Blood Bond 5 (4 page)

“You boys been warned,” the bearded man said. “Ride on out of here. If we ever see you again, we'll start shootin'. That's all there is to it. Now, get!” He wheeled his horse and rode away, the others following.

The blood brothers looked at each other for a moment, and then walked their horses over to a shady area and dismounted. They kicked around an old log for snakes and sat down and were silent for a time, each one trying to make some sense out of this totally unexpected new development.

“You ever had any trouble with anyone named John Carlin?” Sam broke the silence.

Matt shook his head, his hat in his hands. “I never even heard of the man until we rode into town.”

“Me neither. How about Bull Sutton?”

“The same. And I never heard my dad say anything about either man. So that lets out any personal grudge against our families.”

“They all hate Indians,” Sam said, then smiled sadly. “But nearly everybody west of the Atlantic and east of the Pacific hates Indians, so that's no answer.”

“Not everybody,” Matt reminded his blood brother gently.

“Your father respected the Indian way. He allowed us to wander freely on his land and so he was, as far as the Cheyenne anyway, left alone. But he was nearly alone in that feeling. Ancient history, brother. There is right and wrong on both sides.”

“Sam, wasn't there a little paper in town?”

“Ummm. Yes. I saw a building with the words
The Express
on it. That might be a starting point. Brother?”

Matt looked at him.

“We've been warned by both factions. And I believe they mean to start shooting if they see us again.”

“I know. Sam, you and me, we've never taken water from any man in our lives.” Matt stood up and settled his hat on his head. “I don't intend to start now. I don't like being told to clear out of a place with no good reason behind it. We haven't done a damn thing to anybody in this part of the country. Hell, I've never even been in this part of the country before. But, Sam, no more heroics like yesterday in the bar. That was a foolish thing you did with that chair.”

“I know it now. But it seemed the right thing to do at the moment. It won't happen again. I think we've landed in the middle of a deadly mystery, brother.”

“You always did have a way with words, Sam,” Matt said, then laughed.

“Let's go see the editor of
The Express.”

 

 

Ralph Masters shook hands with the brothers and waved them to chairs around his cluttered roll-top desk, in the open area that served as his office. “Oh, my, yes. I heard of your arrival within moments after you got here. I also understand that you gentlemen have been ordered out of the country by the powers-that-be.”

“News travels fast,” Sam remarked. “But you are correct. Why, is what troubles us.”

“You're college-educated, Mr. Two Wolves?”

“Yes. To some degree. My mother insisted on it. And the name is Sam.”

“How did you know Sam went to college?” Matt asked.

“By his speech. It was a guess.” He leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Put some light on why both Bull Sutton and John Carlin want us out of this country so bad they'd tell their hands to shoot us on sight.”

“Well . . . that's easy. Bull thinks you're working for John, and John thinks you're working for Bull.”

Sam leaned forward. “But we've made it perfectly clear to Bull we were just drifting, seeing the country. And if we get a chance, we'll tell John the same thing.”

“Oh, that won't do any good,” the editor said cheerfully. He waved a hand. “They won't believe you. They'll just shoot you anyway. This whole country is ripe for a major shoot-out. There must be fifty or sixty hired guns hanging around, just waiting to get into action.”

Matt shook his head and Sam asked, “Is everybody in this area mentally deranged?”

Ralph laughed. “Well, actually, no. Even though I can see where it might seem that way to a stranger. You gentlemen just rode into a hornet's nest that was already stirred up.”

“By a
wedding?”
Matt asked, disbelief in his voice.

“Well, actually, yes.”

“You just answered my question,” Sam said. “Everybody around here is crazy.”

Again, the editor had a good laugh. “Oh, look. Bull and John have hated each other for years. And no one knows why. The two principals can't even tell you the why of it. Bull built a fancy new house. John did the same. Bull imported short-horns to improve his herd. John did the same. Bull bought a fancy new carriage built in Chicago for his wife; John had one built in Paris for his wife. They've been trying to outdo the other for years. Look here.” He rummaged around on his desk for a moment and came up with a newspaper. “They've been buying full page ads. I warned them they could be sued, then I realized how silly that sounded.” He opened the paper and held it up. “See?”

The ads were full page and facing each other, in very large type. One read: “BULL SUTTON IS A COW-STEALING NO GOOD CROOK.” The other read: “JOHN CARLIN IS A HORSE THIEF WANTED IN TEXAS.”

“How long has this been going on?” Sam asked.

“The ads? Oh, about three months, I suppose. Sure is making my pockets fat.”

“But this is . . . childish,” Matt said.

“Of course, it is,” the editor agreed. “When it first started, the ads were really good. Now they've just about run out of bad things to say about each other. That I can print, that is.” He again rummaged around on his desk and came up with a piece of paper with hand-printed words. “This is what Bull wanted to run last week.”

“JOHN CARLIN IS A LOW DOWN DIRTY SON OF A . . . Whoa,” Sam said, not reading aloud the last few words.

Ralph held up another sheet of paper. “And this is what John wanted to run.”

Matt read aloud. “BULL SUTTON'S MOTHER WAS A . . .” Matt blinked. “Holy cow!”

“Of course, I didn't run either,” Ralph said. “Now they're both mad at me, and both have warned me I'd better not run any editorials about them.” He smiled. “But I certainly intend to do just that.”

“You're setting yourself up to get hurt if you do,” Sam cautioned the man.

Ralph shrugged his shoulders at that. “I'm a newspaperman, boys. I print what I see and think. You or no one else can stop the shooting now. It's gone too far. The sheriff is fifty miles away, and he isn't interested in whether Sutton or Carlin kill each other or not. He doesn't like either one of them. But I'm afraid some innocent people are going to get caught up in the crossfire and get hurt and killed.”

The brothers were silent as they stared at the editor and owner of
The Express.
Sam finally said, “Now will you tell us the real reason behind the hatred and this impending and very stupid war?”

“Honest to God, boys,” Ralph said, “I've told you all I know. That's it. It's stupid, all right. Bull and John are like two big strong bulls in a small pasture. One of them has got to go. They just plain hate each other, and I suppose they always will. Well, I've got to put the paper to bed. Look, stop by any time. If you're able, that is,” he added, and this time there was no smile on his lips.

Out on the boardwalk, Matt said, “It stinks, Sam.”

“Yes. But it's not our problem.”

“It's about to be,” Tom Riley said, walking up to them. “Yonder comes a whole gang of Circle JC riders, with Big John himself leadin' the pack.”

The Circle JC riders wheeled in and fanned out, facing the three men on the boardwalk. John Carlin was not quite the size of Bull Sutton, but close; a bear of a man nonetheless. Matt figured him about six feet, three or four inches and an easy two hundred and thirty pounds, with massive shoulders and arms and a barrel chest. Like Bull, John looked like a man accustomed to getting his own way—one way or the other. As Matt studied the man, he experienced a very strange feeling. It puzzled him. It was an elusive feeling that he could not pin down. He glanced at Sam. His brother stood watching John, an odd expression on his face. So Sam was getting the same feeling as he was.

The same bunch who had braced them on the road into town now rode with John, including Will Jennings, who sat his saddle with a nasty smirk on his face.

John settled his gaze square on Matt. “My men told you two gunslicks to get clear of this country. Looks like we're gonna have to escort you out of here.”

“These two men can stay in this town as long as they like,” the marshal bluntly informed the rancher. “They haven't caused any trouble and until they do, you or no one else except me can give them walking papers. And you damn well better understand that, John.”

The rancher flushed, shifting his wad of chewing tobacco over to the other side of his mouth. He said, “Seems to me, Tom, that you're gettin' mighty big for your britches.”

“They fit me pretty well, Tom. You and Bull are the ones who thinks you're the Lord God Almighty around here. Now these boys don't work for Bull, and they don't work for you. So that leaves them out of this mess. Now as long as they pay their bill at the hotel, and don't cause any trouble, they can stay. I'm not goin' to tell you or this rabid pack of coyotes workin' for you agin. You understand?”

The rancher sat his saddle and stared at the man. “That's strong talk, Tom.”

“I meant every word, John. I'm tired of you and Bull usin' this town for a battleground. And I'll tell you something else, the same thing I told Bull yesterday. I wired the sheriff, and he met with the judge, and I'm now a fully commissioned deputy sheriff. That means I have a whole lot more country to ramble around in after people who cause trouble. And I'm going to swear in three new deputies this day. Van Dixon, Nate Perry, and Hank Davis' boy, Parley. I don't want trouble in this county, John. And I damn sure won't tolerate any in this town. You and Bull settle your differences between you like men should. John, you know me. I cleaned up every mining camp and cow town that hired me on. And I'll keep the peace in this town. And if I have to put handcuffs on you and Bull to do it, don't think for one second I won't. Or kill you, if it comes to that.”

“He's all mouth, boss,” a rider said. “There ain't no guts behind that badge. Just a bunch of hot air. I ain't never seen none of his graveyards. I think I'll kill you, tin star. I think . . .

Whatever it was he was thinking, it was his last thought. Tom Riley was no fast gun, only slightly better than average, but he was dead accurate. The marshal drew, cocked, and fired, the .45 slug taking the loudmouth just above the nose and blowing out the back of his head. He tumbled backward from the saddle and lay in the dirt.

The sound of Tom cocking the .45 was loud in the sudden silence. John Carlin watched as the marshal shifted the muzzle slightly. The muzzle was now pointed at the rancher's chest.

“He threatened me, John. And you seemed to enjoy the words. You get my message now, John?”

“I get it, Tom,” the rancher said, but his eyes were killing cold and flashing with fury. “And I guess I know which side you're on.”

Tom's smile was a sad one. “That's sort of funny, John. It's the same thing Bull said.”

 

 

The new deputies were sworn in, and the marshal introduced Matt and Sam to the men. Parley Davis was no more than a kid, having just turned eighteen. But in the West, no matter what the age, when a boy strapped on a gun, he became a man. And when he strapped on a star, he became a walking target for a certain element.

But none of the three new deputies had a reckless or careless manner about them, and both Matt and Sam felt the marshal had chosen wisely, probably after giving a lot of thought to the matter.

Van Dixon, a man around fifty, they guessed, walked along with the brothers. “I come into this country back in '40, boys. Back when the only white men were mountain men. There's still a few of them around. Cantankerous old bastards.” He smiled. “But they stay up in the mountains and to themselves and come into town maybe twice a year. Mostly they trade with Ladue. A wise man would leave those ol' boys alone. I damn sure do. Those men was born with the bark on.”

“You got right in on the last of the trapping, didn't you?” Sam asked.

“Yep. I saw a lot of country, and made friends with the mountain men and the Indians, when either or both would let me. The trouble we have in this country now, boys, is nothin' new. But you asked who started it? Hell, I don't know. I'd put fifty percent on Bull and fifty percent on John. They come in within weeks of each other and took one look and went to cussin'. Some say they used to be friends. Maybe they was. But I never knew them to be.

“Between 'em, they got about fifteen or twenty kids. Or it seems that many. They do have twelve or thirteen between 'em. Looks like an army coming in. They got two good kids between them. Dan Carlin and Connie Sutton. Polite and mild-mannered and just real nice kids. I think they're about eighteen-nineteen years old. The rest of 'em ain't worth a bucket of slop. I heard you met Wanda and Willa,” he said, doing his best to hide a grin. “Well, wait 'til you meet up with Scarlett Sutton. She'll put both of them to shame. Cuss, Lordy, can she cuss. And mean-spirited, too. Mistreats any horse she rides, and I just can't abide that. The way a person treats a horse or a dog tells everything you need to know about their character.”

Both Matt and Sam agreed with that.

“John's got twins, too. Pete and Petunia. But that damn Petunia is no flower, believe you me. She's just as mean and ornery as any man, and her brother Pete is about half nuts. He's killed two men that I know of and wounded several more. He's quick with a pistol. Give him that.

“Bull's spread is over yonder way,” he waved a hand. “John's outfit is over there. They got range that meets, and they've always squabbled about that. That's where the trouble will more than likely start.”

“There just has to be more than personal dislike,” Sam insisted.

Dixon shook his head. “I don't think so, boys. I really don't.”

“Have the Sutton and Carlin boys ever tied up?” Matt asked.

“Fist fights and one shootin' that left nobody hurt or dead. They were lucky that time.”

Van Dixon left the brothers, and Sam asked, “What was behind that last question, Matt?”

“I don't know. Just curious, I suppose.”

They sat on a bench in front of the barber shop and watched as more gunhands—most of them would-be gunhands—rode into town. The marshal walked up and sat down on the bench beside them.

“Not a name in the bunch,” Matt remarked, disgust in his voice, when the swaggering, slung-low and tied-down crowd had gone into whatever saloon wanted them. “All of them young studs trying to make a name or wanting to prove something.”

“What they'll get is killed,” Sam said. “I hope they leave us alone.”

“And kill or injure a lot of innocent people in the process,” Tom said with a frown. “Damn both Sutton and Carlin. Damn them! They could both sit back quiet and live rich as kings if they'd a mind to.”

The three men were conscious of the young gunslingers, after being informed that Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves were sitting on the bench, all crowding the windows, looking at the gunfighter brothers. Both Matt and Sam hoped they would not be called out into the street. But both knew with this many toughs gathered, that was inevitable.

“I don't believe this thing is about a wedding, Marshal,” Matt said. “Me or Sam.”

Tom glanced up from the cigarette he was making. “I don't either. But damned if I can figure out what else there is. I've thought until my head hurt and can't come up with anything other than they just don't like each other.

Sam said, “Here comes a couple of the young hotshots. They look to be about eighteen or nineteen. They're heading straight toward us.”

“I don't want trouble in this town, boys,” Tom warned.

“What are we supposed to do?” Matt asked. “Run away?”

Tom finished rolling his cigarette, licked, and lit before he replied. “Neither of you have done a thing. You're not trouble-hunters, and you've got a right to travel and a right to enjoy the comforts of a town after the trail. Do what you think you have to do.”

The two young gunslingers walked even with the bench and stopped. They were in the middle of the street, standing about ten feet apart, legs wide-spread and hands hovering over the butts of their guns. Both of them were very tense.

Before either of them could say a word, Matt called, “Howdy, boys. Is there something we can do for you?”

“You can stand up and face the Wyoming Kid,” one called.

“Oh, my,” Sam muttered. “The Wyoming Kid. That strains the boundaries of poetic license.”

“Wyoming?” Matt said. “I'm from Wyoming. What part of Wyoming are you from?”

“Huh? That don't make no never mind. Stand up and prepare to meet your match and die.”

“I don't know that anyone is ever prepared to die. You sort of remind me of James Rybolt. Are you related to him? He's got a spread not too far from my dad's.”

“My name ain't Rybolt. I'm the Wyoming Kid. Now stand up, Bodine.”

“Go on back to the saloon, boy,” Tom told him. “I'll have no trouble in this town.”

“You shut your mouth, old man,” the other would-be gunslick said. “Or face me. I'm Utah Bates.”

“Whoa,” Sam said. “What's next? New Jersey Jesse?”

Even Tom got the giggles at that. Before ten seconds had passed, all the men were laughing.

“Stop that!” the Wyoming Kid yelled. “I won't have you laughin' at me.”

Tom wiped his eyes and waved a hand at the teenagers. “We're not laughing directly at you boys. Now I'm giving you an order, boys. Go on back to the Bull's Den. Right now. I've got three deputies behind you. All armed with Greeners.”

“That's the oldest trick in the world,” Utah Bates said. “And we ain't a-gonna fall for it.”

The sounds of three double sets of hammers being eared back tensed the young gunhandlers stiff as boards.

“I don't run a bluff, lads,” Tom told them. “You ever seen a man cut in two with a sawed-off? It isn't a pretty sight.”

Before they could respond, a man stepped out of the Bull's Den and called, “Bates! Kid! Come on back in here. The boss said no trouble in town, and he meant it. Now, come on back and cool down.”

“Big Dan Parker,” Matt whispered. “I didn't see him come into town.”

“I didn't either,” Tom muttered. “But he's here.” Slowly the two young men relaxed. Bates turned and began walking back to the saloon. The Wyoming Kid paused and called to Matt. “They'll be a day, Bodine. You and me will settle this.”

“We have nothing to settle,” Matt told him. “Nothing at all.”

“Yeah, we do, Bodine.”

“What?”

“Who is the best.

“I can tell you that right now,” Tom told the young man. “Now get your butt on back to the saloon and keep out of my sight. Move!”

The Wyoming Kid went, but he didn't like it.

Tom said, “You're all right, Matt. You can stay around here as long as you like. You've both been braced in this town and kept your cool when most others wouldn't. Sam, I'm not so sure but what I wouldn't have put lead in Chuckie. You boys don't deserve the reputation that's hung on you.” He stood up and walked across the street to confer with his new deputies.

“It's coming, brother,” Sam said.

“Without a doubt,” Matt agreed. “What's this coming into town?”

Four men, all wearing long dusters, were riding slowly up the street. They reined in and dismounted in front of the Carlin House.

“Dick Yandle,” Sam said. “Last I heard of him, he was in New Mexico.”

“That's Raul Melendez in the sombrero,” Matt said. “And Yok Zapata, the half-Apache wearing the campaign hat.”

Matt paused and Sam looked at him. “You know the fourth man?”

“I know him,” Matt said softly.

Sam waited. “Well?”

“That's Phillip Bacque.”

“You're joking!”

“I wish. Somebody paid a lot of money to get him out of retirement.”

“But he runs a highly successful ranch operation up in Canada,” Sam said.

“And we have highly profitable ranches in Wyoming,” Matt reminded him.

Bacque stepped up on the boardwalk and turned, facing the brothers. He smiled at them and tipped his hat. He called, “Since faster gunfighters seem to have dropped off the face of the earth, I will content myself with killing you, Bodine.”

“You want it now?” Matt called.

Bacque laughed. “No, my young duelliste. But soon. Very soon.” He walked into the saloon.

“Now, this doesn't make sense,” Sam said. “There is no way he could have known we were here. It has to be a case of pure coincidence.”

“One I wish had not occurred.”