Brotherhood of the Gun

by William W. Johnstone

  “Apache,” he said.

  “Yeah. They have attacked as far north as the middle of Utah Territory; they back off when they get into Ute country.” He stepped up to the porch and grinned. “They might not serve you in here, you know?”

  “I hope they try that,” his blood-brother replied, a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.

  The bartender didn’t even blink when Matt and Sam ordered whiskey with a beer chaser. But he, along with everyone else in the dark barroom, did notice the tied down twin guns of the strangers.

  Two Wolves and Bodine took their drinks to the far end of the bar, where their backs would be facing a wall and they could get a good look at everybody in the place.

  It wasn’t a pleasant view.

  “Did you ever see so many ugly people gathered in one place in all your life?” Sam said, raising his voice so all could hear.

  The buzz of conversation stopped abruptly and both men could feel the hot burn of very unfriendly eyes swing toward them.

  “For a fact,” Matt said. “If a beauty contest was held in this place, nobody would win.”

  “You got a fat mouth,” a voice came from out of the smoky murk of the room.

  “Who owns that horse with the Four-V brand?” Matt asked, knowing full well that somebody had used a running iron to make the brand, probably out of a double-W.

  “I do,” the same voice replied. “If it’s any of your damn business. Which it ain’t.”

  “You owe us a coffee pot,” Matt told him.

  “Huh?” A chair was pushed back and boot heels and jingling spurs moved closer to the bar. “I don’t owe you nothin’, mister. But I just might decide to give you a skint head if you don’t shut your mouth.”

  “The only thing you’re going to give me is a new coffee pot. Now buy it from the man, set it on the bar, shut your big mouth and set your butt back in the chair you just vacated.”

  The outlaw yelled out a violent oath and lumbered toward the bar, heading straight for Matt, his big hands balled into fists. Sam stepped aside, his hands by his side, so he could watch the crowd and grab iron if anybody tried to interfere.

  Matt opened the dance with a short, straight right fist to the man’s mouth. The blow knocked the outlaw spinning. He crashed into a table and sent beer mugs and cards and poker chips flying. He bounced to his boots and charged Bodine, screaming filth at him.

  Bodine stuck out one boot and tripped the outlaw. He slammed into the bar, belly-high, and knocked the wind out of himself and a plank out of the bar just as Bodine slugged him twice above the kidney, with a left and right, bringing a squall of pain.

  The outlaw staggered and turned, his eyes filled with pain and confusion.

  Bodine hammered him twice in the face with a left and right combination and then drove his fist into the man’s belly. As the burly outlaw slowly sank to his knees, Bodine grabbed him behind the head and brought his knee up, all in one fast, practiced movement. Knee connected with nose and nose got flattened.

  Bodine turned his back to the man and faced the bartender as the outlaw fell on the floor, blood pouring from his broken nose. “Fill up the beer mug, friend. I just worked up a thirst.”

  “You just worked yourself up for a killing, is what you just done,” a voice spoke from the murky depths of the barroom. “That there is Ray Porter, the Idaho gunslick, and this room is filled with his men. What do you think about that, hotshot?”

  Bodine drained half his beer, set the mug on the bar—when Porter had crashed into it he had knocked it somewhat askew, spilling all the drinks that were there—and looked at the room full of gunslicks.

  “Three days ago, me and my buddy here,” he jerked a thumb toward Sam, “was ridin’ south, just north of the Los Gigantes Buttes, when we decided to camp near a tank. This jerk,” he pointed to the unconscious gunhand from Idaho Territory, “and four other jerks started shooting at us. They gave it up after about an hour, but not before they shot up my coffee pot. Now, I’m fixin’ to get a couple of dollars out of this hombre’s pocket and buy me a new coffee pot. And if anybody feels like they want to stop me’ just come on. Now, does anybody want to start this dance?”

  “That just plumb breaks my heart,” a man said, pushing his chair back and standing up, his hand close to the butts of his guns. “But I tell you what you should have done, mister. You should have carried two coffee pots. But it don’t matter no more. ’Cause you ain’t gonna be needin’ ’em after today.”

  He grabbed for his guns and Bodine cleared leather, cocked, and shot him just as the man’s hands gripped the butts and he began his lift. The slug took the man directly in the center of the chest, piercing the heart. He was dead as he hit the floor.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” a man whispered hoarsely. “He’s as fast as Smoke Jensen.”

  “What’s your name, buddy?” another asked.

  “Matt Bodine. And this is my brother, Sam Two Wolves.”

  Someone sighed in the crowd. Another cleared his throat nervously. Another man cussed softly; cussing his bad luck to be in the same room with Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves with both of them on the warpath. Still another slowly stood up, his hands in plain sight and walked to the door. “I’m gone,” he said, and put his hand on the batwings. Just before he stepped outside, he said, “I’ll be takin’ me a bath and a shave out back.”

  Another man stood up, walking carefully. “Tell that boy to fill another tub, Harry. I feel the need for a soak myself. I’ll get my extra set of longjohns from the saddlebags and join you in a minute.” He walked to the batwings and the both of them were gone.

  “A man shouldn’t oughta plug another man’s coffee pot,” a gunhand said. “Hard enough rollin’ out on a cold mornin’ with coffee waitin.’ Plumb discouragin’ without it. You hep yourself to some greenbacks from Porter, Matt. He owes you a coffee pot.”

  “Thank you.” Matt knelt down and pulled a wad from Porter’s pocket. He took two dollars and handed them to the barkeep. “One coffee pot, please.”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Bodine. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Coffee, beans, flour, and bacon. We’ll settle up when I leave.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And grind the coffee coarse,” Sam told him. “We like it stout.”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Two Wolves.”

  Matt turned to face the crowd. “One of you tell Porter that we’re riding to join up with the man and the girl that Porter wants to rob. Tell him if I see his ugly face again, I’ll kill him on the spot, no questions asked.”

  * * *

  “My back was getting sort of itchy riding away from that place, brother,” Sam said.

  “I do know the feeling. And I don’t think my words changed any minds back there.”

  “No. They’ll be coming after the man and the girl, whether we’re along or not. They smell gold. Some of Porter’s men must have linked up with him back at that trading post.”

  “Yeah. You ever heard of a gunfighter named Porter?”

  “No. I think he’s probably more thief and outlaw than gunslick. But I did see Don Bradley back there.”

  “So did I. And I have to wonder about that. He’s too good with a gun to be mixed up with a small-timer like Porter. Last I heard, Don was getting top dollar for his skills. Who else did you see? I didn’t have much time for eyeballing.”

  “Bob Doyle is the only other one that I knew. I saw three or four young punks with fancy rigs. I guess they’re out to make a reputation.”

  “What they’ll probably get is an unmarked grave. Let’s play a hunch, Sam. Let’s make a guess that Wellman and the girl deliberately took the west fork of Walker Creek to throw off Porter and his men. You with me?”

  “Yes. Then they headed straight south. You know this country, Matt; I don’t. Where are they going?”

  “I don’t know,” Bodine admitted. “Green River is a long way from here. They were heading straight south all the way until they took the
west fork. Two people, a man and a woman—maybe just a girl—heading straight into Apache country. Why, Sam?”

  “And carrying gold. A lot of gold, I would guess.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know the why of it. But there’s one way to find out.”

  “Catch up with them and ask.”

  “That’s it.”

  “You game?”

  “That goes without asking.”

  The two young men turned their horses and headed south. They pointed their horses’ noses toward one of the most dangerous places left on the American continent: the great rugged mountains and the inhospitable deserts and the fierce warriors who inhabited that land. It was called Apache country.

  Chapter 3

  They made camp the first night at the northern tip of Wide Ruin Wash. It had been slow and careful going, always checking their back trail and keeping a close watch left, right, and in front of them. Bodine had been through this country several times, but he was far from being expertly knowledgable of this still hostile land.

  This land did contain a lot of friendly Indians, mostly Navaho and Zuni, with most of them being peaceful farmers of the land. But the Apache roamed all over the territory, and they hated the white man with a passion unequalled anywhere. One thing Bodine and Sam knew for a fact: they would not allow themselves to be taken alive by the Apache.

  Skilled torturers, the Apache could make a rendezvous with the Grim Reaper seem a joyous occasion.

  They found a small but heavily armed wagon train on the northern edge of the Painted Desert and stopped for coffee and to listen for any information those in the train might have about a man and a woman traveling alone.

  Starting on their second cup—the coffee was strong enough to dissolve nails—Bodine and Sam perked their ears up when a man said, “Fool’s mission. That’s what them two is on.”

  “I’ll sure agree with that,” another man piped up. Damned if I’d be headin’ south of Horsehead Crossing with anything less than the Army with me.”

  Horsehead Crossing would soon be renamed Holbrook.

  It was a small settlement on the Little Colorado. About thirty-five miles to the northwest, another small town was springing up. In a few more years it would be named Winslow.

  “There ain’t nothin’ left of that little girl noways,” the wagonmaster stuck his opinion in. “And who’d want anything to do with a girl after the Injuns got done with her.”

  Sam hid his smile behind his tin cup; only Matt noticed the curving of his lips. Both men knew that Indians loved children—of any color—and raised them well, if harshly, when judged against white standards.

  If it was a boy, he had a rougher time of it—among many tribes—but if he was spunky enough, he could make it.

  “How’s the coffee, boys?” a man asked.

  “Good,” Bodine said with a grin, holding out his cup. “We’ll have another.”

  The man returned the grin and refilled their cups.

  “We left a town over in New Mexico Territory. What was left of it,” one of the men around the fire added. “What wasn’t dryin’ up and blowin’ away was saddlin’ up or hitchin’ up and ridin’ away. Fool place to build a town anyways.”

  “You boys lookin’ for work?”

  “No, we got us a little poke from workin’ up in Wyoming and thought we’d just see the country; thought it best to head south for the winter, though.”

  “Well, don’t head too much farther south. The ’Paches is on the move. We just heard about them raidin’ a ranch over yonder way,” he waved his hand toward the west, “ ’bout a month ago and kilt ever’body there; feller and his wife and three hands. It was awful what them savages done to them. Death was a merciful thing. Kidnapped a little girl and took her God knows where. Another bunch come through here last week and raided another ranch. Kilt all them folks, too. It’s a sorry time, boys.”

  “You were talking about someone on a fool’s mission,” Sam said. “Relatives of the child who was taken from the ranch?”

  “You betcha. Couple of fools is what they is. The girl’s grandfather and some woman he picked up along the way who lost an older brother to the ’Paches some twelve years back. She admitted she was only eight or so when they snatched him, and didn’t think she’d be able to recognize him. Now, ain’t that about the dumbest thing you ever heard of? The brother would be more’un twenty years old now accordin’ to her—and if he’s alive, he’s nothin’ but a gawddamn Injun by now. Probably can’t even speak English no more.”

  Then it came to Matt. Wellman. Dick Wellman? If so, the famed old mountain man would be pushing seventy hard. But if it was Dick Wellman, seventy years old or not, he would still be a ring-dang-doodle to fool with.

  Matt turned to Sam and winked at him. “That must be those tracks we keep seein’ ahead of us. Three-four days old.”

  Before Sam could reply, the wagonmaster said, “You bet it is, boys. That old man and that girl is a headin’ straight south. They think the girl is being held somewheres in the vicinity of the Gila Mountains.” He shuddered. “That’s Chappo’s country. And if there ever was a bad one, Chappo is it.”

  He would get no argument there. Chappo’s bunch were as savage as they come. Chappo’s Apache name was unpronounceable to whites, so somewhere down the line, so the story went, an army lieutenant had nicknamed him Chappo. It stuck.

  Tending to their horses, Sam said, “I just put it together, Matt. Dick Wellman?”

  “Yeah. Me, too. Dick Wellman. That’s a hard man, brother. That mountain man might be old, but he’s still tough as nails and meaner than a silver-tip.” He shook his head. “But for the life of me, I can’t imagine him taking a girl into Apache country.”

  “Chappo’s country,” Sam mused. “We’d best find us another pack horse at the post and lay in the supplies . . . especially. 44 rounds.”

  “You’re reading my mind, brother.”

  * * *

  They pulled out at dawn the next morning. At supper, they had told the people what they were going to do.

  Everyone in the train turned out to see them off.

  “You boys is young and mighty brave,” the wagonmaster called out. “But goin’ up agin Chappo and his bunch is a stupid thing to do. I wish you’d think about it.”

  Matt and Sam lifted their hands in acknowledgement of the warning and rode out of the protection of the wagon train.

  * * *

  They rode through the stillness of the Painted Desert, and it was a sight that neither of them had ever seen before and would never forget. They both found it a lonely and foreboding place, and they marveled at the fallen stone trees and wondered how old they were; how long they had lain in this brooding land?

  They picked their way through the silent land, gradually cutting west; they had to resupply at Horsehead Crossing.

  “We’re close to them,” Sam said, drinking the last of his coffee and watching the sun sink slowly behind the horizon. The rays of the dying sun painted multi-colored hues over the stark landscape.

  “Those horse-droppings we looked at pretty well confirm we’re not more than a few miles behind them. Two riders and a packhorse, and the packhorse is not heavily loaded.”

  “Apaches have no use for gold, brother. If Wellman is carrying several sacks of gold, he isn’t planning on buying his granddaughter’s freedom from Chappo. Somebody else is involved in this.”

  “Maybe Chappo is raiding the ranches and kidnapping the kids for someone else.”

  “For example? . . .”

  “Who knows? To sell into slavery, maybe. Or maybe if the kids are young enough, to sell to people who want kids but can’t have children of their own. Or maybe there is a darker side to all of this; if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes. I do. However, I would prefer not to think about that. It’s too disgusting for words.”

  “But possible.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I think, brother, we need to catch up with Wellman tomorrow and f
ind out what he thinks.”

  “What about Wellman?” the cold voice came out of the darkness. It was followed by the hammer on a Winchester being eared back.

  * * *

  “Ten more ought to do it,” the man said, looking at the frightened little girl. “Ten pretty little girls just like this one.”

  “That’ll give us twenty-five we can ship down to Captain Morgan. I’ll get word to Chappo.”

  “Tell him to hurry up. Tell him I’ll give him ten rifles and a case of ammunition for each girl he brings me.”

  “That ought to prod him into action. Uh, Lake, some of the boys was wonderin’ if maybe, ah, they could . . . you know?” He jerked a thumb toward the girl.

  “No!” the word was explosive coming out of Lake’s mouth. “And I’ll kill any man who touches one. Morgan says the Arab sheiks demand the girls to be pure and blonde and not over ten years old. You make damn sure the men understand that.”

  “Yes, sir, Lake. Anything you say.”

  “We’re gettin’ big money for these kids, Mavern. And it’s sure better than robbing banks and rustling beeves. So let’s don’t screw it up.”

  “Yes, sir, Lake. Ain’t none of the kids been touched. Some of the boys was just askin’ is all.”

  “You make certain they understand, Mavern. And they’d better understand.”

  “I’ll shore do it, Lake. Count on me.”

  Lake lit a long thin Mexican cigar. He fixed his one steady eye on the man. The other eye was an off-color pale blue and it drooped and was cock-eyed. He’d been kicked by a horse on the side of the face some years back, breaking his cheekbone and jaw and he’d never had it set properly. He took a long drag from the cigar and blew a fat smoke ring. It drifted gently toward the other outlaw. “Oh, I do, Mavern. I do for a fact.”

  Mavern left the room and Lake muttered, “About as far as I can see you, that is.”

  * * *

  Both Sam and Matt were startled and highly irritated. And they both immediately froze where they were. For someone to have slipped up on them meant that the person was very, very good, and probably very, very dangerous.