Blood Bond 5 (19 page)

Just before he rounded the corner and stepped into the murk of early evening's twilight, darkened even further by the bulk of the hotel, Matt saw Doc Blaine and the deputies coming at a run. “Van! Somebody cover the bridge and the southeast side of the road. Sam and I will take the rest of it.”

“Gotcha, Matt!”

Sam's six-gun roared, and the fire was returned. “They're heading your way, Matt. Two of them. Both of them have rifles.”

A slug slammed into the hotel behind Matt, and he snapped a shot at the muzzle blast. A scream followed that, then low curses.

“We got them!” Van yelled. “They can't get away. One's down and the other is headin' your way, Sam.”

Sam's pistol roared and silence followed that. “Two down,” Sam's voice came out of the gathering gloom.

“Get some men over here!” the desk clerk shouted from the porch. “Carry Tom to Doc's clinic.”

“I never saw this one before,” Sam said, striking a match and squatting down.

A rifle boomed, and the match went out.

“Sam!” Matt yelled.

“He's hit, Matt!” Van yelled. “Sam's down!”

Matt ran through the twilight and jumped down the embankment, sliding down to Sam's side. Van looked up and smiled.

“He's gonna be all right, Matt. The bullet ricocheted off a rock and hit Sam in the side. He's got some busted ribs, but he ain't shot.”

Before Matt could respond, a volley of shots split the night. “That's number three,” George the bartender's voice came through clear.

“God,” another man spoke. “We all must have hit him. He's shot to pieces.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to be incapacitated for a time,” Sam pushed the words through clenched teeth. “I knew when I struck that match I was making a terrible mistake.”

“Shut up,” Matt told him. “And hold still.” As gently as he could, Matt's fingers moved up to his brother's side. “At least two ribs cracked, maybe three.”

“Feels like all of them,” Sam groused.

“Wait 'til we try to move you,” Matt said. “Then you'll really know it.”

“You're such a comfort to me. Go see if you recognize any of the dead.”

The dead were dragged and carried to the porch of the hotel, and there, under the eyes of travelers, Matt looked at them. He didn't recognize any of them.

“Russ House,” Wilbur Gates said, squatting down beside a body. “That one over there is called Pat. I don't recall ever seeing the third one.” He thought for a moment. “Marshal Riley was wearing a black hat and a black shirt this evening. From a distance we resemble slightly. This is interesting.”

“You mean they may have been gunning for you and shot Tom by mistake?”

“That is a distinct possibility.”

“To shut your mouth as to who hired you to come here and do whatever the hell it is you did?”

Wilbur smiled. “Your words, Bodine. Not mine.” He stood up and walked back into the hotel.

Matt left the porch and walked up the street, right behind the men who were carrying the stretcher with Sam.

“Tom's all right,” Parley said, as Matt stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of Doc Blaine's little clinic. “The slug punched right through the meaty part of his shoulder. Tom's a tough old bird. The gunmen?”

“All dead. Wilbur Gates identified two of them. He says he didn't know the third one. And he also thinks the snipers may have been after him. Tom was wearing a black hat and black shirt, remember?”

“This thing is gettin' spooky, Matt.”

“Yeah. At least that.”

The desk clerk came up the street at a flat lope the next morning, waving his arms and shouting for the law. Matt was having coffee with the deputies, and all of them stepped outside at the commotion.

“Whoa, man!” Van calmed the excited desk clerk. “Slow down and tell me what's wrong.”

“Wilbur Gates is dead! That's what's wrong. His throat is cut from ear to ear, and there is blood all over the place. The mattress is ruined and so is the carpet. Now, I can't have any more of this, Van. It's bad for business.”

“It ain't good for people's health, either,” the deputy drawled. “Come on. Let's take a look.”

“Razor,” Matt said, looking down at the pale face of Wilbur Gates. His eyes were wide open in shocked death. “Or a very, very sharp knife.”

“Just look at this room!” the desk clerk said.

“Gather up all his possibles, Parley,” Van said. “Tote them over to the office so's I can go through them.”

“I'll check his horse and saddle,” Matt said, looking around the room. “His rifle's gone.”

A search of Gates' possessions turned up nothing. Matt went over the saddle and saddlebags carefully. Nothing. Wilbur Gates would carry his dark secrets to the grave.

Ralph Masters was buried that afternoon, and the three gunmen were planted without fanfare in the rapidly growing town's Boot Hill. After checking on Sam and Tom Riley, Matt got the key from Van and opened up the newspaper office. He sat until dusk at the desk, going over papers that yielded him nothing except a case of eye strain and a headache.

He went to the Mexican cafe for supper. Raul Melendez was there, drinking tequila and looking grim. Matt almost backed out, then said to hell with it and went on in. A man was playing a guitar and softly singing Spanish love songs.

“Shut up,” Raul told the guitarist. “Your singing makes me want to puke.”

“I like it,” Matt said. “Please continue.”

The guitarist stopped playing. He looked at one gunfighter, then the other. He shook his head, picked up his guitar, and left the room.

Raul smiled nastily. “He fears me more than you, gringo.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Matt said. “He just made a wise choice, that's all. He probably doesn't want to see you humiliated, that's all.”

“I think I will kill you, Bodine,” Melendez stated harshly. “I will shoot you to bloody pieces.”

“You won't kill me,” Matt said calmly, after chewing a mouthful of food. He washed that down with a swallow of beer. He ate and drank with his left hand. His right hand remained close to the butt of his gun. Melendez was not only fast, but he was very tricky.

“Oh, yes, I will. Then I will be the most famous gunfighter in all the West. But I will be gracious about it,” the Mexican gunfighter said with a wide smile. “I will allow you time to finish your meal.”

“Oh, that's big of you, Raul,” Matt replied.

They were alone in the room, all the other patrons having quickly exited, including the owner, the cook and the two waitresses.

Melendez looked around, a frown on his face.

“What's the matter, Raul? Can't you work without an audience?”

Matt saw the man's eyes shift and then swiftly return to him. A very quick smile passed his lips. “I am going to enjoy killing you, Bodine.”

Bodine sensed another gunslick had moved in behind him. “I didn't know you were this yellow, Raul.”

“What do you mean?” Raul spat out the words.

“You have to have a backshooter behind me?”

Raul smiled. “Very good, Bodine. Come over here, Dud. But Bodine is mine.”

Dud Mackin moved to stand beside the seated Mexican gunhand. “I'm gonna enjoy seein' you dead on the floor, Bodine. You're a meddlin' pain in the butt.”

Matt smiled and then suddenly jumped up, screaming like a panther. He overturned the table with his left hand, sending dishes and glasses breaking to the floor, and drawing with his right hand. The move was so totally unexpected it shocked both the hired guns, which is exactly what Matt intended. His .44 barked, and Raul Melendez took a round in his left shoulder, knocking him backward.

Matt drew his left hand .44 and drilled Mackin in the belly, doubling the man over. Then Bodine jumped to one side and dropped to the floor, on his knees, just as Melendez fired.

His slug slammed harmlessly into the wall and for a moment, he and Bodine exchanged shots, both of them on the floor, behind overturned heavy tables. Bodine shot out the hanging lamps above the dining area and plunged the battleground into darkness.

“Oh, God, I'm hard-hit, Raul,” Dud gasped. “Kill him for me. Kill him.”

Matt quickly loaded up full and waited, not wanting to be the first to fire and give away his position in the darkness. The breathing of the wounded men was loud in the closed space.

Matt felt around him on the floor and picked up an unbroken coffee cup. He hurled it across the room, and it shattered against a wall.

Raul chuckled painfully. “I will not fall for that old trick, Bodine.”

Matt put six fast rounds in the direction of the voice and then shifted locations and reloaded as quietly as he could.

There were shouts outside, but no one attempted to enter the darkened cantina. These were Western men and women, and they knew that those inside would fire at the slightest sound or movement.

Dud Mackin staggered to his feet, and Matt shot him, the slug stumbling him backward. Dud fell against a wall and slid down to the floor, on his butt. “Damn you to hell, Bodine,” he gasped out the words. “Damn you!”

Matt waited.

“Come on, Bodine,” Melendez said. “Come on.”

Matt holstered his guns and picked up a chair and threw it with all his might. He must have hit the Mexican squarely in the face for the impact brought a scream of pain. Matt chose that time to move. He stood up as he saw the darkened shape of Melendez rise to his feet, the cane-bottomed chair all tangled up in one arm. Matt emptied his .44 into the man. Raul jerked and staggered and did a strange death-dance with each slug that ripped into his body. He finally fell forward, still tangled up in the chair.

Matt moved to the door and looked out. “Van, Parley?”

“We're here,” Van replied. “Nate's over with the marshal. Who's down?”

“Dud Mackin and Raul Melendez. Get some light in here.”

Lamps found and lit, Doc Blaine rushed in and knelt down beside the Mexican. He said, “The man's shot to pieces, and he's still alive.”

“Bodine,” Raul whispered.

Matt squatted down beside him.

“I have money to pay for the damages we caused this poor cafe owner this night. See that he gets it will you, amigo?”

“I'll see he gets it.”

“You are ver' good, Matt Bodine. You are tricky, like me. I always said that when I go out, I want to go out at the hand of someone like you.” His bloody lips parted in a smile, and he died.

“Help me, Doc!” Mackin cried out. “Give me something for the pain.”

“Wait a minute or so,” Doc Blaine said shortly. “You won't have any pain.”

“I hate you, Bodine,” Dud said. “Shoulda kept your nose out of things that don't concern you. Hadn't been for you and that damn breed brother of yourn, things would have worked out.” He coughed up blood. “But it ain't over. Not by a long shot. I hope you . . . I hope you . . .”

Whatever it was he hoped for died with him.

Matt stood up. “I never did get to finish my supper,” he said.

 

 

Sam griped and moaned about having to stay in bed, but it was all for show. He knew better than to try to get up until his ribs began healing properly. A broke-off piece of rib in the lung was not a desirable thing.

Tom was all right. But like Sam, he would be a-bed for a time. Matt brought him up to date on the previous night's shooting and promised to help out around the office . . . should they need his services.

The townspeople were making plans to return to a single-store plan now that John and Bull were no longer at war, and merchandise was being moved back and forth across the street.

Matt was sitting on the bench outside the marshal's office when Van nudged him with an elbow. “Things are about to get busy around here.”

Matt looked. Ross Sutton and Johnny Carlin were riding in, half a dozen mangy-looking no-counts riding in behind them. They reined up in front of the Red Dog and swung down. After being certain that everyone on the streets saw them, they stomped into the saloon.

“Now what do you suppose that's all about?” Van asked, as Parley and Nate stepped out to take a look.

“I don't know,” Nate replied. “But as far I know, there are no warrants out on any of them. I don't even know any of those hombres with the boys.”

Doc Blaine strolled up. “Trouble coming?”

“Maybe,” Matt said.

“I'd better go get my bag. Tom and Sam spent an uncomfortable night. The first night usually is. They're sleeping now. I'd hate for gunshots to wake them.” He shook his head. “But I suppose until this craziness is resolved, gunshots are going to be common around here.” He turned and walked back up to his office.

“Singer's standing in his door,” Parley remarked.

One of the area's farmers came rattling into town, his wife on the wagon seat beside him, his kids in the bed. They pulled up in front of the general store.

“The Kendrick family,” Van said. “Nice people. He keeps the hotel supplied with pork.”

Ross Sutton stepped out of the saloon and hollered across the street, “You there! Kendrick! I'm talkin' to you. You keep your damn hogs penned up and off my land. I'll kill the next hog I find on my property.”

Kendrick faced the young man, the street separating them. “I don't know what you're talking about, Ross. My hogs don't ever get out of the pen.”

“Are you callin' me a liar, you goddamn stinkin' pig farmer?” Ross screamed.

“No,” Kendrick said. “I'm saying that I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Get a gun!” Ross hollered.