Moonshine Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  “The buckboard was empty. What could they do to her?”

  “If they suspect her and her family of making moonshine, who knows what they might do?” Matt shook his head grimly. “You saw how quick they were to blow up that shack.”

  “They’re not going to throw a bomb at a girl driving an empty buckboard, no matter what they might suspect her of,” Sam said tolerantly.

  “Maybe not, but something else bad could happen,” Matt insisted, “especially if she drew that gun and started shooting at them. You think that bunch would put up with that?”

  Sam frowned and rubbed at his chin in thought. “Probably not,” he admitted. “What have you got in mind, Matt?”

  “I think we should follow her,” Matt replied without hesitation. “Just to make sure she gets home safely, you understand.”

  “We don’t know where she lives, and she’s already driven out of town. By the time we could get our horses ready to ride, she’d have a good lead on us.”

  “Well, then, time’s a-wastin’, isn’t it? Come on.”

  With that, Matt turned away from the hotel and strode determinedly toward the livery stable where they had left their mounts. Sam lingered on the boardwalk just for a second, staring after his blood brother. Then with a sigh and a shake of his head, he started after Matt.

  The lamp in the livery stable office was turned low. Through the window they could see Ike Loomis bent over a ledger book. Matt rapped sharply on the glass. Loomis jumped a little, as if the noise startled him, then stood up and motioned toward the big front doors. When he had opened one of them slightly, he peered out owlishly and asked, “What do you boys want? It’s after dark.”

  “We need our horses,” Matt said.

  Loomis opened the door wider. “All right, come in, come in. If there’s one thing a liveryman gets used to, it’s folks bringin’ their animals in or takin’ ’em out at all hours of the day or night.”

  “We’re sorry to bother you,” Sam said as he and Matt entered the stable.

  “What’re you fellas up to, not that it’s any o’ my business?”

  “Can you tell us how to find the Harlow place?” Matt asked.

  Loomis blinked in surprise. “Thurman Harlow’s farm? What do you want out there?” The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’ve heard about that booze he makes, haven’t you? If you want a taste of it, you can go right down to my saloon—”

  “That’s where we just were,” Matt said. “And that home brew is mighty fine. That’s not what we’re after, though.” Matt realized he had to lay his cards on the table, or Loomis might refuse to cooperate with them. “We just saw Miss Harlow drive out of town, and we’re a mite worried about her. We’d like to make sure she gets home all right without running into any trouble.”

  “What Matt means is that he’s worried,” Sam said, “but I’m willing to go along with him.”

  Loomis gave a bark of laughter. “If it’s Frankie Harlow you’re worryin’ about, there ain’t no reason.”

  “No, it was the Harlow girl,” Matt said.

  “That’s who I’m talkin’ about. Frankie Harlow. That’s what she goes by. I don’t know what her real handle is. But she can shoot the wings off’n a gnat at a hundred yards, and she’s got the disposition of a surly ol’ badger. Ever’body around these parts knows not to take no liberties with her. They’d be riskin’ gettin’ a hole in their hide if they did.”

  “Maybe so,” Matt said. “But what about those special marshals the governor sent out?”

  Loomis frowned, scratched at his beard, and said, “You know, I never thought about that.”

  “Those fellas are dangerous, especially for anybody who’s got anything to do with the whiskey trade. Now, will you tell us where to find the Harlow place?”

  Loomis nodded. “Sure. I don’t reckon it’d hurt anything to make sure Frankie gets home all right. I’d plumb hate to see anything happen to that gal.”

  While Matt and Sam were putting their saddles on their horses, Loomis explained that the Harlow farm was about five miles west of town, then a mile south of the main trail.

  “It was just a hardscrabble homestead at first, but when Thurman and his boys couldn’t make a go of it, they started brewin’ whiskey. Their corn crop might not’ve been good enough to support ’em, but it was fine for makin’ corn squeezin’s.”

  As Matt drew his cinches tight, he said, “I think if we hurry, we can catch up to Frankie before she gets to the turnoff. We can follow her and make sure she gets home all right.”

  “Best do your followin’ at a distance,” Loomis advised. “If’n you come up on her too suddenlike and spook her, she’s liable to start shootin’.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Sam promised. He still thought Matt was probably worrying a little too much about Frankie Harlow, but he was willing to go along with this idea if it made his blood brother happy.

  A few minutes later, they swung up into their saddles as Loomis opened one of the doors enough for them to ride out. “If the light in the office is out when you get back, I’ve turned in. I’ll leave the doors unlocked, though, so you can bring your hosses in. You boys seem trustworthy to me.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Loomis,” Matt told him.

  “You might be doin’ me a favor. I don’t want anything happenin’ to any of the Harlows. Without them, I might not be able to keep my saloon open. Folks come from miles around for that Who-hit-John they cook up.”

  The blood brothers lifted their hands in farewell and then rode out, heading west from Cottonwood.

  Chapter 10

  As the settlement fell behind them, Sam said, “You’re going to feel a mite foolish if that girl gets home safely and we’ve wasted our time.”

  “Not a bit,” Matt insisted. “I’ll be plumb satisfied if she does. You don’t think I go around hopin’ to run into trouble, do you?”

  Sam grunted but didn’t make any other reply.

  They rode at a fast pace, the miles falling behind them as they followed the main trail by moonlight. Matt kept his eyes peeled for any sign of the buckboard up ahead, but he couldn’t see well enough in the darkness to spot it.

  They might be practically on top of the vehicle by the time they saw it, Matt knew, and that could cause Frankie Harlow to believe she was being attacked, as Ike Loomis had cautioned them. Matt couldn’t think of any way to solve that problem, though. If Frankie started shooting at them, they would have to yell for her to hold her fire and assure her that they meant no harm.

  As it turned out, the blood brothers didn’t have to worry about that happening, though, because about half an hour after they left Cottonwood, Matt suddenly brought his horse to a halt and asked, “Do you hear that?”

  A flurry of popping sounds drifted through the night air.

  “Yeah, I hear it,” Sam replied. “That’s gunfire, coming from somewhere up ahead.”

  “Damn it, I knew that gal was gonna run into trouble! I just knew it!” Matt jabbed his boot heels into his horse’s flanks and sent the animal leaping ahead at a gallop. “Come on!”

  They rode hard toward the source of the gunshots. To Matt’s way of thinking, there was only one explanation that made any sense: Frankie Harlow had run into the group of special marshals, and they had opened fire on her, probably when they called on her to halt and she kept going.

  It wasn’t a running fight, though, Matt knew, because he and Sam were drawing closer to the shots. Frankie must have forted up somewhere and tried to hold off the marshals. Fear gnawed at Matt’s vitals. Would Bickford and Porter and their hired guns toss a bomb at her, not knowing that she was a woman?

  And even if they did know, would it make any difference to them?

  Matt and Sam swept around a bend in the trail and suddenly spotted orange muzzle flashes spouting in the shadows up ahead to their right. There was enough silvery moonlight to reveal that the buggy was lying on its side in the road about a hundred yards ahead of them. The horses weren’t hitched to
the vehicle anymore and weren’t even in sight. The team must have broken loose when the shooting started and the buckboard overturned, Matt thought. That would have occurred as Frankie was trying to flee from the bushwhackers.

  Because an ambush was exactly what it had been, Matt saw in that fleeting second. Half a dozen riflemen were firing down at the buckboard from the cover of a tree-topped ridge to the north. They must have been hidden there, waiting for Frankie to come along. Then they had opened fire on her as she drove the buckboard past them…the dirty bastards.

  The only good thing he could see was that Frankie was still alive. Muzzle flashes came from behind the buckboard as she returned the bushwhackers’ fire. She might be hurt, but she was still capable of putting up a fight. From the sound of the sharp cracks, she’d had a rifle with her in the vehicle.

  Matt pulled his Winchester from its saddle sheath and called to Sam, “We’ll split up and come at that ridge from different directions!”

  “Right!” Sam called back, indicating that he understood. The blood brothers had ridden together for so long and found themselves in so many desperate battles that it didn’t take much for each of them to know what the other was thinking.

  They veered their horses apart and headed for the ridge, Matt going to the left and Sam to the right. They guided their horses with their knees and opened fire on the bushwhackers as they charged.

  The gunmen must have spotted their muzzle flashes right away and realized that this was a new threat. Several of them switched their attention to Matt and Sam. At least that drew some of the fire away from Frankie Harlow, Matt thought as a slug whipped past his head, close enough for him to hear it. He sprayed the trees along the ridgetop with bullets as fast as he would work the rifle’s lever, and off to his right, Sam was doing the same thing.

  Matt lowered the Winchester, snatched the reins out of his mouth where he had put them, and hauled his mount to the right so that he wouldn’t come between Frankie and the bushwhackers and ride right into her line of fire. Sam changed his angle of attack, too, heading farther north so that he could circle the eastern end of the ridge and get behind the hidden gunmen. If he could pull that off, they would have the bushwhackers in a cross fire.

  The men on the ridge must have figured that out, too, because the muzzle flashes from up there abruptly ceased. They didn’t want to be trapped. Matt hauled his horse to a stop and listened, and a moment later he heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats from the far side of the ridge. The bushwhackers were getting out of there while they still had a chance to do so. If they had waited, they might have been pinned down. That would have been a neat job of turning the tables on them, despite the odds, Matt thought.

  Instead, the varmints were taking off for the tall and uncut, and Sam wouldn’t be in position yet to stop them.

  All the shooting had stopped now. Frankie must have realized that the bushwhackers had given up, too. Matt swung his mount around and rode slowly toward the wrecked buckboard. He hoped that Frankie would have seen how he and Sam threw themselves into the battle on her side and would know that they were friends.

  She might suspect that, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Another shot suddenly blasted from behind the buckboard. The slug kicked up dirt ten yards in front of Matt’s horse.

  “Don’t come any closer!” a woman’s voice called. “I’ve got a bead on you, mister, and I’ll drill you if you do!”

  Matt reined in and said, “Hold your fire. I’m on your side, Miss Harlow.”

  There was a moment of silence, then she said, “You know who I am?”

  “Frankie Harlow, right? We haven’t been introduced, but my friend and I heard about you back in Cottonwood. My name’s Matt Bodine.”

  “Did you just happen to come along here when that bunch opened up on me, Matt Bodine?” Frankie’s voice held a definite edge of suspicion.

  Better to be truthful with her, Matt decided. “No, Sam and I were following you. That’s Sam Two Wolves, by the way. Reckon he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Following me?” Frankie repeated. “What for?”

  “We wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

  Matt heard a snort of disdain from behind the buckboard. “Likely story. That’s why strange men always follow a gal at night, because they’re so concerned about her safety.”

  “It’s true,” Matt insisted. “You see, we know what you had on that buckboard earlier.”

  Again, suspicion was sharp in Frankie’s voice as she declared, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You were delivering some of the moonshine that you and your family brew to Ike Loomis’s hidden saloon in that old abandoned barn.” A little impatience crept into Matt’s voice as he added, “Does that make it clear enough?”

  Before Frankie could reply, Matt heard a horse approaching. The young woman did, too, because she called, “Who’s that?”

  “Sam Two Wolves, miss,” Sam replied. “A friend, so please don’t shoot me.”

  “Over here, Sam,” Matt called. A moment later, his blood brother rode up.

  “All right, you two, stay there where I can see you,” Frankie warned. “I’ll blow you out of your saddles if I have to. I can do it, too.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a second, Miss Harlow,” Matt said. He stayed where he was, not making any threatening movements, and so did Sam.

  Frankie stepped out from behind the buckboard and leveled a rifle at them. Matt could see her slim figure fairly well in the moonlight, which meant she could see them, too. Judging by the easy, graceful way she moved, she hadn’t been wounded in the attack or injured in the wreck.

  “Get down off those horses,” she ordered.

  Matt and Sam did as she said, swinging down from their saddles and standing beside the horses, holding the reins. “Did you get a look at that bunch?” Matt asked.

  “No such luck,” Sam replied. “They had already taken off by the time I could get around the end of the ridge. I didn’t even waste any lead hurrying them on their way.”

  Frankie said, “You two could’ve been killed, you know.”

  “So could you,” Matt said. “Looks like you might’ve come close when that buckboard turned over.”

  “Did the team break loose and run away?” Sam asked.

  “That’s right. Those horses probably didn’t go far, though. I can find them and ride one of them back to my pa’s place.”

  “We’d be glad to give you a hand,” Matt offered. “If the buckboard doesn’t have a cracked axle or a busted wheel, we can set it upright, find the horses, and hitch them up again.”

  “You’d go to that much trouble for me?”

  “Sure,” Matt answered promptly. “It wouldn’t be that much trouble. Ain’t that right, Sam?”

  Sam’s innate chivalry wouldn’t let him disagree. “We’d be glad to do that, Miss Harlow.”

  She finally lowered the rifle slightly and said, “You two sound like you mean it.”

  “We do,” Matt assured her. “Just give us a chance to show you.”

  Frankie hesitated a few seconds longer, then lowered the rifle the rest of the way. “All right,” she said. “I’m much obliged for the help.”

  She stepped back as Matt and Sam led their mounts forward. Sam handed his reins to Matt, then went to check over the buckboard as best he could in the darkness. After he’d inspected the vehicle for a few minutes, he said, “It seems sound enough. Let’s tie our ropes to it and pull it back onto its wheels.”

  This wasn’t the first time the blood brothers had righted an overturned wagon. They knew what they were doing, and within a few minutes they had tied their ropes to the buckboard, made the other ends fast to their saddles, and had the horses backing away to pull the ropes taut. Matt and Sam went around to the other side of the buckboard and bent to get hold of it, then called out to their horses to back some more. With a creaking of ropes and grunts of effort from the two young men, the buckboard lifted and fell over o
nto its iron wheels, upright once more. Sam started checking the axles and wheels again to make sure their salvage efforts hadn’t done any damage.

  Matt said, “I’ll go find those horses that ran off.”

  “You’d better take me with you,” Frankie said. “They know me, and they’ll be less likely to bolt if they hear a familiar voice.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  Matt mounted, then held a hand down to her, leaving the stirrup on that side empty so she could use it to help her step up. Frankie hesitated, but only for a second. Then she clasped Matt’s wrist and let him help her onto the horse’s back. She sat behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist to hang on.

  “Which way did they go?” he asked.

  “They were still headed west, the last I saw of them.”

  “Then that’s the way we’ll go,” Matt said as he heeled his horse into motion.

  Chapter 11

  As they rode, Matt was all too aware of how Frankie’s firm, apple-sized breasts pressed into his back. The warmth of her breath against his neck and the strength of her supple arms around his waist made tingles of delight go through him. Despite her name and her mannish clothes, she was all woman—and having her so close like this was causing a definite reaction in him.

  To make some conversation, he said, “Frankie’s sort of an unusual name for a gal, isn’t it?”

  “Never you mind about my name,” she said. “Just find those horses. My pa and my brothers are probably starting to get worried about me.”

  “Sure. Four horses, right?”

  “That’s right.” She took one arm from around his waist and used that hand to point. “I think that’s them over there, isn’t it?”

  Matt saw the dark shapes grazing on the grass where Frankie was pointing and said, “Yeah, I reckon so.” He turned his mount in that direction.

  As they came closer, Frankie said quietly in his ear, “Stop here and let me off. I’ll go round them up.”

  “I could probably lasso one of them for you,” Matt offered.