The door of the ranch house opened again and Sandy Paxton came running out, her blond hair flying in the breeze. Even though the showdown had been averted, at least for the time being, she still wore a frightened look on her pretty face.
Sam swung down to meet her, and she threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly as she ignored her father’s look of disapproval. “Thank God you and Matt got here when you did, Sam!” she said. “I thought sure Pa and Uncle Shad were going to try to kill each other.”
“That man’s not your uncle!” Paxton snapped. “It’s bad enough he’s a second cousin.”
Sandy turned her head toward him with a defiant look on her face. “He was like an uncle to me when I was growing up, and you know it, Pa. The same way that you were like an uncle to Jessie.”
“I haven’t tried to break up your friendship with Jessie,” Paxton said stiffly, “but you don’t have to throw it in my face either!” He jerked a hand toward Sam. “And for God’s sake, girl, stop hugging this man! He’s practically a stranger.”
“Aren’t you going to call him a half-breed, too?”
“You said that, not me,” Paxton replied.
Sam ignored the exchange. He had long since learned to let comments about his mixed heritage roll off his back. If he took offense at them, he’d be fighting all the time, and he didn’t want that. Instead, he asked Sandy, “How did you know we were coming out here?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “But when we realized that Uncle Shad and his men were on their way over here with blood in their eyes, I hoped you’d hear about it some way and stop them from killing each other.”
“Jessie rode into town and told us what was going on,” Matt said. “You’ve got her to thank for preventing a battle.”
“A battle that neither side would win,” Sandy said with a look at her father.
Paxton said, “I thought you two were going to ride over to the creek and have a look at the site of the killings.”
Matt nodded. “That’s right. You still say you didn’t have anything to do with what happened, Paxton?”
“I most certainly do. I didn’t even know any of Colton’s men had been bushwhacked until he rode up and started snorting and pawing like a mad bull.”
Sam patted Sandy on the shoulder and turned to his horse. “We’ll see what we can find out,” he promised.
“But if the trail leads here . . . we’ll be back,” Matt added as Sam mounted up.
“It won’t,” Paxton insisted, but Matt thought he saw the tiniest bit of uncertainty in the rancher’s eyes. Even if Paxton hadn’t given the orders, he couldn’t be sure that some of his men hadn’t taken it upon themselves to bushwhack the Double C riders at the creek.
The blood brothers turned their horses and headed west, leaving father and daughter standing there side by side in front of the ranch house.
“You think Paxton’s tellin’ the truth?” Matt asked.
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know.” He echoed Matt’s thought of a moment earlier as he added, “Even if he is, some of his men still could have ambushed Colton’s men.”
“I hope we can find out one way or the other.”
Sam nodded in agreement with that. They kept their horses moving at a steady pace toward the creek.
The killings had occurred not far from the spot where the previous confrontation between Double C and Pax had taken place. Matt and Sam found it without too much trouble. The bodies of the two slain cowboys had been taken back to the ranch headquarters, but their blood was still splashed on the grass along the creek bank. On the other side of the stream, about fifty yards away, was the clump of mesquite Matt and Sam had heard so much about.
They dismounted and left their horses a short distance away from the mesquite, not wanting the mounts to disturb any tracks that might have been left by the killers. They found a set of prints leading from the creek to the clump of scrubby trees. Those were made by one of the Double C hands who had discovered the bodies, Matt commented, and Sam nodded in agreement. To their experienced eyes, even the smallest sign told a story.
Another set of tracks entered the mesquite from the far side, then departed the same way. A lone rider. There had been only one bushwhacker. Whoever he was, he handled a rifle with enough skill so that he was confident of being able to kill two men. Sam knelt by the hoofprints and studied them for a long time, taking note of every nick and scratch in the iron of the horseshoes. There was nothing particularly distinctive about the tracks, but Sam said, “I might be able to pick them out if I saw them again.”
Matt nodded, not doubting his blood brother’s ability even for a second. “Let’s see where they go,” he suggested. “We know they start off toward Paxton’s headquarters, but that doesn’t mean they keep goin’ in that direction.”
Sam started to straighten, but he stopped suddenly and then reached under one of the mesquites. He picked up a small brown object that had almost blended in with a scattering of rocks about the same size.
“What’s that?” Matt asked. “Some sort of animal droppin’?”
Sam lifted the thing to his nose and sniffed it, then grimaced. “Smells almost that bad, but that’s not what it is.” He extended his hand with the object lying on the palm. “It’s part of a cigar. The bushwhacker must’ve bit it off and spit it out here.”
“A cigar, eh?” Matt shook his head. “The hombre’s not very smart. He left a cigar butt, shell casings, and hoofprints behind him. It’s almost like he wanted us to track him.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed in thought. He stood up. “Let’s see what else we can find.”
No other bits of evidence were anywhere around the mesquites. The blood brothers mounted up again and followed the tracks that led toward Paxton’s headquarters. After a couple of miles, the trail hit a rocky stretch and disappeared.
“Reckon he rode through there on purpose?” Matt asked as he reined in.
Sam nodded. “Yes. Maybe he’s not quite as clumsy as we thought. He laid the trail he wanted to lay, pointing right at Paxton. Now he’s headed somewhere else.” Sam turned his paint toward the south. “He’d circle in this direction if he was going back to town.”
“Why would anybody in Sweet Apple want to stir up trouble between Double C and Pax?” Matt asked with a frown.
“I don’t know.” Sam drew in a sharp breath as something occurred to him. “But it got us out of town in a hurry, didn’t it?”
Matt saw instantly what his blood brother was getting at. “Damn it!” he exclaimed. “Seymour’s back there by himself!”
The faint noise had been a warning for Seymour, but not enough of one to allow him to escape the trap. As the noose around his neck tightened, he felt himself jerked off his feet. He kicked wildly as he rose into the air. His fingers clawed at the rope as it dug into his flesh, but he couldn’t get any purchase on it. Black and red starbursts exploded behind his eyes.
A small part of his brain was still functioning well enough for him to wonder if the killings out on the range had been carried out in order to lure Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves out of Sweet Apple. He knew the would-be assassins who had failed to eliminate him before were making that second try Matt had talked about.
Mostly, though, Seymour was terrified and panic-stricken. He was convinced he was going to die here. With that noose digging into his throat the way it was, he would choke to death within minutes. He would never see Maggie O’Ryan again, never get a chance to realize any of the dreams that he had begun to have about making a life together with her . . .
Seymour heard a loud, splintery crack and wondered if it was his neck breaking.
A second later, as his feet hit the ground and he sprawled forward in dried, ancient straw and feces, he knew the sound hadn’t been his spine. But the rope was embedded so deeply in his neck that he still couldn’t breathe.
Without his weight pulling all the slack out of the rope, though, he was able to work the fingers of one hand under it and pull desperately. The
rope loosened just enough for Seymour to gasp and draw some precious air into his body.
He heard a rush of footsteps and kicked a foot against the ground, rolling over as he continued trying to pull the rope away from his neck even more. With his other hand he reached for the gun at his hip. The ivory-handled revolver was still in the holster. Seymour thanked his lucky stars that it hadn’t fallen out. As he saw a pair of shadowy figures charging toward him from the depths of the deserted barn, he jerked the gun from its holster, angled the barrel upward, and fired.
The shot was loud in the barn, echoing back from the walls. Seymour finally tore the noose off his neck as another shot blasted, this time from a weapon wielded by one his attackers. The bullet kicked up dust next to Seymour’s ear as he threw himself to the side again.
He landed on his belly this time and fired twice more. His vision was still blurred and had black and red bands running through it, but he was able to see well enough to know that the two shapes had turned and were headed for the back of the old barn. Seymour steadied his gun hand by gripping that wrist with his other hand as he drew a bead on the fleeing men. He squeezed the trigger and saw splinters fly from one of the beams around the rear door as the men ducked through the opening and disappeared.
Again, they had failed in their quest to kill him . . . but he had failed to capture them or even get a good look at them. His eyes smarted and stung from the dust that had gotten in them. Dust and God knows what else, in an old, abandoned place like this.
Seymour struggled to his feet, coughing and choking. Nearly being strangled by the noose that now lay on the ground at his feet caused him to be desperate for breath, but with each lungful of air he drew in, he also got more dust. What he really needed to do was get out of here.
He stumbled toward the rectangle of light that marked the front door of the barn. As he emerged into the late afternoon sun, he heard shouts over the pounding of blood in his head. He pulled out his bandanna and wiped his eyes. His vision cleared enough for him to make out several of Sweet Apple’s citizens hurrying toward him, drawn by the sound of shots. One of them grabbed his arm and yelled, “Marshal, what the hell happened? Are you all right?”
Seymour managed a weak nod as he coughed the last of the dust out of his throat. “I’m . . . not hurt,” he said.
“What in blazes happened to your neck?” another of the townies wanted to know. “You look like you been lynched?”
“That’s just about . . . what happened . . . all right.” Seymour looked around at the crowd that was gathering, and wondered if the men who had just tried to kill him were among them, pretending to interested but innocent bystanders. None of them looked guilty, but he knew that didn’t mean anything.
He didn’t think the assassins would try again, not with this many people around. Seymour turned and started back into the barn. The citizens followed him.
Inside, once his eyes adjusted to the dim light again, he saw two pieces of a broken beam hanging down from the ceiling, their ends jagged and splintered where they had broken. From where the rope lay, Seymour knew that it had been looped over that beam and then dropped around his neck. Then the two men had hauled him up off his feet to let him dangle there until he died.
The plan might have worked, too, if the beam hadn’t broken under his weight. The men had probably pulled on the rope to test the beam’s strength, but they hadn’t reckoned on the fact that by pulling him up as they’d done, they had added even more pressure on the beam than just his weight. The combined force had been enough to crack the old, dried-out wood. That stroke of good luck had saved him.
What if it hadn’t? Seymour looked around and spotted an old, rickety, three-legged stool lying next to the wall on its side. If he had died at the end of that rope, his killers could have tied it off, set the stool next to his dangling body, and made it look like he had hanged himself. Of course, he never would have done such a thing, but did anybody in Sweet Apple know him well enough to have been certain that suicide simply wasn’t in his nature?
Maggie O’Ryan. Maybe. But Seymour couldn’t even be sure about that. People might have been suspicious, especially Matt and Sam, but in the end there wouldn’t have been any proof that he hadn’t killed himself for some unknown reason.
A shiver went through Seymour at that thought. Whoever wanted him dead was clearly willing to go to any lengths to accomplish that end. From now on he would have to be more careful than ever, since he had no idea who’d been trying to kill him.
He would talk to Matt and Sam about it when they returned from the Double C, or Pax, or wherever they were. They might have some suggestions.
And as he thought about the blood brothers, he wondered if there could be any connection between this attempt on his life and the trouble that had taken them out of town. That seemed likely, Seymour decided. Somebody could have played on the feud between Colton and Paxton to lure Matt and Sam out of Sweet Apple.
Whoever was plotting against him was truly diabolical, Seymour realized. More devil than man . . .
Chapter 12
“I don’t want to hear any more excuses,” Cornelius Standish said, his voice cold with anger. “This is twice you’ve attempted to do the job I’m paying you for . . . and twice you’ve failed miserably. I’m starting to believe that you three aren’t the right men for the job.”
Warren Welch, Daniel McCracken, and Ed Stover glared back at Standish. They didn’t like having their abilities challenged that way. They prided themselves on being efficient killers.
But there was no denying that they had failed twice now to kill Seymour Standish. The young man had to be the luckiest son of a bitch on the face of the earth, all three of the would-be murderers thought.
“Maybe we tried to get a little too fancy,” Welch admitted. “That beam seemed strong enough to support Seymour’s weight when Ed tested it.”
Stover shook his head. “Hey, don’t blame this on me,” he said. “It was your idea to make it look like the kid hung himself.”
“I did my part,” McCracken put in. “I killed those two cowboys and got Bodine and Two Wolves out of town so you’d have a clear shot at Seymour.”
Standish snapped, “Stop bickering, all of you. That’s not accomplishing anything. I don’t care whether it looks like an accident or suicide or divine intervention. Just make sure that little bastard dies.”
“He probably won’t set foot out of his office again without his pet gunfighters with him,” Welch pointed out. “That’s going to make it more difficult.”
“Would a three-thousand-dollar bonus make it worth the risk?” Standish asked.
The three men exchanged glances. Stover said, “You mean over and above what you already promised to pay us?”
Standish nodded. “That’s right. You’ll all get your fee, but the man who actually kills Seymour will collect an additional three thousand.”
“That’s a lot of money,” McCracken said.
“That’s why I expect results.”
“You’ll get them,” Welch promised.
“And soon,” Standish added. He went to the table in his hotel room, picked up a bottle of whiskey, and tipped some of the amber liquid into a glass without offering any to his visitors. He tossed the drink back and continued. “The sooner I get out of this hellhole of a town, the better.”
By the time Matt and Sam got back to Sweet Apple, the settlement was still buzzing about the latest attempt on Seymour’s life. Pierre Delacroix, the proprietor of the Black Bull, saw the blood brothers riding past the saloon and stepped out onto the boardwalk to hail them.
“M’sieu Bodine, M’sieu Two Wolves, have you heard the news?” Delacroix asked as they reined in.
“Not really, but the town seems to be worked up about something,” Matt said. All along the street, small groups of people were talking animatedly.
“Did something happen to Seymour?” Sam guessed.
“Is he alive?” Matt added with a worried frown.
&
nbsp; Delacroix nodded. “Oui, Marshal Standish is still with us. But not for lack of trying on the part of two assassins a short time ago. I am not sure whether he was injured. He went into his office and has not emerged since.”
“Thanks, Delacroix,” Matt said with a nod to the Cajun saloon keeper. “We’d better see how he’s doin’.”
As he and Sam turned their mounts toward the marshal’s office, both of them spotted Maggie O’Ryan hurrying along the street toward the same destination. Word must have reached the school of Seymour’s mishap, whatever it was. Unable to contain herself and clearly not worried about propriety, Maggie broke into a run.
She reached the office door just ahead of Matt and Sam and threw it open, rushing in and crying, “Seymour! Seymour, are you all right?”
Matt and Sam were right behind her. They saw Seymour standing up from behind his desk, a rifle in his hands and a startled look on his face. Maggie was lucky he hadn’t fired a shot when she charged in like that, Matt thought. Luckily, Seymour had been cool-headed enough to hold off on the trigger, even though he was pale and obviously tense.
“Maggie,” he said as he placed the rifle on the desk.
That was all he had time to say before she threw her arms around him and enveloped him in a tight hug. Awkwardly, Seymour patted her on the back and said, “There, there. It’s all right, Maggie. I’m not hurt.” His voice was hoarse and strained. “Well, not too badly, I suppose.”
Matt and Sam saw the red line around Seymour’s neck. “What happened?” Sam asked.
Seymour opened his mouth to answer, but before he could do so, Maggie kissed him. It was a hard, urgent kiss, and Seymour must have decided that he had better things to do with his lips for the next couple of minutes than answer Sam’s question.
The blood brothers didn’t particularly blame him for coming to that conclusion either.
When Seymour finally broke the kiss and went back to patting Maggie on the back as he held her, he looked over her shoulder at Matt and Sam and told them, “Somebody tried to . . . How do you say it out here? String me up?”
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