Blood Bond: Arizona Ambush

by Johnstone, J. A. ; Johnstone, J. A.

  Garralaga rolled his eyes.

  “Those two! The little one, he is not so bad, but the tall one, he never stops talking! Always with the questions, questions, questions! He makes me tired just to listen to him.”

  “Then they’re keeping their horses here?”

  “Sí, señor. Over there.” Garralaga pointed to a pair of stalls near the front of the barn.

  Sam strolled over and looked at the horses in apparently idle curiosity. One was a buckskin, the other a wiry paint.

  Actually, he was looking at the hoofprints they had left in the dust of their stalls, checking to see if either track was similar to the ones he had found out at the ambush site.

  Neither hoofprint looked familiar, so to excuse his actions he just nodded and commented, “Nice-looking horses,” as he came back over to Garralaga.

  “These hombres are friends of yours, señor?” the stableman asked.

  “Not really. New acquaintances, I guess you’d say.”

  Garralaga shrugged and nodded, looking as if he didn’t really understand but didn’t care, either. As long as his customers paid their bills, whatever else they did was none of his business, his expression seemed to say.

  “Can you recommend a good place in town to stay?” Sam went on.

  “The Territorial Hotel is the only one in Flat Rock, but ...” Garralaga hesitated.

  “They might not want anybody with Indian blood staying there, is that it?” Sam guessed.

  “I am sad to say that is true, señor. Myself, I don’t care. All men’s money spends the same.”

  “I understand.”

  “But there is a boardinghouse where you would be welcome, if there is room. A woman named Señora McCormick runs it. If you go there, tell her that Pablo at the livery stable sent you. Her late husband and I were amigos, before he passed away last year.”

  Sam nodded.

  “I’ll do that. I’m obliged, Señor Garralaga.”

  The stableman smiled and waved a hand.

  “De nada.”

  He told Sam how to find the boardinghouse, and once again Sam postponed his trip to the saloon. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and walked toward the boardinghouse, carrying his Winchester.

  Along the way he came to a general store, so he went inside to buy a new hat to replace the one that had been shot up the night before.

  Bespectacled Noah Reilly smiled at him from behind the counter.

  “Mr. Two Wolves!” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you again this soon. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m in the market for a new hat,” Sam explained.

  “Right over here,” Reilly said, gesturing toward a set of shelves where a number of hats sat, gathering dust.

  Sam found one that he liked. The new hat didn’t have silver conchos on the band like his old one, but other than that it was very similar. Sam figured he could switch the bands if he wanted to.

  He paid Reilly for the hat and settled it on his head. It would be good to have something to shade his head from the sun again.

  The boardinghouse was a frame building, one of the few in town. In this part of the country, nearly everything was built of adobe.

  The gray-haired woman who answered Sam’s knock on the boardinghouse door asked, “Yes? Can I help you?” Her face wore a rather severe expression, but Sam thought her brown eyes looked kind.

  Politely, he removed his new hat and said, “Señor Garralaga down at the livery stable recommended your place to me and said you might have a room for rent. That is, if you’re Mrs. McCormick.”

  “I am,” the woman said. “Eloise McCormick.”

  “My name is Sam Two Wolves.” He waited to see if that was going to make any difference.

  Apparently it didn’t. Mrs. McCormick said, “I have a couple of vacant rooms. Would you like to take a look at them?”

  “Ma’am, Señor Garralaga spoke so highly of you and your house, I’m sure that’s not necessary. I’ll take one of them.”

  She smiled, and that made her look younger.

  “Well, then, come on. I’ll show you the rooms anyway, and you can take your pick.”

  Sam choose a front room that looked out at the street. He liked to be able to see what was going on. The room was simply furnished but looked clean and comfortable.

  “What brings you to Flat Rock, if you don’t mind my asking?” Mrs. McCormick said. “Are you a scout for the army?”

  “No, ma’am. You get many army scouts passing through here?”

  “The cavalry sends out patrols from Fort Defiance every now and then. The Navajo behave themselves for the most part, but it doesn’t hurt to remind them of what happened back in ’63. My late husband was already out here then and served under Kit Carson.” Mrs. McCormick gave Sam a keen look. “You’re not a Navajo, are you, Mr. Two Wolves?”

  “No. Half Cheyenne.” Sam wondered how many times he was going to have to answer that question.

  “I see. Clean linens once a week,” she went on briskly, “breakfast is at six in the morning, supper at six in the evening. I serve Sunday dinner at one, but not the rest of the week.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Sam said with a nod.

  “Your next-door neighbor is Mr. Reilly from the general store, and he likes peace and quiet, so I hope you’ll cooperate in that respect.”

  Sam smiled.

  “Noah Reilly?”

  “Oh, you know him?”

  “We’ve met,” Sam said.

  “Well, good. You won’t feel as much like you’re in a strange place, then. How long do you think you’ll be staying?”

  Until someone tries to kill me again and I can find out why, Sam thought.

  “I don’t really know,” he said. “I’ll pay you for a week. Is that all right?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  They concluded the arrangement, and Mrs. McCormick left the room. Sam put his saddlebags on the bed and leaned his rifle in the corner. He went to the window and pushed back the gauzy yellow curtain that hung over it.

  The boardinghouse was on Flat Rock’s only street, and from here Sam could see part of the front of the Buckingham Palace Saloon.

  A couple of benches were on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, and on one of them sat the two cowboys he had met earlier, evidently just watching the world go by.

  The tall, skinny one had his knife out again and was using it to whittle something. The shorter one’s head drooped forward every now and then, as if he were having a hard time staying awake.

  There was something about those two, Sam thought, something that bothered him.

  Mrs. McCormick must have been elsewhere in the house, because he didn’t see her in the parlor or foyer as he left the house. The saloon was only a short distance away, and it was finally time he paid that visit to the place.

  Sam had to walk right past the two cowboys to reach the batwinged door, and just as he expected, they grinned at him in recognition.

  The tall one continued whittling without missing a beat as he asked, “How was the food at the café? Best you ever et, right?”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Sam said, “but it was good.”

  “Wait’ll you taste ol’ Harve’s Irish stew. It’s even better.”

  “Pie ain’t bad, either,” the shorter cowboy put in.

  “Goin’ to have a drink?” the tall one asked.

  “More like a look around,” Sam said. “I’m not much for drinking.”

  “Oh, yeah, because of the Injun blood, I reckon. The firewater don’t agree with you.” The man folded his knife and put it away. He held up what he’d been working on. It was a little whistle. “What do you think?”

  “Looks good,” Sam said. “Can you play it?”

  “Not worth a lick,” the tall cowboy said with a grin. He tossed it to a boy passing by in the street and added, “Here you go, son. Enjoy yourself.”

  The boy caught the whistle and said, “Gee, thanks, mister!”

&nbs
p; He went on his way, tooting tunelessly on it.

  The cowboy put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet in a loose-jointed fashion.

  “Come on, Wilbur,” he said to his shorter companion. “We’ll join this here fella.”

  Sam didn’t recall inviting them along, but that didn’t seem to matter. As the three of them walked toward the saloon’s entrance, the tall cowboy went on, “They call me Stovepipe Stewart.”

  “On account of he’s so tall and skinny,” his redheaded friend put in.

  “And this is my pard Wilbur Coleman,” Stovepipe completed the introductions.

  There didn’t seem to be anything Sam could do but give them his name. “I’m Sam Two Wolves.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sam. I figure it’s sorta our duty to take you under our wing and show you around, you bein’ new in town and all and us bein’ old-timers.”

  Sam almost said something about how he thought they had only been in Flat Rock for a week, but he caught himself in time. He didn’t want them knowing that he’d been asking questions about them.

  Anyway, it didn’t matter, because redheaded Wilbur Coleman laughed and said, “Yeah, real old-timers, that’s us. We been in this burg all of a week.”

  “That’s seven times as long as Sam here,” Stovepipe pointed out.

  “I suppose if you want to look at it that way ...”

  Sam pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the Buckingham Palace. He saw right away that it was an impressive place, with a long, mahogany bar on the right side of the room, cut-glass chandeliers that must have been freighted all the way up here from Phoenix, plenty of tables for drinking, and a large area of poker tables, roulette wheels, and faro layouts in the back of the room. There was a piano, too, but no one was playing it at the moment.

  Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the saloon was busy. Men stood at the bar, where a couple of drink jugglers waited on them. Several of the tables were occupied, too. Young women in short, low-cut, spangled dresses circulated among them, delivering drinks and smiles to the customers and ignoring hands that got a little too familiar.

  A couple of poker games were going on, and men were trying their luck at faro and roulette, too. The only thing that was missing was a parade of saloon girls up and down the stairs to the second floor with men who wanted to buy their favors.

  The tall cowboy was watching Sam keenly. He said, “The gals don’t do that sorta business durin’ the day, only at night. Lady Augusta says it ain’t proper to be beddin’ down for pay when the sun’s out.”

  Sam gave Stovepipe a sharp glance.

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “Well, you seemed to be takin’ it all in,” Stovepipe drawled. “I sorta figured you’d get to that point in your thinkin’ and wonder about it.”

  “Stovepipe’s a demon for figurin’ things out,” Wilbur put in.

  Sam looked around again.

  “I’ve heard about this so-called Lady Augusta. Is she here?”

  Wilbur bristled.

  “So-called?” he repeated. “Are you doubtin’ the word of the finest lady ever to set foot in Arizona?”

  “Not really,” Sam said. “But you have to admit, it is a little odd to think that a member of British nobility would wind up running a saloon in a backwater town in Arizona Territory.”

  “There ain’t a thing in the world odd about it,” Wilbur insisted. “She just got tired of all that foofaraw over yonder in England, and who could blame her? Sittin’ around in musty ol’ castles on spindly-legged chairs and sippin’ tea with your dadburn pinky finger stickin’ out! Who in the Sam Hill would want to spend your days doin’ that?”

  “Not me,” Stovepipe said with a wide grin.

  “Not me, neither,” Wilbur said. “So don’t go sayin’ nothin’ bad about Lady Augusta, Sam. I won’t take kindly to it.”

  Stovepipe leaned closer to Sam and said in a loud whisper, “He’s a mite smitten.”

  Sam felt a little like he had wandered into a lunatic asylum. The thing to do in a situation like that, he told himself, was to play along. He said, “Sorry, Wilbur. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “That’s all right,” Wilbur said, still sounding a little huffy. “Just so’s you know.”

  Stovepipe gestured toward the bar on the right-hand side of the room.

  “Come on, Sam,” he said. “I’ll buy you a phosphate. We’ll steer clear of the hard stuff.”

  “All right,” Sam said. He was accomplishing his purpose just by being here. If any of those bushwhackers were in the room, they were getting a good look at him.

  And of course, there was still a chance the two men with him were part of the very bunch he was looking for.

  When they got to the bar, Stovepipe ordered cherry phosphates for the three of them, even though Wilbur made a face at that. The tall, lanky cowboy leaned his left elbow on the hardwood and asked, “What brings you to this wide place in the trail, Sam?”

  “Flat Rock seems like more than just a wide place in the trail. It seems like a real town.”

  “Right now it is. I’ve seen ’em come and go, though. One of these days it’s liable to dry up and blow away like so many others have. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “A man’s business is usually his own,” Sam said.

  “That’s Stovepipe for you,” Wilbur said. “Always pokin’ his big nose in where it ain’t wanted.”

  “That ain’t it at all,” Stovepipe insisted. “I’m just naturally curious.” He looked at Sam again and raised his somewhat bushy eyebrows.

  “I’m looking for some fellows,” Sam said. Maybe it was time to put a few of his cards on the table and see what he could shake out. “About a dozen men on horseback. They rode this way a few days ago.”

  He didn’t say anything about finding the wagon tracks.

  Stovepipe sipped his phosphate and got some of the bubbles from the fizzy drink on his mustache. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and said, “These hombres you’re lookin’ for are friends of yours?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then they’re enemies?”

  “Didn’t say that, either.”

  “Aw, leave the fella alone, Stovepipe,” Wilbur said.

  “I’m just tryin’ to help,” the tall cowboy said. “Maybe I know those fellas Sam’s lookin’ for. What’re their names?”

  Sam just smiled and didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know the names of his quarry or even what they looked like. If Stovepipe and Wilbur were members of the gang, he wanted them to worry about him enough to be prodded into taking action.

  Stovepipe looked like he wanted to press the issue, but just then a commotion erupted outside in the street. Hoofbeats thundered and men yelled. Everybody in the saloon swung around to look out the big plate-glass windows.

  “What in blazes is all that?” Sam asked.

  Stovepipe’s craggy face had taken on a grim cast.

  “Sounds like that bunch from the Devil’s Pitchfork has come to town,” he said. “And I reckon they’re just about ready to raise hell and shove a chunk under the corner.”

  Chapter 15

  The uproar made nearly everybody in the saloon turn toward the windows. The only ones who ignored it were the men at the poker tables who were intent on their cards.

  A moment later, a man slapped the batwings aside and stalked into the Buckingham, followed by half a dozen more men. They were all rugged-looking, hard-bitten hombres in range clothes, Sam noted. A holstered revolver hung at the hip of each man.

  Stovepipe Stewart leaned closer to Sam and said, “Yep, that’s the Devil’s Pitchfork bunch, some of ’em, anyway. John Henry Boyd’s gun crew. Fella in the lead is Pete Lowry. Tough hombre. All of ’em are.”

  Sam had gotten that impression. Pete Lowry was a broad-shouldered man with a jutting shelf of a jaw that gave him a pugnacious appearance.

  Lowry strod
e to the bar and thumped a fist on the hardwood to get the attention of one of the bartenders. It was really a wasted gesture, because nearly every eye in the place was on the newcomers already, and both bartenders were there to fill their orders.

  “Whiskey for me and the boys!” Lowry snapped. “The good stuff, too, not that homemade swill.”

  “All we have is good stuff, Mr. Lowry,” the nearest bartender said. “Lady Augusta don’t go in for that panther piss.”

  Lowry’s hand shot across the bar and grabbed the bartender’s shirtfront. He jerked the man forward and roared, “Are you arguin’ with me?”

  Sam stiffened. He didn’t like to see anyone being manhandled like that.

  Stovepipe must have noticed the reaction, because he put a hand lightly on Sam’s arm and said, “Hold your horses, son. You don’t want to get on Lowry’s bad side. He’s not somebody you need for an enemy.”

  Sam forced himself to relax. Stovepipe was right. Anyway, it was none of his business what Lowry did, Sam told himself.

  The bartender said, “No, sir, I’m not arguin’ at all. I’ll get you that whiskey, the finest we got, right away.”

  Lowry let go of him and nodded curtly.

  “That’s more like it. Pour it up, apron. After what happened last night, we need those drinks.”

  Sam wondered what had happened the night before. He didn’t have to think about it for long, because as soon as Pete Lowry had knocked back the slug of whiskey the bartender put in front of him, he turned around and addressed the room in a loud voice.

  “A bunch of damned savages raided the ranch last night,” he said. “Killed two punchers and took off with fifty head of cattle. By God, there’s gonna be a whole new Navajo war here in the Four Corners!”

  Lowry’s words shook Sam, although he managed not to show it. He had a hard time believing that Caballo Rojo or any of his people would have attacked the Devil’s Pitchfork ranch. Even the proddy Juan Pablo just wanted to be left alone. None of them would go out of their way to draw attention to themselves by raiding a ranch and killing white cowboys. Sam would have staked his life on it.