Blood Bond 3 (14 page)

One woman went down, crying out as a bullet hit her in the shoulder. A young girl, no more than five or six, ran crying and screaming toward the circling gunmen. A horse knocked her sprawling. She did not move.

“You goddamn no-good Godless heathens!” Reverend Willowby roared, grabbing up a rifle from a saddle boot and opening up. He knocked one rider out of the saddle and shot another in the knee, the man screaming in pain, dropping his six-shooter and grabbing at his leg.

Vonny Dodge was down on one knee, both hands filled with Colts, and his aim was deadly. He was literally making each round count. The old gunfighter was showing his skills as he emptied saddle after saddle.

Nettie Carson screamed once and called out her dead husband's name as a bullet tore into her back just as she was climbing up the steps to her house. She sprawled face down on the porch and lay still.

“Oh, Sweet Jesus Christ, no!” Jeff Sparks yelled, watching Noah run to his mother's side, shooting as he ran. The other Flying V hands ran to cover Noah, all of them throwing lead as fast as they could.

“They're trying to torch the house!” Sam yelled. “Come on, brother.”

The men and women had managed to exit the lonely gravesite and make it to some sort of cover. The blood brothers ran around the side of the ranch house and began emptying saddles, the torches falling harmlessly to the ground.

The attackers tore down the corral and scattered the horses. Most of the horses of those who had ridden over had run off, frightened and panicked. Several buggies had overturned as the scared animals bolted, smashing the buggies into buildings, water troughs, other wagons. The attack broke off, the riders galloping away, leaving behind them a scene of blood and death and misery.

Josiah caught up with the brothers. “We'll see to the wounded first,” he said, his face hard and his words grim. “Then you boys will find out what it means to be called Texas Rangers.”

Noah was sitting on the porch, his mother's hand cradled in his lap. He was crying soundlessly, tears streaking his tanned face. Lisa sat down beside him and put her arms around him, comforting him.

“The little girl's arm's busted,” Tate called. “But other than that she seems to be all right.”

“Some of you boys carry that wounded lady into the house,” Dodge called. “Move.”

Red was cussing, tying a bandana around his wounded leg. Compton was matching him word for word, a bullet-shattered arm hanging by his side. Jeff Sparks had a gash on his forehead and Denver had taken a round in the side and was down on the ground.

Doc Winters was busy, issuing orders and cleaning out the wounds. Other than that, there was little he could do to fight any infection that might set it. When he ran out of alcohol from his bag, he ordered vinegar from the house to be used.

“Acetic acid,” he explained. “Just do it, it works.”

Josiah walked over to Jeff. “We'll be catchin' our horses and ridin'. Ain't no point in stayin' around for the buryin'. Trail'll be cold by then.”

“Are you going to call for more Rangers?”

“Nope.”

“For God's sake, man—why not?”

“Three of us here now. Don't need no more.”

“What about the wounded outlaws?” Dodge asked.

“I ain't got time to fool with nothin' like that. We got to get on the trail of them that's ridin' off.”

Matt and Sam were bringing in their horses and selecting spare mounts.

“I don't understand,” Jeff said.

“I do,” Dodge said, his words flint hard.

“We'll borrow some food from the house,” Josiah said.

“Bell,” Dodge called. “Get that wagon tongue up over yonder. Lash it up high.”

Bell's smile was savage. “Right, boss.”

Matt and Sam were in the saddle when Josiah swung up into his. Barlow and Chookie and Parnell were building nooses as they rode out.

When there aren't any trees around, and the barn's been burned down, a lashed-up wagon tongue does just fine for a hanging.

“They're headin' away from Broken Lance range,” Sam said. “And those tracks say they're riding hard.”

Josiah nodded his head in agreement. “They'll ride for miles in this direction, with one or two of them breakin' off ever' now and then, mixin' their tracks in with cattle or followin' a creek bed for a time. You agree with that, Matt?”

“Yes. We'll probably have to split up before very long. How do we play this, Josiah?”

“You bring 'em in upright and you'll be doin' a lot of paperwork and spendin' days listenin' to lawyers yelpin' back and forth. Personally, I'm a man who believes in law and order. I ain't never testified against an innocent man nor shot an innocent man. Now, I've come close, but some inner sense has always warned me off. We ain't dealin' with innocent people. Anyone who would attack folks at a funeral, shooting women and kids and interruptin' God's word is trash. There ain't no pity in my heart for trash. I've had high words of praise spoke to me. I've had medals given me by the governor. All because I'm supposed to be a good lawman. But I swear on my wife's grave I'll not bring none of this bunch in alive. If I have to take this badge off and stomp it into the dust I'll show no mercy to this pack of hyenas. Them's my words. You boys do what you want to do. I'm veerin' off here. See you.”

Josiah Finch turned his horse and was gone, following two sets of tracks that had just left the main pack of outlaws and hired guns.

The brothers rode on in silence, both of them thinking of Mrs. Nettie Carson, shot in the back and lying dead in a pool of blood on her front porch.

“Two riders branching off here,” Sam broke the silence. “See you, brother.”

Matt rode on for another mile. Two more men left the main body and cut west. He let them go, continuing to follow the larger group. He saw where the group had stopped, perhaps to rest their horses, but more than likely to make plans. He would have to assume they were ambush plans. And in this country, where the terrain was so deceptive, an ambush would be an easy thing . . . if a man wasn't very careful.

Matt sat his horse for a time, thinking things over. They had passed no water since leaving the funeral site. Their horses would have to have water. And that meant the raiders would be forced to swing back west, toward the Pecos. Matt turned toward the river. If things worked out, he'd have a little ambush of his own.

 

 

Josiah faced the two men and they were scared. They didn't know how the Ranger had gotten ahead of them, and at this juncture, that really wasn't important. He had, and the outlaws' guns were in leather.

“Mornin',” one said, his eyes not meeting Josiah's gaze, but instead remaining fixed on the muzzle of the Ranger's .45, the hammer back.

“Man shouldn't ride no blue steel on a raid,” Josiah said. “Horse like that's too easy to fix in a person's mind. Your hat's got a turkey feather stuck in it. That's stupid too. Stands out like a pimple on your nose. You're one that raided the funeral, I'm Josiah Finch, and that makes you dead.”

Josiah shot him, the .45 slug knocking him out of the saddle. The second man grabbed for iron and Josiah blew him to hell. Josiah pulled saddle and bridle off the horses and turned them loose. Josiah took the dead men's ammo and hung their gunbelts on his saddle horn, after making sure all weapons were loaded up full. He left the raiders where they lay, baking under the hot Texas sun.

“Hope the buzzards don't get sick,” he said, and rode out. He'd cut some more tracks in a little while. He wondered how the brothers were doing.

 

 

“Breed,” the man said, “I don't know where you come from, but I'm gonna gut-shoot you and leave you out here to die.”

Sam shot him, then shifted the muzzle and drilled the second man in the center of his chest. The first man was hanging onto the saddle horn and trying to quiet his bucking horse and lift his Hog-leg all at the same time. He didn't have anymore time left him. Sam's .44 barked again and the raider tumbled from the saddle.

Sam swung down and approached the raiders. Both were dead. He checked the brands on the horses; they were not familiar to him. He stripped saddles and bridles from their horses and turned them loose. Just as Josiah had done, he took their guns, looping the gunbelts on his saddle horn after checking to see they were loaded up full. He left the men where they lay. The carrion birds and wolves and coyotes would feed, and soon the bare bones would bleach under the relentless sun. The leather would rot and the spurs would rust.

Sam mounted up and rode away, wondering how his brother was doing.

Matt sighted in the rider in front and squeezed the trigger. The Winchester rifle boomed and the rider fell from the saddle to land in the cool sands on the east side of the Pecos. Before the large group of raiders could get out of range, Matt had emptied two more saddles. He punched rounds into his rifle as he walked back to his horse. Across the river, he left the saddle and looked at the hired guns. One was still alive, the .44 slug taking the man low in the left side and exiting out high on the right side, just under his arm pit.

“Lawmen ain't supposed to ambush people,” the dying gunny whispered.

“I'm an unusual lawman,” Matt told him. “You got any family you want me to notify?”

“You'd do that?”

“Yes.”

“Got a sister in Arkansas. Fort Smith. Old maid, last I heard. Probably still is. Ugly as sin. Mabel Tucker. She'd like to know where I'm buried. You are gonna bury me?”

“Nope.”

“You a cold man, Ranger.”

“Not as cold as you're about to be.”

“That's a fact.”

“Who hired you?”

“Don't know his name. Man that contacted us was a go-between, I'm shore. Give us a hundred dollars apiece to hit the Flyin' V. Said there'd be a bonus if we killed the woman and the boy. Did we git 'em?”

Matt shook his head as waves of disgust washed over him. Even dying, the outlaw was not repentant. He started to ask another question, then saw that the man was dead.

He decided he would not write the old maid sister. She'd be better off forgetting this brother.

As Josiah and Sam had done, he turned the horses loose and took the guns. He was just starting to swing into the saddle when he heard hooves. He turned, pistol in hand.

Josiah was riding up from the south. “That's Heck Tucker,” he said, looking at the nearest body sprawled on the sands. “He's a bad one. Reward on him, but you're gonna have to tote the body in to claim it.”

“I think I'll pass on that.”

“Don't blame you. He'd be ripe as a plum 'fore you got him in. You gonna bury 'em?”

“Did you bury yours?”

Josiah smiled. “Not likely.”

“Let's see if we can find Sam.” Matt swung into the saddle and they headed out.

Sam found them, joining them about a half-hour after they left the Pecos. “I heard shots.”

“I got two, Matt got three,” Josiah said. “How about you?”

“Two. I didn't recognize any of them.”

“I did. They're ol' boys fresh from the cattle wars up in Kansas. Most of 'em anyways. John Lee's savin' his permanent people and hirin' out 'way far from here. What'd you boys want to do?”

“Trail them,” Sam said.

“Might make good Rangers after all,” Josiah said.

They caught up with them at a trading post on the Seminole Draw after days of hot, dusty tracking. The three were dirty, unshaven, tired, hungry, and about as sociably inclined as irritated porcupines.

“I was beginning to think you were lost,” Sam said to Josiah, as they sighted the small settlement by the river.

“I ain't never been lost,” the little man said. “Horse has, but I ain't.”

Horse swung his tired head around and gave Finch a baleful look.

“We've been pushing them hard,” Matt said. “And we know they're out of supplies, living on jackrabbits.” He checked his guns. “Let's go get this over with.”

“No way we can ride in unseen,” Sam said. “You can bet they've got lookouts.”

“I want something to eat I didn't have to shoot, skin, and cook,” Josiah said. “And I aim to have it before or after we brace that trash over yonder. It don't make no difference to me. Let's go.”

They made a half circle and came in behind the long, low building, reining up at the corral. Josiah patted Horse on the neck. “You just hold that saddle up for a few more minutes, ol' feller. I'll be out directly to relieve you of it and you can rest for a time.”

The men loosened their guns in leather and walked around the front of the trading post. The windows were so dirty and fly-specked they could not see inside. The outside walls were pocked and pitted with old bullet scars, and parts of several arrows were still imbedded, grim reminders of the battles the post had endured. Bleached white by years in the sun, the skeletal fingers and wrist bone of a human hand hung outside by a piece of wire.

Josiah pointed to it. “Durin' an attack one Injun got close enough to ram his hand through a window. One of them inside lobbed it off with an axe. That was about ten years ago. Injun attacks sort of petered out for a time after that.” Josiah pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The door they entered opened into the store section of the post, filled with everything that the owner figured somebody might want . . . someday. The bar was at the far end, to the right of the men. They could hear loud talk and rough laughter coming from that end.

“Maybe they didn't have guards out,” Sam said.

“They figure they're a day or so ahead of us,” Josiah said. “They ain't been figurin' on us ridin' all night to get here. You boys ready for a drink to cut the dust and some food for the belly?”

“Sounds good to me,” Matt said, and took the lead, winding his way through the counters piled high with merchandise.

The men stepped into the dimly lighted bar area and the laughter and loud talk stopped as abruptly as someone suddenly blowing out a lamp. Matt walked to the middle of the bar—several long planks supported by barrels—and leaned up against it.

Josiah took one end and Sam took the other. All three men were conscious of the hard eyes that stared at them from two tables pulled together in a corner of the room.

The barkeep, a huge grossly overweight man who both looked and smelled like he was only days away from his semiannual bath, lumbered out of a back room and pulled up short at the sight of the badges pinned to the shirts of the trio. His gaze cut to the men in the corner.

“Three whiskeys,” Josiah said. “Then we'll talk about somethin' to eat.”

“Got stew that's hot and fresh homebaked bread my old woman just took from the oven.”

“Sounds good,” Sam said. “We'll drink first.”

The barkeep looked at the identical three-stone necklaces on Matt and Sam. He looked hard at Sam, frowned, and said, “I ain't never served up no whiskey to Injuns. If you is an Injun.”

“He's a breed,” Josiah said. “Pour the rotgut.”

“No offense meant,” the fat man said, filling the shot glass in front of Sam, which Sam had carefully wiped out with a handkerchief.

“None taken,” Sam said with a smile, then suddenly whipped out a long-bladed knife. His eyes hardened. The barkeep backed up as far as he could go. “But don't serve me over three whiskeys. It stirs up my Indian blood and I get vicious and might take a notion to start scalping.”

“Two'll be your limit!”

Sam laughed, sheathed his knife, and picked up his drink. The three of them moved to a table, arranging the chairs so they could all look over into the corner.

“I don't recognize the brands on them horses out in the corral,” Josiah said. “You reckon they might be stolen?”

“I wouldn't doubt it,” Matt replied.

“We ain't ridin' no stolen horses,” the voice came from a man in the corner. “Them horses was bought by us.”

“They mighty tired animals,” Josiah said. “You boys been pushin' hard since you left the Pecos. I think you ought to give them a rest.”

“We ain't been close to the Pecos, and I don't recall askin' for your opinion on nothin',” another man at the corner table said. “So why don't you shet your trap?”

“Them's Texas Rangers, boys,” the barkeep said.

“That don't spell crap to me,” yet another man said. “And it damn sure don't give 'em the right to call us horse thieves.”