Deadly Road to Yuma

Book 13: Blood Bond

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

He promises heaven and delivers hell—until two blood brothers answer the prayers of the just. Rip-roaring adventure from the bestselling Western authors. Young Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves became blood brothers on the day the rancher ’ s son saved the warrior’s life, forging a bond no one could ever break. And as years passed, a legend grew of the Cheyenne and the white man who rode together—and who could jerk killing iron with the best of them . . . Deadly Road to Yuma Preacher Joshua Shade has a date with a hangman at Yuma Prison. But Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves have a feeling that the madman and killer won’t stick to the schedule. Sure enough, Shade is sprung—and takes a beautiful young woman hostage. With a gang of fanatical followers, Shade is sure to have his hideout heavily guarded. But Matt and Sam have danced with the devil before—and know that even the coolest outlaw is no match for hot lead. Even when they discover that the federal government has their hands in this case, Matt and Sam are going to make sure that Shade never again sees the light of day . . . Praise for the novels of William W. Johnstone “[A] rousing, two-fisted saga of the growing American frontier.”— Publishers Weekly on Eyes of Eagles “There’s plenty of gunplay and fast-paced action as this old-time hero proves again that a steady eye and quick reflexes are the keys to survival on the Western frontier.”— Curled Up with a Good Book on Dead Before Sundown

Release date: March 30, 2009

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 318

Sample

“I’m thirsty,” Matt Bodine said.

“When are you not?” Sam Two Wolves said.

“No, really, Sam, my whistle could sure use wettin’.”

“I repeat—”

“We’re stoppin’ up there in that town,” Matt said, interrupting his blood brother.

“Of course we are,” Sam said. He waited a moment, then added, “Do you think we could try to stay out of trouble this time?”

“We always try to stay out of trouble. At least I do.”

Sam just rolled his eyes, shook his head, and hitched his horse forward, starting down the long, gentle slope toward the flat where the settlement was located.

They had crossed the border between New Mexico Territory and Arizona Territory not long before, following the San Francisco River as it twisted through this bleak, rugged country. The Gila Mountains loomed to their right, the Peloncillos to the left. The settlement they were approaching was the first one Matt and Sam had come to in several days.

It had been a long, relatively uneventful ride from Sweet Apple, Texas. The blood brothers were in no hurry to get anywhere, because they didn’t have anywhere to be. They were just drifting, seeing what was on the other side of every hill they came to…the same way they had spent most of the past several years.

One of these days, they would settle down and return to the ranches they owned in Montana…one of these days. But until then, they had good crews running those spreads, so Matt and Sam were free to roam. It suited their restless nature to do so.

Best friends and blood brothers since childhood, Matt Bodine and Sam August Webster Two Wolves could have almost passed for real brothers. Both young men were tall and muscular and had ruggedly handsome faces.

Sam’s longish hair was midnight black, a legacy from his Cheyenne father Medicine Horse along with the faint reddish tint to his tanned skin. Matt’s close-cropped hair was a little lighter, dark brown rather than black.

The Cheyenne ritual that had bonded them together made them onihomihan—brothers of the wolf. They were brothers of the gun as well, because despite what Matt had said about trying to avoid trouble, it seemed determined to follow them wherever they went.

Luckily for their continued survival, both young men were plenty tough and plenty fast with a gun. In fact, Matt Bodine was known to be as slick on the draw as just about anybody west of the Mississippi, in the same league as famous pistoleros such as Smoke Jensen and Falcon MacCallister. He wore two irons in holsters supported by crossed cartridge belts and was deadly accurate with either hand.

Sam carried only one Colt and was a little slower than Matt…which still made him faster than nine of ten men he ran into. A razor-sharp bowie knife rode in a fringed sheath on his left hip.

There was fringe on his buckskin shirt as well, while Matt wore a faded blue bib-front. A battered old brown Stetson was thumbed back on Matt’s head. Squared up on Sam’s head was a black hat with a flat brim, a slightly rounded crown, and a band studded with conchos.

“What do you reckon this place is called?” Matt asked as they reached the bottom of the slope.

Sam shook his head. “I have no idea. I don’t think we’ve ever been through here before.”

“I couldn’t remember. We’ve been so many places.”

“That’s certainly true. And in most of them, they were glad to see us leave.”

“Hey, that’s not our fault.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

This was ranching country—it wasn’t good for much of anything else—and the settlement appeared to be a typical cow town with a wide, dusty main street that stretched for several blocks. Most of the residences, a mixture of adobe and frame houses, were on the cross streets.

A small, whitewashed church with a steeple sat at the far end of the main street, just beyond a wooden bridge that crossed the San Francisco where it looped around the settlement. At the nearer end was a building that was probably a school. That put this place ahead of some frontier towns that had neither of those harbingers of civilization.

In between were businesses, including a livery stable and blacksmith shop, barbershop and bathhouse, a couple of mercantiles, and half a dozen saloons, another sure sign that this was a cow town. Cowboys had to have plenty of places to blow off steam when they collected their forty-a-month-and-found.

A few wagons were parked in front of the general stores, and a couple of men on horseback moseyed along the street. Pedestrians made their way here and there, including several women in long dresses and sunbonnets. A big yellow dog dozed in the middle of the street.

“Peaceful-looking town,” Sam commented.

“Mighty peaceful,” Matt agreed.

Sam looked over at him. “How long do you reckon it’ll stay that way?”

“Now, Sam, why do you have to be such a pessimist? Maybe nothin’ bad’ll happen while we’re here. Maybe it’ll be plumb dull the whole time.”

“I went to college, you know.”

Matt grinned. “Yeah, I seem to remember hearin’ somethin’ about that…like every time you try to convince me that I’m wrong and you’re right.”

“It’s just that I study history. And there’s an old saying about how those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

“And what do you mean by that? I’m just a poor, uneducated cowboy, Sam. You’re gonna have to explain things to me.”

“I’m saying that just because someone annoys you, that’s no reason to start a brawl…or a gunfight.”

“You’re sayin’ that I’m touchy. That I lose my temper too easy.”

“If the Stetson fits…”

“What’s this got to do with my hat?”

Sam held up a hand. “Never mind. Let’s just have a drink or two, stock up on supplies, and sleep in real beds for a change.”

“For a redskin, you sure do like what you call your creature comforts. You must’ve got spoiled back there at that university in the East.”

“Yes, well…I’d say something insulting about you being a white man…but I can’t think of anything right now.”

Matt threw back his head and laughed. “Sam Two Wolves struck speechless! Lordy, I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Just remember what I said about trouble,” Sam grumbled.

He turned his head to nod politely to several ladies who were going into one of the mercantiles, but they didn’t smile or return his nod. In fact, they hustled on into the store as if trying to avoid looking at him.

A man driving a wagon that they met refused to meet their eyes, too, Sam noted. The fellow whipped his team up into a trot instead as he rolled on past them.

A frown creased Sam’s forehead under the broad brim of his hat, but he didn’t mention the odd behavior of the townspeople to Matt, who seemed not to have noticed it.

They reined their horses to a stop in front of a false-fronted building with a gilt-lettered sign on its awning proclaiming it to be the Ten Grand Saloon. More fancy lettering on the big front windows promised cold beer and friendly hostesses.

A stocky, bearded old-timer in bib overalls and a plug hat was sitting in a chair on the saloon porch to the right of the batwings, whittling. He looked up at the newcomers and grunted, “Howdy, boys,” as Matt and Sam swung down from their saddles and looped the reins around the hitch rail. “New in town?”

“That’s right,” Sam said. “What’s this settlement called, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Don’t mind in the least. This here is Arrowhead, territory o’ Arizona.”

“Friendly place, is it?” Matt asked.

“Oh, shoot, yeah. We’re friendly as can be around here.”

Sam said, “I noticed that the folks we rode past didn’t seem to want to look at us, like maybe they didn’t like strangers.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. We get strangers passin’ through here pretty often. Like to think we make ’em welcome.”

Matt gestured toward the windows and said, “If there’s really cold beer and friendly hostesses inside, I reckon I’ll feel welcome, all right.”

“Go on in,” the old-timer urged with a wave of the piece of wood he’d been whittling on.

“What are you carving there?” Sam asked out of idle curiosity as he and Matt started toward the saloon’s entrance.

The old man frowned as he studied the stick in his hand. “I dunno. A snake maybe?”

Matt chuckled as he pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the saloon. Sam was right behind him.

Both of them froze as the batwings flapped closed behind them. Men with shotguns had been concealed on both sides of the entrance, and now those Greeners were pointed at the blood brothers.

“Don’t move, you sons o’ bitches,” one of the men warned. A dozen other men scattered around the room raised revolvers and pointed them at Matt and Sam. The one who had spoken before went on. “You try anything funny and we’ll blow your damn heads off.”

Matt took a deep breath and said, “Oh, yeah. Real friendly town, all right.”

Being careful not to move, Sam said, “I believe that you gentlemen are making a mistake.”

“Shut your mouth, breed, and get your hands up,” one of the men pointing pistols at them said. “We know exactly what we’re doin’ here.”

“Pointin’ guns at two men who don’t want any trouble?” Matt said as he and Sam slowly raised their hands to shoulder level.

“We just stopped in your town to pick up some supplies,” Sam added.

A disgusted snort came from one of the men wielding the shotguns. “You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?” he asked. “We know damn good an’ well that you’re scouts for that bastard Shade.”

“Shade?” Matt repeated. “Mister, the only shade I know is the shade under a tree…which would feel pretty good right now, come to think of it.”

“They want a tree,” one of the other men said, “let’s give ’em a tree. Let’s take ’em out and string ’em up!”

Enthusiastic cries of “Yeah!” and “Damn right!” and “String up the dirty owlhoots!” came from the crowd in the saloon. Matt and Sam exchanged worried glances.

If they slapped leather, they might be able to shoot their way out of this. On the other hand, chances are they’d get their heads blown off by those Greeners, and no doubt some of the men in the saloon would be killed, too. Those hombres might not be what anybody would call innocent, but they seemed to be laboring under an honest misapprehension and probably didn’t deserve to die for that mistake.

“Listen to me,” Sam said. “We don’t know anybody named Shade, we’re not scouting for anyone, and we’re not looking for trouble.”

“We’re peaceable men,” Matt added.

“Oh, yeah?” one of the men said with a sneer. “Prove you ain’t part of Shade’s gang!”

“It’s very difficult to prove a negative assumption—” Sam began, stopping when Matt shook his head.

“You’ve got my word on it, and that’s proof enough,” Matt said.

“Why should we believe you ain’t lyin’?”

“Because I’m Matt Bodine…and I don’t take kindly to bein’ called a liar.”

Murmurs of “Bodine!” came from several of the men. The name of Matt Bodine was well known across the frontier, from the Mississippi to the Pacific, from the Rio Grande to the Milk River.

“They say that Bodine travels with a Injun,” one of the men said. “This fella looks part redskin anyway.”

“My name is Sam August Webster Two Wolves,” Sam said, introducing himself. He was proud of his Cheyenne heritage and never denied it.

“Yeah, Two Wolves, that was it!” the man said excitedly. “That’s the name o’ Bodine’s sidekick!”

Sam grimaced, and Matt couldn’t help but chuckle at that description of his blood brother.

“Can we put our hands down now?” he asked. “You’ll take my word for it that we’re not workin’ for that hombre Shade, whoever he is?”

“Joshua Shade is a pure-dee hydrophobia skunk,” growled the old-timer who had been sitting on the saloon porch. He pushed aside the batwings and sauntered into the saloon. He had put away his whittling knife. “Put them guns down, boys. Now that I’ve heard these young fellas’ names, I recollect seein’ pictures of ’em in the rotogravures. They’re Bodine and Two Wolves, all right.”

Matt lowered his hands. “Well, I’m glad somebody around here has sense enough to believe us.”

“I got more sense than you’d think to look at me,” the old-timer drawled. He lifted one corner of the bib front on his overalls that had come unbuttoned and fallen down.

Pinned underneath it was a sheriff’s badge.

“I’ve also got a responsibility to protect this town,” he went on. “I’m the law hereabouts. Name of Cyrus Flagg.”

Sam lowered his hands as well and said, “We’re pleased to meet you, Sheriff Flagg.”

The lawman motioned to the other men in the saloon. “Go on about your drinkin’ and gamblin’ and whorin’,” he instructed them. “I’m gonna buy these two boys a drink.”

“We’d be much obliged for that,” Matt said.

“As well as for interceding on our behalf,” Sam added.

“Figured it was the least I could do, seein’ as how it was me who put these fellas up to throwin’ down on you in the first place.”

“And why was it exactly you did that, Sheriff?” Matt asked.

“Let’s have a sit-down, and I’ll tell you all about it,” Flagg suggested.

He gestured toward an empty table in the corner and called to the bartender to send over three beers. Matt, Sam, and Flagg took chairs at the table, and a moment later a pretty blonde in a low-cut, spangled dress came over carrying a tray with three foaming mugs on it.

The young woman smiled and bent over as she placed the tray in the center of the table, providing a good view of her creamy breasts in the provocative outfit.

“Yeah, they’re pretty as a couple o’ speckled pups, Amelia,” Flagg said. “Maybe later one o’ these boys’d like to take a closer look at ’em. Right now, though, the beer’s all we need.”

“You’re a spoilsport, Sheriff,” the blonde said with a pout.

“Yeah, that’s what folks tell me all the time. Now shoo.”

Amelia flounced off. Flagg sighed and picked up one of the mugs of beer.

“Gals just don’t understand that there’s a time an’ place for ever’thing,” he said. “A fella ain’t all that interested in romance when he’s just had a pair o’ Greeners and half a dozen six-guns pointed at him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that—” Matt began with an appreciative glance toward Amelia as she walked off.

“You were going to tell us about Joshua Shade,” Sam said, breaking in. “And about why you set that trap for us.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a trap,” Flagg said. “I just believe in takin’ precautions, ’specially when a lobo like Shade’s roamin’ around the countryside with a whole band o’ gun-wolves taggin’ after him.”

Sam took a healthy sip of his beer and found that while it wasn’t really cold, it was pleasantly cool. As he set the mug back on the table, he said, “I take it that Joshua Shade is an outlaw.”

“You’ve heard of him then,” Flagg said.

“Not before we rode in here today.”

“But we’ve been over in Texas for a spell,” Matt added. “They have their own badmen over there.”

“An abundance of them,” Sam said.

Flagg pushed his plug hat back on his thinning, reddish-gray hair. “None as bad as Shade, I reckon, and I’d bet my last dollar on that. Shade’s a plumb devil, and he’s been raisin’ hell all up and down the eastern half o’ the territory for months now.”

“Have you had trouble with him here?”

Flagg shook his head and said, “Not so far, and I’d just as soon keep it that way. But we heard that him and his gang were spotted between here and Springerville a few days ago, so we know he’s in these parts. When I spotted you fellas ridin’ down the hill, I thought you might be scouts for the gang, so I passed the word for ever’body to get off the street without bein’ too obvious about it, and told the fellas in here to be ready and get the drop on you.”

“Well, it worked,” Matt said. “We weren’t expectin’ trouble, so we walked right into it.”

Sam didn’t say anything about noticing some odd behavior on the part of the townspeople as they rode in. He had noticed, but it hadn’t done any good. He and Matt had still found themselves staring down the barrels of those shotguns.

“Is that the way Shade operates?” he asked Sheriff Flagg. “Sending men ahead to scout out the towns he raids, I mean.”

Flagg nodded. “Yep. A couple o’ strangers ride in, take a look around town, have a drink maybe, then ride back out and tell Shade where the sheriff’s office is, and the bank, and anything else he needs to know. Then, a day later, Shade and his bunch come roarin’ in with all guns a-blazin’ and take over the town. They kill the local star packer and anybody else who tries to stand up to ’em, mistreat the womenfolk, load up all the loot they can get their filthy hands on, and ride out. Sometimes they leave the town burnin’ behind ’em.”

“Sounds like a bad bunch, all right,” Matt said.

“Bad don’t even begin to describe ’em.” Flagg shook his head. “And maybe the worst part of it is, Shade used to be a man o’ God.”

“A preacher?” Matt asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“That’s right. He had the callin’ and preached for a while before he turned bad. In fact, I hear tell that when his gang is terrorizin’ a town, he still claims to be doin’ the Lord’s work. Says he has to smite folks and take ever’thing they own so they’ll stop worryin’ about the things o’ this world and start worryin’ about the next.”

“And while he’s saying that he’s allowing his men to rape and kill and loot?” Sam asked in amazement.

“Yep. Hell of a note, ain’t it?”

Matt downed some of his beer. “I can see why you say the hombre’s loco. But you can take my word for it when I tell you that Sam and I don’t have anything to do with him.”

“Oh, I know that now,” Flagg said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve heard plenty about you two young fellas, but I never heard anybody say that Bodine and Two Wolves are owlhoots.” He emptied his mug down his bearded throat and thumped it back on the table. “These beers are on me, boys. Enjoy your stay in Arrowhead.”

“We’re obliged,” Sam said.

Flagg scraped his chair back and stood up. “My office is down the street. Stop by and visit for a spell any time you’re of a mind to.”

“We’ll do that,” Matt promised.

When the sheriff was gone, the blood brothers looked at each other across the table.

“I was afraid he was going to ask us to sign on as deputies,” Sam said.

Matt nodded. “So was I. And I’ve had enough of wearin’ a badge for a while. That stint as unofficial deputies in Sweet Apple was plenty to suit me.”

“I agree.” Sam smiled faintly. “Don’t look now, but Amelia is coming back.”

The blonde was headed toward their table. Matt smiled and said, “I always enjoy the company of an attractive young woman.”

Amelia moved right past him, though, to stand next to Sam and rest a hand on his buckskin-clad shoulder. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Two Wolves?” she asked as she leaned toward him.

Sam looked a little flustered, and Matt didn’t know whether to be annoyed or bust out laughing. He’d thought that Amelia was interested in him, but here she was, making a play for Sam instead.

“How about it, Sam?” he asked with a grin. “See anything you like?”

The narrow, twisting canyon in the Gila Mountains was choked with brush for much of its length, brush that could claw a man bloody if he wasn’t careful. Nobody would ride up here unless they had a good reason to.

Ed Callahan had believed that he had a good reason, the best reason of all—gold. He had a nose for the stuff, or so he had always told himself even though he’d never found very much of it in the twenty years he’d spent as a prospector and desert rat.

The hardships of those years had honed him down to little more than skin and bones. His cheeks were hollow, and his eyes were sunk deep in pits of gristle.

One of those eyes didn’t see too good anymore. Everything he saw through it looked filmy, like it had one of those thin scarves over it like the dancin’ gals in the big cities used to hide and reveal their fleshy charms at the same time.

But Ed could still see well enough to know that he was in a whole heap of trouble. He swallowed hard as he stared down the barrel of the gun that was no more than four inches from the tip of his nose.

“What are you doin’ up here, old man?” asked the rough-looking hombre who’d stepped out of the brush and pointed the gun at Ed. “You some sort o’ damn spy?”

Ed’s mouth had gone too dry for him to talk. He tried to work up some spit. After a couple of seconds, he managed to say, “N-no, sir. I ain’t no spy. I’m just doin’ a little prospectin’.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the supplies on the pack mule he’d been leading. “You can see for yourself. Just take a look at my outfit.”

The man squinted past him at the mule. “Yeah, that looks like the sort o’ shit a prospector’d have, all right. I never heard o’ anybody findin’ gold in these mountains, though.”

“I…I’m gonna be the first,” Ed declared. “Got me a hunch there’s a fine vein up here just waitin’ for me to find it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s too damn bad. You found more’n you bargained for, old man.” The hardcase stepped back and motioned with the Colt in his hand. “Come on. You’re goin’ with me.”

“Wh-where are we goin’?” Ed asked as he tightened his grip on the mule’s reins and started walking along the canyon.

“Never you mind. You’ll see in a minute.”

And so he did as they rounded a bend and Ed saw that the canyon widened out a little. There was a spring flowing out of the rocks on one side, and near it a crude corral made of ropes and poles cut from saplings. Tents were pitched here and there, and bedrolls were also spread out in the open.

A fire burned near the spring. Ed had thought he smelled wood smoke a few minutes earlier as he’d worked his way up the canyon, but then the smell had faded and he’d decided not to worry about it. Hadn’t been any ’Pache trouble around here for a while.

The men camping here weren’t Apaches, Ed saw as he looked around, although a couple of them appeared to be Mexicans. The rest were white, and every bit as ugly and rough-looking as t. . .