“I know the feeling. I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that warm body myself!”
“Where’d you learn that hand-kissing stuff, you son of a gun?”
“Benefits of a college education.”
“I knew it had to be good for something,” Matt said. “You know, I’ve seen that gal around before—she’s not the type you forget—but I just can’t remember when.”
Sam laughed. “Sure you have. She works at French Marie’s.”
French Marie was a brothel keeper who ran one of the best, high-class houses in Tombstone. Her proud boast was that every girl in her employ came from France. In practice, that meant that all the ladies in her stable could fake a French accent that would more or less pass muster this side of St. Louis.
Matt smacked his palm against his forehead. “I knew I’d seen her before!”
“Sure, she was down in the parlor with the rest of the girls the last time we were there,” Sam said.
“Say . . . I didn’t go upstairs with her that night, did I?”
“No, you were with Louise.”
“Louise . . . ?”
“The little brunette with the big—”
“Oh, yeah, now I remember. Louise. Ooh-lah-lah!” Remembering, Matt got a silly smile on his face. “If I’d been with Yvonne, I’d remember. I never get that drunk!”
“Not usually,” Sam said. “Come to think of it, I’ve got a pretty nice glow on now. That sure was good brandy.”
“Let’s get these horses over to the corral and see what kind of a price they’ll fetch,” said Matt, all business now.
“Don’t get your hopes up. Whatever it is, it won’t be enough for a night at French Marie’s,” Sam said sadly.
After taking on a load of high-line brandy—an overload, even—Matt and Sam were feeling no pain. Maybe the alcohol brought their belligerence to the fore, or maybe it was an ornery streak asserting itself but, whatever the reason, they were minded to beard the foes in their own den.
Earlier, on the way to the undertaker’s, they had ridden past Waco Brindle’s saloon where the New Mexico crowd roosted. None of the regulars were out front and the duo rode by wihout incident.
Now, on their way to the corral to dicker over the price of horseflesh, they detoured so they would once more pass by Waco’s.
The lead rope to the string of five horses was tied to Sam’s saddle. Matt rode beside him. They rode south, down the middle of the street. Anybody that came along could go around them or press the point, they didn’t much care which. Nobody came along.
They entered a seedy, rundown area on the outskirts of town whose shacks, cribs, and dives were outnumbered by vacant, weed-grown lots.
Ahead, on the left-hand side, stood a ramshackle, one-story, wooden frame building. Its warped boards were unpainted. The roof pole sagged in the middle, the ends of the roof higher than its midpoint. No sign proclaimed that this was “Waco’s,” the bucket-of-blood saloon and robber’s roost run by Waco Brindle. A line of horses, most of them stolen no doubt, was tied to a hitching post in front.
Matt and Sam came on. “Some folks would say we were looking for trouble,” Matt said.
“Well, aren’t we?” Sam asked.
“Not me. I just want to know where we stand with this New Mexico outfit. I killed Justin Vollin—”
“I killed him,” Sam corrected him.
“We killed Vollin and his gang and if his pards don’t like it, it’s just too damned bad. We weren’t looking for trouble—they came to us. They came on our land without a by-your-leave and tried to jump our claim.”
“I’m not arguing.”
“I won’t be buffaloed by any back-shooting Lincoln County trash. If they want a fight, they can have it and I don’t mean maybe.”
“Uh-huh. Better to come at them now than to let them call the tune.”
“Damned right, Sam.”
Waco’s was noisy, its thin walls seeming to shake from the drunken clamor within. Sam took his gun out of the holster and tucked it into the top of his pants on the left side, worn butt out. He found a cross-belly draw quicker than reaching for a holstered gun on his hip, when he was on horseback.
On foot or in the saddle, Matt liked having two guns on his hips, his usual way.
Rawhide thongs were looped over the top of the hammers to secure the guns in their holsters. Matt thumbed them free, clearing them, readying the guns for fast action.
Waco’s showed no porch, no boardwalk sidewalk. The structure was plunked down in the middle of the dirt. A couple of idlers sat on the ground in front of the saloon, leaning against the wall, smoking and chatting. One whittled away on a stick with a pocket knife. They glanced up to see who was coming.
Matt and Sam walked their horses at a slow, steady, deliberate pace. The idlers stood up. One ran inside the saloon.
After a pause, a half-dozen or more tough-looking hardcases came shouldering out the door, ranging themselves in front of the building. They were gunmen, or at least they fancied themselves as such. The weapons were worn low on their hips, some tied down. They showed a lot of hard eyes, grim faces, and tight-set mouths.
A drunk stood in the doorway, bracing himself against the frame to keep from falling down.
Matt and Sam drew abreast of the ranked gunmen. Sam was closer to them. Matt reined in first, letting Sam get a length ahead before halting, so neither of them would be in the other’s way and they’d both have a clear field of fire.
“You know who we are, and we know who you are,” Sam said. “Any complaints?”
The drunk in the doorway was bulled aside as Waco Brindle came through. The drunk staggered and fell. Waco took a few steps forward.
His body was the size and shape of a hogshead barrel with arms and legs stuck on it. His head sat on his shoulders seemingly without the interposition of a neck. His scalp was shaved close to blue-black stubble. A big black mustache had upturned tips, like the handlebars of a bicycle. His small round eyes were red, bloodshot.
One of the gunmen spat on the ground. Sam fixed him with a cold, hard eye. The other looked away first.
“Whadda’ ya want?” Waco growled.
“Vollin’s over to the undertaker’s, along with his pards,” Matt said.
“So what?”
“Just thought you’d like to know, in case you feel like financing the funeral.”
“Why should I? They ain’t nothing to me,” Waco said. “Neither are you, the both of you.”
“They tried to jump our claim. They left across their horses,” Matt said. “These are their horses. We’re keeping them.”
“Any objections?” Sam demanded loudly.
The gunman who’d spat squared his shoulders, hand straying toward his gun butt.
“I wish you’d try it,” Sam said, more softly now, almost caressingly. “I surely wish you would.”
The other seemed game, and the confrontation hung suspended in the balance for a timeless time, ready to tip either way—
“Back off,” Waco said out of the corner of his mouth. His man seemed unsure whether to reach or stand down.
“Back off, I said!”
The gunman deflated, shoulders sagging. His hand sank slowly to his side.
“This ain’t the time or the place,” Waco said.
“You let us know when it is the time and the place,” Matt said.
“You said your say. All right. I’m a busy man. I got me a business to run. I ain’t making any money standing out here in the hot sun listening to you jawing,” Waco said. “Anything else, Bodine?”
“Just this—anybody tries to jump us winds up facedown across their horse. We’ll keep the horse, too.”
“Those are some nice horses tied up at the hitching post,” Sam said. “Bet you couldn’t find a title or bill of sale for a one of them.”
“No bet, Sam.”
“I heard enough. I’m going inside,” Waco said. “Come on, men, the house’s buying.” He turned and went inside, not l
ooking back. The drunk who’d been shoved out of the doorway was right on his heels. The rest of the group silently filed into the saloon.
“What I thought,” Matt said, laughing softly. He nudged his horse’s flanks with his heels, starting forward. Sam did the same and they rode on.
They were pitched to the highest levels of alertness for any untoward sound: the click of a hammer being thumbed back, a window opening, a stealthy footstep. None came. They rode on without incident. When they were out of pistol range, Sam whistled soundlessly and said, “Whew!”
“Hell, if they were any kind of gunhawks, they’d never have got run out of Lincoln County,” Matt said.
“They’re not done yet.”
“Neither are we.”
SIX
Assistant Deputy Marshal Osgood vented a long, heartfelt groan. “You again!”
“Glad to see you, too,” Matt Bodine said brightly.
“Who’s glad?”
“You, when you see what I’ve brought.”
Osgood sat behind the desk in the marshal’s office. Matt crossed to him. Osgood’s eyes were half shut, dull, gummy with sleep. Matt guessed he’d been napping.
Osgood eyed the package held in Matt’s left arm. His slitted eyes brightened. “What you got in the bag?”
“Token of appreciation.” Matt put the brown paper bag down on the desk, reached inside and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, setting it down in front of Osgood.
Osgood’s gaze fastened on the bottle. He licked his lips. “Who’s that for?”
“You.”
Osgood’s hand shot out for it, abruptly stopping short several inches from the bottle. That must have been when the second thoughts kicked in. “What do you want?”
“What makes you think I want anything?” Matt asked.
“Quit pulling my leg. Nobody does something for nothing. You must want something. What?”
Matt tried to look impressed. “Good thinking. With a brain like that, you’ll make marshal in no time.”
“I’m happy where I am, thank you very much,” Osgood retorted.
“One good turn deserves another. You gave me a good steer when you put me on to the undertaker. Fritz Guthrie took the bodies off my hands, and he’ll bury them for the county. I said I’d bring you a bottle of something if things worked out. I’m a man of my word.”
“Well, good!” Osgood remained sceptical, suspicious. His hands resting on the desktop near the bottle trembled slightly. “That’s it? Nothing else?”
“What else could there be?” Matt asked innocently.
“You ain’t killed nobody since I last saw you?”
“Nope.”
“That’s a relief. No special favors you want?”
“Not a one. Go on, drink up.”
“On the understanding that this is purely a gesture of goodwill and don’t oblige me nohow no way to nothing, not-a-thing, no ifs, ands, or buts about, no fine print—I’ll take it.”
Osgood grabbed the bottle with both hands, like he was afraid it might get away from him. He wrenched the cork free. He raised the bottle to his mouth, thought better of it, and put the bottle down. He opened a drawer in the desk—the top drawer—and took out a glass tumbler. It was the same glass he’d used earlier. Matt recognized the smudges and stains.
Osgood filled the glass almost to the brim. Gripping it with both hands, he brought it to his mouth and drank deeply. When he set it down, less than a mouthful of whiskey remained in the glass.
He sat upright in his chair, perfectly still, not even blinking. A tinge of color brightened his sallow complexion. After a pause, he opened his mouth and said, “Ahhh.”
“You’re welcome,” Matt prompted.
Osgood stared uncomprehendingly at him for a few beats before he got it. “Thanks,” he said grudgingly.
“Don’t mention it,” Matt said, feeling pretty sure that Osgood wouldn’t.
Osgood poured another one. Matt got a wooden chair out of the corner, set it down in front of the desk, and sat down.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m a sociable man, Deputy. I hate to see a man drink alone. Believe I’ll join you.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Osgood brightened. “Only got but the one glass.”
“That’s okay, I’ll drink out of the bottle,” Matt said.
“You would.” Osgood started in on his second glassful. “Not bad, though. Pretty good stuff.”
It was plain red whiskey, the cheapest stuff that was halfway drinkable that Matt could find. He’d picked up a couple of bottles on the way over.
Sam was at the corral horse-trading with the owner over the lot of five horses. He was a better horse trader than Matt. Matt was a horseman born and bred, but Sam really knew his horseflesh. It was like that for them with guns, too, only the other way around. Sam was a good gunman, a crack shot, but Matt was a wizard with the plowshares.
Besides, Matt didn’t have the patience for bargaining with horse dealers. When the dickering went on too long, Matt either got irked or disgusted, and wound up taking the dealer’s price or walking away. Not Sam. He took a positive pleasure in outwaiting the other party, wearing them down until they caved.
Matt reached for the bottle. Osgood flinched, but managed to control himself. Matt took a swallow. The stuff jolted him. Compared to Fritz Guthrie’s brandy, this tasted like rusty, filthy drainpipe water laced with strychnine.
A expression of canny shrewdness came over Osgood’s face. “Say . . . ain’t that another bottle I see peeping out of that bag?”
“No hiding anything from you, is there, Deputy? That must come from being a trained lawman.”
“I’m getting along.”
“How’s the manhunt going? Any leads on the Wells Fargo robbers?”
“Nary a word,” Osgood said. “The Wells Fargo agent posted a five-thousand-dollar reward for whoever finds the silver bullion, though.”
Matt laughed. “Only five thousand for a twenty-seven-thousand-dollar haul? Hell, I’ll give six thousand!”
“You ain’t got six thousand dollars,” Osgood said with grim relish.
“Too true.” Matt felt sorry for himself. No $6,000 for him. He took a swallow of red-eye. He could have gotten the same effect by running his head into the wall, he decided, and it would have been easier on his stomach, too.
Osgood drank from the glass, Matt from the bottle, the level of whiskey steadily declining. The whiskey didn’t taste so bad to Matt. It must be getting to him.
“Those Vollin jaspers were a pretty bad bunch,” Matt began, too casually.
Osgood froze, holding the glass halfway to his mouth. His head was bowed, chin on chest. He looked up at Matt out of the tops of his eyes. “Uh-oh! I seed it coming! I knew you wanted something.”
“It won’t cost you a red cent,” Matt said.
“Good, I can’t afford a red cent, not on what the town’s paying me.” Osgood took a drink. “Here it comes.”
“Vollin must have been wanted for something. Him and his pards.”
Osgood shook his head, sure, certain. “Not in Tombstone. Not in the county or the territory.”
“What about New Mexico? They didn’t spend all their time in Lincoln County going to prayer meetings and singing songs in the choir,” Matt pressed.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Don’t you check the Wanted circulars?”
“Sure—when I can. You know how many circulars we got piled up from all over the West? Back East, too? Stacks of ’em, stacks and stacks.”
“Maybe you could take a look at them, see if our boys were posted somewhere with a bounty on their heads,” Matt suggested.
Osgood looked indignant. “What do you think I am, anyway?!”
Matt had definite opinions on that score, but maintained a diplomatic silence.
“I’m only one man here. With everybody else out on posse, I got the whole town to keep the peace in,” Osgood said. “They’re working me to de
ath!”
“You haven’t moved out of the jailhouse all day,” Matt pointed out.
“’Course not. Folks got to know where to find me if trouble breaks.” Osgood leaned back with a self-satisfied smile, as if he had just won a point.
“And don’t forget the prisoner—a dangerous killer and condemned man who’d try anything to slip the noose. Why, his compadres could be laying up somewhere in town right now, waiting for a chance to make their move. I got to stay alert. They ain’t gonna catch Hubert Osgood with his head buried in a pile of paperwork.”
“Okay, okay,” Matt said, sighing.
“Let’s get down to brass tacks. Them stacks of paper is recent circulars from all over,” Osgood said, indicating a square-topped wooden table against the wall. It was covered with packing crates stuffed with papers and documents. More crates, similarly stuffed, lay on the floor under the table. “You want to look ’em over, you can.”
“That’s something, anyway.” Matt got up, and went to the table. He reached for the nearest crate and pulled out a double handful of papers, loosing a cloud of dust. He blew the dust off the papers he was holding and began thumbing through them.
He quickly discovered that there was no rhyme or reason to the arrangement of the papers, no pattern. They were Wanted dodgers and circulars from all over the West, from St. Louis to Sacramento, from Sioux Falls to San Antonio. Some had reproductions of photographs of the wanted; most were drawings. Together, they made up a rogue’s gallery, as Matt noted while leafing through them:
“Wanted for murder, bank robbery, rustling, rape, horse theft, counterfeiting—and those are just the charges against one man!”
He shuffled more papers. “White slavery—train robbery—gunrunning—selling whiskey to Indians—smuggling . . .”
The papers were dusty, grimy, smudged, dog-eared. Some were dated from last month, others from last year. The dust tickled Matt’s nose. He fought to keep from sneezing. A fast-growing pile of discards mounted up.
Matt pulled one circular, holding it up. “You can throw this one away. He’s dead.”
“Says who?” Osgood demanded.
“Me. I shot him myself,” Matt said. “It’ll go faster if you help.”
Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die Page 6
