BLOOD BOND MOONSHINE MASSACRE
BLOOD BOND MOONSHINE MASSACRE WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
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
Chapter 1
The sound of gunfire somewhere ahead of them made the two young men rein their horses to a halt.
“We could always go another way,” Sam August Webster Two Wolves suggested.
“We could,” Matt Bodine agreed with a solemn nod. “But what do you think the chances of that are?”
“Well…slim and none, I’d say.”
A grin suddenly broke across Matt’s ruggedly handsome face. “More like none.”
With an excited whoop, he dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and sent the animal leaping forward at a gallop. Sam was right behind him.
They were somewhere in western Kansas. At least, they believed they had crossed the Colorado border, but it was hard to be sure out here on these rolling plains. The terrain was mostly flat, with a few low hills and ridges scattered here and there. The gunshots that boomed flatly through the warm air came from the other side of one of those ridges.
Matt and Sam rode with the grace and skill of men who had learned to ride before they learned to walk. Both had been born and raised in Montana—Matt the son of a successful rancher, Sam the son of a Cheyenne warrior and the beautiful white teacher that Medicine Horse had met when he was sent back East to school. They had been best friends and blood brothers since childhood, having gone through the ritual that made them onihomihan, or brothers of the wolf. Those who knew their reputation knew them to be brothers of the gun as well…
Because, to put it plain and simple, Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves were fightin’ fools, the sort of fiddle-footed hellions who were always ready for a scrap. Sam liked to pretend that he was more restrained than Matt and more likely to try to avoid trouble, but nobody could tell that now from the eager expression on his face as his horse pounded alongside Matt’s, heading for the sound of guns.
They were about the same size, both tall and ruggedly muscular, both deeply tanned from a life spent outdoors, although Sam’s skin held the reddish tint of his Cheyenne blood. His long hair was as black as a raven’s wing, while Matt’s was closer cropped and dark brown in color. Sam’s concho-studded black hat was pushed back so that it dangled behind his neck by its chin strap. Matt reached up to pull his battered old brown Stetson down tighter on his head so that the wind wouldn’t blow it off.
Both men wore jeans. Sam sported a fringed buckskin shirt with a few discreet beaded decorations on it. Matt’s bib-front shirt was a faded blue. He carried two Colts and wore crossed cartridge belts supporting the weapons’ holsters. Unlike some men who carried two irons, Matt was blindingly swift and deadly accurate with either hand. His speed put him in the same league as Smoke Jensen, Frank Morgan, and John Wesley Hardin. Sam wore only one gun and handled it well, too, although he was a shade slower on the draw than Matt. He was an expert, though, with the razor-sharp bowie knife sheathed on his other hip. Each of them had a Winchester in a saddle boot, and they could make those long guns sing and dance if they needed to.
In other words, they were armed for bear and ready for any other varmints that came their way as well, including the two-legged variety.
They charged up the ridge that separated them from the powder smoke ruckus that was going on, slowing their horses as they neared the crest so they could see what was happening before they found themselves in the middle of it. They could be a mite reckless at times, but they weren’t foolish.
As they drew their mounts to a halt at the top of the ridge, they looked down on the prairie spread out before them and saw a sod cabin next to a narrow, twisting creek. Gun smoke puffed from the cabin’s windows as more shots rang out. The defenders inside the cabin were aiming at a dozen men who had scattered around the place, taking advantage of whatever scant cover they could find as they returned the fire.
“What do you think?” Matt asked.
“We don’t know which side is in the right here,” Sam pointed out. “For all we know, neither side is.”
“Yeah, but my sympathies lie with the folks inside the cabin.”
“Why?”
Matt frowned. “Hell, I don’t know. Because they’re defending their home?”
“Yes, but they could be outlaws.”
One of the men outside the cabin jumped up from behind the little knoll where he had been lying and dashed over to a parked, empty wagon. Bullets from the cabin kicked up dust around his feet as he ran, but he made it safely. That brought him a little closer to the cabin and gave him a better angle to aim at one of the windows. The man lifted a rifle to his shoulder and blasted several shots through the window as fast as he could work the weapon’s lever.
“Looked like that hombre has a badge pinned to his vest,” Sam went on. “I saw the sunlight reflect off it when he ran behind that wagon.”
“You’re saying those fellas are lawmen?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m not sure, but that’s the way it looked to me.”
Matt frowned. They had clashed with crooked badge-toters in the past, but for the most part, he and Sam tried to stay on the right side of the law. They didn’t like being locked up, which had happened a few times.
“Well, hell!” he said in exasperation. “What do we do now?”
Sam shook his head slowly. “I think we’re just going to have to wait and see what happens here.”
“That’s a hell of a note. I don’t like sittin’ on my rear while there’s lead flyin’ around, Sam.”
“I know. But we can’t just get mixed up in every single ruckus that comes our way.”
“Want to bet?”
Sam considered, and then shook his head again. “No, not particularly.”
The two of them sat their saddles and watched the battle for a few minutes. The lawmen, if such they really were, continued working their way closer. They were going to have a hard time rooting out the hombres inside the cabin, though. Those sod walls were thick enough to stop anything short of a cannonball. All the attackers could do was aim for the windows and hope that the slugs would bounce around enough inside to find some targets.
Then one of the men made a dash that carried him all the way up to the cabin itself. He threw himself prone next to the wall and lay there where the defenders couldn’t get a shot at him.
Matt suddenly leaned forward in the saddle and asked, “What’s that he’s got there?”
“I’m not sure,” Sam said with a frown. “He’s lighting a match, though…Good Lord! I think it’s a bomb!”
Sparks flew from the fuse attached to the round black object as the man held the match flame to it. He came up on his knees, leaned out, and tossed the bomb through a window into the cabin.
Several years earlier, Pinkerton detectives had thrown a similar bomb into a cabin in Missouri where they believed Frank and Jesse James were hiding out. Actually, the outlaw brothers weren’t there at the time, but other members of their family were. The blast had killed their younger stepbrother and blown off one of their mother’s arms. Most folks in the West knew about bombs because of what had happened that day.