody ribbons. He died still gripping his six-guns.
One of the six men hired by the Sutton boys was still alive and standing on his feet, and he quickly sized up the situation as being really lousy and turned and ran into the alley between the general store and Miss Charlotte's Dress Shop.
Sam was bleeding from a scratch on the cheek, made by a flying splinter, Matt had a bullet-burn on his arm, Lars was unhit, and Slim had a burn on his shoulder. Daniel crawled to his boots, dusty but unhurt.
The sounds of galloping horses fading into the distance reached the people who were now stepping cautiously out onto the boardwalk and into the bloody street.
Petunia Carlin and Wanda Sutton had vanished from the front porch of the hotel.
Doc Blaine ran up, carrying his little black bag, the editor of the paper right behind him, carrying his bulky photographic equipment. He quickly set up and began taking pictures of the bloody scene and of the men still standing in front of the Crossville Cattle Exchange Bank.
Willa Sutton suddenly appeared at a second floor window of the hotel and began blasting away with a rifle. The street cleared very quickly as the lead started bouncing around and whining off of this and that.
“You murderin' scum!” she squalled, in a voice that would crack brass.
One of her slugs knocked one of the tripod legs out from under the camera and sent the equipment crashing to the street and Ralph Masters flapping his arms and dashing for cover.
“We'll show this damn two-bit town!” Scarlett Sutton hollered, stepping out onto the front porch of the hotel and leveling a shotgun. She pulled both triggers, and the recoil knocked her through a window and sent her crashing into the lobby. The desk clerk wrestled the shotgun from her and suffered various contusions and abrasions to his person doing so. Not to mention a good cussing from the young lady. The buckshot from the shotgun hurt no one, but it damn sure cleared the street of anyone who had not already exited the area.
“Take your damn hands off my sister!” Wanda Sutton screamed from the stairs and began shooting with a hogleg she pulled from her purse.
None of the girls could hit a barn if they were standing inside it, but they could sure scatter some lead around. The desk clerk went out the same window that Scarlett had come crashing through about a minute before and fell off the porch. He jumped to his feet and rounded the side of the hotel at speeds he hadn't reached since boyhood.
Wanda shot down the chandelier, stopped the grandfather clock permanently at ten past ten, sent the chef crawling under a chopping block, and plugged a couple of sofas and chairs before running out of ammunition.
“Somebody do something about them damn girls!” a citizen hollered from behind the protection of a water-filled fire barrel in an alley.
“Well, hell!” Slim hollered, belly down in the dirt. “You can't shoot a woman.”
“I'm not so sure about that,” Sam muttered, under the boardwalk.
“I can!” a citizen's wife yelled, and proceeded to blast away at the hotel with a rifle.
“Jesus Christ!” a traveling drummer hollered from behind an overturned table in the dining room. One of her slugs had just punctured the coffee urn, and the large urn was spewing out hot coffee.
The woman's husband managed to get the .44-40 from his wife before she killed somebody.
“We got to ride, girls,” Scarlett said. “They'll be warrants out for us after this. Get some britches on, and let's haul our butts outta here.”
“Somebody get some guns,” Willa suggested.
The townspeople were just coming out of their various hiding places when the girls, Wanda, Willa, Scarlett, and Petunia, stole four saddled mounts and took off out of town, riding straight up the main street. John Carlin and Bull Sutton were riding into town, to tie up some legal business, when they spotted the girls coming hell bent for leather their way. The girls weren't much good with guns, but they could all ride like the wind.
“Yeee-haw!” yelled Willa, firing a pistol into the air.
“Good God!” Bull said, trying to stay in the saddle on his spooked horse.
“Whaa-hoo!” shrieked Petunia, a six-shooter in each hand and the reins in her teeth.
“Holy Christ!” John said, as he went one way off the road and Bull went the other to avoid being run down by their rampaging daughters.
“Get outta the way, goddamnit!” squalled Scarlett.
The ranchers got their horses under control and rode on into town. They reined up at the sight of the bloody and body-littered street.
“Your boy's all right, Bull,” a man told the rancher.
“What happened?” Bull asked.
“Well, ah . . .”
“Say it.”
“Your other boys tried to bushwhack Daniel and the others in his party. Then the gals shot up the town.”
The brothers rode slowly on, John saying, “You know it's goin' to be up to us to put an end to this matter, don't you?”
“I'm afraid you're right, John. But it makes me sick at my stomach to think about it.”
“I feel like pukin' right now.”
The men stepped down, and Bull walked over to Doc Blaine, as he attended a wounded gunhand. “Farmer John,” Bull said. “You should have stayed away from here.”
“Mornin', Bull,” the gunslinger said cheerfully. â“I was gonna call them boys out proper like, but your oldest boy jumped the gun and started bangin' away. He's shore got a powerful hate on for Daniel. Has he got the money to back up his words like he say he do?”
“He's got some money of his own, yeah.”
“Then he'll just hire some more ol' boys and not rest until either he's dead or Daniel is.”
“You'll live,” Doc Blaine told the man.
“You don't sound too happy about that, Doc,” Farmer said.
“Should I be?” Doc Blaine said, as he moved to another wounded gunslinger. He knelt down beside the fat man and cut open his shirt. Blaine looked the man in the eyes and shook his head.
The fat man closed his eyes and cussed.
“Now, now, brother,” Pastor Fowler said, squatting down. “That is no way to meet your Maker.”
The bartender and the swamper dragged the bullet-riddled body of Henry Rogers out of the saloon and dumped it in the street. “Here's another one,” the swamper called.
“Oh, my,” the undertaker said, rushing from body to body, rubbing his hands together and mentally counting the money he would make. “See if they have any cash on them before we agree to bury them,” he called to his helper.
“This one is dead,” a man called from near the bank. “Shot right 'tween the eyes.”
“I done that,” Slim said.
“Pretty good shootin',” Bull complimented him.