Gunsmoke and Gold

Book 4: Blood Bond

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Gunslingers and greed make dangerous bedfellows in this hoof-pounding Western adventure from the USA Today bestselling author of Gunsight Crossing. 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 . . . Gunsmoke and Gold In Dale, Colorado, any cowboy with good sense knows better than to step through the batwings of the Plowshare Saloon—and any sheep-herder crazy enough to belly up to the bar at the Red Dog is ordering the last taste of whiskey he’ll ever lift to his lips. The town of Dale is heading for an all-out war that will pit father against son, and brother against brother. Bodine and Two Wolves try to make both sides see reason, but that fails when a bunch of hired night riders start scouring the countryside and putting notches on their six-guns. The blood brothers soon figure the cause of the trouble goes a hell of a lot deeper than the grass everyone’s fighting over. A battle’s coming, and they’re about to be caught in the thick of it—and in a storm of red-hot lead . . . 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.”— Curled Up with a Good Book on Dead Before Sundown

Release date: June 26, 2018

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 246

Sample

“Two riders comin’,” the cowboy said, knocking the dust from him with his hat. “They look like hardcases to me. Be here in about five minutes. I grabbed a look-see from the rocks and come in the back way.”

The knot of men followed him inside the saloon and up to the bar. The cowboy ordered a mug of beer and drank half of it before setting the mug on the bar. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What brands?” he was asked.

“None I ever seen before. Fine horses, though. Real fine.”

“Then it’s happenin’,” another said. “The damn nesters and sheepmen has hired guns.”

“Aw, now, hell!” another man spoke from a table. “Don’t none of us here know that for a fact. Simmer down. It’s probably two drifters lookin’ for work.”

“With tied-down guns?” the messenger asked softly.

“Some men tie ’em down, others don’t,” the voice of moderation said. “We’ll look ’em over when they get here.”

“Suppose they head over to the Plowshare?” he was asked.

“Then we’ll know, won’t we?”

Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves rode into the town, reined up at the start of the long street, and gave the town a once-over.

“We have our choice of watering holes,” Sam said. “The Red Dog and the Plowshare.”

“And a fine hotel,” Matt replied with a grin.

“I’m more interested in a long hot bath, a shave and a haircut, and something to eat. You see a barber shop?”

“Not yet. Let’s ride on in and have a beer at one of the saloons.”

“The Red Dog looks like it’s doing a land-office business. Want to try the Plowshare?”

“Why not? It looks quiet. Maybe for once we can have a beer without getting into trouble.”

“That would be a novel experience,” his blood-brother replied dryly.

They rode on in.

“I knowed it!” the cowboy said. “Swingin’ down in front of that damn sheep-dip bar.”

The man who had tried to calm everybody stood up and watched the strangers. The town’s two saloons were located directly across the street from each other. He grunted as he watched Matt Bodine slip the hammer-thongs from his guns the moment his boots touched the ground.

“Gunhands, all right. Shorty, you’d best ride for the ranch and tell Pete it’s started.”

“Right, Mr. Dale. I’m on my way.”

“Frisco, get to the Circle X and tell Blake.”

“I’m gone, Mr. Dale.”

Mr. Dale looked around for a rider from the Lightning Arrow spread. There was nobody in the bar who worked for Hugo Raner. Well, he’d hear soon enough.

Matt turned at the batwings as the two cowboys jumped in their saddles and lit out of town like it was a double payday at the ranch.

“Curious,” he muttered.

“Maybe we need a bath more than we think?” Sam said good-naturedly.

Matt laughed at his half-breed Cheyenne brother and pushed open the batwings. Sam’s father had been a great and respected chief, his mother a beautiful white woman from the East. Matt and Sam had met while just children, and soon Matt was spending as much time in the Cheyenne camp as he was at home on the ranch. They grew up together and Matt was adopted into the Cheyenne tribe and became a true Human Being. Sam’s father had been killed during the battle at the Little Bighorn, after he had charged Custer, alone, unarmed except for a coup stick. Matt and Sam had witnessed the slaughter—something they had never told anyone—and when they rode down from the ridges to stand over the carnage, it had affected them deeply. They decided to drift for a time, to blunt the edges of the terrible memory before they returned to their ranches along the Wyoming-Montana border.

Both were not without resources, for Sam’s mother had come from a wealthy family and was fairly well-off for the time. Matt owned a huge and very profitable cattle and horse ranch—as did Sam—so while they might look like saddlebums, they certainly were not.

They were handsome and muscular young men, both in their mid-twenties; both with a wild and reckless glint in their eyes. Sam’s eyes were black, Matt’s were blue. Sam’s hair was black, Matt’s was dark brown. Both were big men, but very agile for their size—over six feet tall and weighing about one ninety each. They could pass for full brothers and had many times. Sam had inherited his mother’s white features; only his cold obsidian eyes—which could sparkle with high humor at a moment’s notice—gave him away.

Medicine Horse, Sam’s father, when he knew war was coming and knew he must fight, had ordered his son from their encampment and ordered him to adopt the white man’s ways and to forever forget his Cheyenne blood. Medicine Horse made his son repeat the pledge, knowing that even after his death, Sam August Webster Two Wolves would not disobey.

Both young men wore the same three multicolored stones around their necks, the stones pierced by rawhide.

And both young men were highly respected when it came to gunfighting. It was not a title they sought or wanted, but they were called gunfighters. Of the two, Matt Bodine was faster, but not by much. Matt had been at it longer than Sam.

Matt had killed his first man when he was fourteen, defending his father’s ranch. The man’s brothers came after him when he was fifteen. They were buried that same day. At sixteen, rustlers came when Matt was nightherding. Two more graves were added. He lived with Cheyennes during his seventeenth year and then went to work riding shotgun for gold shipments. Four men died trying to rob the shipments. Later, two more called Matt out in the street. Neither man cleared leather.

After that he was a scout for the Army, when they asked him to be. He saved his money and bought land. His ranch was one of the largest in the state.

Sam Two Wolves was college-educated, while Matt was educated at home by his mother, who was a trained schoolteacher. Matt would be considered well-educated for the time.

There were four men in the saloon, including the barkeep. Both Matt and Sam noticed how tensed-up the men became as the brothers walked across the room to the bar, spurs jingling with each step.

Matt smiled at the barkeep. “Howdy,” he said. “How about a couple of beers?”

The barkeep hesitated, then nodded and pulled two mugs of beer.

“All the business seems to be across the street,” Matt remarked. “What’s the place have, dancing girls?”

“Mister,” one of the men seated at a table said, “you sure you’re in the right saloon?”

Sam smiled at the man. “Is there a right place and a wrong place to get a beer in this town?”

“There sure is,” another man said. Both brothers noticed he wore low-heeled boots and had his gun stuck behind his belt instead of in a holster.

Farmer, the brothers concluded. Then the name of the saloon sank in. The Plowshare. A saloon for farmers and sheepmen, probably.

“Well,” Matt smiled the word. “If we have one beer in here and the second beer across the street, we’ll please everybody, right?”

A man smiled in return. “A reasonable person might think so, but around here lately, reason seems to have flown the coop.”

“Was I you boys,” yet another man said, “I’d have my beer and then ride on. You been marked just by coming in here.”

“Marked?” Sam asked.

“Range war shapin’ up around here. Cattlemen and hands use the Red Dog. Farmers and sheepmen use this place. You was seen comin’ in here. Them across the street probably think we hired you. You’re marked.”

“Sheep and cattle can get along, if both sides use some sense. Sheep have to be moved regular to keep from overgrazing. Hell, so do cattle.” Matt took a sip of beer.

“A reasonable man,” the barkeep said. “What a breath of fresh air around here.”

“Are you boys lookin’ for work?” the fourth man asked.

“Not really,” Sam told him. “We’re just drifting. Seeing some country. We both own spreads west of here.”

“Cattlemen?”

“Yes,” Matt answered. “There are farms all around our spreads. We get along just fine.”

The farmer shook his head. “I wish that were the case here. There are three big ranches in this area. The Box H. owned by Pete Harris; the Circle V, owned by Blake Vernon; and the Lightning Arrow, owned by Hugo Raner. They control—or think they do—hundreds of thousands of acres. We came in—the homesteaders and a few sheepmen—and filed on our land legal and proper. We’ve stayed and proved it up according to law. Built us a school and a church. We didn’t expect all the hostility we’re now facing.”

Sam and Matt took their beers and moved to a table by the window.

“We put up wire to protect our crops, the cattlemen tear it down. If we try to irrigate—when we need it—the cattlemen dam up the water.”

“Do you share the water?” Sam asked gently.

“Absolutely. We don’t want it all, just a small portion of it. This really isn’t an issue of water or land—no matter what the cattlemen say. It isn’t. It’s a question of who is the most powerful. Raul, one of the sheepmen, petitioned the government for grazing rights, and got it, in writing. Hugo Raner told Raul he didn’t give a damn what was written on some piece of paper. Said if Raul didn’t move his sheep, he’d kill them, then he’d kill Raul.”

“And? . . .” Matt asked.

“Raul’s lost several hundred sheep. He’s written for some of his relatives to come up here and join him. They’ll be along any day now.”

“Basque?” Sam asked.

“Yes. They’re good people. Gentle people. But if they’re pushed, they’ll fight.”

The farmers filed out, leaving the place empty except for the bartender and the brothers by the window.

“The hotel have a dining room?” Matt asked.

“Yep,” the barkeep said. “Good one. Nice rooms, too. But I doubt if Mister Dale will let you boys register there.”

“Mister Dale?” Sam questioned.

“Owns this town. Well . . . he don’t own it outright. He settled it. He’s the mayor, owns the bank and the real estate office and some other businesses. He saw to it that Jack Linwood got the sheriff’s job—rigged the election. You boys heard of Jack Linwood?”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Supposed to be a fast gun.”

“There ain’t no supposin’ to it. He’s fast. I’ve seen him work more’n once. And his deputies is scum. Buster Phelps, Sam Keller, and Wes Fannin.”

“If the situation is as tense as the farmers say it is, don’t you think you’re talking a bit too much?” Sam asked.

The man smiled. “Name’s Chrisman. I come in here two days behind Dale. I own this place, free and clear. I also own me a little spread west of town. Run a few head of cattle.”

“What is the name of this town?” Matt asked.

“Dale. What else?”

The brothers saw to their horses and walked over to the hotel, carrying their saddlebags, bedrolls, and rifles. They had no trouble checking in, although the desk clerk’s eyes bugged out when he read their names. As soon as the brothers had climbed the stairs to their rooms, the clerk sent a boy running across the street to the saloon.

“Matt Smith and Sam Jones,” Mister Dale said. “Yeah. I’m sure those are their real names.”

“I can run them out of town,” Sheriff Linwood said, leaning against the bar, sipping a whiskey. “That’d be the easiest way to handle it.”

“We don’t know for sure who they are, so for now we’ll leave them alone,” Mister Dale said. “And I mean alone. Let them clean up and have a drink and eat and I think they’ll probably pull out in the morning.”

“And if they don’t?” Pete Harris asked.

Mister Dale shook his head.

“I don’t like it, them goin’ straight to that sheepcrap and nester saloon,” a cowboy said. “It’s like they knew what they was doin.’ ”

“We’ll see,” Mister Dale said. “If they don’t pull out in the morning, we’ll . . .” he paused, “. . . Take the appropriate action.” He looked at Jack Linwood. “Understood?”

Jack nodded his head. He was liking this job less and less. He’d used his gun many times, but he was no cold-blooded killer. And if Dale thought that, the man was flat-out wrong.

Their boots were polished by a boy in the shop. Now, bathed and shaved, the hair cut off the backs of their necks and around their ears, and smelling like dandies (it was only a dime more to get that genuine imported aftershave splashed on), the brothers dressed in their last clean sets of clothing and left the rest to be washed and ironed by a lady who lived on the edge of town—recommended by Chrisman.

They stepped into the hotel dining room. The place was about half-full of early diners. “The town’s gentry, so to speak,” Sam muttered, looking around him.

“Hush,” Matt told him. “You’ll get us thrown out of here.”

“I’ll leave that up to you, since you’re the expert at starting trouble.”

“Thank you.”

The brothers took a seat, very conscious of the sly gazes being tossed their way by the young ladies in the room; and they did look dashing. Matt was dressed in a red checkered shirt and dark jeans, a black kerchief at his throat. Sam had dressed in a sparkling white shirt, a red kerchief at his throat, and dark jeans. The brothers set some feminine hearts to palpitatin’.

Outside, the wide street rumbled under the hooves of hard-ridden horses.

“It’s Rusty and some of the boys from the Lightning spread,” a Box H hand said. “Damn! They’re headin’ into the hotel. I bet Shorty cut across their range headin’ to home and told ’em.”

“Stop them!” Mister Dale said.

“Too late. They’re in the hotel.”

“Where’s Linwood?”

“I dunno. I haven’t seen him or any of his men in a couple of hours.”

“Damn!” Mister Dale said.

“Maybe Rusty and them boys will just end it right now, a Box H hand called Coop said.

“We can always hope,” Mister Dale said.

The dining room fell quiet; not even the tinkle of silverware or the rattle of coffee cups being placed in saucers sounded. Sam looked over his shoulder and grimaced.

“Why do you always get us into trouble, brother?” His dark eyes were twinkling.

“I see them. And we just got cleaned up.”

“Yes. But at least we won’t have to fight on a full stomach. It’s not good for the digestion.”

“That really makes me feel better, Sam. You sure do know how to cheer me up.”

“Thank you,” Sam replied modestly.

“You two slicked-up dudes yonder!” Rusty called. “Outside. I want to talk to you.”

Matt was facing the archway. He sized up the cowboy. Pretty good-sized ol’ boy. Late thirties, he’d guess, and all muscle and gristle and bone. The three with him were about the same size, with hard-packed muscle and callused hands from years of wrestling steers and handling rope.

“Here we go,” Sam muttered, not knowing what Matt was going to do, but knowing full well he was about to irritate someone.

“Are you speaking to us, Jackass Mouth,” Matt called, “or you braying at an early moon?”

About half of the men and women in the big dining room did their best to hide smiles. And that told the brothers that the big ranchers in the area were not all loved, providing these hands came from one of the Big Three, and both brothers were sure of that.

“You say that to me?” Rusty yelled.

“You’re the only person in the room braying like a jackass,” Matt told him. “As a matter of fact, you sort of resemble a jackass. In a way.”

Rusty was so mad he looked like he was about to explode.

Sam turned around and stared at the red-faced foreman of the Lightning spread. He shook his head. “No, brother,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “A jackass is much better looking.”

Several men and women laughed out loud.

“By God!” Rusty yelled. “You people don’t laugh at me. I’ll tear this damn town apart.”

“Oh, shut up,” Matt told him. “Go away. We’re trying to order supper.”

Rusty marched over to the table, his men right behind him. They ringed the table. Real close. Sam smiled. “By God, saddlebum, you’ll learn when a Lightning man tells you to do something, you’ll do it.”

“I doubt it,” Matt said.

Rusty reached down, clamped a hand on Matt’s good shirt, and jerked him to his boots. He tore the shirt. Bad mistake.

Matt knocked the bejesus out of the foreman. The blow sent the man stumbling across the room, crashing into tables and sending diners scrambling to get out of the way, but staying close enough to watch and enjoy the fight.

Sam rammed his chair back, knocking a puncher sprawling, and a split-second later he jammed the square-cornered table into another Lightning hand’s groin. The hand dropped to his knees, his face white with pain, both hands holding his crotch, his mouth open in a silent scream. Sam came up fast and grabbed a chair, splintering it over the fourth puncher’s head and knocking him to the floor.

“Get that dirty son, Tulsa,” the puncher on his knees moaned as Tulsa was getting up off the floor.

Sam got set, a strange smile on his lips.

Matt had backed Rusty into a corner and was concentrating on beating the stuffing out of him. The initial blow had caught the foreman off-guard, and had been powerful enough to stun him. Now Matt was going to finish it.

Rusty swung and Matt ducked that one and the left that followed it. He grabbed the man’s left forearm and slung him across the room. Rusty wiped out a row of tables as he spun out of control, Matt right behind him. Rusty hit the wall and looked confused for a moment. He wasn’t used to people doing this to him. Then Matt was all over him as Sam yelled, “Hurry up, damn it. Quit showin’ off.”

Matt hit the foreman a combination of blows that rocked the man’s head from side to side, bloodying his mouth, busting his nose, and pulping one ear. He finished the foreman with a thundering right to the man’s belly. Rusty coughed up bile and slumped to the floor, out of action.

Matt screamed like a panther, and that nearly scared the women in the room out of their corsets. It frightened some of the men, too. It also startled the hell out of a Lightning hand named Buck. What really got Buck’s attention was when Matt hit him in the mouth with a fist that looked about the size of a brick and was just about as hard. Pearlies flew from the man’s suddenly bloody mouth. Matt hit him two more times, then clubbed him on the neck on his way down to the floor.

Sam was dealing his opponent some real misery. The man’s eyes were glazed and his mouth and nose were smashed and bloody. One ear was badly swollen, and all in all, he looked like he really wished he had stayed back at the ranch. Sam hit him one more time and the man kissed the floor.

Then Matt and Sam turned on the man who had met the corner of the table. Together, as one man would later say, “Them boys beat the hell outta that Lightning hand.”

Matt left Tony to Sam and looked around just as Rusty was staggering to his boots. Matt grabbe. . .