“Again?” He laughed. “You think he’d learn sooner or later.’
“I know I don’t plan on pissing off Dingo. I value my hide too much.”
“Me too. Crossing Dingo Whaley is one thing nobody in their right mind would ever do.”
Dingo turned his horse and rode the few feet back to the other two men.
“Jessup, you’re familiar with this country. How close would you say we are to the nearest town?”
“There’s a settlement or two within a half-day’s ride of here.” Jessup absently scratched himself as he thought. “The nearest town of any size is San Angelo. Only thing much there is Fort Concho, which means you can buy beer and women.”
“I’m more concerned about the law.”
“Hell, there may be a Ranger or two. Can’t get away from those bastards these days. But the soldiers? The damned fort ain’t big enough to have very many, and I’ll wager most of those are new recruits who couldn’t find their way home with a map. Rangers and soldiers are pretty busy with the Indians and Mexicans, anyway.”
“Sounds good to me. Pierce, get the rest of the boys together. We’re going to pay us a visit to those pilgrims down yonder.”
Sam Two-Wolves shook his head slightly as his horse made its way through rotting corpses at the site of a recent buffalo hunt. The horse was skittish, and the smell was terrible, but Sam’s firm hand kept the horse steady.
From several hundred feet away, Matt Bodine sat on his own horse. For once, he made no wisecracks, for he knew the ache that such a sight produced in Sam. He had a similar feeling in his own heart since they shared a common cultural heritage, as blood brothers. For many Indians, the buffalo was the source of life itself, and with the killing of the buffalo their life was also disappearing.
Sam was the son of a great and highly respected chief of the Cheyenne, his mother a beautiful and highly educated white woman from the East who had fallen in love with the handsome chief and married him in a Christian ceremony. As an Indian, Sam was deeply aware of the bond between men and nature, between Indian and buffalo.
Matt was the son of a rancher and met Sam when they were both just kids. The two quickly became friends, with Matt spending as much time in the Cheyenne camp as he was on the ranch at home. They grew up together, and Matt was adopted into the tribe as a True Human Being, according to Cheyenne belief. Matt and Sam were joined by a ritual of knife and fire. Though Matt’s background was different than Sam’s, he understood his blood brother’s feelings better than most.
Their relationship was an easy one, often filled with good-natured kidding, but they could prove to be a terrible foe. On such occasions, Sam’s obsidian eyes grew cold and Matt’s temper could take hold. Both were young, in their mid-twenties, handsome and muscular, over six feet tall and weighing over two hundred pounds, though Sam’s hair was black and Matt’s was brown. They worked together individually and as a team, after having survived dozens of fights and shoot-outs in their travels across the west in which they were now earning the reputation of gunfighters.
They came by their fighting ability honestly. Sam’s father, Medicine Horse, had been killed during the Battle of the Little Big Horn after he charged Custer, alone, unarmed except for a coup stick. Realizing the inevitability of war, the chief had ordered Sam from the Indian encampment before the battle, to adopt the white man’s ways and to forever forget his Cheyenne blood. That was a promise that Sam had a difficult time keeping.
Matt and Sam had witnessed the subsequent slaughter at the Little Big Horn, though that was a secret only they shared. During the time following the death of Sam’s father, Sam and Matt decided to drift for a time in an effort to erase the terrible memory of the battle. Though they were often mistaken for out-of-work drifters, in truth the two men were well-educated and wealthy. Sam Two-Wolves was college-educated, while Matt had been educated at home by his mother, a trained schoolteacher. Sam’s mother had come from a rich eastern family and left him with many resources. Matt had earned his fortune through hard work and smart business moves. He rode shotgun for gold shipments and as an army scout, then invested his money in land. Matt and Sam now owned profitable cattle and horse ranches along the Wyoming-Montana border.
“You can’to do anything about this now,” Matt called out to Sam. “Let’s move on.”
“I know,” Sam answered. “But this is such a waste. I’d like to get my hands on the men that did this.”
“Yeah. So would I. But it’s all legal, sanctioned and encouraged by the government.”
Sam urged his horse down the road at a faster pace. He said, “Let’s get out of here before I get sick.”
Matt looked around, shook his head, then hurried to catch up. He would give Sam a few miles to regain his natural good humor. Sometimes it was better not to push, and this was one of those times.
Peter Easton shuffled some papers around on the makeshift desk in front of him. His ample stomach made the maneuver difficult. Carl Holz, Easton’s assistant, knowing Easton’s sensitivity to his weight, said nothing. The carriage shifted on the rocky ground, tossing the papers into the air. Easton tried to grab them, as did Holz.
“Damned! How’s a man supposed to get any work done in these conditions!”
“I suggest again, sir, that you might be better off postponing work until y ou reach Fort Concho,” Holz said. “All the pertinent information is in the summary I prepared for you.”
Holz was much slimmer than Easton, though his hair was also slicked back and both wore expensive suits. Holz picked up a slip of paper from beneath another stack and handed it to his superior. Easton repositioned his glasses and again read through the report.
“Damned these Mexicans anyway,” he said. “They can’t control their own bandits and they get upset because one or two of our men cross the border in pursuit. Harumph!”
“One man in particular,” Holz corrected.“A Texas Ranger named Josiah Finch.” He reached into the stack and pulled out another slip of paper, glanced down a list. “I might point out that the complaints aren’t limited to just Mexican authorities. The Department has received complaints from Indian Territory, New Mexico . . .”
“I get the idea. This Ranger doesn’t understand limits—though I understand that all these Texans think they’re too good to follow the rules. I’ll conduct my investigation, make my recommendations, and get back to Washington as soon as possible.” He looked out the window at the dry countryside. “I’d just as soon be back there now. Damn, I wished I had left that senator’s wife alone . . .”
A gunshot that sounded like a cannon suddenly filled the air and a hole exploded in the side of the wagon, filling the inside with splintered wood. this time the papers scattered and nobody bothered to pick them up as the horses spooked and started to run down the road. Easton and Holz hit the floor as another shot made a second hole in the side.
Outside, Dingo Whaley and his men were quickly overtaking the vehicle. the escort on horseback squeezed off a shot at the attackers, who returned the fire. A half-dozen bullets hit him at the same time and he fell to the ground. The driver, not willing to be a hero and be shot for his efforts like the escort had been, tried unsuccessfully to stop the team. Dingo solved that problem by aiming his big buffalo gun at the lead horse and squeezing off a shot. It dropped in its tracks, causing the remaining frightened horses to stumble and fall. The driver flew through the air like a rag doll. Dingo started to take aim, tracking the body as he might a flying duck, then lowered the gun and turned his attention back to the wagon.
The hitch broke and the wagon overturned in a cloud of dust and noise.
It had been many miles since Matt and Sam had left the buffalo carcasses, but Sam was still quiet.
“I could sure go for a hot meal and a cold beer,” Matt said. “I’m sick and tired of this trail grub. Why, that breakfast we had this morning was—”
“You cooked breakfast,” Sam answered.
“Oh. Right. Well, what about that dinner y
esterday. . .”
“You cooked dinner yesterday,” Sam answered.
“Damn right! Maybe it’s time you did some of the cooking!”
“What? And listen to your griping?”
But Sam smiled, and Matt grinned in return.
“That’s more like it,” Matt said. “You’re mighty poor company when you’re in one of your moods.”
“My moods! Hell, even at my worst, I’m better than you are when you get all google-eyed over some saloon singer . . .”
Matt shook his head. “Well, now I’ve done it! You’re back to normal. Me and my big mouth! All you need now is a good fight to put you in a really fine mood!”
The shot of a buffalo gun roared in the distance.
“As you were saying, brother, my mood’s rapidly improving!” Sam said, as he turned his horse and raced toward the sound.
Matt rolled his eyes toward the sky. “Me and my big mouth!”
Chapter Two
Carl Holz touched his forehead and felt wet. He pulled back his hand and saw blood. When he volunteered to assist Easton in his department investigation, as a “favor” to an influential senator, Holz h ad hoped to make some points for himself to further his career. He had not planned on getting shot at. What had happened? He blinked, and found himself looking into the barrel of a Colt revolver held by one of the biggest men he had ever seen. Others had their guns pointed at Easton.
“Come on out, nice and easy,” one of the men said. “I haven’t decided whether or not to shoot you. If you cooperate, we might let you walk away.”
Holz groaned and pulled himself out of the carriage. Easton was trying to take control, though west Texas and a gang of outlaws were much different than the Washington, D.C., society that he was familiar with. At least a dozen men, all wearing masks, held guns on them.
“Who are you? And what do you want?”
“Names aren’t no matter,” Dingo replied. “And what I want is your watches. Your money. Anything that you might have stashed in that fancy wagon of yours.”
“Outlaws!” Holz said.
“I’ll handle this,” Easton hissed.
“Think you’re hot stuff, do you?” another outlaw asked. “Then handle this!” His massive fist snaked out and hit Easton, who fell backward in a daze. Easton kept his eye on him, trying to clear his head.
“Murdock, cut it out,” the first outlaw said. “Pierce, you take some of the boys and take this fancy rig apart. The rest of you boys take whatever valuables you can find off these yahoos.”
“Can I beat up on them some, too?” Murdock asked.
“Just do what you’re told.”
Holz was amazed to see Pierce and three others manually set the carriage upright again. Some of the papers that Easton had been working on fluttered to the ground through the open door.
“What’s this?” Dingo demanded, kicking one of the sheets with a dirty boot. “You some kind of lawyers or something?”
“We’re with the government,” Easton said. He was still on the ground, rubbing his chin, trying to stand.
“Really, now.” Dingo motioned to a smaller man. “Jessup, gather together some of these papers. It might prove interesting reading on some cold night.” He laughed and pounded his fist on his knee.
“You can’t do that! It’s government property . . .”
Murdock riped the watch from Easton’s pocket and pushed him back to the ground. He pulled his grin and aimed it at Easton’s head.
“Aren’t we citizens?” Jessup asked calmly.
“Ah, well . . . convicted felons do lose certain rights . . .”
Jessup walked over and grabbed Easton’s shirt collar. “What makes you think we’re felons?”
“Ah, well . . .”
“Maybe you should apologize?”
“Of course. My mistake.”
“. . . and citizens with every right!” Holz finished.
From inside the carriage came a whoop, and one of the men came out holding a heavy bag. It clinked as he walked.
“We struck paydirt, boss!” the outlaw called out. “Looks like gold coin!”
Holz sighed. It had been his idea to bring along the gold to help with expenses. In the West, he knew, government IOUs weren’t always considered acceptable currency. The loss of the gold could be a mark against him. Even so, he wasn’t going to get himself killed over it, though he should at least make an effort.
“Anything else?” the leader of the band asked.
“You realize that this is a federal offense?” Holz asked.
“It makes me shiver in my boots!” Dingo laughed again. Holz said nothing more. “Now answer my question. Anything else of value here?”
“Nothing. You’re cleaned us out.”
“What about these yahoos? Should we shoot them?”
“Why waste bullets? We’re miles from anywhere. These tenderfoots won’t last a day . . .”
Dingo stopped in midsentence as he seemed to listen to the air. Some said he could hear, see, and smell buffalo—and men—miles away. It made him one of the more dangerous buffalo hunters, and outlaws, working in that part of Texas.
“We’re getting company,” he announced. “I don’t know how many, but I think we’ve had enough fun for one day. Let’s get out of here.”
Murdock laughed and added, “You’re right, Dingo! Let these greenhorns stew in their own fat!”
The others also guffawed as they quickly mounted and started to ride.
Holz knew Easton was sensitive about his weight, but was still surprised to see Easton unexpectedly stand and jump at the outlaw who made the comment about him being fat. He grabbed the outlaw’s legs and tried to drag him from the saddle. The outlaw was apparently even more surprised. He looked down at his attacker, kicked, and lost his balance. He hit the ground with a thud. The other members of the gang didn’t even bother to look back as they rode away.
“Now you’ve done it,” the outlaw said. “I’ve had enough. I don’t care what anybody says. I’m going to kill you.”
His threat was interrupted by two bullets whizzing past him. One came from behind a rock—the driver who had been hurled from the vehicle. The other shot was from a tall man riding toward him on a fast horse.
Sam Two-Wolves knew better than to rush blindly into a fight. It was better to know the odds, know who was fighting and why. But this time Sam was angry and he didn’t really care. He would be willing to face a den of rattlesnakes, if need be.
That what he found was a buffalo hunter was a stroke of good fortune.
Sam instantly sized up the situation.One man with a gun, pointed at nother man, ready to shoot. A third man, bloodied, apparently helpless. The wrecked carriage. The dead rider motionless on the ground. It would be unusual for one man to do so much damage, so the other gang members would probably not be too far away.
Matt also realized the situation and called out, “I’ll look for the others!”
Sam waved him away and didn’t slow his horse for a second. He was willing to take his chances.
He was still too far away for a clear shot, but it was worth a try. He pulled his rifle and took aim. It was almost impossible to shoot a rifle accurately from a running horse, though Sam did better than most. The shot roared almost at the same time as another, fired by a man lying behind a rock. Both shots missed. The outlaw leaped behind the cover of the damaged carriage.
Sam shot three more times, not expecting to hit his target, but tiving the two other men a chance to scurry to safety behind the rock. Sam slid off his horse and joined them.
“Got yourself in some kind of mess?” he asked conversationally.
“He called me fat!” Easton said, his face red. “That was so . . . so . . . unacceptable!”
Sam raised his eyebrows.
“I’m guessing you were also robbed and your lives threatened. Was that acceptable?”
The outlaw fired two shots blindly in the direction of Sam and the others. Sam returned the fire, but con
tinued the discussion as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“I beg your pardon. My name is Carl Holz. This is Peter Easton. We’re representatives of the government, on the way to Fort Concho to conduct some business . . .”
Easton quickly calmed down.
“Guess that was a crazy thing to do, attacking that man just because he called me a name. I could have been killed!”
“I understand. I’m kind of sensitive sometimes, myself. Problem is, I just shot the bastard. You never know.”
“Are you all crazy?” the driver asked. “We’ve just been robbed, we’re being sh ot at, and we’re trapped! And you’re all yapping your gums!”
“Not entirely correct!” Sam said. “We’re not trapped at all. In fact, that fellow over there is the one in trouble. You stay here, and I’ll take care of him.”
Sam fired a shot and quickly reloaded. The outlaw returned the sh ots. Sam zigzagged across the short distance between the rock and the overturned wagon, dodging the bullets. The outlaw fired again, but this time the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Sam covered the remaining ground in a long leap.
Matt had kept up with Sam for most of the way to the place from which the shots had come. When he also saw the damage, but only one outlaw, he changed directions at the last minute. He had a feeling that other members of the gang were near and might unexpectedly return. His guess that they were still close-by was proven right when he spotted the dust cloud in the distance.
The gang was riding fast, though they did not have much of a head start. Even so, there wasn’t much need for Matt to give chase. He was outnumbered and at this point had no reason to look for a fight. His intent now was to ensure that they did not turn around and surprise Sam in his skirmish withthe lone bandit.
At one point the dust cloud paused, as if the gang members were considering a return, but then the group continued on its way.
“No honor among thieves,” Matt said to himself.
He watched the cloud grow smaller and then disappear before turning back to join up again with Sam.
Blood Bond 7 Page 19
