Blood Bond 5 (6 page)

John Carlin stared at the man. “I hope you're joking, Tom,” he finally said.

Tom shook his head. “Incitin' a riot. Resistin' arrest. Disturbin' the peace. Battery upon a private citizen. Assault and battery upon an officer of the law. Destruction of private property. Endangerin' the public safety. The list goes on and on. She stays where she is.”

“Tom, I'm here to get my daughter out of that jail. Right now.”

“Don't push me, John. I'm warnin' you. I've been pushed all I'm gonna be.”

“How about my son, Pete?”

“Pete I can release.”

“You're makin' a bad mistake, Tom Riley.”

“You want your boy or not?”

John smiled, a tight little brief curving of the lips, and turned his horse, riding over to the Carlin House. He waved for his men to follow him.

Matt and Sam walked over to the marshal. “You think he's stupid enough to try and bust his kids out?” Matt asked.

“Stupid, no. Mad and arrogant, yes.”

“Daddy!” Petunia squalled, her voice rattling the windows of the office in front of the jail.

“Get us out of here, Pa!” Pete hollered.

John turned and stared back at Tom. “You've been warned,” he said, then walked into the saloon.

“What about those charges?” Sam asked. “Will the judge uphold them?”

“Some of them. He'll dismiss the others. I just think it'll do the girl good to cool her heels in the jail for a couple of days. Might teach her some humility.”

“But you doubt it,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” the marshal said, a weary note in his voice. “This whole situation is goin' to end in tragedy. I feel it. The kids of both men have been free to do whatever they choose all their lives. Nothin' is goin' to change them now. They don't know no other way of life, and if I read them right, and I think I do, they wouldn't change even if they could.”

“Tom,” Matt said, “was any of the Carlin kids in that bunch that rode in?”

The marshal gave him a sharp look. “Now that you mention it, no. And that worries me.”

“You want us to take the back of the jail?” Sam asked.

Tom looked at them both. “You're dealin' in?”

“Looks like it,” Matt told him.

“Step in the office, boys. I'll swear you in as temporary county deputies. I got the power to do that.”

“Here we go again,” Sam muttered.

“Well, don't complain about it. It was your idea!”

Only the three regular deputies were informed of Matt and Sam being deputized. Both brothers took down Greeners from the gun rack and stuffed extra shells in their pockets. They slipped out the back of the jail and took up positions on opposite sides of the building. Their patience paid off after a silent hour. They heard just the faintest rustle of footsteps slipping up the dark alley. Then the shadowy forms of four people could be seen. A fifth man stepped out, then a sixth. Whispers came to the brothers.

“The three deputies is on the rooftops. Tom Riley is sittin' outside the office.” Something flashed in the night. “Marcel will be settin' the fire in five minutes. That ought to draw Tom away.”

“And if it don't?” someone asked.

“Then we kill him.”

Matt lifted his Greener and fired both barrels into the soft night air. The sound was enormous, and it put the six men flat on the ground and brought Tom on a run through the narrow valley. He appeared on Sam's side of the building.

“Get down!” Sam told him. Ten seconds later he had brought the marshal up to date, speaking in a whisper.

“What's goin' on back yonder?” Van called from a rooftop.

“Watch out for a fire!” Matt yelled, reloading the twin barrels of the sawed-off. “Marcel Carlin will be lighting one any second. Alert the fire brigade.”

“You men on the ground,” Tom called. “And we can see all of you. Stand up with your hands over your head, or we start blasting in ten seconds. I'm counting. One . . .”

“Don't shoot, Tom!” a voice called. “We're standin' up.”

“The hell we are!” a defiant voice yelled. The speaker opened up with a .45.

Two shotguns and a rifle barked and boomed at the flashes. The man was blown to bloody ribbons.

“Jesus God!” a voice that Tom recognized as belonging to Clement Carlin yelled. “Don't shoot no more. Stand up, boys. Keep your hands away from your guns.”

“I got this little turd Marcel!” a man called. “He was about to set my shop on fire.”

The town had thrown monetary reasons to the wind and united at the threat of armed takeover and fire. Men and women appeared with rifles and shotguns and pistols.

“Blast anyone who tries to leave the Carlin House,” Tom called. “By the front or the back.”

“Will do, Tom,” the tobacco and gun shop owner called. “I'll take the back.”

The five members of the break-out team were marched up the alley and to the jail. A blanket was tossed over the bloody remains of the defiant one.

Johnny and Clement Carlin and three hands stood sullen-faced in the office. Marcel was shoved inside by an angry citizen. Another citizen carried a jug of kerosene and a bag of kerosene-soaked rags. Marcel reeked of the flammable liquid.

Tom pulled young Parley to one side. “Ride for the judge, Parley. Bring him up to date and escort him back here tomorrow. I 'spect the sheriff will come along, too. Go, boy.”

Tom jammed the Carlin brothers and the hands into one cell. He was mad to the core, and his face showed it. “Van, you and Nate stay here.” He turned to Matt and Sam. “You boys game for enterin' the Carlin House?”

“Let's go,” Matt said.

The three men, armed with sawed-off shotguns, walked across the street, and Tom shoved open the batwings and stepped inside, Matt to his left and Sam to his right. Tom's Greener was pointed straight at John Carlin's belly. Tom walked to the rancher and placed the twin muzzles against his shirt, belly high.

“It's over, John. I don't care what you and Bull do to each other—outside of this town. But if all your hands haven't dropped their gunbelts to the floor in ten seconds, I swear I'll blow your goddamn guts out your back.” He cocked both hammers of the Greener.

John Carlin's face was greasy-pale. He knew Tom Riley meant every word he'd said. “Do it, boys,” the rancher said. “Right now.”

Matt was holding his Greener on the gang at the bar, and Sam was covering those seated at nearby tables. The hired hands and gunnies knew that at this short distance those terrible Greeners would wipe out half the room, and those left alive would be horribly crippled. These were ten gauge sawed-offs, loaded with ball bearings, rusty nails, and God alone knew what else. Gunbelts started hitting the floor.

“All of you,” Tom ordered. “Up against that north wall and keep your hands in sight. When all the guns are gathered, you boys can ride out, five at a time. If you show your faces back in this town until after the hearing, I'll kill you on sight. And I think you boys know that I mean every word of that.”

The hands and hired guns nodded their heads. They all knew Tom Riley's reputation.

Tom cut his eyes to the barkeep. “George, gather up all those guns and stack them on the bar.”

“Yes, sir, Tom. Right now.”

Not a word was spoken as George quickly gathered up the guns and placed them on the bar.

When that was done, Tom said, “None of you boys better be holding back a hide-out gun with plans to use it.”

“I got a derringer in my back pocket, Marshal,” Rambling Ed Clark said. “But I ain't got no plans to reach for it.”

“Me, too,” Jack Norman said. “But it's gonna stay where it is.”

A half a dozen others had hide-out guns, but all stated that openly and none had plans to try any gunplay. Yok Zapata and Phillip Bacque stood with new respect for the marshal in their eyes. As did most of the hired guns. This, they knew, was a man with no back-up in him and tough clear through. And with Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves now wearing badges, this was a team that would be hard to beat. At this moment.

“Startin' with the first five nearest the door,” Tom said. “Get on your horses and ride. I'll let you know when you can pick up your guns. Move!”

The saloon emptied quickly. Tom still stood with the Greener shoved up against the belly of John Carlin. “The judge will be here tomorrow, John,” Tom told him. “I wouldn't try to keep you away from your kids' hearin'. And you can bring some hands in with you. The way you and Bull feel about each other, I wouldn't ask you to commit suicide by comin' in alone. But all guns will be checked at my office. Clear?”

“Clear enough.”

“Git.”

John Carlin got.

 

 

At the Flying BS, Bull Sutton was awakened from a sound sleep with the news of what had taken place in town that night. He sat in his den and chuckled at the news. Along with nearly everyone in the area, he was sure the judge would do little else but fine the Carlin kids, but the public humiliation would be something they would not tolerate for very long.

John and family would strike back at the town, and they would strike back hard. All Bull had to do was keep his people in line, and John would destroy himself. He and his family would attend the hearings and all have a good chuckle and some belly-laughs at the expense of the Carlins. That would really put the icing on the cake.

All in all, Bull thought, things were working out right well.

 

 

Petunia got things off to a rousing start at nine o'clock the next morning by calling the judge “a bald-headed, frog-eyed, son of a bitch.”

“Thirty days in jail for contempt of court!” the judge hollered.

Then she told him to go commit an unnatural act upon himself, but not in those words. John's mouth dropped open in shock.

“Petunia!” he shouted.

The judge pointed his gavel at John. “John,” he said, an ominous tone to his voice, “far be it from me to tell another man how to raise his children, but this young lady is sadly lacking in social graces.”

Petunia started to let the judge have it again, and her mother stuck a handkerchief in her daughter's mouth, grabbed her by the hair of the head, jerked her around, and spoke in low tones to her for a moment.

Petunia never said another word the rest of the proceedings. She sat very still and very pale-faced.

Not even John had a clue as to what his wife might have said to her daughter, but he knew best of all that Ginny Carlin could be an iron lady when the situation demanded it.

Bull Sutton, his sons, and his crew rode in and stood outside the empty building where court was being held and snickered and giggled. John Carlin's face grew redder as his temper rose with each snicker behind his back.

The upshot of it was that Petunia was fined a hundred dollars and so was her brother—Petunia being released into her mother's custody—and they were ordered to pay the damages for any property that might have been damaged or destroyed. He fined Lars, Dave, and Batty ten dollars. In a separate matter, the judge ordered the BS hand to be taken back to the county seat for later trial on murder charges.

He banged his gavel and court was over.

As soon as the gavel sounded, Bull Sutton bellered, “Well, John, those snooty kids of yours finally got some comeuppance, hey? It's about damn time.”

John Carlin walked out onto the boardwalk and knocked Big Bull Sutton flat on his butt in the dirt.

Bull got to his feet and shook his head. “No gunplay,” he told his crew. “No matter who wins, no gunplay. This is between John and me.”

Then he turned around, stepped up on the boardwalk, and knocked John clear through the window of the packed make-shift courtroom.

“Don't try to stop them,” Tom Riley told Matt, Sam, and his other deputies. “That would be like trying to stop two grizzlies with a stick.”

“Maybe they'll get it out of their system this way?” Sam said.

“Or do the town a favor and just kill each other,” Tom suggested.

Bull stepped through the shattered space where the big show window used to be and came back out the same space a hell of a lot faster than he entered. John had been waiting for him and gave him a right fist to the mouth that smashed his lips and bloodied the entire lower half of his face.

John jumped out of the ruined window and tried to kick Bull. Bull rolled away and caught John's ankle and jerked, spilling the man to the ground. On their knees in the dirt, the two men fought each other like crazed beasts. Ginny had taken Petunia home in the buggy. Once there, she had plans for a buggy whip and Petunia's backside. Ginny did think she was better than most other people, but she did not approve of her girls using vulgar language . . . at least in public.

John and Bull slugged it out in the dirt. They were wringing wet with sweat and splattered with blood. Their noses were broken and pouring blood. Blood dripped from smashed lips and cut faces. Still neither man would go down for the count. They fought until they were arm weary and exhausted. Bull shoved John away from him and staggered to a hitchrail, leaning against it and catching his breath. John leaned against a wagon, his chest heaving from exertion.

Then the two men looked at each other and each one spat on the ground. Bull cussed John and John cussed Bull. That went on for a couple of minutes.

Laredo got a bucket of water and poured it over Bull's head, and Luke got a bucket of water and dumped it on John. Then the two men went at it again.

Bull would knock John down, and then John would knock Bull down. Each man hit the ground so many times people lost count. Some in the crowd even got bored and went home or to a saloon. Now it was taking the men most of a minute to get off the ground. Both of them were staggering from exhaustion. Both men's eyes were nearly swollen shut. Their faces were puffy and bruised. Still they fought on.

They both swung at the same time and both weakly tossed missed punches, sending the two wealthy ranchers sprawling face-down in the churned up dirt. Neither had the strength to get up, much less continue the fight.

“Load 'em in wagons and get 'em out of here,” Tom said.

Sam consulted his watch. “Forty minutes,” he said. “Those two dinosaurs fought for forty minutes.”

“Too bad they didn't kill each other,” Tom said shortly.

The sons of both men gave him dark and dirty looks which the marshal ignored.

“Maybe this settled it,” Matt said.

“Don't count on it,” Tom replied.

That week's edition of
The Express
carried full stories of Petunia and her brother and of the big fight between John and Bull. Photographs of both—including the one that caught them sprawled near unconsciousness in the street—could be seen in the windows of the newspaper office. Pictures of Pete Carlin's head in a fresh horse pile was one of the favorites. Petunia's wild shooting was also a hit that brought many smiles. Ralph ran off extra copies of
The Express
and mailed them all over the territory, including a copy to the governor and the President of the United States. For a week, nothing happened and even Tom began to wistfully think that things just might have been settled between the two powerful ranchers and the area would settle down and everybody could live in peace. But he didn't really believe it. He knew both men too well to believe in fairy tales. Not one gunhand from either side rode into town. Young Parley heard that Ginny Carlin took a buggy whip to Petunia's backside, and Petunia was still being real careful about sitting down.