“Can you trust him not to come back?” Dodge asked.
“Oh, yeah. I been knowin’ him for years. If he gives his word, he’s gone.”
“Tell him.”
“I want your word on it, Dallas,” Chookie called.
“You got it. I’m gone if I can find my horse.”
“Just pick one,” Matt called. “They’re all probably stolen anyway.”
“Mine ain’t! I worked all summer last year to buy that horse. Honest work.” He whistled softly and the animal came to him, nuzzling him. The puncher turned hired gun climbed painfully into the saddle and rode out.
“You better shoot me,” the original mouthy gunhand popped off. “ ’Cause when I get my hands on a gun, I’m comin’ back and finishing this job.”
Dodge stepped out into the road and kicked a fallen six-shooter to the man. It landed right by his hand and shone dully under the stars and moonlight.
Dodge’s guns were in leather. “Pick it up, loudmouth,” the foreman told him.
“Why, you lousy old fart!” the gunhand said, and grabbed for the gun.
Dodge was smooth and quick and sure and deadly. With absolutely no emotion on his face, he shot the man right between the eyes, and then, with a very faint smile showing under his snow-white handlebar mustache, he spun the long-barreled Peacemaker a couple of times before shoving it back into leather.
“Vonny Dodge,” a wounded man breathed, being very careful not to move his hands. “Got to be. That was shore his trademark. I thought you was dead, Vonny.”
“I heard that myself a time or two. I know that voice. Who you be, boy?”
“Hazelton. From up on the Tongue. I was tryin’ to homestead up there when you kilt them three in that tradin’ post.”
“Can you ride?”
“I can.”
“Git your horse and git gone and don’t come back to this part of Texas. I know your face and your voice. If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m gone, Vonny.”
“And keep your mouth shut about seein’ me. You hear?”
“I’ll go to my grave with it, Vonny. You got my word.”
“Five dead, Dodge,” Tate said. “Two more look like they ain’t gonna last the night. Five can ride, I reckon. What the hell do you want to do with them?”
“I know what I want to do,” the old gunslinger said. He looked at Matt. “Suggestions?”
Matt smiled. “Well, I am the marshal.”
“Shore enough,” Dodge said with a smile. “I plumb forgot about that. And we got plenty of lumber left to build a gallows.”
“Now wait just a damn minute!” a shoulder-shot gunhand bellered.
“I ain’t been to a good hangin’ in, oh Lord, I reckon it’s been fifteen years,” Dodge said.
“Will y’all hush up that hangin’ talk?” another hollered. “Just let us ride and we’re gone with the wind, boys. That’s a promise.”
Another drummed his booted feet on the hard-packed road and died.
“Get ’em on their horses and get ’em out of here,” Dodge said. “Throw them dead men across the saddles and rope down good. I don’t feel like diggin’ no damn holes this night.”
The hired guns gone, Matt said, “You don’t suppose we were lucky enough to get lead in John Lee, do you?”
“No,” the foreman said. “He was gone in the first bunch. Least I think I seen him hightail it out.”
“What now?” Beavers said, as he kicked dirt over a bloody spot in the road.
“Well,” Dodge said, smiling. “Let’s ride into Nameit and have us a beer.”
Chapter 9
John Lee sat in his study and assessed his damages. He and his men had ridden straight into an ambush and had paid the price for it. But how did Jeff know they were coming? Did he have a leak? He immediately dismissed that. Only he and his son knew where they were going and what they planned to do; he had told the others during the ride over to the creek.
Jeff—no, probably Bodine—had made a lucky guess. That had to be it. Once back on home range, John had only then realized how lucky he had been. His bunch of hired guns had been shot to ribbons. Only he and Dusty Jordon had escaped uninjured. Several of the men who’d ridden back to the ranch were in bad shape, not expected to make it through the night. The others had suffered only minor wounds.
He dismissed those unfortunates from his mind. They were only hired guns and he could hire more. What was important was the blow John Lee had suffered to his ego. He felt the beginnings of dark savage hatred growing within him. He never thought about calling off the war. He never thought about why he was doing it. He didn’t even know. He just knew that he wanted all the land around him, thousands and thousands of acres, to be his to do with as he saw fit.
And he was going to get it. Even if it meant killing everybody that opposed his grand plans.
Jeff Sparks stood on the front porch of his house, standing in his long underwear—but with his hat on his head—and listened to Dodge’s report about the ambush.
When Dodge finished, the rancher nodded. “It had to be, I reckon. They couldn’t have been ridin’ on our range with nothin’ else on their minds. All right, Dodge. From now on out it’s war and I realize it, so don’t never leave me out of plannin’ again.”
“You have my word on it, Jeff.”
“Any of our boys get hurt?”
“Not a scratch.”
“Get some sleep. You can bet that John Lee is makin’ war plans right this minute.”
Sunday dawned hot and those who weren’t riding the range stayed inside the bunkhouse to escape the heat. They mended socks, patched boots, checked equipment, played cards, told lies to one another, and relaxed.
The men who had been sent to the settlement returned with the news that people were on the way. About twenty-five or so—counting the kids—to run the stores, work the saloon, the blacksmith shop, the barber shop, and so forth.
“Did you find a preacher?” Ed asked his hand.
“Sure did. And his wife’s a schoolteacher, too. We’re gonna have to build a school.”
“Church can be the schoolhouse Monday through Friday.” Ed smiled at Jeff. “We got us a town, partner. A real town with honest-to-God hard-workin’ real people.”
“I posted a notice in several places announcin’ the town,” Bell said. “The north/south stage is gonna schedule the town for a stop, the stationmaster told me.”
“We’re on the way to bringing law and order to this part of the country,” Jeff said. “It’s a grand day, boys.”
They all looked up as the very faint sound of a single gunshot drifted to them.
“Let’s ride,” Matt said, running for his horse.
They found Sonny, one of Ed’s hands, dead on the ground, his horse standing over him, nuzzling the man who’d been his master for years.
Sam rolled him over. A bloody hole was centered in the man’s back. The slug had cut the spinal cord and probably busted the heart.
“Goddammit!” Ed swore, and he was not a man who often used strong language, “Sonny had been with me for years. He was one of the finest men I ever knew. Like one of the family.”
“Dan Ringold,” Matt said. “You dig that slug out and it’ll be a .44-.40. Bet on it. That back-hooter has gone to work.” He looked at Ed. “Me and Sam will pick up his trail. You can bet on that, too. We’ll be back when you see us, Jeff.”
“Now, boys . . .” the rancher started to protest. He shook his head, his features growing hard. “Be careful,” was how he ended it.
“We’ll bury Sonny at dusk,” Ed said. “He liked that time of day. He used to sit outside the bunkhouse and play his guitar and sing songs. He had a good voice.”
Matt swung into the saddle. “Family?” he asked.
Ed shook his head. “If he did he never talked about them. He was a quiet man.”
“Burn that on the marker,” Sam said. “Here lies a good quiet man.” He looked at Matt. “Let’s go find
the man who killed him, brother.”
They began working in long slow circles. It did not take them long to pick up the tracks. They found where the backshooter had positioned himself, on the crest of a long low hill. And they found the spent brass, twinkling in the sunlight.
“Not enough to stand up in a court of law,” Sam said.
“It’s like they say, brother. There ain’t no law west of the Pecos.”
They followed the tracks back to the main road. There, they headed north.
“He sure isn’t making any effort to hide his trail,” Sam said.
Matt reined up.
“What’s the matter?” Sam asked.
“He isn’t making any effort to hide his tracks.”
Sam frowned. “Yeah. I see what you mean. It’s too obvious.”
“He’s leading us into a trap.”
“Feel like heading cross-country to get ahead of him?”
“You’re reading my mind, brother.”
The brothers crossed the road and rode for about two miles, then cut north, keeping their horses moving in a distance-eating lope, slowing them often to save them.
“We’ve got to be ahead of him,” Sam shouted after a time. “What do you think?”
“Let’s cut back east.”
They slowed their horses to a walk as they neared the road and reined up at the base of a small hill. Carrying their rifles, they ran up to the crest, taking off their hats to present less of a skyline, and peeked over the crest.
“Would you just look at that?” Sam said. “Like ducks in a row, just waiting for us to come riding along.”
Matt smiled and they both eared back the hammers on their Winchesters, sighted in, and started making life miserable for the ambushers.
The range was too far for any kind of accurate shooting, but both brothers scored hits, both of them knowing that at this range the wounds would be very minor. The ambushers—including the two that were hit—used great agility in scampering over the crest of their hill, cussing and hollering as they went.
“Recognize any of them?” Matt asked.
“That big ass has to belong to Lou Witter. That’s the only one I’d bet on at this distance.”
“Bodine!” the call came to them.
“Right here,” Matt called. “What’d you want?”
“I like to know a man’s name ’fore I kill him!”
Matt laughed. “Who am I talkin’ to?”
“Trest.”
“You better carry your butt back to Oklahoma Territory, Trest. I’m gonna put lead in it if you hang around here.”
Trest cussed him, the profanity drifting over the hot, windless expanse of short grass and prickly pear cactus.
“Is that the best you can do, Trest?” Matt hurled out the challenge.
“I’ll meet you anytime, Bodine!” Trest yelled. “One on one.”
“Name your spot, Trest.”
Silence greeted the brothers.
“They’re planning a setup, Matt,” Sam said.
“Sure they are. I’d be surprised if they weren’t.”
A minute passed. A dust devil was spun up and went whirling and dancing across the little valley that separated the two factions.
“How about now, Bodine?” Trest called.
“Where?”
“In the road back of us.”
“They’re sure to have a rifleman getting in place now,” Sam said.
“Yeah. But that ridge they’re on is the highest point around here. Where would he be?”
“How about it, Bodine?” Trest called. “You turnin’ yellow on me?”
“There were six of you when we started firing,” Bodine yelled. “At the count of three, me and Sam stand up, and the six of you stand up. How about that?”
A long pause from the other side. Finally, Trest yelled, “What’s the matter, Bodine, don’t you trust me?”
“Hell, no!”
“They’re stalling, calling the rifleman back, brother.”
“Yeah.” Raising his voice, Matt said, “Do it right now, Trest. Or it’s off.”
“Some other time, Bodine.”
“I’ll do you one better, Trest. I know you got that lard-butted Lou Witter with you. He fancies himself a good man with his fists. How about it, Lou—you think you could take me stand-up bare-knuckle?”
But only silence greeted his challenge. Lou wanted no part of Matt Bodine. After a moment, the men had reached their horses, hidden nearby but well in this deceptive terrain, and were riding off, heading north toward Broken Lance range.
“We follow them?”
Matt shook his head. “No. They’re probably counting on that and will be waiting for us. Let’s get back to the ranch. I imagine a lot of the boys will be wanting to go to Sonny’s funeral. We’ll stay behind as guards.”
Jeff, his wife, and Lisa and Lia were going to stay over at the Flying V for the night, and the boys would ride back after supper. Matt, Sam, Barlow, Gilley, Compton, and Tony stayed at the ranch as guards.
“You think they’ll hit us this night, Matt?” Tony asked, as they were eating an early supper.
“I’d bet on it. So let’s play it this way: Sam and me will take the front porch of the house. It’s got good cover behind that adobe and a good field of fire. Barlow, you and Gilley take the bunkhouse. Compton and Tony, the barn. Let’s make sure we have plenty of water and our pockets stuffed with ammo. Let’s load up the spare rifles we have and the short guns we took from the dead outlaws. I just think they’ll hit us right after dark and they’ll hit us hard.”
“Conchita?” Gilley asked.
Sam smiled. “I’d hate to be the gunny who invades her kitchen. She’s got a shotgun, a rifle, and a pistol nearby, and knows how to use them. The kitchen being where it is, she’s well protected.”
Matt sopped up the last of his gravy with a hunk of bread and pushed back from the table. He glanced out the window of the bunkhouse. The sun was setting. “Let’s get into position, boys. I think we’re going to have visitors pretty soon.”
Tanner had worked his way as close to the ranch house as possible. He studied the tranquil-appearing scene through field glasses, then Injuned back to where the hired guns were waiting.
“They left behind some men,” he told Trest. “Maybe a half a dozen. No more than that. They was just gettin’ into position when I left. Got some men in the barn and on the front porch. I couldn’t tell where any others was, but I ’spect they’s some in the bunkhouse.”
Trest turned to a man. “Stay with the horses and keep them settled down. Soon as it’s dark, we’ll work our way in and hit ’em. You boys get them torches soaked good now. We’ll burn those bastards out. Let’s get set.”
The horses began restless movement in the corral and in the barn.
“You were right on the mark, brother,” Sam said. “I think we’re about to have visitors.”
“Yeah, and they’re all around us, too. Time to split up. See you in a few minutes.”
“Right.”
The brothers moved to opposite ends of the long front porch. The heavy wooden shutters of the house had all been closed to guard against torches being thrown into the house. Conchita had barricaded herself in the kitchen and was putting on a fresh pot of coffee. She knew cowboys and knew they would want some hot, strong coffee when this fight was over. That done, she stoked up the fire then broke open her shotgun to check the loads of buckshot. She checked rifle and pistol and placed them within easy reach. This was nothing new to Conchita. She’d been with the Sparks family since they came into the area. She’d stood alongside them and fought Comanches, Apaches, and outlaws. She’d killed before and knew she would probably kill again this night. She fixed her a sandwich and sat down at the table. Let the no-goods come on. She was ready.
Four Circle S rifles barked, from the bunkhouse, the barn, and the front porch, and one of John Lee’s hired guns had no more roads to ride on this earth as the .44 slugs ended his life before he stret
ched out cold on the still-hot ground.
A slug howled over Sam’s head and Sam sighted in the muzzle flash and returned the fire, smiling as his slug struck flesh and bone and the gunny screamed, pitching his rifle and falling face-first on the earth.
“I smell kerosene!” Matt called from the other end of the porch. “They’re going to try to burn us out.”
A slug knocked a board from the house, stinging the back of his head. Matt triggered off two fast rounds. He couldn’t tell if he’d hit anything but he was certain he’d make life a little more exciting for the gunslick who’d shot at him. A running shadow caught his eyes and he fired. A man screamed, dropped his unlit torch, grabbed at his hip, and fell heavily. Matt sighted him in and ended his yelling for help.
From his position in the loft of the barn, Tony saw a torch burst into fire and he pulled the trigger, the slug doubling the man over and dropping him to the ground. He landed on the flaming torch and his clothing erupted into flames. The man screamed and rolled frantically, trying to extinguish the flames. Another ran to him and Tony cut him down. It was a quick shot, a hurried one, and not a killing shot. But the man was out of action for awhile, yelling and holding one leg.
The burning man screamed for a few more seconds and then was silent as his hair exploded in fire.
Tony felt sick to his stomach, fought it back, belched, and took his eyes off the human torch, returning his attention to the battle.
A hired gun dived through a window of the bunkhouse, shattering glass. He landed on a bunk, rolled to the floor, and jumped to his knees just as Barlow ran to him and clubbed him with a rifle butt and Gilley turned and swung his rifle, triggering off a round. Gilley’s slug caught the man in the throat, knocking him off his knees and back against the wall. John Lee’s hired killer died with his eyes wide open, a horrible gaping wound in his throat and in the back of his neck where the .44 slug exited. There was no time to drag him out into the yard. He would have to wait. Both men felt the hired gun probably wouldn’t even notice the short inconvenience.
“Burn the goddamned place to the ground!” Trest yelled.
Matt fired two quick rounds in the direction of Trest’s voice, but was uncertain whether he hit anything except air.
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