“That’s right. Now, I’m getting tired of flapping my gums. Move!”
Unarmed and covered by the Greener that way, Matt and Sam had no choice but to follow the marshal’s orders. They could try to get close enough to jump Stryker and take the shotgun away from him, Matt thought, or they could try to grab Colts from some of the other men in the saloon and shoot it out . . . but either of those moves was likely to result in innocent folks getting hurt, maybe even killed. That just wasn’t something the blood brothers wanted to be responsible for.
“Maybe it won’t be too bad,” Sam said quietly to Matt as Stryker backed onto the boardwalk and they followed the marshal outside. “They’ll have to give us three square meals a day. We’ll just get some rest while we’re waiting for the judge to arrive.”
“Yeah, but what if we don’t have enough money to pay for the damages and those fines?” Matt muttered.
Stryker overheard the question. He gave them an ugly grin and said, “In that case you’ll work off your debt. I can’t speak for the judge, but I reckon about six months of hard labor would be about right.”
“Six months!” In his outrage, Matt echoed what Buckner had said a few minutes earlier. “Why, you—”
Sam’s hand on his shoulder stopped him from saying anything more improvident. Sam looked at Matt and shook his head solemnly.
Matt glared over at Sam. “Let’s cut across the Panhandle, you said. We won’t run into any trouble there, you said. What could possibly go wrong, you said . . .”
* * *
Things were about to go wrong more than either Matt Bodine or Sam Two Wolves—or anybody else in Buckskin, for that matter—could guess. About a mile north of the settlement, under the light of the stars and the rising moon, a large group of men sat on their horses and listened to their leader speak.
“There’s a bank, a freight company, a stagecoach station, and more than a dozen other businesses in Buckskin. The money in the bank is what we’re really after, of course, but there should be plenty of other loot in town as well. Take what you want, but remember, don’t start any fires until we’re ready to ride out.” A harsh laugh came from the man. “We don’t want the settlement burning down while we’re still cleaning it out!”
“What about women, Deuce?” asked one of the men. “Can we grab a few of them to take along?”
Edward “Deuce” Mallory laughed again. “Why, sure! If you see a gal who strikes your fancy, bring her along.” Mallory’s voice hardened as he added, “But get the money first. We’re heading for Mexico, and there’ll be plenty of pretty little señoritas there.”
Mutters of agreement came from the assembled outlaws. They knew their business, these three dozen hard-faced hombres. They had been riding together as a gang for almost a year. A few members had come and gone during that time, but most of them were experienced desperadoes used to working with each other. They were used to taking orders from Deuce Mallory, too. Mallory was the one who had put together the original gang, numbering only eight men, who had started their string of robberies and killings back in Missouri. Their depredations had quickly grown to rival those of the James gang, the Younger’s, and the other groups of outlaws whose infamy was spreading across the frontier. Mallory was a canny leader. He picked his targets and planned his raids well.
He was an educated man, the son of a Illinois storekeeper who had worked hard to send his boy to college. But Edward had a wild streak in him, and even though he was smart enough to handle his classes with no trouble, he had been expelled for gambling—and for bedding the wife of one of his instructors, although that hadn’t been written down on any of the official documents ending his college career. The cuckolded professor had caught up to Edward Mallory before the young man could leave town, intending to give him a thrashing. Instead, Mallory had beaten the older man to death with his bare hands, insuring that he could never go home again. The shame of being kicked out of school was one thing; a murder charge hanging over his head was something else entirely. The whole sweep of the frontier awaited him, so Mallory had taken off for the tall and uncut. He found that the life of a fugitive wasn’t really that bad. He picked up the nickname “Deuce” in Wichita when he bluffed his way to victory in a high stakes poker game with only a pair of twos in his hand.
Wichita was where he had killed his second man, too, this time in a gunfight, so Mallory supposed the nickname was appropriate for that reason, too. Since then he’d lost track of the number of men who had fallen to his gun. He didn’t care about things like that. Notoriety didn’t interest him nearly as much as money, whiskey, women, and cards—not necessarily in that order. It just depended on his mood at the time.
Now he swept his gaze over the men who were gathered in the moonlight and said, “All right. You know what to do. Kill as many as you can when we ride in. That’ll shock the townspeople into not fighting back.”
One of the outlaws laughed. “Even if they do, they won’t stand a chance against us, Deuce. They won’t hardly know what hit ’em.”
“No,” Mallory agreed, “but they’ll sure as hell know they’ve been hit.”
With a thunder of hoofbeats, the killers rode toward Buckskin.
* * *
Matt thought the clang of the cell door closing was a damned ugly sound. He glowered through the bars at Marshal Harlan Stryker, who stood outside the cell with the shotgun tucked under his arm and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Stryker’s deputy, a mild-looking little man he’d called Birdie, asked, “You want me to go over to the café and get these boys somethin’ to eat, Marshal?” Stryker shook his head. “They probably had supper before they went to the Red Queen for their evening of drinking and brawling. And if they didn’t, well, it won’t hurt them to go hungry until morning.”
“I’m gonna tell the judge about the way you’re treatin’ us, Marshal,” Matt threatened.
“Go right ahead,” Stryker replied with a chuckle. “I think you’ll find that Judge Farnsworth has as little patience for lawbreakers as I do. He’s not going to take pity on you because you had to miss a meal.”
The cell had two bunks in it, one along each of the stone walls at its sides. The marshal’s office was a squat building, solidly built of stone blocks and thick timbers. The timbers must have been freighted in; because one thing the Texas Panhandle had in short supply was big trees. Trees of any size were scarce up here mostly.
With a sigh, Sam sank onto one of the bunks and said, “You might as well stop arguing with the marshal, Matt. It’s not going to do any good.”
Stryker nodded. “That’s right, Two Wolves. You’re the smarter of the pair, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I’d say neither one of you is very smart, or you wouldn’t be starting fights in saloons.” The marshal turned to his deputy. “Keep an eye on them, Birdie. I’m going to go make my evening rounds.”
“Yes, sir, Marshal. I sure will watch ’em.” Birdie fixed a beady-eyed, intimidating glare on the prisoners. That’s what he seemed to be trying for anyway, but he was so harmless-looking that it didn’t really work.
Stryker left the cell block. Matt heard his footsteps crossing the office, then heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.
“The marshal’s gone now,” Matt said. “Why don’t you let us out of here, little fella? We didn’t start that fight in the saloon. I swear.”
“You can tell your story to the judge. He’ll be the one to decide whether or not you’re tellin’ the truth.” Birdie started toward the office, then stopped and turned back to say, “If you fellas would like some coffee, I can put a pot on to boil.”
Sam said, “That would be very nice, Deputy. Thank you.”
Birdie nodded and left the cell block, too. Matt turned to Sam and asked in a quiet voice, “Why’re you bein’ so polite to that little weasel?”
“He’s just doing his job, brother. I don’t see any reason to hold that against him.”
Matt sa
t down on the opposite bunk, folded his arms over his chest, and frowned. “I hold it against anybody who has a hand in lockin’ us up.”
A few minutes of relative silence went by. Matt heard the small sounds of Birdie moving around out in the marshal’s office.
Then he lifted his head as a sharp “Psst! Bodine!” sounded from the cell’s single barred window, set high in the rear wall.
Matt and Sam looked at each other in surprise. They didn’t know anybody in Buckskin. Who would be slipping up to the back of the jail to talk to them through the window?
A large, sturdy bucket sat in the corner of the cell so that prisoners could relieve themselves in it. Since it hadn’t been used—or at least hadn’t been used recently—Matt stood, picked it up, and upended it beneath the window. He started to step up onto it so that he could look through the window, but Sam stopped him with a quick, “Wait a minute. We don’t have any friends in these parts.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “Could be somebody who wants to slap me in the face with a bullet.” Keeping his voice pitched low enough so that he hoped Birdie wouldn’t notice it in the office, he called, “Who’s out there?”
A rumble like that of a grizzly bear came back. “It’s me. Buckner.”
Matt and Sam exchanged a glance. The belligerent buffalo hunter was just about the last person they would have expected to come calling on them in jail.
Without stepping up on the bucket, Matt said, “If you’re here to gloat about us bein’ locked up—”
“Naw,” Buckner interrupted. “That ain’t it. I got to thinkin’, and it ain’t right that you and the redskin have to take all the blame for what happened.”
Sam had stood up and moved over beside Matt, under the window. He said, “So you’re going to find Marshal Stryker and tell him that we shouldn’t be locked up?”
“Hell, no! Stryker wouldn’t believe me anyway. And if he did, he’d just throw me in jail, too. He ain’t gonna let you go. He’s a vain son of a bitch. He wants to be known as the lawman who brought Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves to heel.”
“So what are you gonna do?” Matt asked.
“I got me a chain and a mule out here. I’m gonna bust you boys out.”
Matt and Sam looked at each other again in the light from the lantern that hung in the hall outside the cells. Despite all the ruckuses they’d been mixed up in over the years, they weren’t wanted anywhere. Their slate was clean as far as the law was concerned.
But that wouldn’t be the case if Buckner helped them escape from jail. They would be fugitives—and rightfully so, even though the charges that had landed them behind bars to start with were bogus.
“Forget it,” Matt said. “You don’t have to do that, Buckner.”
“But hell, if I don’t, you’ll be locked up for a week or more!”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life lookin’ over my shoulder for the law.”
“You sure about that?”
Sam said, “We’re certain. If you really want to help, you can stay and testify at our trial.”
“Can’t hardly do that. There’s buffalo waitin’ out there on the plains for me to shoot ’em. Wouldn’t take but a minute to yank them bars out—”
Matt was about to tell Buckner again to forget about any escape attempt, when he heard something else that caught his attention. It was a low-pitched rumble, like the sound of distant drums.
Sam heard it, too. “Hoofbeats,” he breathed. “A lot of them. And they’re coming closer.”
“Hear that, Buckner?” Matt called. “A lot of riders are headed toward town. Could be trouble.”
A moment later that hunch was confirmed, as the drumming of hoofbeats was suddenly joined by the loud crashing of gunshots, shouted questions and curses, and screams of fear.
From somewhere out of the darkness, hell had come to Buckskin.
Chapter 3
Excitement pounded in Deuce Mallory’s chest as he led the charge into the settlement. He lived for these moments when he seized power in both hands and clasped it as tightly as he held the pair of Colts he used to fire left and right as he steered his horse with his knees.
The power of fear. The power of life and death. It was like air to him, something he had to have in order to survive. And when he was without it for too long, he began to feel his control slipping away.
An old man with a white beard down to his chest gaped at the riders from the boardwalk. Without even slowing his horse, Mallory slammed two slugs into the old-timer’s chest. The bullets smashed him back against the wall of the building behind him. He crumpled to the planks, nothing more than a broken stick figure now.
An old woman came out of the building and screamed when she saw the body on the boardwalk. Mallory was almost past, but he twisted in the saddle and fired another shot, placing it with deadly accuracy. The old woman jerked and collapsed as the bullet bored through her brain.
A lot younger and prettier woman darted in front of Mallory’s horse, trying desperately to reach the other side of the street for some reason. Mallory didn’t know why that was so important to her. Nor did he care. He never slowed his mount. The young woman went down under the animal’s slashing hooves, her beauty disappearing in a crimson smear.
Earlier in the day a couple of Mallory’s men had ridden into Buckskin, bought some supplies at one of the general stores, and memorized the layout of the town well enough so that when they returned to the gang they were able to draw a crude map of it. Because of that Mallory knew where the bank was located. He veered his horse toward that redbrick building now as the slaughter continued up and down the settlement’s main street. Some of the outlaws had dismounted and stormed into homes and businesses, looking for loot and killing anyone who got in their way.
Mallory didn’t hesitate as he neared the boardwalk in front of the bank. His horse took the steps leading up to it in a bound. Mallory wheeled the mount, ducked his head, and sent the horse right through the front window in a leap that shattered glass and splintered the window frame. The horse’s hooves thudded on the floor of the bank lobby as it landed inside the building.
More of the outlaws followed through the opening Mallory had made, although they came on foot rather than horseback. One of them carried a lit lantern that illuminated the darkened bank. Mallory pointed to a door on the far side of the lobby and called, “The vault must be through there!”
Several of the men headed in that direction. They had dynamite with them. Mallory knew they would use it to blow the door off the vault. He had recruited them into the gang for that very purpose. They were experts with the explosive cylinders. The rest of the man arranged themselves at the shattered window and the double front doors of the bank. They held rifles and were ready to defend the place if the local law or even the citizens attempted to storm the bank while the outlaws were inside. Mallory didn’t expect that to happen. According to the spies he’d sent into Buckskin, there were only two badge-toters in town, a popinjay of a marshal and his meek little deputy. And Mallory wasn’t worried about the townspeople at all. By now they were too scared of dying—and with good reason!—to put up much of a fight.
“I’ll leave it with you boys!” he said to his men in the bank. “Clean out the vault and rendezvous south of town!”
He leaped his horse back through the window, onto the boardwalk. Some of the buildings down the street were on fire now, torched by his men when they’d finished looting the places. Those flames would spread and might even consume the entire town. Mallory didn’t care if Buckskin burned to the ground, as long as he got what he wanted first.
Right now he wanted to deal out some more punishment to the settlement’s citizens, those boring, lifeless drones who were everything he had always despised. Their mere existence was an affront to him. He wanted to kill all of them. And he would start with the local law, the representatives of everything he hated worst.
He yanked on the reins and turned his horse toward Buckskin’s
marshal’s office and jail.
* * *
Convinced now that Buckner’s visit wasn’t a trick of some sort, Matt jumped on top of the bucket when the shooting started. That brought him up high enough so he could grasp the iron bars and peer out the window.
There wasn’t much to see. The window looked out on the alley that ran behind the jail. Matt saw a massive, looming shape in the alley that had to be Buckner. A few yards away was another, even bigger patch of darkness—the mule Buckner had brought along to pull the bars out of the window.
“What the hell?” The exclamation came from Buckner. “Sounds like a damn war just broke out!”
“Must be outlaws raiding the town,” Matt said. He saw the buffalo hunter turn away from the window. “Hey, Buckner! Come back here!”
“Got to find out what that ruckus is!” Buckner flung back over his shoulder.
“They can’t have a fight without me, damn ’em!”
“Blast it! Buckner! Hey! Maybe you better get us out of here after all!”
Matt’s shouts didn’t do any good. Buckner lumbered off down the alley, turned a corner, and was gone.
Matt hopped down from the bucket and looked at his blood brother. “He’s gone. What do we do now?”
Sam shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do. We’re trapped in here. Our only choice is to wait it out.”
Sam’s words made sense, but that didn’t do Matt any good. Like Buckner must have, he felt the call of battle. The shooting and the yelling were like physical tugs on him. He wanted to be right in the middle of whatever fracas was going on. The door between the cell block and the marshal’s office was flung open. Stryker stood there, his shotgun clutched in his hands. Birdie was with him. Stryker told the deputy, “Get in the cell block and lock the door!”
“I oughta come with you, Marshal!” Birdie protested.
Texas Gundown Page 2
