Blood Bond 5 (5 page)

“He's that good?”

“He'll probably get lead in me.”

“Now we can't ride out, even if we chose to do so.”

“No. People have heard the challenge. If I rode away, I'd have every punk gunhand west of the Mississippi looking for me. Goddamn that Bacque!” Nate Perry, one of the new deputies, walked up. “Who was that fellow who threatened you, Matt?”

“Phillip Bacque. The French-Canadian.”

Nate seemed to pale under his tan. “Jesus, man. John Carlin is really going all out, ain't he?”

“That would appear to be the case.”

Sam took a notepad from his inside vest pocket and added four more names to the tally. “That brings it to thirteen known gunhands for Bull and twelve for John. Twelve or fifteen would-be's for each side.”

“All because two ranchers don't want their kids seeing each other.”

The sounds of wagons, buggies, and horses' hooves pounding the hard-packed roadway reached them.

“More surprises, I suppose,” Sam said.

“I do love a parade,” Matt replied, as the riders came racing into town amid a cloud of dust and wheeled in at the general store on the Carlin side of town.

“I guess now we get to meet the Carlin kids,” Matt said, taking off his hat and attempting to fan the drifting dust away from him.

One of the riders let out a wild Texas yell and jumped down from his horse.

“Bob Coody,” Sam said. “You remember him?”

“I remember him. He's walking this way, too.”

The Texas gunhand came stomping up the boardwalk and stopped in front of Matt and Sam, grinning down at them. “I heard you boys was here. I couldn't believe it. Last time I seen you boys you was stickin' your noses into matters down along the Pecos. That didn't concern you and neither does this affair.”

“What's the matter, Bob?” Sam asked. “Did Josiah Finch run you out of Texas?”

Coody's grin vanished. “Don't nobody ever run me out of nowhere, Breed.”

“Get out of my way, Coody,” Matt told him. “You're blocking the sunlight.”

“If the boss hadn't a said no trouble in this town, Bodine, I'd ask you to make me move.”

“Oh, Coody,” Matt said, disgust in his voice. “Will you people—on both sides—stop playing kid's games? What the hell is going on around here?”

Bob Coody squatted down on the boardwalk and took off his hat, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Tell you the truth, Bodine, damned if I know. Now, I don't like you or the breed here, and I figure you and me will shoot it out one of these days, but this situation here? It's odd, Bodine. Mighty queer, it is.”

“Both sides paying top wages?” Sam asked.

“Best I ever collected. And I ain't fired a shot in a month, 'ceptin' at a rattler the other day. It's borin'.”

“We're not on either side, Bob,” Matt told him. “We're out of this war.”

“That ain't no good place to be, Bodine,” the gunhandler told him. “Straddlin' the fence is as good as takin' the wrong side. You better pick one and stay with it. Or get the hell gone from here. Them's my feelin's about it.”

“Thanks for leveling with us,” Sam said.

Coody stood up and hitched at his gunbelt. “This is a strange sichiation here. Gives me a right uneasy feelin' not knowin' which way the wind is a blowin'.” He turned abruptly and walked away, heading for the Carlin House.

“Now what do you make of that?” Sam asked.

Before Matt could reply, the air was split by wild curses, followed by gunfire. A man staggered out of the Bull's Den and fell in a bloody heap in the dirt.

Matt and Sam remained seated on the bench as the saloons emptied and gunhands lined the boardwalks, staring at each other across the street. Tom Riley came at a run to stand over the still conscious chest-shot man in the dirt.

“Damn spy for John Carlin,” a puncher said, the pistol still in his hand. “He drew down on me, and I got witnesses to prove it.”

“He's a liar,” the dying man gasped the words. “I ride for the A.T. outfit. I just come into town for a drink. I ain't no gunfighter.”

The gunslick flushed and said, “You don't call me no liar, saddletramp.” He cocked the pistol and shot the dying man in the face.

Tom Riley laid a cosh against the gunslick's forehead, and the murderer went down, a swelling knot right between and just above his eyes. “Nate!” Tom called.

“Here, Tom,” the deputy said, stepping forward.

“Get some boys and drag him to the jail. Log him in for murder.”

“You'll not get away with this, Tom,” a BS rider said. “Bull will not see no man of his on the gallows.”

Tom ignored that. “Van, Parley, take down the names of all these men who witnessed the shooting in the saloon. After that's done, you boys ride back to the Flyin' BS and stay the hell there.” He turned his back to them and faced the Carlin House. “You men clear out. Right now. Get the hell to the JC range and cool down.”

“You murderin' scum!” a woman yelled from the Carlin side of town. “Goddamn trash, all of you!”

Sam and Matt stared at the woman. Maybe twenty-one or so, and definitely cute. But with a voice that would put a steam whistle to shame.

“Petunia Carlin,” a shopkeeper spoke from the door of his business. “She's just getting wound up.”

The young woman then started letting the invectives fly, shouting the curses across the street.

“My word!” Sam said.

“I told you,” the shopkeeper said.

“Petunia!” Tom Riley yelled. “Close that nasty mouth of yours and get on back into the dress shop. Move, girl!”

Petunia stared at the marshal, stamped her little foot in anger, then gave Tom a very obscene gesture. She stomped back into the shop.

A young man stepped away from the crowd and yelled, “You don't talk to my sister like that, Riley!”

“Pete Carlin,” the shopkeeper said. “Petunia's twin brother. Crazy mean.”

“Why are you talking to us?” Matt asked, twisting on the bench to look at the man. “No one else in town will.”

“Shut up, Pete!” Tom told the young man. “Before your butt overloads your mouth.”

“Aw, I figure you boys is all right,” the shopkeeper said. “You just rode into a bad situation and don't have the good sense to ride out.” He turned and walked back into the shop.

“There is some truth in his words,” Sam said.

“You don't tell me what to do either, Tom,” Pete yelled. “My pa will skin you and nail your hide to the barn door.”

Petunia stuck her bonneted head out of the dress shop. “Pete! Shut your damn mouth and get off the boardwalk. You know what Pa said. Move.”

Pete muttered something and stepped back into the Carlin House.

The body of the dead A.T. puncher was toted off, and the BS rider was dragged off to jail. Matt and Sam had not left the bench during the entire episode. Tom walked slowly over to them.

“That gunny who squatted down and talked to you boys, who is he?”

“Bob Coody,” Matt told him. “From Texas way. He doesn't like me very much.”

“Why?”

“He claims I killed a friend of his down along the Pecos.”

“Did you?”

Matt shrugged. “It's a possibility.”

“The lid is going to blow off this boilin' pot now,” Tom said, removing his hat and wiping first his forehead and then the inside band with a handkerchief. “I expect to see the whole kit-and-caboodle of them come stormin' in.”

“Petunia appears to be a very nice young lady,” Sam said with a straight face.

Tom looked at him, astonished. Then he smiled. “Yes. Oh, my, yes. Very feminine. And what you saw today was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Not that I've ever seen an iceberg. You boys really are stayin' out of this mess, aren't you?”

“We would have backed you if anybody had made a move,” Sam told him.

“I appreciate that. See you boys.”

The brothers sat and watched the BS and most of the JC riders leave town, galloping their horses and yelling. Pete and Petunia and a few of their hands remained. Matt and Sam sat and watched Petunia and her brother meet on the boardwalk and start up toward the hotel. They were going to pass right by the brothers.

“You know any of the hands with them?” Sam asked.

“Not a one. I think they're regular punchers, but just remember they ride for the brand.”

When the brother and sister and entourage got within hearing distance, Pete and Petunia started whispering and giggling and pointing at Matt and Sam.

“Lars,” Petunia said. “Do something about removing that greasy Injun from my sight, will you?”

“It'll be my pleasure, Miss Petunia,” Lars said.

“Here we go,” Sam spoke softly.

Lars swaggered up and said, “On your feet, Injun. Get off the street so's decent women can pass.”

“I'm very comfortable right where I am,” Sam said, and then kicked him right in the nuts with the point of a boot. Lars sank to his knees, his face drained of color, his mouth working open and closed without a sound coming out. Sam put a boot on the man's chest and shoved him off the boardwalk. He landed with a plop and a small cloud of dust.

“You may safely pass by, Miss Petunia,” Sam said. “I assure you, this Indian has never molested a white woman nor taken a scalp in his life.”

“Ooohhhh,” Lars moaned.

“You trash!” Petunia hissed at Sam.

“This foul-mouthed wench is calling me trash,” Sam said to Matt. “Since you're my brother, I guess that tars you with the same brush.”

“Foul-mouthed wench!” Pete yelled. “Git up on your feet, Injun, and take your lickin' like a white man. Dave, Batty, watch Bodine.”

Sam slowly stood up and then uncorked a right that knocked Pete clean off the boardwalk and into the street. Matt left the bench in a rush and slugged Dave hard, knocking the puncher back into Batty. Batty fell off the high boardwalk and landed in a horse trough, his head banging against the side of the trough. He sat there, addled, water up to his neck, and with a stupid smile on his face.

“Why you son of a . . .” Dave never got to finish it. Matt plowed in, both fists swinging. One punch caught Dave on the nose, and the other slammed into his jaw. Matt followed in quickly, with a left to the wind and an uppercut that clicked Dave's teeth together and crossed his eyes. Matt measured the man and busted him square on the side of the jaw. Dave wilted to the boardwalk.

Sam had punched Pete silly. The young man stood swaying in the swirling dust of the street, blood leaking from his nose and mouth and from a cut on his cheek. Matt checked Lars. Lars was in no shape to do anything except moan.

“Finish him,” Matt said. “Quit playin' around, Sam.”

“He's got a head like a rock!” Sam said. “He won't go down.”

Pete chose that time to smack Sam in the mouth and knock him sprawling on his butt. Matt laughed and applauded. His laugh was cut off short as Batty climbed out of the horse trough and slopped over to him and hit him on the back of the head with a work-hardened fist. Matt went to his knees and shook his head to clear the birdies from it.

Matt rolled and came up to his boots, facing the big and angry puncher. “I'm gonna tear your meathouse down, Bodine,” Batty said.

A large crowd had gathered, encircling the fighters. Even Tom Riley was there with his deputies. They seemed to be enjoying the show.

“Knock his teeth down his damn throat, Sam!” a man yelled.

“Who said that?” Pete shouted, looking around him.

Sam decked him, and the young man landed hard on his butt.

Batty swung, Matt ducked, and drove his right fist just as hard as he could into the puncher's belly. Batty doubled over, gasping for air, and Matt hit him with a left that caught the man directly on the ear. Batty staggered to one side in time to catch a punch on the other ear. Batty was in a temporary world of silence, except for the roaring in his head.

“What happened?” he questioned.

Matt gave him a reply in the form of a fist to the mouth. Batty's feet flew out from under him, and he hit the street and didn't move.

Sam had literally beaten Pete's face into a pulp, and still he wouldn't go down. Sam finally spun him around, grabbed the young man by the shirt collar and the seat of his britches and drove him headfirst into a hitchrail post. Pete sighed and sank to the ground, his head resting momentarily on a fresh pile of horse shit. His face slowly sank out of sight.

“Hold that pose!” Ralph Masters hollered, running up with all his cumbersome camera gear.

Sam and Matt leaned against a hitch rail and panted while Ralph got several pictures of the scene, laughing and chuckling all the while.

Petunia stood on the boardwalk, her face white with anger and shock. Nobody did this to a Carlin. Nobody. Ever. Not and get away with it.

“You sons of bitches!” Petunia squalled, just as Lars was sticking his head over the rim of the boardwalk. Petunia reached into her purse and hauled out a short-barreled hogleg. She jacked the hammer back just as the crowd began running in all directions.

Her finger slipped off the hammer, and she blew Lars' hat off his head. Lars fainted with a prayer on his lips, sure he was mortally wounded.

Matt and Sam crawled under the high boardwalk just as Petunia started letting the lead fly. Her mother had probably stood by her husband's side, helping John fight off Indians and outlaws in the early days, but Petunia was no hand with a pistol. She shot out one window of the general store, fractured the striped pole outside the barber shop, blew the saddle horn off of a hitched horse on the other side of the street, sending the frightened animal racing up the road, drilled a wooden Indian outside the tobacco and gun shop right between the eyes, and sent the sixth shot rocketing toward space.

Dave was just getting to his feet when Petunia hurled the empty gun in frustration. The pistol caught the back of his head and sent him sprawling back into the street, out cold.

Tom and his deputies rushed out from cover, and he told a lady to grab Petunia before she could get her hands on another gun. The ample lady grabbed the girl, and Petunia tore away and socked her on the jaw. The lady rared back and gave Petunia double what she had received. Petunia went down on her bustle with a busted lip and commenced to squalling at the top of her lungs.

Tom ran over and not-too-gently jerked Petunia up and marched her toward the jail. “Thank you, Mrs. Jackson,” he said to the lady.

“You're sure welcome, Tom. It was worth a bruised jaw.”

Petunia stuck out her tongue at the woman and cussed her.

“Pitiful,” Mrs. Jackson said, as Tom marched the young woman up the boardwalk.

“Where the hell do you think you're taking me, you jackass?” Petunia bellered.

“To jail, Petunia,” Tom informed her. “And you'd best shut that big mouth of yours before I forget that you're a female and turn you over my knee, take off my belt, and give you what your daddy should have given you years back.”

“Unhand me, you brute!”

Van and Nate were dragging the unconscious Pete Carlin up the center of the street. Ralph Masters was working frantically, taking pictures of the event.

Lars opened his eyes and gingerly felt his head. “Am I dead?” he asked.

“No,” Parley told him. “Just under arrest.”

“That ain't good, but it's better than dead,” Lars replied.

And a lone figure slipped out the back of the Carlin House, made his way to the livery, and lit a shuck for home range. John Carlin was going to hit the ceiling when he learned of this.

Matt and Sam crawled out from under the high boardwalk. Both of them were somewhat the worse for wear. “Brother,” Sam said, “I know that pride prevents us from doing this, but I honestly think the best thing we could do is saddle up and get the hell gone from this place.”

“I agree,” Matt replied, brushing the dirt from his jeans and shirt front. “With both statements.”

“Goddamn you!” the voice of Petunia drifted out from the jail. “My daddy'll burn this two-bit town to the ground for this.”

“Can you imagine being married to that tuba-mouth?” Sam asked.

“I'd sooner bed down with a skunk. Come on, let's get cleaned up and get something to eat. I figure in about two hours, or less, this town is going to have one angry father stomping around.”

 

 

John Carlin rode into town in force, with every man he could muster, all of them heavily armed, riding with rifles across the saddle horn. It was a formidable army. Carlin's face was dark with fury. Marshal Tom Riley stood alone in front of the jail. He had a spare six-shooter tucked behind his gun belt and held a Greener in the crook of his left arm. His deputies were on the rooftops, armed with rifles. Matt and Sam lounged near the jail. Sam had taken his spare pistol out of his saddlebags and shoved it behind his belt.

“You got my daughter in your goddamn jail, Tom,” Carlin said, walking his horse to the boardwalk where Tom Riley stood. “I want her out, now.”

“I don't take orders from you, John,” the marshal said calmly. “The judge will have to decide what bond will be. There are some serious charges against her.”