Deadly Road to Yuma. William W. Johnstone
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saying that just because someone annoys you, that’s no reason to start a brawl…or a gunfight.”
“You’re sayin’ that I’m touchy. That I lose my temper too easy.”
“If the Stetson fits…”
“What’s this got to do with my hat?”
Sam held up a hand. “Never mind. Let’s just have a drink or two, stock up on supplies, and sleep in real beds for a change.”
“For a redskin, you sure do like what you call your creature comforts. You must’ve got spoiled back there at that university in the East.”
“Yes, well…I’d say something insulting about you being a white man…but I can’t think of anything right now.”
Matt threw back his head and laughed. “Sam Two Wolves struck speechless! Lordy, I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Just remember what I said about trouble,” Sam grumbled.
He turned his head to nod politely to several ladies who were going into one of the mercantiles, but they didn’t smile or return his nod. In fact, they hustled on into the store as if trying to avoid looking at him.
A man driving a wagon that they met refused to meet their eyes, too, Sam noted. The fellow whipped his team up into a trot instead as he rolled on past them.
A frown creased Sam’s forehead under the broad brim of his hat, but he didn’t mention the odd behavior of the townspeople to Matt, who seemed not to have noticed it.
They reined their horses to a stop in front of a false-fronted building with a gilt-lettered sign on its awning proclaiming it to be the Ten Grand Saloon. More fancy lettering on the big front windows promised cold beer and friendly hostesses.
A stocky, bearded old-timer in bib overalls and a plug hat was sitting in a chair on the saloon porch to the right of the batwings, whittling. He looked up at the newcomers and grunted, “Howdy, boys,” as Matt and Sam swung down from their saddles and looped the reins around the hitch rail. “New in town?”
“That’s right,” Sam said. “What’s this settlement called, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Don’t mind in the least. This here is Arrowhead, territory o’ Arizona.”
“Friendly place, is it?” Matt asked.
“Oh, shoot, yeah. We’re friendly as can be around here.”
Sam said, “I noticed that the folks we rode past didn’t seem to want to look at us, like maybe they didn’t like strangers.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. We get strangers passin’ through here pretty often. Like to think we make ’em welcome.”
Matt gestured toward the windows and said, “If there’s really cold beer and friendly hostesses inside, I reckon I’ll feel welcome, all right.”
“Go on in,” the old-timer urged with a wave of the piece of wood he’d been whittling on.
“What are you carving there?” Sam asked out of idle curiosity as he and Matt started toward the saloon’s entrance.
The old man frowned as he studied the stick in his hand. “I dunno. A snake maybe?”
Matt chuckled as he pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the saloon. Sam was right behind him.
Both of them froze as the batwings flapped closed behind them. Men with shotguns had been concealed on both sides of the entrance, and now those Greeners were pointed at the blood brothers.
“Don’t move, you sons o’ bitches,” one of the men warned. A dozen other men scattered around the room raised revolvers and pointed them at Matt and Sam. The one who had spoken before went on. “You try anything funny and we’ll blow your damn heads off.”
Matt took a deep breath and said, “Oh, yeah. Real friendly town, all right.”
Chapter 2
Being careful not to move, Sam said, “I believe that you gentlemen are making a mistake.”
“Shut your mouth, breed, and get your hands up,” one of the men pointing pistols at them said. “We know exactly what we’re doin’ here.”
“Pointin’ guns at two men who don’t want any trouble?” Matt said as he and Sam slowly raised their hands to shoulder level.
“We just stopped in your town to pick up some supplies,” Sam added.
A disgusted snort came from one of the men wielding the shotguns. “You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?” he asked. “We know damn good an’ well that you’re scouts for that bastard Shade.”
“Shade?” Matt repeated. “Mister, the only shade I know is the shade under a tree…which would feel pretty good right now, come to think of it.”
“They want a tree,” one of the other men said, “let’s give ’em a tree. Let’s take ’em out and string ’em up!”
Enthusiastic cries of “Yeah!” and “Damn right!” and “String up the dirty owlhoots!” came from the crowd in the saloon. Matt and Sam exchanged worried glances.
If they slapped leather, they might be able to shoot their way out of this. On the other hand, chances are they’d get their heads blown off by those Greeners, and no doubt some of the men in the saloon would be killed, too. Those hombres might not be what anybody would call innocent, but they seemed to be laboring under an honest misapprehension and probably didn’t deserve to die for that mistake.
“Listen to me,” Sam said. “We don’t know anybody named Shade, we’re not scouting for anyone, and we’re not looking for trouble.”
“We’re peaceable men,” Matt added.
“Oh, yeah?” one of the men said with a sneer. “Prove you ain’t part of Shade’s gang!”
“It’s very difficult to prove a negative assumption—” Sam began, stopping when Matt shook his head.
“You’ve got my word on it, and that’s proof enough,” Matt said.
“Why should we believe you ain’t lyin’?”
“Because I’m Matt Bodine…and I don’t take kindly to bein’ called a liar.”
Murmurs of “Bodine!” came from several of the men. The name of Matt Bodine was well known across the frontier, from the Mississippi to the Pacific, from the Rio Grande to the Milk River.
“They say that Bodine travels with a Injun,” one of the men said. “This fella looks part redskin anyway.”
“My name is Sam August Webster Two Wolves,” Sam said, introducing himself. He was proud of his Cheyenne heritage and never denied it.
“Yeah, Two Wolves, that was it!” the man said excitedly. “That’s the name o’ Bodine’s sidekick!”
Sam grimaced, and Matt couldn’t help but chuckle at that description of his blood brother.
“Can we put our hands down now?” he asked. “You’ll take my word for it that we’re not workin’ for that hombre Shade, whoever he is?”
“Joshua Shade is a pure-dee hydrophobia skunk,” growled the old-timer who had been sitting on the saloon porch. He pushed aside the batwings and sauntered into the saloon. He had put away his whittling knife. “Put them guns down, boys. Now that I’ve heard these young fellas’ names, I recollect seein’ pictures of ’em in the rotogravures. They’re Bodine and Two Wolves, all right.”
Matt lowered his hands. “Well, I’m glad somebody around here has sense enough to believe us.”
“I got more sense than you’d think to look at me,” the