Blood Bond 5 (20 page)

Van stood up. “That's all, Sutton. Back off,” he called to the man a block away. “Go on in the store, Kendrick.”

“You go to hell, Dixon,” Ross shouted. “I don't take orders from the likes of you.”

The farmer turned and Ross pulled and shot him in the back. Kendrick pitched forward and crashed through the plate glass window of the general store.

Kendrick's oldest boy ran out of the store just as Johnny Carlin stepped out of the saloon. “Hell,” Carlin said. “Might as well make it a pair.” He pulled iron and shot the boy through the head. The boy fell forward and died on the boardwalk.

Matt and the deputies were running up the street. They all dived for cover as Sutton, Carlin, and their friends turned on them and opened fire. Women and kids were screaming and running for the protection of buildings and men were scrambling for guns.

Johnny Carlin coolly took aim and shot Parley just as he was diving for cover. The slug slammed into his leg and broke it just above the knee.

Ross Sutton put a .45 slug into Nate Perry's shoulder and knocked the deputy down, then both Sutton and Carlin turned their guns on Matt. Matt rolled behind a water trough as the air was filled with lead.

Lawyer Sprague grabbed up his rifle and opened fire from his office window, killing one of those with the rancher's boys. Matt came up on one knee just as the killers jumped on their horses and took off down the alley between Singer's land office and the Red Dog. He leveled his .44 and emptied a saddle before the gang disappeared. The killer tumbled from the saddle and fell under the hooves of his horse.

“Posse!” Van shouted. “To your horses, men. Matt, look after things in town.”

The deputy was off at a trot, as men poured out of stores, running for their horses. Doc Blaine was running up the boardwalk, black bag in hand. The undertaker and helper were walking swiftly toward the dead and dying.

In the small clinic, Sam and Tom were awake and looking at one another, each wondering what in the hell was going on now. But they could do little else, for in order to insure they would stay in bed, Doc Blaine had hidden their clothes, leaving them clad only in short drawers that were somewhat less than modest.

Doc Blaine looked over the moaning and bloody Parley at Matt. “This tears it now,” the doctor said. “Now there will be no stopping Bull or John.”

“Maybe it's time,” Matt said, thinking: Maybe it's past time.

Matt sent a young man on the gallop for Bull and John, and then turned his attention to the safety of the town. He did not know if the shooting was spur-of-the-moment, or whether there had been a more sinister plan behind it. He had to assume the latter and get ready for anything.

After quickly consulting with Tom Riley—and telling Sam he'd certainly seen far more appealing sights than his brother in his drawers—Matt started organizing the townspeople into a militia, posting men on rooftops and ordering all fire barrels filled in case the outlaws hit the town with the intention of burning it down. Matt just didn't have any idea what might happen next. He certainly had not anticipated the cold-blooded murder of Kendrick and his son.

That had been a totally senseless act. There was no doubt in Matt's mind that as soon as the ranchers heard the news, Bull and John would take their hands and hunt down their kids. If the fathers took their sons alive, they would hang from the nearest tree. Matt had no illusions about that. This was a hard land that demanded swift justice.

He had just finished posting the guards and securing the town as best he could against attack and fire when a thunderous rumble of hooves reached him, coming from the south end of town. He knew without looking up it was Bull and John.

The ranchers reined up and did not dismount. Matt could see that the ranchers and riders were supplied for a week on the trail and all the men packed two pistols and a rifle in a boot.

“Kendrick and his boy dead?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Our sons killed them without provocation?” Bull asked.

“Yes. Neither Kendrick or his son were armed.”

“You the law in town now?” Laredo asked.

“I guess. Van's out with the posse.”

“You keep the peace in town, Matt,” Bull told him. “We'll send the posse back as soon as we catch up with them. This is family business.”

“Bull!” Tom shouted from the door of the clinic. He stood with a blanket wrapped around him. “Both you men back off, I say.”

“Sorry, Tom,” John called. “This is none of your affair. We sired those kids, and I guess helped make them what they are. So it's up to us to deal with them. You just lay back down and get yourself well.”

Bull and John rode slowly over to Singer's office. The man stepped out onto the boardwalk. “You be out of town when we get back, Miles,” Bull told his full brother. “If you're here, I'll personally kill you and hang those gunnies you've got protecting you.”

“You can't do that!” Miles screamed.

“If you're here when we get back,” John told the man, “you're goin' to find out the hard way what we can and can't do. You been warned. Take heed.”

Miles Singer looked over at the cowboys. He swallowed hard when he noticed the rope dangling from Laredo's saddle horn. A noose had already been fashioned. Lars carried another hangman's noose on his saddle horn.

The ranchers and their men rode out without another word. Matt loaded up two Greeners and carried them and a sack of shells up to the doctor's office, giving them to Tom and Sam. “Just in case,” he said.

“I have a hunch we'll need them,” Tom said. “I think the town is going to be hit.”

“They're fools if they do,” Matt replied.

“They have no choice, Matt,” Sam spoke up. “It's an act of desperation. For men like J.B. Adams and Ben Connors and the other gunslingers, it's a matter of pride. For the kids of Bull and John . . . ?” He shook his head. “Who knows what motivates them. You just get ready. It's going to be a long afternoon and an even longer night.”

 

 

At the camp of the gunslingers, J.B. Adams tossed the dredges of his coffee away and stood up. Word of Bull Sutton and John Carlin on the prod after their kids had reached them, and the hired guns had sat down for a long talk.

“What say you, J.B.?” Paul Stewart asked.

“I'm riding into town and check in at the hotel. I'm going to have me a drink, a meal, and a hot bath. I'm going to dress in new, clean clothes, and have me a shave. Then I'm going to kill Matt Bodine.”

“He is mine,” Yok Zapata said, standing up as gracefully as any panther ever moved. “Raul was a friend.”

“You are both wrong,” Phillip Bacque said. “Matt Bodine is mine.”

Big Dan Parker and Burl stood up together. Dan said, “I ain't interested in no bath and shave. But I am gonna kill Matt Bodine.”

“I figure Bodine's to blame for all them good plans fallin' through,” Burl said. “I aim to get lead in him.”

“Well, we damn sure owe Bodine and them lousy townspeople something,” Paul Mitchell said, looking at Bobby Dumas. Bobby's face was still badly burned from the scalding coffee tossed on him by the pastor's wife.

“Damn right,” Bobby said.

“I owe Bodine and the town something myself,” Bob Coody said, standing up. “And especially a snot-nosed, uppity little brat named Billy. I'm gonna cut that kid's ears off and hand 'em to him.”

Ben Connors said nothing, he just checked both pistols and picked up his saddle, walking toward his horse.

Dick Yandle sighed and stood up, brushing himself off. He hitched at his gunbelt and picked up his saddle. He looked at Jack Norman. “You comin', Jack?”

“Oh, yeah. You, Will?”

“Count me in.”

Dick Laurin and Simon Green checked their guns and walked toward their horses.

The rest of the gunfighter camp did the same. Ramblin' Ed was the last to leave. He kicked dirt over the fire and then swung into the saddle. He paused for a few seconds. “I got a bad feelin' about this, Blackie,” he said to his horse. “A real bad feelin'.”

He looked around and rode after the others.

 

 

Matt was tense and slightly jumpy. He went into the marshal's office and took a six-gun from a desk drawer, checking the loads and filling up the last chamber. He tucked that behind his gun belt. He moved to the gun cabinet and took down a Greener, breaking it open and loading it up with buckshot. He stuck a half dozen shells in his pocket.

Van walked in and looked at him for a moment. “What's goin' on, Matt?”

Matt turned to face the older man. “I got a bad feeling, Van. And I learned a long time ago to trust my hunches.”

Van nodded his head and strapped on another gun belt. He took a rifle from the rack and checked it, adding a couple of more rounds. “Farmer John's over to the Red Dog, sittin' and drinkin' with Proctor and a couple of hard cases that drifted in about an hour ago. I don't like it. But I can't believe any bunch will try again to tree this town.”

“No. I don't think that either. That dozen or so buildings south of here. Is that the original town site?”

“No. Mormons built that town about twenty years ago. Then they deserted it and other folks moved in. Changed the name to Big Ugly. Isn't that a hell of a name for a town. The second bunch didn't last long either. Nobody's lived there in ten years or so. Why?”

“I rode by there the other day. Saw smoke.”

“A drifter, probably.”

“How much daylight you figure we have left?”

Van looked outside. “A good six hours. It ain't a twenty minute ride down to Big Ugly. Take off if you've a mind to. Hell, Matt, every man in this town is armed and most of the women, too. I've deputized the en-tar town. It's you them hired guns is after, I'm thinking.”

“You're right. But I don't want anymore gunplay in this town, Van. I'll be down in the ghost town.”

“Matt, they's about twenty of them ol' boys. You don't stand a chance.”

“Seventeen, I think,” Matt said with an easy grin. “Maybe eighteen.”

“That's close to twenty, 'way I figure it.”

“I either make them come to me outside of town, or they'll come to town looking for me. And this time, some innocent people will get hurt. I don't want that on my conscience. Post guards at both ends of town. When they come looking, tell them where I am.”

“No way I can talk you out of this?”

“No.” Matt left the office and had the cook at the Mexican cafe fix him a couple of large sandwiches. He stopped Doc Blaine on the street and told him what he was going to do. He noticed that the doctor had once again strapped on his guns. “You give Sam a big dose of laudanum, Doc. Knock him out. All right? I don't want him to know what I'm doing.”

“Very well. What you're doing is foolish, but you're right about innocent people being hurt if all those gunhands come here. We've been very lucky up to now.”

“I'll see you when this is over.” Matt turned to walk away.

“Matt?”

Matt stopped and looked back at the doctor.

“As you have no doubt noticed, I handle a gun pretty well. You want me to go along with you?”

“No. I don't think the whole bunch will show up.” He smiled. “At least I'm hoping they won't. One against eighteen is not real great odds.”

Matt stopped by the jail to pick up more shells for the Greener and took the back way out of town so he would not be seen on the main street. Sam might be watching. And even with aching and broken ribs, he would try to accompany his brother. And Tom would probably attempt to arrest Matt in order to stop him. It was only a short ride to the ghost town of Big Ugly.

He picketed his horse on good graze by a stream and, taking his rifle and shotgun and saddlebags, he walked across the meadow to the warping and rotting boards and buildings of the old town. As he walked, he could detect the very faint odor of smoke.

I've got to get that drifter out of here, Matt thought. If he hasn't already moved on.

Halfway across the meadow, he stopped and hunkered down, as a strange feeling swept over him. Something was wrong, his senses were telling him. Something was all out of whack here.

Then he heard a horse whinny.

He remained motionless in the tall grass and watched as a man came out of a building and walked to a falling down old shed. Something about the man was very familiar, but at this distance, Matt could not make out any facial features. And the big floppy hat didn't help matters any.

The man saw to his horse and returned to the shack. Matt still had no idea who it was. But he was carrying a rifle. Matt made his way to the town, staying low and using whatever cover he could find in the meadow. He stayed close to the rear of the buildings and began working his way toward the shack of the stranger.

The sounds of humming reached him. The man was relaxed, at least, suspecting nothing. Then the man began singing softly. Damn, but that voice was familiar.

Matt edged closer. He tried to look inside but the window glass was so dirty he could make out only a vague shape. But even the faint shape was familiar to him. Who was this guy? What the hell was he doing here?

Matt moved to the door and listened to the soft singing. He made up his mind. He had to do something, and time was running out for him. The hired guns would be here shortly, he felt sure. He pulled his .44 from leather and pushed open the door, stepping inside.

Matt Bodine and the man looked at each other, both of them startled, and one of them very puzzled. Both men were speechless for a few seconds.

“You!” Matt said.

The man smiled. But his eyes were anything but friendly. He was not wearing a pistol, and the rifle was leaning up against a wall, too far away for him to reach.

“In the flesh, Matt.” He laughed at Matt's expression. “You'd better close your mouth before a fly decides to take up residence in there. How have you been?”

Matt closed his mouth and holstered his pistol.

“That's better,” the man said, still squatting on the dirty floor.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“I've been playing a game. A fun game, isn't it?”

“Not particularly. And it's one I don't understand. Did you slip that note under my door?”

“Certainly.”

“You knew all along about Sutton and Carlin and Singer and Ladue?”

“Even before I came out here. Ladue is my uncle, too.”

“Jesus! How many kids did that old man sire?”

“Four. All illegitimate.”

“And you have the proof of that?”

“You're very quick, Bodine. Yes.”

“You're working with Ladue?”

“Wrong, Bodine,” the voice came from behind him. “He's working for me.”