I named all of that I personal knew.
Rusty, he said. “That one on the bay, that’s Waldo Stamps, the Texas gunhawk, clay Dundee on the paint. Behind him is Fox Breckenridge, Ford Childress, the Arizona gunhand. And that’s the German, Haufman.”
“The fat one; the back-shooter?”
“That’s him. See that close rifle boot? That’s a .44-.40, and he’s dead right with it.”
“So I hear.”
“Them other ol’ boys is just as good as any of ’em, but they just ain’t got no public name, as yet.”
“Rusty . . . what in the hell is goin’ on around here? Do you know?”
The passin’ parade had slowed down some, waitin’ on the second buggy to catch up, I reckon.
“All sorts of rumors, Sheriff, from gold to oil. But I think all that is just talk to cover up a range war.”
“Yeah, that’d be my guess, too. When did all these gunslingers start showin’ up around here?”
“Well, Rockinghorse and Circle L has always had a few gunhands on the payroll . . . more to protect the kids than anything else. But about a year ago, that’s when Mills and Lawrence really started hirin’ on gunhands.”
“And that’s when the lawmen started goin’ down, huh? How many . . . four?”
“Something like that. Four’s right, I think.”
The second buggy come better into view. An older man and a pretty young woman. “That Wanda Mills and her pa?”
“Yeah. The second queen of the valley.”
“Where’s the mother of them gals?”
“They hardly ever come into town. They don’t associate much with the lower classes. ’Sides, I don’t even know if they’re around here; they might have gone off on some trip. They’re always goin’ here and yonder.”
“Must be a terrible burden for them ladies to have to bear.”
He looked at me to see if I was serious, then he grinned. “Yeah, plumb awful load to have to tote around.”
For some reason, the passin’ parade of highfalutin’ folks had stopped, the fancy surrey with Joy and her pa was right in front of Rusty and me, and ol’ A.J. was givin’ me a good hard once over.
I had stepped down to stand by the hitchrail with Rusty.
“You there!” A.J. hollered, and the tone of his voice made the short hairs on the back of my neck tingle. “Get over here. I wanna talk to you.”
“Your legs broke?” I called, some louder than was needed, but I wanted ever’body to hear.
Man, ol’ A.J. puffed up like a spreadin’ adder, his face high-colored like a wild berry.
There was a hard poundin’ of hooves and a young man on a fine-lookin’ red horse was glarin’ down at me. The family resemblance was strong, so strong that this had to be A.J. Junior. Twenty-one or so years old, and no little feller neither.
And damned if he wasn’t wearin’ two guns. I never in all my life seen so many men who fancied two short guns.
I smiled real friendly at the young man. My, but he was all slicked up. Fancy silk shirt and handsome vest. Tailor made britches and hand-tooled boots. He sure cut a fancy figure.
And then he had to open his damn mouth. Kinda ruined my image of him.
But I kept smilin’.
“When my father orders you to do something,” squirt said to me, “you will, by God, do it!”
Pushiest bunch of damn folks I ever did see. Sorta put a damper on my right friendly smile.
“Sonny,” I said, “you best run along now, ’fore I jerk you off that horse and have to teach you some manners . . . like your pa and ma should have done a long time ago.”
Joy took to fannin’ herself like she was comin’ down with the flashes, or something, and ol’ A.J. blustered.
“How dare you!” ol’ A.J. squalled.
Young Junior looked like he was gonna have a heart attack.
Behind me, a woman said, “Junior sure needs it, Sheriff, and I’d give a double eagle just to see you do it.”
“And I’ll double her offer,” a young man said.
I didn’t know who was sayin’ what, ’cause I wasn’t about to take my eyes off Junior.
“Let’s pass the hat for the Sheriff,” somebody hollered. “Put the money right in here, ladies and gents.”
“I think I’ll just kill you!” Junior hollered, then grabbed for iron.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 1994 by William W. Johnstone
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-1765-2
Blood Bond 9 Page 19
