“He should get along with Sam then. Sam’s a great one for reading, too.”
“From what I’ve heard, Ringo doesn’t much get along with anyone, except for Brocius and a few others. Riding with him is like playing with dynamite.”
“I’d rather ride with him than have to ride against him,” Matt said, grinning. “I’ve got to be on my way, Doc. Going downstairs?”
Willis shook his head. “I’m going to nip next door for a word with Davenport. He’s footing the bills for Linda Gordon, medical bills, lodging, the works. Maybe I can wangle a snifter or two of that good Napoleon brandy he keeps out of view.”
“The colonel’s a pretty free-handed host. It’s that Stebbins you’ve got to watch out for,” Matt laughed.
Willis went across the hall and knocked on the door of Room 206. The door opened and Stebbins let him in. Matt stepped back, out of the sight lines so Stebbins wouldn’t see him. He wasn’t in the mood for Stebbins or Davenport right now.
He looked down the long hall, toward the rear of the building. “There’s a back stairs there at the end of the hall. Might not be a bad idea to set a guard on it,” Matt said to Riker, sitting beside Linda Gordon’s room door.
“Good thought. I’ll pass it along,” Riker said.
“See you,” Matt said. Riker nodded.
Matt went to the landing, looking down at the ground-floor lobby. He didn’t see Sam. He went downstairs, into the bar. Plenty of people were there but Sam was not among them. Buckskin Frank Leslie was still on duty tending bar. Matt went to him.
“Drink?” Frank asked.
“A quick one,” Matt said.
Frank poured a shot and Matt downed it, liking the fiery warmth rushing through his veins.
“Seen Sam?” Matt asked.
“I was just talking to him.”
“Where’d he go?”
Frank shrugged. “We were talking, just chewing the fat, when he broke off and said he’d see me later. I thought he saw somebody he knew and went to speak to him. Seemed perfectly natural so I didn’t give it a second thought. Besides, I had some customers to take care of. Ain’t he around?”
“I don’t see him. Did you see who he spotted?”
“I wasn’t looking.” Frank gave Matt a shrewd, sharp glance. “Any trouble?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sam didn’t seem upset or excited or nothing. ’Course, he’s a hard man to read—that poker face of his don’t crack too much. He said he had to take care of something and he’d see me later.”
“When was this, Frank?”
“No more’n ten minutes ago.”
“Forget it, it’s probably nothing,” Matt said. He reached into a breast pocket of his shirt, feeling around for a coin. “How much for the drink?”
“On the house.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. He went to the front desk. “Sam leave any messages for me?”
“No,” the manager, Mark Fredericks, said. “Haven’t seen him.”
Matt said thanks and went out. He stood on the broad front porch, standing beside one of the uprights supporting the front balcony. He let his eyes become accustomed to the dimness. Allen Street was not dark, not with all those hotel and saloon front windows ablaze with light.
Matt scanned up and down the street, looking for Sam, not finding him. He was not particularly worried. Sam was a tough customer and not one to be easily taken. Matt was more puzzled than anything else.
Maybe Sam had been called away, or maybe he was on the scent of big game. It remained to be seen which.
Matt went down the front steps into the street. He went to the corner of Allen and Fourth Street, peering into front windows and along the boardwalk sidewalks, looking for Sam, and not finding him.
Working back along the other side of the street, he made his way to Fifth Street, again experiencing no success in finding Sam. He started to turn back toward the hotel to wait for Sam there, when he caught sight of something across the street on the corner.
An orange dot showed in the dark recessed doorway of a shop that was closed for the night. The glow was at head height, brightening, then dimming.
It was the lit end of a cigar being smoked, the smoker’s features being wanly underlit, heavy-featured with shadow, outlined with orange highlights. Matt recognized the other man, and went to him. “Ringo,” he said.
“You’ve got good eyes, Bodine,” Ringo said.
“Any news? Anything breaking?”
“Not at my end. Sorry. I left Curly Bill and the others working the cantinas, looking for word about Chacon and Dorado and all. Bill’s a sociable cuss. He knows everybody and likes to talk to people.”
“But not you, eh, Ringo?”
“Generally no. Bill’ll get more out of them without me hanging over his shoulder glooming things up. Some of those Mexes figure I’ve got what they call the ojo malo.”
“‘The evil eye,’” Matt said. “Those folks run to superstition some time.”
“Yes and no. I’m not sure but what there might be something to what they say,” Ringo opined.
Matt thought the same, but kept it to himself. “Seen Sam?”
“No, is he missing?”
“Well, he wandered off about ten minutes ago.”
“I got here about five minutes ago. I got to thinking about what you two said about Jones’s men making a play for the girl and figured I could do more good here, laying back out of sight and keeping an eye out for them.”
“There were no shots or dead bodies around so I guess you didn’t see them.”
“Got me figured out pretty well, don’t you, Bodine?”
“I wouldn’t presume on that score, Ringo.”
Ringo chuckled. “Maybe your pard got on the trail of something big.”
“Maybe,” Matt allowed.
Ringo finished his cigar, tossing the stub into the street. “Hell, I’m no good at playing a waiting game. Let’s mosey over to the Big Sky for a drink. I could use one. Bill’s supposed to meet me later when he’s done making his rounds.”
“All right. Let me leave word for Sam.” Matt motioned to one of the many street urchins loitering on Allen Street, gesturing for him to come over. The boy darted to them. He was about ten, needing a haircut, and dressed in ragged clothes.
“Go into the Hotel Erle and tell the man behind the front desk that Matt says to tell Sam to meet him at the Big Sky Saloon.” Matt had the youngster repeat the message to show he’d gotten it right.
“Don’t let anybody put you out of the hotel until you give the clerk the message.”
“Mister, nobody puts me out less’n they can catch me first and that takes some doing!”
Matt gave him a half-dollar. “Thanks!” the boy said, taking off at a run, angling across the street to the hotel. “Spunky kid,” Matt said.
“He’ll need it in this town,” Ringo said.
“Let’s walk.”
“Hell, yes! I’m not paying some cabman to ferry me a couple of blocks across town, not when I’ve got two good legs.”
They went east, walking along the south side of Allen Street. The thoroughfare was quieter this side of Fifth Street. There were some cheaper, less brightly lit hotels, a boardinghouse for “respectable” women, and some stores and shops that were closed for the night.
“How’d you make out at the hotel?” Ringo asked. Matt said that Linda Gordon had described Carol/Carmen as a redheaded woman, most likely Mexican.
“That’s a point in Chacon’s favor,” Ringo said.
“It’s a slim lead, but there’s something about Gila that makes me suspect he’s telling the truth. Call it a hunch. It’s a fact that he was telling me about Pago earlier today, long before Linda showed.”
“Curly Bill’s got a lot of Mex friends, especially among the señoritas. If there’s anything to Chacon’s story, Bill will ferret it out. Folks just naturally tend to like him, like talking to him. Bill’s a likeable cuss,” Ringo said, “not like me.”
A man stood on the corner of Fifth and Allen, watching the two. Their backs were to him, so they were unaware of his presence.
Matt and Ringo turned right on Sixth Street, going south. The man on the corner turned, hurrying south on Fifth Street. His horse was hitched to a rail near the corner. The man untied the reins, gathered them up, and swung up into the saddle.
He rode south to the intersection of Fifth and the next cross street, Toughnut Street. He halted, sitting his horse there, looking east, waiting.
“It’ll make things a whole lot easier if Gila is telling the truth. Easier, but not easy,” Matt said.
“We can hash things out at the Big Sky, start making plans,” Ringo said. “I figure we’d best hit the trail no later than sunup tomorrow.”
“I agree. We’re going to have a problem with Osgood. He won’t let Gila go, even if we need him.”
“If we need him, there won’t be any problem. You let me handle the deputy.”
Matt cut a sharp side-glance at Ringo. “No killing, mind.”
Ringo laughed. “That pissant? I wouldn’t waste a bullet on him. All I have to do is say ‘boo’ to Osgood and he’ll fall over in a dead faint.”
Sixth Street was dark, and largely deserted. A breeze lifted from the east. “Nice night,” Ringo said.
It started to rain. “Maybe you do have the evil eye,” Matt joked.
The rain came down lightly, like mist, a thin warm drizzle that blurred the scene and threw haloes around the street lamps. Matt and Ringo turned left on Toughnut Street, going east.
The rider rode to the street below and parallel to Toughnut, spurring the horse to a run east.
East of Sixth Street lay Tombstone’s red-light district. There were blocks of wooden frame houses serving now as sporting houses. Matt and Ringo’s route largely skirted the south fringe of the district to avoid being importuned by the numerous streetwalkers working the area. The Big Sky Saloon was southeast of the red-light district, in an enclave of bars, dives, and gin mills.
Matt and Ringo entered a border zone between the red-light district and the saloons. It comprised several square blocks of warehouses and storehouses, now closed for the night, a kind of no-man’s -land.
They came to a cross street. In the next square south stood a half-dozen or so men on foot, along with a rider, the watcher who’d been dogging Matt since Allen Street.
The group fell into step with the duo, exiting the square into the cross street, where they were screened behind a row of buildings.
Matt loosed the rawhide loops securing the tops of his guns in the holsters
“Trouble?” Ringo asked, knowing the answer, a faint smiling playing around the corners of his lips. He hoped it was trouble; he’d be disappointed if it weren’t.
“The Lincoln County crowd have a mad on against Sam and me for ventilating some of their compadres. It might not be too healthy for you to be seen walking with me,” Matt said.
“Ringo walks where he pleases. I’ve got a few enemies of my own in town. Maybe they’re some of mine.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
From a distance came the sound of running feet, a fair number of them. Matt and Ringo had reachd the middle of the block. Suddenly, the square ahead to the east filled with a knot of men, the group that had been pacing them along the parallel street south.
They stood blocking the way, facing west, facing Matt and Ringo.
The two halted. A sound behind them made them look back. A second group appeared in the square at the opposite end of the street, closing it off.
“More company,” Matt said.
“We’ll make a party of it,” Ringo said.
“You don’t have to mix in. It’s not your fight.”
“Don’t talk stupid. I can’t back out now, even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”
The group in the rear fanned out, moving forward, walking east along the middle of the street. Their pace was measured, deliberate, ominous.
Matt and Ringo both wore twin guns. They fisted their weapons, leveling them, looking around for the best place to make a stand.
A stone’s throw east on the north side of the street there was a gap between two warehouse buildings, an alley. Somewhere in the alley a coyote yipped.
“Coyote in the alley? Hell, no! That’s no coyote,” Ringo snarled.
“It’s not—it’s Sam,” Matt said, grinning.
“You sure? I’d hate to go into an alley and meet the wrong coyote,” Ringo said.
“That’s the right coyote. It’s a signal we’ve used in the past,” Matt said.
“Then what are waiting for? Things are about to get hot out here on the street—let’s go!”
The street was ill lit, and dim; what little light there was reached only a few feet into the alley. Beyond that, the alley was black dark, with a faint glow at the opposite end where it opened on Toughnut Street.
Matt and Ringo ducked into the alley. It was eight feet wide, hemmed in on both sides by warehouse walls two-stories high. They crouched low to present less of a target to anyone shooting blindly into the alley.
Motion stirred within the darkness as a manlike form separated itself from the shadows to loom up before Matt and Ringo. “Psst! Matt!” it said.
“Don’t shoot, Ringo, it’s Sam,” Matt said. He stumbled over a body which he hadn’t seen where it lay sprawling on the ground. He tripped, almost falling before he recovered his balance. He swore under his breath.
“He was waiting here with this,” Sam said, holding a double-barreled shotgun.
“Who is he?” Matt asked.
“One of the New Mexico crowd. So’re the ones out in the street. Waco’s with them.”
They spoke in low voices. “Where’d you disappear to, Sam?”
“Tell you later. The hombre on the ground was waiting for you. The plan must have been to stampede you into the alley, straight into a load of double-ought buck.”
“He dead?”
“No, I snuck up on him and knocked him out.”
“Should’ve killed him, the bushwhacking bastard,” Ringo said. He planted a vicious kick to the side of the head of the unconscious man. There was a sharp snapping sound.
“I think you broke his neck,” Matt said.
“Hope so,” Ringo said.
He peeked around the corners of the alley mouth, keeping watch. Men with drawn guns advanced from both ends of the street, closing in on the alley. They moved slowly, warily.
“They’re holding off, like they’re waiting for something,” Ringo said.
“They’re waiting for the bushwhack kill, so let’s not disappoint them,” Sam said.
Matt got the idea. He shouted, “No—No, don’t—!”
Sam triggered a double-barreled shotgun blast harmlessly into the air. It sounded like a thunderclap exploding in the alley. Matt suddenly silenced a choked outcry, cutting it off in mid-screech.
Playing along with the subterfuge, Ringo shouted triumphantly, “Got ’em!”
Shouts and whoops came from the street. Sam broke the shotgun, shucking out the spent cartridges and loading up with some fresh ones. “The ambusher had a pocketful of shells. Let’s put them to good use.”
He stepped forward, outlining his silhouette in the alley mouth but hanging back so his face and form were hidden in shadow. “I got ’em!—both of ’em!” he cried, making his voice gruff, unrecognizable.
A couple of gunmen nearest the alley straightened up, starting toward it. “Nice work, Clem!” said one.
Another blurted, “Wait, that ain’t Clem—” The trio was bunched up in front of the alley mouth, facing it. Sam cut loose with both barrels, the blast ripping into them. Two men were hammered flat, mortal shrieks of agony sounding as their bodies thumped down to the hardpacked dirt of the street.
The third caught the edge of the fan, pellets peppering his side. He reeled, staggering, spinning, shrieking. He triggered a shot by reflex, the bullet going w
ild.
Sam stepped back into the alley, standing with his back flattened against a wall as he broke the smoking shotgun and reloaded.
Matt and Ringo were already in action, sheltering behind their respective corners of the alley mouth, reaching out to shoot around them. Matt knelt on one knee, turned to the east, where dark outlines of figures shifted and darted, spectral in the thin, misty drizzle.
Two men scrambled across the street, from its south side to its north side. One had a broad-brimmed hat and two guns; the other had one gun and wore his pants tucked into the tops of his boots.
Matt loosed some shots at them as they ran for cover. A slug tagged the one-gun man; he fell, spilling into the street, and lay there cursing and writhing.
Two-Gun reached the safety of a deep-set doorway. He blasted away at Matt, firing high, bullets tearing into the sharp-edged corner of the building behind which Matt knelt. Splinters and wood chips flew, Matt squinting to protect his eyes.
Two-Gun leaned farther out of the cover of the doorway, angling for a better shot at Matt. Matt shot him in the leg. The leg folded, toppling Two-Gun sideways to the plank sidewalk, which he hit with a crash.
He dropped one gun, but held on to the other. He lay on his side, raising himself up on an elbow, and shooting at Matt. Matt’s next shot hit him in the head, sending his hat flying up into the air.
Ringo stood beside the wall, shoulder touching it, body turned at an angle. His arm was extended like that of a duellist, gun barrel protruding beyond the wall’s edge as he coolly fired into a knot of figures clustered together west of the alley.
Ringo plinked away target-shooter style, picking off the foe one by one. They separated, scattering. Those on the wings of the group went to cover, while those in the center fell to rise no more.
No matter where they were, those on the street dodged for cover, throwing themselves into doorways, huddling behind abutments or the roundness of decorative half-columns on building façades. Others, caught out in the open with no shelter nearby, flattened themselves, lying prone on the ground or sidewalks. They returned fire, joining in concert and beginning to really pour it on.
Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die Page 14
