BLOOD BOND ARIZONA AMBUSH
William W. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
SAVAGE TEXAS
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
“Are we in Arizona or New Mexico?” Matt Bodine asked with a puzzled frown.
Sam Two Wolves shook his head.
“I don’t know. We might’ve even strayed over the line into Colorado or Utah. That’s why they call this area the Four Corners.”
Matt frowned.
“You don’t know exactly where you are? You’re an Indian, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you know these things?”
“I’m half Cheyenne, as you well know.”
“Well, then, shouldn’t you be at least half-sure where we are?”
“The Indians who live around here are not Cheyenne,” Sam pointed out with the tolerant air of someone explaining things to a small child. “I believe most of them in these parts are Navajo.”
Matt shook his head.
“Sounds like an excuse to me.”
“What about you?” Sam asked. “You’re blood brother to the Cheyenne. Shouldn’t you know?”
“I’m blood brother to one Cheyenne—you. And since you’re half Cheyenne, that makes me ...” Matt squinted as he thought. “I never was that good at ciphering. You’re the one with the college education. You figure it out.”
“Maybe we should just admit that we’re lost.”
“I’m not lost.” Matt pointed south over the mostly flat, dry terrain through which the two young men rode. “That way’s Mexico.” He turned in the saddle and waved a hand northward. “And Montana and Canada are up yonder a ways. California’s in front of us, and the Mississippi River’s behind us. See? I’m not the least bit lost.”
Sam just shook his head as Matt grinned.
The companionable relationship between them came naturally. Matt Bodine and Samuel August Webster Two Wolves had ridden together for a number of years, drifting across the frontier, and before that they had been childhood friends in Montana. That was where they had become blood brothers.
The link between them was even stronger than that. They were onihomihan, brothers of the wolf. The adventurous lives they had led made them brothers of the gun, as well. Theirs was the unbreakable bond of men who had fought side by side and saved each other’s lives on numerous occasions.
At first glance they might have been mistaken for actual brothers. Both young men were tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built. The differences between them were apparent on a second look, however.
Matt’s close-cropped brown hair was lighter than Sam’s shaggy black hair, which was as dark as a raven’s wing.
Sam also had the slight reddish tint to his skin which was also part of his legacy from his father Medicine Horse, as were the high cheekbones.
Matt wore jeans and a faded blue bib-front shirt. His battered brown Stetson was thumbed back on his head most of the time, as was the case now.
Sam wore jeans and a fringed buckskin shirt, although the fringe was strictly utilitarian, not gaudy like that on the outfits of Wild West Show performers. His black hat had a wide brim and a slightly rounded crown.
Another difference was in the way they were armed. Sam wore only one holstered revolver while Matt sported a pair of Colts. Sam was fast on the draw and accurate in his aim, but Matt was in a whole other league when it came to lead-slinging. His speed rivaled that of famous gunfighters such as Smoke Jensen, John Wesley Hardin, and Frank Morgan. Matt’s name wasn’t quite as well known as those others, perhaps because of his relative youth.
Matt and Sam both owned lucrative ranches in Montana, but except for brief visits, they hadn’t been home in years. The ranches were run by top-notch managers, and that allowed Matt and Sam to do the thing they loved best—drift. Both were fiddle-footed hombres, always eager to see what was on the other side of a river or over the next hill.
The fact that they didn’t know exactly where they were wasn’t going to stop them from riding on. The destination mattered less than the getting there, and as long as they were moving, Matt and Sam were happy.
But that didn’t mean they weren’t alert. Matt suddenly stiffened in the saddle and said, “I just saw the sun reflect off something on that bluff over yonder.”
He nodded toward an upthrust of rocky ground several hundred yards northwest of them.
“So did I,” Sam agreed. He looked around in case they needed to find some cover. The reflection could be nothing ...
But it could also be the sun glinting off a pair of field glasses, or worse, a rifle barrel.
“There’s an arroyo off to our left,” Sam began. “Maybe we’d better—”
A buzzing sound, like a giant bee that had just flown between them, interrupted him. Both young men recognized the sound, having heard similar ones all too many times in the past. That buzz was a heavy-caliber slug cutting through the air, and it was followed an instant later by a distant boom.
“Head for the arroyo!” Sam finished as he and Matt kicked their mounts into a gallop. The horses, big, strong animals with plenty of sand, raced toward the gully that twisted its way across the arid landscape.