Blood Bond 5 by William W. Johnstone Page A

suppose,” Sam said.
    â€œI do love a parade,” Matt replied, as the riders came racing into town amid a cloud of dust and wheeled in at the general store on the Carlin side of town.
    â€œI guess now we get to meet the Carlin kids,” Matt said, taking off his hat and attempting to fan the drifting dust away from him.
    One of the riders let out a wild Texas yell and jumped down from his horse.
    â€œBob Coody,” Sam said. “You remember him?”
    â€œI remember him. He’s walking this way, too.”
    The Texas gunhand came stomping up the boardwalk and stopped in front of Matt and Sam, grinning down at them. “I heard you boys was here. I couldn’t believe it. Last time I seen you boys you was stickin’ your noses into matters down along the Pecos. That didn’t concern you and neither does this affair.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Bob?” Sam asked. “Did Josiah Finch run you out of Texas?”
    Coody’s grin vanished. “Don’t nobody ever run me out of nowhere, Breed.”
    â€œGet out of my way, Coody,” Matt told him. “You’re blocking the sunlight.”
    â€œIf the boss hadn’t a said no trouble in this town, Bodine, I’d ask you to make me move.”
    â€œOh, Coody,” Matt said, disgust in his voice. “Will you people—on both sides—stop playing kid’s games? What the hell is going on around here?”
    Bob Coody squatted down on the boardwalk and took off his hat, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Tell you the truth, Bodine, damned if I know. Now, I don’t like you or the breed here, and I figure you and me will shoot it out one of these days, but this situation here? It’s odd, Bodine. Mighty queer, it is.”
    â€œBoth sides paying top wages?” Sam asked.
    â€œBest I ever collected. And I ain’t fired a shot in a month, ’ceptin’ at a rattler the other day. It’s borin’.”
    â€œWe’re not on either side, Bob,” Matt told him. “We’re out of this war.”
    â€œThat ain’t no good place to be, Bodine,” the gunhandler told him. “Straddlin’ the fence is as good as takin’ the wrong side. You better pick one and stay with it. Or get the hell gone from here. Them’s my feelin’s about it.”
    â€œThanks for leveling with us,” Sam said.
    Coody stood up and hitched at his gunbelt. “This is a strange sichiation here. Gives me a right uneasy feelin’ not knowin’ which way the wind is a blowin’.” He turned abruptly and walked away, heading for the Carlin House.
    â€œNow what do you make of that?” Sam asked.
    Before Matt could reply, the air was split by wild curses, followed by gunfire. A man staggered out of the Bull’s Den and fell in a bloody heap in the dirt.

5
    Matt and Sam remained seated on the bench as the saloons emptied and gunhands lined the boardwalks, staring at each other across the street. Tom Riley came at a run to stand over the still conscious chest-shot man in the dirt.
    â€œDamn spy for John Carlin,” a puncher said, the pistol still in his hand. “He drew down on me, and I got witnesses to prove it.”
    â€œHe’s a liar,” the dying man gasped the words. “I ride for the A.T. outfit. I just come into town for a drink. I ain’t no gunfighter.”
    The gunslick flushed and said, “You don’t call me no liar, saddletramp.” He cocked the pistol and shot the dying man in the face.
    Tom Riley laid a cosh against the gunslick’s forehead, and the murderer went down, a swelling knot right between and just above his eyes. “Nate!” Tom called.
    â€œHere, Tom,” the deputy said, stepping forward.
    â€œGet some boys and drag him to the jail. Log him in for murder.”
    â€œYou’ll not get away with this, Tom,” a BS rider said. “Bull will not see no