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The Sutton kids and the Carlin kids just seemed to drop off the face of the earth. A drifting cowboy said he saw a bunch of young people, men and women, camped out northeast of the town, in the rugged mountain country. He said they were real unfriendly, and he didn't tarry long. He said the young folks also had with them about a dozen randy-lookin' gunfighters. The cowboy was hired by John Carlin.
The town of Crossville buried the dead gunslingers without fanfare, patched up the others, and for a week not one shot was heard. Repairs were made to the hotel, and the chef bought himself a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun to keep in the kitchen, just in case the Carlin and Sutton girls decided to make another appearance.
John Carlin now had hired enough punchers to maintain his herds, and Matt and Sam waved away his offer of payment for their services. Ginny Carlin and Roz Sutton had become close friends and often visited one another. They immediately became active in county affairs and began organizing drives to aid the less fortunate with clothing and food and so forth.
“A happy ending,” Sam opined.
“You believe that?” Matt asked him.
“No. But it sounds good.”
“Let's go pay Ladue a visit,” Matt suggested. “Check out his general mood.”
Ladue was about as friendly as a rattlesnake with its tail caught in a beaver trap.
“If you two hadn't a stuck your noses into affairs that don't concern you,” the surly old mountain man grumbled, “all this mess would have been settled.”
“You encouraged us to stay,” Sam reminded him.
“I was lookin' forward to a good gunfight, and you two gettin' kilt.”
Matt sat down without being asked and said, “You think it all belongs to you, right?”
Ladue's eyes narrowed, the slits showing a lot of mean. “Bright boy, ain't you? Goddamn right, it's mine. I was here first. So that makes it mine.”
“I believe the Indians were here first,” Sam corrected. “So if you apply that logic, it belongs to them. Right?”
Ladue chose not to respond to that.
“Who told Bull Sutton that John Carlin stole his initial herds?” Matt asked.
Ladue mumbled something under his breath.
“He only had about four hundred head when he first came out here,” Sam said. “Just about the same size herd as Bull. And he's still got the papers to prove he bought them in Illinois and Missouri.”
“Come on, Ladue,” Matt pressed. “Level with us. You know the Carlin and Sutton kids aren't going to win this fight. The territorial governor will order militia in here if he has to. What's your real stake in all this?”
The old man smiled, sort of like a weasel in a full henhouse. “You boys think you're so smart, you figure it out. Now git out of my tradin' post and don't come back.”
On the ride back to town, Sam said, “Could Ladue be the real father of Carlin and Sutton and Singer?”
“I don't think so. He doesn't fit the description the men have of their father. I think he's just a bitter old man who would like to see things like they were thirty-five or forty years ago.”
“Of course, we have yet to talk to Singer,” Sam reminded him.
“Want to try again?”
Singer stared at the two men and finally waved them to his office and into chairs. The bank was void of customers, and Singer had no employees left. The tellers had gone to work over at the Cattle Exchange Bank.
“I certainly have no reason to be friendly toward you,” the man admitted openly. “I just about had it all until you two showed up.” He smiled, but it was not a pretty sight. “And I might yet. Now then, what do you want? As if I couldn't make a reasonably accurate guess.”
“Why all the hate toward your half brothers?” Sam asked.
“I don't hate them,” Singer said, a surprised look on his face. “This is just business for me. And I'm only a half brother to John. Bull and I are full brothers.”
“Your father?”
“Oh, he's dead. He was a reprobate and a rake, but a wealthy one. He left me pretty well fixed back East. A jealous husband finally shot the old bastard years ago.”
“Ladue?”
“He's my uncle. My father's brother. He is also as crazy as a loon. Father said he was always strange, but the mountains drove him over the edge. I had no idea he was still alive. But I recognized him from an old tintype my father had in his possession.”
Matt stared at the man for a moment. “And now you're bank-rolling the kids in their fight against their fathers?”
Singer smiled. “Now you don't expect me to admit to anything like that, do you?”
“It was worth a try.”
“Anything else, boys?”
“You're plotting to kill your own brother and your own half brother, and you have no more feeling about it than shooting a rattlesnake,” Sam said, leaning forward. “What the hell kind of person are you?”
“I'm not plotting to kill anybody,” Singer said with another smile. “Those are your words. I'm looking at this from a purely business standpoint. If something unfortunate happens to my brothers, well, I would be truly sorry about that and would make my best offer to buy their ranches. And I would be most generous, I assure you. Now, then, boys, since I fully expect you both to run tattling to John and Bull with every word I just said, I have taken the precaution of hiring several bodyguards. They came in yesterday. Two of them are standing behind you right now.”
Matt and Sam turned. “Hello, Matt,” a tall, cold-eyed man said, no smile accompanying his greeting.
“Hello, Donner,” Matt said. “Who's your buddy?”
“Nyeburn. You have heard the name, I'm sure.”
“I've seen it written on the inside of outhouse walls from time to time, yeah.”
Nyeburn tensed and Singer said, “Hold your peace, boys. The time will come. Chase Martin and Blue Anderson are outside, Matt. I believe you're both familiar with those names, too.”
“We've heard them,” Sam said, pushing back his chair and standing up. He smiled at Singer as Matt got to his feet. “You didn't pull top gunslingers in here for John and Bull, Singer. You pulled them in for us. So that makes it real personal.”
“You're just scarin' me to death, Sam,” Nyeburn said with a sneering smile. “The day I back up from some goddamn half-breed Injun will be the day I . . .”
He never got to finish it. Sam spun around and wiped the sneer off his face with a solid right fist to the mouth. Nyeburn's boots flew out from under him, and he landed heavily, his mouth a bloody smear. He started crawling slowly to his boots just as Sam reached down, jerked Nyeburn's Colt from leather, and tossed it to the floor.
Donner had turned around at the blow, dropping his hand to the butt of his pistol, and he suddenly felt the cold muzzle of a .44 against his neck. “We'll just keep this honest, backshooter,” Matt said, jacking back the hammer. “If any of your people outside try to interfere, you're a dead man.”
“You're buyin' yourself a lot of grief, Bodine,” the hired gun said.
“I'm just scared to death, Donnor. Shut up.”
The two bodyguards outside came rushing in and to a fast halt when they saw the .44 pressed against Donnor's neck.
“Just stand back and enjoy the show, boys,” Matt told them. “It'll be a good one, I can promise you that.”
Nyeburn lurched to his boots and lifted his fists. “You sucker punched me, breed,” he told Sam. “Now I'm gonna beat your head in.”
“I doubt it,” Sam replied, and kicked the man on the knee cap.
Nyeburn hollered and stumbled back, the pain in his knee sending bright lights flashing through his head. The lights obscured Sam's moving forward and busting the man twice, one blow to the mouth, the other to the nose. Nyeburn's nose was pushed to one side, and the fractured olfactory squirted blood.
“Fight fair,” Chase hollered.
“Get out of my bank!” Singer yelled. “You'll get blood all over everything.”
Nyeburn stumbled away from the wall and took a wild swing at Sam. Sam sidestepped, stuck out his boot, tripping the man, and Nyeburn fell against a depositor's table and went crashing to the floor.
Tom Riley and his deputies had appeared on the boardwalk, all of them smiling at the scene.
“Do something, Marshal!” Singer shouted. “They're going to wreck my bank.”
“Who started this?” Tom called over the sounds of confusion and falling furniture.
“Nyeburn's big mouth,” Matt told him.
Tom shrugged.
Nyeburn climbed slowly to his boots, his eyes burning wild with hate. He cussed Sam as the blood from his busted beak ran down his lower jaw.
Sam waited patiently, his hands balled into gloved fists.
Nyeburn rushed Sam, his arms folding around Sam's legs and both of them went propelling backward, crashing through a big front window of the bank.
“By God, you'll pay for that!” Singer shouted.
Amid a shower of broken glass, both men struggled to their feet and faced each other. Nyeburn got in a good lick to Sam's jaw that backed him up, and Nyeburn, sensing early victory, pressed in. Bad mistake.
Sam planted his boots and gave Nyeburn two shots to the head, a left and right to the jaw that staggered the man and sent him stumbling back. By now, everybody inside the bank had moved outside, and Tom's deputies were covering the three bodyguards, the three of them knowing that should they try to interfere with the beating their buddy was taking, the odds were pretty good that would be the last thing they would ever do. They stood grim-faced and watched Sam Two Wolves stomp Nyeburn.
Nyeburn stepped up and flicked a left to Sam's face. Sam brushed it off and didn't fall for the fake. Nyeburn tried again, and Sam blasted a right through the opening that caught Nyeburn flush in the mouth and knocked him down, flat on his back on the boardwalk.
Sam stepped back and waited.
Nyeburn was not so quick getting to his feet this time around. He staggered once, caught himself, and looked around him for his buddies. He saw they were effectively blocked from doing anything other than watching. “Now I'll finish this once and for all,” Nyeburn said with an added curse, then reached behind him and came up with a knife. Tom stepped quickly out of the crowd, just behind the gunfighter, and laid a heavy cosh against the man's head. Nyeburn dropped unconscious to the boardwalk.
“I'll put up with a fistfight for a time,” the marshal said. “But not when it gets down to this.” He reached down and picked up the long-bladed knife. “Sharp,” he remarked, running a finger carefully over the blade. “All right, boys. Drag him over to the jail and let him cool off.”
“What about my busted up bank and the broken windows?” Singer yelled.
“Fix it yourself,” Torn told him shortly. “Or better yet, why don't you board it up and leave town? That way you'd make everybody around here happy.”
Sputtering with anger, Singer stepped back into his bank and slammed the front door hard. The glass popped out of it and went crashing to the boardwalk.
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The men sat on the front porch of John Carlin's ranch-house and listened to Matt and Sam relate the events of the day.
“So Miles Singer is my full brother,” Bull said softly. “The youngest of the three boys.”
“Three boys that we know of,” John added. “And that old mountain man Ladue is our uncle. Life sure takes some funny twists and turns as it moves us toward the grave.”
“That's almost poetry, John,” his wife said with a smile.
John ducked his head to hide his embarrassment.
Bull sipped his strong coffee and was silent for a moment. “Singer never wears a gun, so we can't call him out. I'm sure that's deliberate on his part. He's hired bodyguards that, I'm equally sure, will probably shoot either one of us or both of us on sight if the right moment ever comes along. Our kids, including the girls, are on the dodge, living in the mountains with a pack of outlaws and ne'er-do-wells, all of them ready to put a bullet in us at any time. I have been in some sorry situations in my life, but none to compare with this. Getting drunk doesn't help. I know, I tried that.”
“Let's see if my addition is right,” John said “There are still about twenty gunhands hangin,' around, right? Gunslingers that I brought in . . .”
“Or hired from me,” Bull stepped in, glancing at him. “We both have to share equally in that stupid move.”
“I count nineteen,” Sam said.
“That's about as close to twenty as you can get, boy,” John said, smiling at him.
“But that's not counting the four that Singer imported in,” Matt said. “And the bunch that lined up in the mountains with your kids.”
“You said you were going to get in touch with the territorial governor,” Matt said, looking at Bull. “What did he say?”
“He said, and I quote, âThere hasn't been enough provocation for him to warrant sending in the state militia.' In other words, he's hoping we'll all kill each other off. He doesn't like me or John and has never made any bones about that.”
“Of course, we haven't given him much reason in the past to like us,” John was forced to admit.
“You're sure right there,” Bull agreed.
One of the newly hired hands came riding in, turned his horse into the corral, and walked over to the porch. “Boss, I seen sign that a whole bunch of riders have moved onto our range. They come in from the mountains.”
“Comin' which way?” Bull asked.