Blood Bond 5 (18 page)

“I wonder who brought him in and who he's after?” Matt asked.

“Killing us would solve nothing,” Sam said. “We're not the principal players in this little drama. But that isn't to say Gates wouldn't shoot us if we got in his way.”

Matt knew that was a pure fact. “Sam? Is there a fifth player in all this mess?”

Sam stared at him for a few seconds. “Why would you think that?”

Matt forked him a piece of pie and chewed for a moment. Gates had swung down from his horse and walked into the Red Dog, carrying his deadly rifle. He was not a big man, but that rifle made him a giant. “Who slipped that note under our door?”

“I've thought about that. I've given it a lot of thought. I don't know. There isn't anyone else in town who stands to gain by all this.”

“There has to be. Nothing else figures. Think about it. Who in town—what businessman—is making money out of all this? Who stands to profit by keeping all this stirred up? John and Bull can be discounted. The Sutton and Carlin kids don't have the sense to plan something this complex. Singer is devious, but as far as I'm concerned, he's just about played out his string. So there has to be someone else.”

“Not Ladue?”

“No. Ladue is a half-crazy, bitter old man.”

“I'm stumped.”

“So am I.”

“Well, a good lunch will give us time to ponder it.”

“God, Sam, you're eatin' half a pie, now!”

“You're forgetting your Cheyenne upbringing.”

“Please, spare me that.”

“I should never have rescued you that day. But then, we all make mistakes.” Sam ducked his head to hide his smile.

“You, rescued me? I seem to recall it was me who dug you out from under that dead pony when we were kids.”

“That was merely a ruse on my part. I was tricking you, that's all. I could have gotten out anytime. I was going to take your scalp.”

Matt leaned back in his chair and laughed at that. Sam had never taken a scalp in his life. The very idea of it disgusted him. Besides, as Sam pointed out, scalping was a white man's idea in the first place. They brought that practice to the Indians. “You would have died had I not come along. You and the pony would have become as one. Dead. You were one scared little Indian.”

“Bah. I have never known fear. Eat,” Sam said, waving a fork at Matt's pie plate. “Don't try to think. You know it gives you a headache.”

Waiters were busy cleaning up the mess made by the wandering bullet.

Matt looked up the street and suddenly smiled. “I know who the fifth party is.”

“So tell me.”

“You're so smart, you figure it out.”

“All right. I shall. Over a steak. Medium. With potatoes and a side order of scrambled eggs.”

“For lunch?”

“Why not?”

“I can see it now. When you're fifty years old you'll have a new name: Big Fat Man Who Makes The Ground Tremble.”

The brothers needled each other through lunch. And a second dessert for both of them.

A tired posse rode in the next day, Bull and John with them. The men needed only one look at the boarded up windows and the blood stains on the boardwalks to know that one hell of a battle had taken place.

Over coffee, Matt and Sam explained what had taken place.

“And none of our people got hurt?” Tom said. “That's incredible.”

“Not a scratch.”

“Did you see any of our kids taking part in the fight?” Bull asked.

“No,” Sam told the man. “Not a sign of them. But Wilbur Gates is in town.”

The marshal slowly took off his hat and then threw it violently to the floor. He cussed softly but with a great deal of expression. He wound down and said, “I'm going to get a bite to eat, then sleep for a few hours. Then . . .”

“There's more,” Matt said.

Tom looked at him.

“Ralph Masters is keeping all this stirred up.

“What?”

“Has to be. He's making a small fortune selling this story and the accompanying pictures to the big city papers back East. He's got to be the one who slipped that note under our door. He's not in any conspiracy with Singer or any . . .” Matt paused, a reflective look on his face.

“What's the matter?” Sam asked.

“Think back, Sam. After the Carlin and Sutton kids staged that mock battle and tried to kill John, remember I told you that I saw Singer looking at me sort of funny?”

“Yeah. And you also said you thought somebody was with him in his offices. Who was it?”

“Ladue.”

Sam and Tom and the deputies all looked at Matt, Parley finally saying, “You know, you may be right. I saw old Ladue that day, ridin' out of town with somebody. I don't remember who it was.”

“Which way were they heading?” John said, a grim note to his words.

“Toward the crick where you and Mr. Sutton was gonna meet.”

“I hate this. I helped Ralph get set up here,” John said with a frown.

“Hell, so did I,” Bull said.

“What?” John stared at his half brother. “He told me that he felt you were entirely in the wrong and I was in the right.”

“He told me that I was in the right, and you were in the wrong.”

“That lyin' little weasel! The damn little no-count played both ends against the middle, and we never caught on.”

“This is givin' me a headache,” Tom said, his fingertips rubbing his temples. “But something doesn't figure. Look, what has Ralph Masters got to gain from all this? As soon as it's over, it'll be old news.”

“He and Ladue just might be playing a very dangerous game,” Sam said, after a moment's thought. “This situation here is fraught with deceit and back-stabbing. We might not have to do anything except light the fuse and stand back and watch it blow up in everybody's face.”

All the men looked around at each other, all of them deep in thought. “I'm thinkin' right along the same lines you are, boy,” Bull said. “But let's just make damn sure that we're not too close when it does blow up.”

“What do you two have in mind?” Tom asked.

“Nothing firm yet,” Sam said. “At least I don't. We might not have to do anything. It might ignite all by itself. I'm thinking it probably will. Let's just wait and be very cautious while we do so. And keep an eye on Ralph Masters and Miles Singer.”

“I'd like to go stomp Singer slap into the damn ground,” Bull growled.

“I'd like to go slap the pee out of Masters,” John said. “Lyin' little skunk.”

“I'd like to jerk up Ladue and shake the truth out of the old fart,” Tom said.

Sam smiled and held up a hand. “Patience, gentlemen. Patience.”

“I'd give some thought to grabbing up Ladue,” Matt said. “That old man would as soon kill you as look at you. He's not playin' with a full deck.”

“You can bet your boots and saddle on that,” Van Dixon said. “And he ain't got no use for either of you men,” he reminded the ranchers.

“There goes Wilbur Gates ridin' out,” Nate said, staring out the window. “That is one man who gives me the creeps. I guess I've heard too much about him.”

“And none of it good,” Matt added.

“Not one word of it,” the deputy agreed.

Bull looked at John. “I just wonder which of us Gates has come to kill?”

“It might not be either one of you,” Matt said. “This web is so tangled, it could be anybody. Or nobody.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tom asked.

“None of us considered that the man just might be passing through.”

“Well, you can forget that,” Nate said, still staring out the window. “Gates just pulled up at the hotel, and he's gettin' his warbag. Looks like he's here for a spell.”

Van picked up the large stack of wanted flyers. Tom cut his eyes and said, “Forget it, Van. Gates is not in there. There are no flyers out on him. I've been behind a badge for more years than I care to think about, and I ain't never seen a wanted poster on Wilbur Gates. He comes into an area, somebody dies, and he leaves without a black mark on him. Nobody has ever been able to prove anything against him.”

“What about the cattle that were rustled?” Sam asked.

“Oh, we found them,” John said. “'Bout fifteen miles from home range. It was a trick to get the men out of town. Tracks went ever' which-away. We decided to give it up and come on back in.”

“What do you want me and John to do, Tom?” Bull asked.

“Stay close to home, and if you just have to do any ridin', don't do it without men with you,” the marshal was quick to reply.

“We'll stick to Gates like glue,” Matt said, looking at and receiving a nod from Sam. “If he doesn't like it, he can damn well turn and make a play.”

“Our kids have to be runnin' out of money,” John said. “I know what those gunhands are paid a month. Me and Bull put a crimp in Singer when we pulled out of his bank. He's doin' all he can to pay those high-priced bodyguards of his. I know damn well that Ralph Masters doesn't have that kind of money. Ladue now is another story. That old coot has probably got wads stashed back. And he's got the patience of a cigar store Injun. Damnit!” he almost shouted the word. “I wish I knew what was really goin' on around here.”

“It has to come to a head 'fore long,” Bull said. “After this attack on the town failed, they all got to be gettin' desperate. And when people reach that point, they get careless. Everybody on all sides. But you and me, John, we just have to make sure that we don't get careless. Not with that back-shootin' Gates in the area. We'll send some boys in with wagons and double stock up with supplies. Then we'll hole up at our ranches. Agreed?”

“Yeah, but it goes against the grain,” John said. “I don't like for other people to fight my battles.” He looked square at Tom Riley. “Why don't you take a vacation, Tom?”

“And it will all be taken care of when I get back, right, John?”

“You can damn well bet on that.”

Tom shook his head. “You know better than even to suggest that, John.”

“It was worth a try.” He stood up. “I'll be gettin' on.”

“Van, you ride with John,” Tom said. “Nate, you ride with Bull. You boys take it easy and relax and lay low.” He smiled. “Make plans for the big weddin' comin' up.”

The ranchers allowed themselves a small smile. “There sure is that,” Bull said.

Wilbur Gates took the following for less than one day. On the afternoon of the day after he rode into town, he stopped his horse and turned in the road to face Matt and Sam, not a hundred yards behind him.

“Bodine,” the long-distance shooter said, his words hard and cold. “I don't like people following me. Get off my tail and do it now.”

“Or you'll do what?” Matt challenged.

Gates' smile was thin. “I'm no fast gun, Bodine.”

“No. You're just a back-shootin', cowardly, son-of-a-bitch,” Matt said bluntly.

Gates tensed in the saddle but kept his composure. He was wearing a pistol, as did most men, but he knew he was no match for Matt Bodine or Sam Two Wolves. Few men were. Carbone, Monte Carson, Louis Longmont, Charlie Starr, Vonny Dodge, Luke Nations . . . those men, yes. But had any of those men been here, they would be lined up solidly with Bodine and Two Wolves.

“You'll pay for those words, Bodine,” the backshooter said, his voice hoarse.

The two young men faced the long-distance shooter. Sam said, “Ride out of here, Gates. Pack your kit and ride on. If you stay around here, you're going to be buried here.”

“Strong words, Two Wolves.”

“But true ones.”

Gates stared at them for a few seconds. “What's your interest in this? I'm curious about that. You both own ranches. It's rumored that you both have some money. You're not being paid by any faction that I know of. Why are you here?”

That's an interesting rifle you have there,” Matt said. “What is it?”

Gates smiled. “Just a plain ol' .44-.40. Nothing unique about it.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Sam said.

“You've been warned, boys,” Gates said, his smile gone. “Don't crowd me anymore.”

“Oh, we'll be around, Gates,” Matt assured him. “Just look over your shoulder, and you'll see us. I can promise you, we're not going to let you out of our sight.”

“You two are in no danger.”

“But our friends are,” Sam said.

Gates wore a puzzled look on his face. “The ranchers? But they are in no danger, either. I may be many things that you abhor, but a liar is not one of them.”

Both Matt and Sam knew that to be true. Most paid killers operated under a strange code of conduct. Some would kill a woman but not a child. Others looked with contempt upon those who would steal. Many would have nothing to do with a rapist. Still others would not tell a lie. Gates fell in the last category.

Matt shifted in the saddle and the leather creaked. “Who the hell are you after, Gates?”

“No one who is a friend of yours.”

“That doesn't tell us much.”

“It's all you need to know if you think about it. Back off, boys. I won't warn you again.”

He lifted the reins and deliberately put his back to the brothers. They let him get several hundred yards away and then followed. They followed him all the rest of that afternoon and then back into town. If the man in black was angry, it didn't show in the way he sat his saddle.

He stabled his horse and carrying his rifle, walked the two short blocks to the hotel, Matt and Sam right behind him. He got his key from the desk clerk and ordered bath water sent to his room and told the clerk that he would be having his supper in his room that evening. Halfway up the stairs, he turned and smiled at the blood brothers.

“I hope you enjoyed your ride, boys. I certainly did. I'm sorry we won't be able to do it again. But I'm leaving in the morning. My work here is through.”

Matt and Sam turned at the sounds of boots on the lobby floor. Torn Riley. “Ralph Masters is dead, boys. Killed about an hour ago. Shot in the head at close range while he was walking from the privy back to his office. Blew his head off.”

Both brothers blinked in shock. Sam found his voice first. “Well, don't blame it on Gates. He was never out of our sight all day.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Tom hitched at his gunbelt. “Damnit!”

“But when we talked to him this afternoon, he told us he was not here to harm any friend of ours,” Matt said. “And you know how he is about lying.”

“And he said just seconds ago that he would be leaving in the morning. His work was finished,” Sam added.

“What work?” Tom demanded.

“To distract the law while someone else pulled the trigger,” Sam suggested.

Tom lost some of his tenseness and anger and sighed. “Yeah. You're probably right. I didn't think about that. Well, I reckon Gates is free to ramble if that's what he's got in mind. I sure can't hold him on anything.”

Tom turned to one side to cough and that saved his life. A bullet tore through his shoulder and knocked the man to the floor. Had he not turned when he did, the bullet would have torn through his throat.

“Get Doc Blaine!” Matt yelled, as he and Sam took off for the front door.

“The shot came from the east side,” Sam called over his shoulder. “You want the front or the back?”

“You circle around, Sam. I'll take the front. You be careful.”