Blood Bond 7

by William W. Johnstone

  Apparently he had rode into town in the middle of some local excitement, for many of the miners were running back and forth, yelling to each other and generally behaving like oafs. He threaded his way through the people, pausing in front of the Jordan Hotel to survey his surroundings before dismounting.

  Caphorn knew from experience that this was probably the best this little town had to offer. If it weren’t for the need to replenish his bank account (which happened with far too much regularity), he would never venture forth into these dirty, little western towns. Unfortunately, this is where his type of help was needed. It never ceased to amaze him how various parties in such poor areas could find the money to pay his fees. This town, for example, didn’t look as if all the citizens combined could put together enough for a good dinner. Yet, Nelson Jordan had sent Caphorn his advance fee—and more. So like it or not, this ramshackle building would have to be his home for the next few days, at least until he could collect the remainder of his fee.

  A few of those running back and forth cast a curious glance toward him. Most of the people ignored him. Well, Caphorn hadn’t expected a brass band, but he thought that some of Jordan’s people would have at least been looking for him.

  He tied his horse to a post, then entered the saloon part of the building. Slim and Web, Jordan’s men who had initially met with Caphorn, were at the bar, talking to a third man. Slim snapped to attention when he saw Caphorn, gestured. The third man stepped forward.

  “My name’s Grant Smith. You Phil Caphorn?”

  “The same.”

  “Jordan’s been expecting you. I’ll go let him know you’re here.”

  The gun fighter stepped up to the bar. He noted the stage on the far side of the room, now vacant. He said, “I want a whiskey.” When the bartender didn’t move fast enough, he said in a colder tone, “I want my whiskey now.”

  Something in his voice made the bartender move faster, put the bottle in from of him and moved away without waiting for payment. Caphorn smiled, reached behind the bar for a glass, and moved to a vacant table near the stage.

  Caphorn was on his second glass when Jordan finally entered the room and approached the table. The gunfighter didn’t stand or extend his hand in greeting. Instead, he took another sip of whiskey. Jordan followed suit, sat down, and gestured for his own bottle.

  “During my stay here, this will be my table,” Caphorn said. “I expect all my expenses and creature comforts will be met, in addition to my fees for the job.”

  “You don’t waste words, do you?” Jordan said.

  “Why waste words? Money is the language that speaks the loudest. Gold and silver always demand the greatest attention. You got my attention. What’s the job you need for me to do?”

  “I’ve got a problem here. No, I’ve got several problems. I’ve been trying to . . . negotiate . . . a deal for some land with one Clarence Hart. These talks were in the process of breaking down when two busybodies moved in. They haven’t officially taken Hart’s side, but they’ve been making mince meat of my men. I want them taken care of, either before the shooting starts or during.”

  “You’re pretty sure the shooting will start?”

  “Positive.”

  “Who are the men I’m going to kill for you?”

  “They’re partners, riding together. Matt Bodine. Sam Two-Wolves.”

  Caphorn had started to hear a few stories about the two men, but hadn’t paid much attention to them. To him, they were just two more names on a list of potential rivals. Now, they were two more names on a list of dead men.

  “Got my fee?”

  “Name it.”

  “Twenty-five thousand. In gold. Up front.”

  If the figure shocked Jordan, he didn’t show it. He continued to sip his drink.

  “Alright. I’ll have it to you before the day is over.”

  “No. I want it delivered to my bank in Junction City.”

  “But that could take at least another day!”

  “I have the time to kill. Do you?”

  “Alright. I’ll have my men get on it.”

  Caphorn leaned back in his chair. “When’s show time?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  The gunfighter gave Jordan a withering glance.

  “It’s your joint.”

  “My singer’s missing. Last I saw her, she was off on some damned outing with Bodine.”

  Caphorn laughed.

  The uneasy truce was holding. At least for the first few miles, Matt, Sam, Strep, and Malinda rode in silence that if was not comfortable, at least was tolerable.

  Sam made a brief attempt at diplomacy.

  “Maybe it was dumb luck that you found us,” Sam said. “It was still better than those idiots in town could have done.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not trying to goad me, like your friend’s been trying to do.”

  “Naw, I’m not a rival for the object of his romantic affections,” Sam said.

  “Huh?”

  “Matt thinks you’re sweet on me, and that I might return the affection,” Malinda explained.

  “Hell, Malinda, you know I’ve never made a secret that I’m fond of you. But so is every other man in town.”

  “But they don’t get to spend time with her,” Sam continued. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Although in Matt’s case, he has such a thick skull that I wonder how it came to him . . .”

  “Thick skull! Why, if it weren’t for my brains, and my brilliant plan . . .”

  “Nonexistent plan.”

  “No matter . . .”

  The banter suddenly came to a serious halt when the whine of a bullet echoed around the small party. Almost instantly, Sam had placed his horse between him and the unseen gunman, Matt had pulled Malinda to a protective rock outcropping, and Strep had found similar protection. As if the first shot was a signal, the air was filled with the sound of bullets being fired. Most of them seemed to come from a hill a little ways up the trail.

  “What’s that about planning ahead?” Matt called out.

  “Could have happened to anybody,” Sam called back. “I figured these guys would have gotten tired and retired to their beds by now.”

  A shell bounced off a rock near Matt’s head.

  “Wrong.”

  Strep said, “What do these clowns think they’re doing? We have Malinda. Shooting like this could kill her as well as you all. Let me do the talking.”

  “Be our guest.”

  “Hey! On the hill! Stop shooting! This is Strep!”

  The shots slowed some, but still came in rapid succession.

  “Will you stop your shooting!”

  A voice finally called out and the shooting slowed in bits and spurts, and finally stopped.

  “Strep! Are you alright?”

  “I’ve got Malinda here! Stop your shooting!”

  “Taking credit for saving her, Strep?” Matt asked in a conversational tone of voice.

  “Be quiet at least once, Bodine.”

  “I have a big heart. Go ahead and take credit. It may raise you a notch or two in town.”

  Another voice on the hill called out, “Strep! We know they’re making you say that!” The comment was followed by a shot.

  “Don’t worry, Strep! We’ll come and get you and Malinda!”

  And suddenly the shots were as rapid and numerous as before. Matt, his good humor gone under the senseless attack, listened carefully to the pattern of shots being fired. The men weren’t working as a team nor did they have any kind of organization. Matt waited for a break in the shots, then reached out from behind the rock and fired three shots in a fairly close pattern. A pained yell and a thump of a falling body indicated that Matt’s educated guess had paid off.

  “We could wait these guys out,” Sam said. “But I have better things to do with my time. I’m going to circle around and see if I can’t knock some sense into them?’

  “I’m not going to shoot against my own people,” Strep said. “But
I won’t shoot you or Matt in the back. I owe you that for helping find Malinda.”

  “You’ve done the best you could.”

  “Don’t forget I still may face you two down a little later. One of you may get killed.”

  “Or you.” Sam’s words were matter-of-fact as he slipped into the brush.

  Strep looked in disbelief at Matt.

  “Does he really think he can sneak up on them?” Strep asked.

  “If Sam wanted, he could sneak into the President’s dinner party for coffee and cigars,” Matt said with a straight face.

  Another bullet whizzed by his head. Matt returned the fire, to provide some cover for Sam.

  Sam had learned tracking and fighting under some of the very best Cheyenne warriors. Matt had also learned many of the tricks, but had not mastered them as well as Sam. He moved quietly through the brush, barely moving a blade of grass or a leaf of a sapling. The rocks and soil had been warmed by the sun, but were not uncomfortable to the Indian warrior. As he moved, he thought of the days of his youth, when he would go on hunting trips with the older members of his tribe, and felt at one with his many ancestors who hunted buffalo and men in just this way.

  In minutes, he was situated across a small hollow from one of the attackers. He was positioned by himself, shooting at Matt and the others down the hill. Sam, perhaps in the same spirit that his ancestors counted coup, stood silently until he was at his full height in front of the attacker. Sam could have killed the other man easily, but preferred to give him a more even chance.

  Sam stood silently until he was at his full height. His shadow fell across the other man, who turned his head in surprise. His eyes grew wide. His mouth fell open. No words came out. He had his rifle cocked, and started to pivot it toward Sam.

  Sam raised his revolver and shot once. The bullet caught the other man in the chest. He clutched at the pain in his chest, but did not drop the rifle. He tried to raise it again for another shot. Sam shot first. The second bullet hit the other man within inches of the first bullet. The combined force of the two slugs forced the attacker backwards. He fell, dropped the rifle, and rolled down the hill.

  It had all taken only a few seconds. A few of Jordan’s men spotted Sam, but he again dropped to the ground and blended with the underbrush before the others could react.

  The attackers were less confident now. They were not sure what had just happened. One made the mistake of lifting his head out from behind his hiding place, and had his hat removed courtesy of a shot from Matt’s gun.

  Sam had now moved to a location behind a spot where two men had situated themselves to get clear shots at Matt and the others. Sam called out, “I’ll give you all a chance to give up. Stop your shooting, throw down your guns, and nobody else will get hurt.”

  “Keep your threats to yourself . . .” one of the two started to say, when he realized that the voice was behind him. He turned, said, “What the hell! I thought you were . . .”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, because he made the mistake of shooting at the voice. Sam pumped two quick slugs into him. His partner managed to actually snap off a quick shot in Sam’s general direction, though they remained wide of their mark. Without pausing for a second, Sam continued to fire, and pumped two more slugs into the second man.

  They slumped against each other in lifeless poses.

  Sam slipped behind a tree and called out, “Are you ready to give up now?” The shooting had now stopped. Sam continued, “Step out in the open. Throw down your guns. And you’ll live. You heard Strep. We have the woman, and she’s not harmed.”

  Slowly, Jordan’s men stepped out in the open, placed their guns on the ground. Sam then also stepped into the open, where Matt could see him.

  “We’re coming up!” Matt yelled.

  In minutes, Matt, Strep, and Malinda were riding up the hill, leading Sam’s horse.

  “What do you think?” Sam asked. “I promised we wouldn’t kill them.”

  “Too bad,” Matt said.

  “We could tie them up and bring them back into town,” Sam suggested.

  “It is an idea.”

  “But I think they learned their lesson. If they walk back into town, maybe next time they’ll think twice before shooting.”

  “You’re too easy on them,” Matt said.

  “I also have a big heart,” Sam said.

  But he kicked the guns down the hill before he mounted his horse and joined the others for the remainder of the ride back into town.

  Caphorn’s laughter still grated on Jordan’s ears when he heard a more pleasant refrain coming from the street.

  “It’s Malinda! They found Malinda!”

  “Well, Caphorn, we may have our regularly scheduled show tonight, after all.”

  Caphorn stood and followed Jordan to the street.

  Jordan almost choked on his cigar when he saw Malinda riding behind Matt, with Strep and Sam riding on either side of them. When they got to the hotel, Malinda slid off the saddle. Jordan said, “What’s this, Strep? What’s going on?”

  “I found Malinda. So did these two. They didn’t have anything to do with her kidnapping.”

  Jordan glared at him.

  “Are you a traitor? Have you turned against me?”

  “When you hired me, you hired my loyalty. But in the interests of the woman, I went along with a temporary truce. If more of your men had gone along with it, there’d be more coming back alive.”

  Caphorn laughed again, as if he found the situation funny.

  Matt started to step out of the saddle, when something in Caphorn’s voice caused him to pause. He froze, then repositioned himself. His hand was within easy reach of his gun.

  He said quietly, “Phil Caphorn. So we meet again.”

  The gunfighter stopped laughing. He looked Matt in the eye. His hand was also near his gun.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Phil Caphorn was no longer laughing.

  The gunfighter coolly looked Matt up and down, then at Sam, on the horse beside him, and finally at the small crowd that had gathered in the street, including Hart and some of his men.

  “You don’t look familiar,” Caphorn finally said to Matt. “I don’t recall ever seeing you before.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Matt replied. “It was years ago, when I was riding shotgun for a freight company. In a small town called Stone Butte. You faced down a young guy, no more than a kid. You killed him in cold blood.”

  Caphorn didn’t remember the specific incident Matt referred to; there had been too many of them to remember details. He said, “So?”

  “It wasn’t my fight,” Matt continued. “And I had a job to complete. I couldn’t get involved in that fight. But as you laughed over the body, I swore that if our paths ever crossed, I’d avenge that young boy’s senseless death. I think maybe that time is at hand.”

  “You talk big. What’s your name?”

  “Matthew Bodine. You can call me Mr. Bodine.”

  “You’re a very funny man. Wonder if you’ll be laughing when I kill you.”

  “I won’t be as easy to kill as that boy.”

  “Maybe you have a little more experience. Maybe you even have the start of a reputation. None of that will help you when I plug you.”

  Matt knew that the other man was trying to play mind games with him. He could also play those games.

  “I’ve seen you. I’ve heard about you. And I know I’m faster. Ask anybody.”

  Sam also sat easily on his horse. He looked around the crowd. Malinda had stepped to one side. The others knew enough to get out of the way of fire, but they acted as if they were stuck to their places on the street. Sam knew that Matt had bit off a big cud to chew this time, but he would not interfere in a fight between Matt and Caphorn, since a matter of honor was at stake. But he was prepared to keep the fight fair.

  “Ask, me,” Sam said. “I think you’re probably a tad too self-important. I’d bet money that Matt is faster than you.”

  �
��And who asked you?” Caphorn said.

  “He did,” Sam joked, pointing to Matt.

  “You must be Sam Two-Wolves. You’re both funny, funny, funny.”

  “Prove yourself,” Matt said. “I’m ready anytime you are.”

  “You have your friends backing you up,” Caphorn said.

  “They won’t draw. This is between you and me.”

  The hands of neither Matt nor Caphorn had moved a fraction of an inch. Both were still near their guns, ready to draw and shoot cold death in an instant. For an instant, Matt thought that his opponent would draw. Instead, Caphorn slowly moved his hand away from his gunbelt.

  “I’ll oblige you and kill you,” Caphorn said. “But it’ll be in my own good time. At my profit.”

  “Maybe I should just shoot you now,” Matt replied, just as cool. “It’d save me the trouble of having to hunt you down after you try and shoot me in the back.”

  “No, boy. I’ll face you. And I’ll kill you.” He touched his hat to his hat. “Until that time, I bid you good day.”

  Caphorn laughed, turned his back to the crowd, and walked away. Matt remained on his horse for long seconds. The air was still, as if the crowd was holding its collective breath, wondering which of the two shootists would die. If the tense episode bothered Matt, he didn’t show it. He waited a few more seconds before stepping out of the saddle to the ground. In an almost identical movement, Sam also stepped off his horse.

  In a low voice, Sam said, “I thought for a moment there he was going for his gun.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think he chickened out?”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate him. We’ll have to face each other. You can count on that.”

  Jordan stepped forward, and said in a friendly sounding voice, “I’m so glad you found Malinda!” He reached his hand out to the woman. “And you weren’t hurt!” He pulled her to him. She responded stiffly. Jordan spotted her bruises, and continued, “They hurt you a little. That’s too much.” He acted as if he were thinking a moment, then added, “You can rest tonight. No show tonight. I’ll get word out. Though you as much as asked for it, spending time with these Hart supporters . . .”