Blood Bond 5

by William W. Johnstone

  “And didn’t Tom say that Singer came back early from his trip?”

  “Yes. He was supposed to have been gone several weeks. If I had to take a guess, I’d say that J.B. Adams is Singer’s front man in all this. He got word to Singer through the telegraph office. Unless Ben Connors was lying that evening back on the trail.”

  “And what about Tom Riley?”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Yes, and no. Tom’s not a young man any longer. He might be thinking about his future and sees a pretty bleak road ahead of him. But that’s just speculation.”

  “We’re thinking alike. Brother, we are in a very dangerous spot in all this.”

  Matt nodded his head. “Here’s something else, too: I don’t think we could ride out even if we wanted to.”

  “Nor do I. I started getting a funny feeling yesterday afternoon that we were being watched.”

  “Remember that play we saw last year? The mystery?”

  “Yes. What? . . . Oh, yes. The plot, it doth thicken.”

  “Let’s don’t let it get too thick,” Matt said. “It’s tough getting out of quicksand.”

  The brothers were conscious of being followed, and whoever was paying the men had obviously told them to be certain the brothers were aware of it. Matt and Sam decided to make the best of it and try to ignore their followers. But it was done with an effort.

  Bank drafts that the brothers had wired for came in on the stage from Wells Fargo, and Miles Singer’s eyes bugged out when the young men deposited the checks at his bank.

  “You boys, ah, planning on investing in property around here?” the banker questioned.

  “Hadn’t thought about that,” Sam said.

  “We just like to have ample spending money,” Matt added with a smile. “We can be real big spenders. You’re sure the money will be safe in your bank?”

  “Oh, my, yes!” Singer said. “That’s the finest safe in all of Idaho Territory.”

  “That makes me feel better already,” Sam said, and the brothers left the bank, both of them carrying a large amount of cash, in paper and gold coin.

  “Now you can tell me your plan for doing this?” Sam said, once on the boardwalk.

  “What plan?”

  Sam pulled up short. “The plan, the reasoning for this transfer of funds and for us walking around with too damn much money on us.”

  “Oh, I don’t have a plan. I just thought it might stir things up some.”

  “You don’t have a . . .” Sam bit back his words and sighed. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Matt just grinned at him and walked on. They watched as Laredo and Rusty rode into town and up to the Bull’s Den. Several tired horses, showing the signs of a long ride, were tied at the rail. The brothers walked over and inside.

  Laredo waved at them and motioned them up to the bar. He grinned and stuck out his hand, and the brothers shook it. “Man, I can’t begin to tell you boys how nice it is now out to the ranch. The boss ain’t got a gunslick on the payroll, and these here ol’ boys is just signin’ on. Boys,” he turned to the punchers at the bar. “This here is Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves. Sutton, Hal, Patton, and Gamble.”

  “So the Bull really meant it when he said the war was over?” Sam asked.

  “You bet your boots he did. And them no-count kids of his was mad about that. All but Connie. She’s a fine girl. But Ross and Hugh and Randy . . . whew, boys, they was some hot.”

  “But not mad enough to leave home?” Matt said with a smile.

  “Oh, no. They know what side their biscuits is buttered on. But I don’t trust none of them. I shouldn’t be talkin’ family stuff to you boys, but the Bull sorta admires your nerve and likes the both of you. He said if I seen you to tell you to come out whenever you’ve a mind to. The coffee’s always hot.”

  “Tell him we appreciate that, and we’ll do it. But it might not be a wise thing to do with us being followed all the time,” Matt said.

  “Them two hardcases across the street?” Hal spoke up.

  “That’s two of them, yes,” Sam said. “They work in teams.”

  “That’s Dud Mackin and Butch Proctor,” the cowboy said. “I knew ’em down Moab way. They’re bad ones. Back-shooters and sneak thieves. They usually ride with a heavy set fellow called Donner. Looks like he needs a shave all the time.”

  “He’s one of them, all right,” Matt said, signaling for a beer. Sam shook his head at the offer. Matt described the other three of the six men they had spotted.

  “They don’t ring no bell with me,” Hal said. “But you can bet if they’re workin’ with Proctor and Mackin and Donner, they’re bad ones.”

  “Where are they stayin’?” Laredo asked.

  “At the hotel,” Sam told him. “All six of them.”

  “That’s odd,” Laredo said. “I ain’t never knowed John to put up nobody at the hotel. Not even cattle buyers. They all stay out at his house. Maybe they ain’t workin’ for the Circle JC.”

  “Then . . . ?” Matt trailed that off.

  Laredo shrugged his shoulders. “You got me. This thing just keeps gettin’ queerer and queerer.”

  Laredo and the new men finished their beers and rode out for home range. Matt and Sam walked out on the boardwalk in time to seen John Carlin and his brood come riding into town, the girls in a buggy, flanked on both sides by hired guns, all of them kicking up unnecessary dust.

  “The parade comes to town,” Sam muttered. He looked at Johnny Carlin as the young man swung down from the saddle. “Complete with court jester. Brother, if those yahoos following us aren’t working for his lord and majesty there, who are they working for?”

  “Singer, I guess. I think Ladue would handle his own affairs if it came to that. And I’m still not sure which side he’s on. If he’s on any side.”

  “He is,” Sam said confidently. “His own side.”

  John Carlin glanced over at the brothers and gave them a cold look before turning his back to them and walking into the Carlin House, followed by half a dozen gunmen. His daughter and wife walked to the general store and stepped inside, the rest of the hired guns with them. The brothers walked across the street.

  “Well now,” Sam said, looking down the street toward the fork in the road. “Things are about to get real interesting.”

  Hugh, Randy, and Ross Sutton were riding slowly into town. Johnny, Clement, and Pete Carlin stood on the boardwalk in front of the Carlin House and watched them. The Carlin brothers all slipped the hammer-thongs from their holstered pistols, a move that did not escape the eyes of Matt and Sam.

  Two of the Sutton boys reined up in front of the Bull’s Den and swung down. They gave the blood brothers a mean glance and stepped inside the saloon. Hugh had reined in by the saddle shop and strangely had disappeared into the alley. Matt watched the action, curious.

  Young Parley walked up, a worried look on his face. “Tom and Van rode out early this morning,” he said. “Rustlers hit one of the smaller spreads south of here. Nate’s gone out to a farmer’s place to talk to him about a horse being stolen. Can I count on you boys to help me if trouble starts?”

  “You know you can,” Sam assured the young deputy.

  Matt was paying little attention, his gaze on the mouth of the alley. His eyes narrowed as the heavyset Donner stepped out and looked up and down the street before heading into the Carlin House.

  “What the hell?” Matt muttered, as Hugh stepped out of the alley, stood for a moment, and then walked up the boardwalk, turning in at the bank. “This stew is getting a little thick,” Matt murmured to himself. Sam and Parley had walked off a few feet and did not hear Matt’s comments.

  Hugh exited the bank and strolled up to the Bull’s Den, looking over at Matt before pushing open the batwings. Before Matt could say anything to Sam or Parley, the Carlin brothers stepped out of the saloon across the street, guns drawn.

  “Come on out and let’s settle this now!” Johnny yelled. “Come on out, you Sutton
bastards!”

  “Move, feet!” Sam said, and the brothers and the deputy vacated that area as quickly as possible.

  The boardwalk in front of the Carlin House was crowded with Carlins and hired guns, John Carlin standing near the boardwalk’s end near the alley, where Matt and Sam and Parley were waiting and watching.

  “Draw, you bastards!” Johnny yelled, and the quiet air was filled with gunfire.

  Windows were smashed, chunks of board were gouged out, and horses were rearing up and screaming, tearing loose from the hitchrails in fright.

  But nobody seemed to be hitting anything except air and glass and wood. Then Matt saw Marcel turn, an evil grin on his lips, and point his pistol at his father. Matt lunged, grabbed the man by the boots and jerked him off the boardwalk just as Marcel fired. The slug howled harmlessly off into the air, and John Carlin hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from him.

  Marcel had turned and was once more firing at the Sutton brothers. And just like everybody else, was hitting nothing.

  “What the hell?” John Carlin yelled, struggling to get up from the ground.

  “Stay down, you damn fool,” Matt told him. “Your own son just tried to kill you.”

  “I don’t believe that!”

  “Why would I lie?” Matt asked calmly, over the cracking of pistol fire. “Look at them, John. They’re all standing out in the open and not a damn one of them is hitting anything. Does that tell you something?”

  John Carlin sat up, his butt still on the ground, and looked at what was evident now as a mock battle. He turned his eyes to Matt. “What in the hell is going on here?”

  “Break this up right now!” Parley yelled. “Or we start shooting. Get back in the damn saloons.”

  The firing stopped as if on cue, and the would-be warriors stepped back into the saloons.

  “Now that was just too easy,” Parley commented, holstering his pistol. He and Sam stepped up onto the boardwalk.

  “Don’t turn your back on Marcel,” Matt whispered.

  “Or any of your other kids, for that matter. I think your kids and Bull’s kids are all in this thing together. And there is a whole lot more, too. It’s complicated.”

  John stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and heaved himself to his boots and, now standing, took a long and disbelieving look at the deserted street. “My boys are all crack shots. And so are Bull’s boys. Those gunfighters are expert marksmen. Yet nobody hit anything.” He turned eyes that were now not quite so hostile toward Matt. “You claim you saved my life. Maybe you did. I reckon we’ve got to talk.”

  “You and me and Sam and Bull. My brother and I have a theory. One hour before sunset, by that creek just south of town where the beaver have the dam. Agreed?”

  The man hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Agreed.” John brushed the dirt off his jeans and shirt.

  “Is that young man with your wife your son Daniel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay with him. And bring him with you to the creek. I think he’s the only one of your kids you can trust.”

  “I hope to God you’re talkin’ nonsense, Bodine.”

  “I’m not. But you’d better brace yourself. What Sam and me have to say is going to come as a real shock to both you and Bull.”

  “Not no more than that put-up fight I just witnessed.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Matt said drily.

  11

  When Matt got Sam off to himself, he told him what had transpired and asked him to ride for Bull’s spread and have him meet them at the creek, and to say nothing to anyone else. Especially any of his kids.

  “Incredible,” Sam said.

  John Carlin told his family and hired guns to head back to the ranch and cool off, having said the latter rather drily and with more than a note of sarcasm. Daniel stayed with his father in town, both of them on the pretense of having business to take care of.

  All the parties concerned met at the creek about an hour before sundown. John and Bull stood glaring at each other, a few yards apart, absolutely no love lost between them. But at Matt’s request, they had looped their gunbelts over their saddlehorns.

  “This had better be good, boys,” Bull said. “I got supper waiting, and it’s a fine one.”

  “Damn waste of time if you ask me,” John grumbled.

  “No doubt about it in my mind,” Sam said, after looking first at John and then at Bull.

  “Nor mine,” Matt said. “Let’s sit, gentlemen. Nature placed these logs just perfect for that.”

  Matt spoke four words, and the two ranchers came off the logs as if propelled out of a cannon.

  “We’re what?” Bull screamed.

  “You’re out of your goddamn mind!” John shouted.

  “Oh, there’s more,” Sam picked it up. “There were three of you. Singer is another.”

  Both men sat down on the logs so hard their teeth clicked together. Daniel Carlin and Connie Sutton moved closer together and held hands. Their faces were pale.

  “Go squat down by the creek and look at your reflections in the water together,” Matt urged them. “Go on. Do it.”

  Reluctantly, the ranchers moved to the creek and knelt down, staring at their reflections. They looked at each other, then back at their reflections.

  “Both orphans, right?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah,” Bull said, his tone softer. “We came from the same part of the country. But I knew my mother. Her name was Estelle.”

  “And my mother’s name was Claire,” John said.

  “How about your fathers?” Matt asked.

  “I don’t know anything about him,” Bull said. “Except he was a big bear of a man with dark curly hair.”

  “Same with me,” John said. “Mother said he was a big strong man. I had an older brother, I know that. But I never saw him. I have no idea where he might be.” He looked at Bull. “My mother said my father had dark curly hair. Were you a woods colt, Bull?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me, too.”

  Bull smiled ruefully. “Poppa got around, didn’t he?”

  “Looks like it. We do kinda resemble, Bull.”

  “I have to say that’s right. And come to think of it, Singer bears a strong likeness to us. You trust your kids, John?” he asked abruptly.

  “Hell, no! At least not after today. I been doin’ some strong thinkin’, too. And I think my kids are playin’ me for a sucker.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Bull said with a sigh. “But I have to say that since I fired all those damn gunhands, my wife and I have, ah, well, ah . . . You know what I mean. We’re, ah, closer.”

  John grinned at him. “My wife hasn’t had much to do with me for some years, Bull. You reckon if I fired those gunslicks it might improve my situation at home?”

  “It damn sure did for me.”

  John nodded his big head. He looked at his son. “Dan, this then is what you’ve been tryin’ to tell me for some time. My kids are traitors toward me, right?”

  “I’m afraid so, Dad. But I don’t know if you can fire those gunfighters.”

  “You want to explain that, boy?”

  The young man looked over at Matt. Matt said, “They might just laugh in your face, John. For I have a hunch they’re working for your kids, Bull’s kids, and for Singer.”

  “What a sorry damn mess!” Bull said.

  “Dad,” Connie said. “If you and Mr. Carlin are half brothers . . . what does that make Dan and me?”

  “Half first cousins,” Sam told her. “No . . . full second cousins.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “No . . . I’m going to have to think about this for awhile.”

  “What it means is, havin’ kids just might be chancy,” Bull said. “But, hell, people marry first and second cousins all the time.” He sighed. “I ain’t got no objections to you two gettin’ hitched. You, John?”

  “Not a one. You have my blessin’s.” He laughed out loud and slapped his knee. “Bull, can you just imagine a hundr
ed years from now someone tryin’ to look up this family tree!”

  Bull looked at him and busted out laughing.

  Connie glanced at Dan. “Do I call your father ‘Poppa’ or ‘Uncle John’?”

  That set both fathers off again, and they laughed until tears were running down their eyes.

  The laughter stopped abruptly when Bull’s hat was blown off his head, and a rifle slug spat bark into John’s face. Everybody hit the ground, pistols in hand.

  “I told you we should have met at that other spot, brother,” Sam said.

  “Don’t gloat,” Matt said. “It doesn’t become you.”

  “I’m not gloating, I assure you. I landed in a damn mud puddle.”

  John chuckled at the expression on Sam’s face. “You OK, son?”

  “Fine, Dad.”

  “You all right, baby?” Bull called to his daughter.

  “I’m fine, Dad. I just wish I could get to my rifle.”

  John grinned at his new-found half brother. “She’ll do, Bull. She’ll do.”

  Bull returned the grin and then jacked back the hammer on his .45, looking around for a target.

  Matt tossed Connie a pistol, and she caught it and deftly spun the cylinder, checking for loads.

  “Now I feel better,” she said.

  Dan tried to shift positions, and a bullet whistled past his head, so close he could feel the deadly heat. “Don’t anybody try to move,” he called softly. “They’ve got us down cold.”

  Matt saw what he thought was a boot sticking out from behind a thick stand of brush and aimed about two feet up from the boot. He squeezed off a round, and a wild shriek of pain ripped the late afternoon air.

  “Oh, Christ! My knee’s tore up bad! Oh, God, it hurts. Somebody get me out of here and to a sawbones.”

  John and Bull fired as one, and the shrieking stopped as the bullets found their mark. The ambusher did not need a doctor anymore.

  Sam suddenly rolled to his right and reached the safety of rocks, leaving in his wake a hail of gunfire and bullets ripping up the ground inches behind him.

  “Watch the breed,” a familiar voice called. “He’s gonna tr y slippin’ up around us.”

  “Clement,” John whispered, his voice shaky. “My own son is tryin’ to kill me.”