Ride for Vengeance

Book 12: Blood Bond

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Two blood brothers saddle up to take a stand in this thrilling Western adventure from the USA Today bestselling authors of Texas Gundown. 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 . . . Ride for Vengeance Having saved Sweet Apple, Texas, from disaster, Matt and Sam decide to stay and help the new marshal break in his spurs—not to mention squeeze in a well-deserved vacation with the help of the lovely, spirited daughters of two feuding cattlemen. 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: November 19, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 318

Sample

The school in Sweet Apple, Texas, not far from the Rio Grande, wasn’t serving its usual function tonight. The benches and desks had been moved to create a large open space in the middle of the floor, and dancing couples filled that space, swirling around in time to the tunes played by several fiddlers and a trio of Mexicans with guitars. The music was loud and raucous, and so were the stomping feet and the laughter of those attending the dance.

Folks in Sweet Apple were having a high old time.

Matt Bodine leaned against one of the walls of the schoolroom and sighed. “All these pretty gals,” he said, “and not one of them wants to dance with me.”

“Stop complaining,” said Matt’s blood brother, Sam August Webster Two Wolves. “We’re working, remember?”

In truth, probably all of the young, eligible women in Sweet Apple and the vicinity—because everybody within riding distance came to town for a get-together like this—would have been glad to dance with either Matt or Sam, because the blood brothers were both tall, muscular, and handsome. They could have almost passed for real brothers. Matt’s hair was dark brown, while Sam’s was black as a raven’s wing. Matt’s eyes were blue, Sam’s such a dark gray as to be almost black. Sam also had the high cheekbones and slightly reddish cast to his tanned skin that he had inherited from his father Medicine Horse, a Cheyenne warrior who had been killed at the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

Unlike nearly all the other members of his tribe, Medicine Horse had been educated in the East, at a white man’s university. It was there he had met and married Sam’s mother, who, when Sam was a young man, had insisted that he receive a college education, too.

Matt hadn’t gotten the benefits of such advanced schooling, but he possessed a keen natural intelligence. The son of a pioneer Montana ranching family, he had been Sam Two Wolves’ best friend since both of them were very young men, no more than kids really. Matt had been accepted into the Cheyenne tribe because of his bond with Sam. They were Onihomahan—Brothers of the Wolf.

Although they both owned sizable cattle spreads in Montana, both young men were too fiddle-footed to stay in one place for too long, so for the past few years they had been drifting around the West, usually landing smack-dab in the middle of trouble even though that wasn’t their intention. But they couldn’t turn their backs on folks in trouble, nor pass up the chance for an adventure.

Which was how they’d come to wind up in the rough-and-tumble border town of Sweet Apple, working as unofficial deputies for the town’s lawman, Marshal Seymour Standish. It was a long story involving owlhoots, Mexican revolutionaries (a fancy name for bandidos), and a train car full of U.S. Army rifles. Much powder had been burned. The air in Sweet Apple’s main street had been full of gun smoke and hot lead. Blood had been spilled, including a mite that belonged to Matt Bodine. But in the weeks since that big ruckus, things had been fairly peaceful in town.

Matt and Sam knew that wouldn’t last. It never did.

Tonight they were dressed a little fancier than usual for the dance, Matt in a brown tweed suit instead of his usual jeans and blue bib-front shirt, Sam in dark gray wool instead of his buckskins. They both wore boiled white shirts and string ties. Matt pulled at his collar and grimaced in discomfort and distaste.

“Damn thing feels like a noose,” he muttered. “This must be what it’s like to get strung up.”

“Are you going to complain about everything tonight?” Sam asked.

“I might.” Matt’s eyes followed the slender, graceful, redheaded form of Jessie Colton as she danced with one of the men from Sweet Apple.

“Oh,” Sam said. “I understand now. You’re mad because you haven’t gotten to dance with Jessie yet.”

“I saw you eyein’ Sandy Paxton,” Matt shot back. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t rather be out there with her instead of standin’ here holdin’ up this damned wall.”

“We’re doing more than that. We’re keeping an eye on the men from the Double C and Pax.”

Matt had to admit that those cowboys did need to be kept an eye on. Like the men who rode for all the other spreads in the area, the hands from the Double C and Pax ranches had come into Sweet Apple for the dance. They all knew that hostilities had to be put aside at the door. That was the plan anyway. Whether or not it worked might be another story entirely.

Once Pax and Double C had been one vast ranch, owned by cousins Esau Paxton and Shadrach Colton. Matt and Sam knew that much, but they had no idea why, somewhere along the way, the spread had been broken in two and Paxton and Colton had become bitter enemies. That was the case, though, and the feud was still going on.

Since Western men rode for the brand, the enemies of a cowboy’s boss became the cowboy’s enemies, too. That feeling had led to more than one brawl between riders from the two ranches. Here lately, as sort-of deputies, Matt and Sam had been forced to break up some of those ruckuses.

So far tonight, the men from Pax and Double C hadn’t done any more than eye each other suspiciously. Matt and Sam hoped it stayed that way.

Marshal Standish went by them, dancing with Magdalena Elena Louisa O’Ryan, the pretty little half-Mexican /half-Irish schoolmarm. Maggie O’Ryan had a big smile on her face. She was sweet on Seymour, and the feeling was returned.

Seymour glanced over Maggie’s shoulder at Matt and Sam, who each gave him a curt nod signifying that everything was all right so far. Seymour looked both relieved and happy. His face was flushed from the exertion of dancing, but it wasn’t as noticeable as it would have been a month or so earlier when he’d first arrived in Sweet Apple from Trenton, New Jersey. He’d been a salesman then, for the Standish Dry Goods Company, not a lawman. He’d also been pale as bread dough and just about as courageous. In fact, he’d been known for a time as The Most Cowardly Man in the West, a tag slapped on him by the local newspaper editor.

Nobody thought of him that way anymore, not after he’d stood up to the fierce outlaw Deuce Mallory and Mallory’s bloodthirsty gang, as well as the vicious bandits led by Diego Alcazarrio. Seymour was still slender and a little pale—although he was starting to tan a little—but he carried himself with more confidence, and with tutoring from Matt and Sam, he was getting better every day with the six-gun he now packed in a holster on his hip.

A couple of well-fed, middle-aged gents sidled up to the blood brothers. Abner Mitchell was a local merchant and the mayor of Sweet Apple; J. Emerson Heathcote published the newspaper and served on the town council with Mitchell and some of the other businessmen.

“It appears that everything’s under control,” Mitchell said as he hooked his thumbs in his vest. Even when he wasn’t trying to make a speech, his words came out with a certain blustery quality to them. Matt supposed that Mitchell was just a natural-born politician. He’d probably launched into an oration for the first time when the midwife slapped him on the ass after birthing him.

“I see that everyone from the Double C and Pax came into town tonight,” Heathcote said with a worried air.

“Of course they did,” Matt said. “It’s a dance. Everybody comes to a dance.”

“If there’s trouble, perhaps in the future the ranches could alternate—”

“No offense, Mr. Heathcote,” Sam cut in, “but you’re getting ahead of yourself. Everybody knows the rules. No matter what happens out on the range, when you step into a dance you leave all that behind.”

Heathcote nodded. “Yes, yes, I know. But some of those young cowhands are pretty hotheaded—”

“If anything happens, we’ll take care of it,” Matt said. He moved his coat aside a little to reveal the walnut grips on the butt of the gun holstered at his right hip. A matching Colt revolver rode on his left hip, covered up at the moment by his coat.

It was pretty obvious what he meant. No matter how reckless and impulsive they were, folks tended to listen to Matt Bodine, because he was known from one end of the West to the other as a gunfighter. He was deadly accurate with his shots, and nobody was slicker and faster on the draw than Matt except for the legendary Smoke Jensen, and maybe, just maybe, a youngster down Texas way named Morgan.

What was sometimes forgotten was that Matt’s blood brother Sam Two Wolves was only a hair slower on the draw. Together, they were as formidable a pair as had ever ridden Western trails, a pair of Western aces if ever there was one.

Their reputation had quelled trouble by itself on more than one occasion. If more than that was required, they could certainly provide it. But nobody wanted gunplay at a dance like this, especially with the whole town in attendance and kids running around underfoot.

The musicians reached the end of a song and paused for a minute before launching into the rollicking strains of another tune. Seymour came up to Matt, Sam, Mayor Mitchell, and J. Emerson Heathcote. The marshal was out of breath and sweating a little. He had been wounded in the battle a couple of weeks earlier, too, and maybe he wasn’t quite back up to his full strength yet.

“My word, that young lady can dance!” he said.

Heathcote dug an elbow into Seymour’s side. “You aren’t complaining, though, are you, Marshal?”

Seymour turned even redder, but he said, “Not in the slightest.”

“Sitting this one out?”

“Yes, Maggie said she needed to catch her breath, and to tell the truth, so do I. I was glad to oblige her.”

“Do I hear matrimonial bells in the offing? Should I save space on the front page of the paper for a wedding story?”

Seymour looked shocked. “Good Lord, no!” As the other men grinned at him, he hurried on. “I mean, that would be vastly premature. Perhaps someday . . . if Maggie and I . . . I mean, if Miss O’Ryan and I continue to . . . grow closer . . . I mean, if we decide that we want to . . .”

“Why don’t you stop right there, Seymour?” Matt drawled. “I reckon we all get your drift.”

Seymour took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Good.” He paused, and then went on. “I saw some of the men from the Double C going out the back door a few minutes ago.”

“Probably somebody’s got a jug outside,” Matt said.

“They’ll guzzle down some of that Who-hit-John and then be back inside,” Sam added.

Seymour nodded. “I suspect that you’re correct. The only reason I worried was because I saw Jeff Riley and some of the men from Pax follow them.”

Matt stiffened when he heard that. Jeff Riley was Esau Paxton’s top horse-breaker, and he was one of those hotheads Heathcote had alluded to. He’d been involved in more than one scuffle with riders from the Double C. Matt supposed that all the jerking and jolting Riley’s brain had gotten while he was on the backs of those wild broncs might have something to do with the man’s rash behavior.

“Maybe we’d better go take a look, just to make sure nothing’s brewing,” Sam suggested.

Matt nodded. “The back door, you said?” he asked Seymour.

“That’s right,” Seymour replied. “I’d better come with you.”

“That’s all right,” Matt said quickly.

“We can handle this,” Sam said. “Might be better for you to keep an eye on things in here, Marshal.”

“Oh.” Seymour blinked. “Of course. I’ll stay in here while the two of you see what’s going on outside.”

Seymour was trying to sound decisive, but it didn’t really come across that way. Matt felt bad about the way he and Sam had contradicted Seymour’s decision to come with them, especially in front of Heathcote and Mitchell.

But even though Seymour had come a long way and nobody questioned his courage anymore, he was still pretty inexperienced when it came to gun trouble. Matt and Sam were both confident that they could handle anything the Double C and Pax crews might come up with, but it would be easier if they didn’t have to worry about Seymour accidentally getting in the way of a bullet.

The blood brothers didn’t seem to hurry as they crossed the room, skirting around the dancers. But there wasn’t a wasted movement between them, and they arrived at the rear door pretty quickly.

Not quite quickly enough, though, Matt saw as he and Sam stepped outside. The moon and the glow of lamplight that came through the windows of the school building provided enough light for them to be able to see the two compact groups of men facing each other. The cowboys crouched, their hands hovering over the butts of their guns as they stood ready to hook and draw.

In the next breath, the next heartbeat, shots would roar out, Colt flame would bloom in the night, and men would die.

Matt’s eyes took in the scene instantly, and he reacted just as fast. He saw Jeff Riley standing out in front of one group, while facing him was Tom Danks, one of the Double C’s top hands—and just as big a hothead as Riley.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Matt launched himself in a dive from the little porch at the top of the three steps leading down from the rear door of the schoolhouse. He tackled Riley and drove the bronc-buster off his feet. Both men crashed to the ground.

“Hold it, Danks!” Sam’s shout sounded loud and clear in the night. “Get your hand away from that gun!”

The hard-edged menace in Sam’s voice meant that he had his own Colt out and had the Double C hands covered.

Meanwhile, Matt had rolled away from Riley and come up on one knee. His fast action had shocked the cowboys on both sides into immobility for a second, and that had been long enough for Sam to draw his gun and take control of the situation. Nobody wanted to slap leather when faced with a Colt that was already rock-steady in Sam Two Wolves’ hand.

Riley pushed himself up and yelled, “What the hell!” His eyes fastened angrily on Matt. “Why’d you jump me like that, Bodine?”

“You and Danks were about to draw on each other, weren’t you?” Matt asked as he got to his feet.

Riley scrambled up, too. “What if we were?” he demanded, his voice hot with rage. “That’s our own business, ain’t it?”

“Not tonight,” Matt snapped. “Not right outside a schoolhouse where there’s a dance goin’ on. There are a lot of innocent folks in there, Riley. Some of ’em could’ve gotten hurt if lead started to fly out here.”

Riley, who was a wiry man with a lean, foxlike face, sneered at him. “For a gunslinger, you’re mighty concerned about innocent folks gettin’ hurt. You always think about that every time you slap leather, Bodine?”

“Not always,” Matt answered honestly. “Sometimes, there just isn’t enough time for that. But I don’t go out of my way to endanger anybody either.”

“The two o’ you struttin’ around town all high-and-mighty,” Riley sputtered. “You make me sick. You ain’t even real deputies. You got no right to tell me what to do.”

There was a jug being passed around somewhere outside the school, Matt thought. That was for damned sure, because Riley was already half-drunk.

Tom Danks spoke up. “Bodine, why don’t you go get the marshal? I want Riley arrested.”

“Arrested?” Matt repeated. “For what?”

“Slander. He called Shad Colton a rustler.”

An ugly laugh came from Riley. “That’s what he is.”

Sam said, “Nobody’s going to get arrested for slander. Why don’t all of you either go back inside and enjoy the dance, or else get your horses and go home. Either way, there’s not going to be any gunfight out here tonight.”

Riley laughed again. “I’m sure as hell not takin’ any orders from a filthy redskin. I don’t care if you are wearin’ white man’s clothes, Injun.”

Sam’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He had long since heard every slur that could possibly be directed toward his mixed white and red heritage. He didn’t let them bother him.

Matt knew that, but he knew as well that Riley had no call to be saying such things. “Shut up,” he said. “You’ve done all the dancin’ you’re gonna do tonight. Get the hell out of my sight, Riley.”

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” Riley swayed closer to Matt. “I’m not gonna draw on you, Bodine. I know you’d kill me.” His hot breath reeked of whiskey as it gusted in Matt’s face. “So how are you gonna make me leave?”

Matt stared at him for a moment, narrow-eyed, then muttered, “The hell with it.”

His fist came up and shot out with blinding speed.

The punch didn’t travel more than six inches or so. It landed squarely on Riley’s jaw with enough force to send the bronc-buster flying backward. Some of the other Paxton riders might have caught him, but they got out of the way instead and allowed him to crash to the ground on his back.

The other cowboys from Pax would have stood with Riley in a fight, but that didn’t mean they liked him. And none of them wanted to go up against Matt Bodine either.

Riley tried for a second to get up, then groaned and sagged back down. The limp sprawl of his arms and legs showed that he had passed out.

In disgusted tones, Matt ordered, “Somebody put him on his horse and take him back out to Pax. When he wakes up, tell him not to come back to town until he’s sober and willing not to cause trouble.”

A couple of cowboys moved to do as Matt said. While they were busy with that, Sam said to the rest of the men, “Like I told you, either go back into the dance or go home. But the trouble is over, understand?”

Mutters of grudging agreement came from them. Both groups broke up, some of the men returning to the schoolhouse, others drifting off into the night.

Matt joined Sam on the porch. Sam still held his revolver, but he had lowered it to his side. “Think the ones who left will start taking potshots at each other in the dark?” he asked.

Matt shook his head. “I don’t reckon that’s likely. Looked like Riley and Danks were the ones who were stirrin’ things up.”

Sam leathered his iron and said, “I wonder what that business about Shad Colton being a rustler was all about.”

“Just a drunk mouthin’ off, I’d say. Riley was tryin’ to get under Danks’s skin.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sam still sounded interested, though.

They went inside, where Seymour hurried over to them right away. “What happened?” he asked. “People are saying that there was almost a gunfight, and there was something about punches being thrown.”

“Punch,” Matt said with a smile. “There was only one punch . . . and I threw it.”

“You were right to worry, Seymour,” Sam said. “A couple of men from the Double C and Pax were about to slap leather, and if they had, the rest of both bunches would have joined in, too. It could’ve been pretty bloody.”

“But you stopped them,” Seymour said.

Matt nodded. “Yeah.”

“This time,” Sam added. “Somebody ought to have a talk with Colton and Paxton and see if they can’t be convinced to patch up their differences and put an end to this feud.”

“I agree,” Seymour said, “but I couldn’t do that. I haven’t been here long enough. Neither of those men would listen to me.”

“That’s right,” Matt agreed. “Anyway, I’ve heard about these Texas feuds. Usually the only thing that ever ends them is when one side is killed out.”

“My God. That would require wholesale slaughter.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, “that’s about the size of it.”

Matt Bodine’s comment was still on Seymour’s mind as he walked Maggie O’Ryan back to her house after the dance was over. “Is that really the way it is here in Texas?” he asked her as they strolled along. “One family commits mass murder on another family?”

“Well, they sort of commit mass murder on each other,” Maggie said. “That’s why they call it a feud.”

Seymour shook his head. “I’ve learned a lot about the West in the relatively short time I’ve been here, and there’s a great deal I like about it. But I’m not sure if I’ll ever become accustomed to the cheapness with which human life is regarded on the frontier.”

Maggie stopped, which made Seymour come to a halt as well. She turned toward him and said, “It’s only some of the people who feel that way, Seymour. We’re not all like that. I wish there never had to be any violence at all. I . . . I worry about you being the marshal and all. Something could happen to you.”

“I’ll be fine,” he told her with a smile. “I’m learning all the time how to handle the job, and as long as I have Matt and Sam around to help me—”

“But that’s just it,” Maggie interrupted. “Mr. Bodine and Mr. Two Wolves won’t be around Sweet Apple forever. They’re drifters, Seymour. You’ll wake up one morning and they’ll be gone.”

“I know,” he said. “Matt warned me that they were . . . violin-footed, I believe was his word, although I’m not quite sure I understand the derivation of it.”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Fiddle-footed, Seymour. I’m sure he said fiddle-footed.”

“Oh. Yes, I believe he did. I suppose that makes a bit more sense. But at any rate, I know that the time will come when I have to maintain law and order in Sweet Apple by myself. I’m confident that by then I’ll be up to the job.”

“I hope that’s true, Seymour.” She slipped her arm through his as they started walking again. “You don’t know how much I hope that’s true.”

Her words made his heart swell. During his time in Texas, he had grown very fond of Miss Magdalena Elena Louisa O’Ryan. She was smart and pretty and very sweet. She was devoted to her job of educating the town’s youngsters—often whether they wanted to be educated or not—and Seymour found that quite admirable. Civilization brought education, and education brought progress of all sorts. The better educated people were, the less likely they would be to settle all their arguments and disputes with gunplay. Feuds such as the one between the Coltons and the Paxtons would cease to exist.

As if reading his mind, Maggie said, “You know, I’m sure there are people back East who are prone to violence, too.”

Seymour shook his head. “Not like there are out here,” he insisted. Continuing with the line of thought that had just been occupying his mind, he said, “Take the Coltons and the Paxtons. These are two of the leading families in the entire area. They own successful ranches. Their children are educated. They’re not lowbred hooligans. And yet, if hostilities between them continue to escalate, there’s a good chance that soon they’ll be shooting at each other. Something like that would never happen back in New Jersey, where I come from. People are simply too civilized there to resort to such tactics.”

“Maybe you’re right, Seymour,” Maggie said with a sigh. She didn’t sound like she fully believed it.

Seymour did. No respectable Easterner would ever resort to violence to remove an obstacle from his path.

It just wasn’t done.

In Trenton, New Jersey, Cornelius Standish sat behind the big desk in his office, in the building that housed the Standish Dry Goods Company, and intently regarded the three men who stood before him.

Warren Welch was a fresh-faced young man with curly brown hair and a friendly expression. You had to look at his cold, snakelike eyes to know what sort of man he really was. Daniel McCracken was a redheaded, belligerent Irishman. Standish didn’t fully trust him, but he was said to be good at his job. Ed Stover was the tallest an. . .