Moonshine Massacre. William W. Johnstone
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on.”
With that, Matt turned away from the hotel and strode determinedly toward the livery stable where they had left their mounts. Sam lingered on the boardwalk just for a second, staring after his blood brother. Then with a sigh and a shake of his head, he started after Matt.
The lamp in the livery stable office was turned low. Through the window they could see Ike Loomis bent over a ledger book. Matt rapped sharply on the glass. Loomis jumped a little, as if the noise startled him, then stood up and motioned toward the big front doors. When he had opened one of them slightly, he peered out owlishly and asked, “What do you boys want? It’s after dark.”
“We need our horses,” Matt said.
Loomis opened the door wider. “All right, come in, come in. If there’s one thing a liveryman gets used to, it’s folks bringin’ their animals in or takin’ ’em out at all hours of the day or night.”
“We’re sorry to bother you,” Sam said as he and Matt entered the stable.
“What’re you fellas up to, not that it’s any o’ my business?”
“Can you tell us how to find the Harlow place?” Matt asked.
Loomis blinked in surprise. “Thurman Harlow’s farm? What do you want out there?” The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’ve heard about that booze he makes, haven’t you? If you want a taste of it, you can go right down to my saloon—”
“That’s where we just were,” Matt said. “And that home brew is mighty fine. That’s not what we’re after, though.” Matt realized he had to lay his cards on the table, or Loomis might refuse to cooperate with them. “We just saw Miss Harlow drive out of town, and we’re a mite worried about her. We’d like to make sure she gets home all right without running into any trouble.”
“What Matt means is that he’s worried,” Sam said, “but I’m willing to go along with him.”
Loomis gave a bark of laughter. “If it’s Frankie Harlow you’re worryin’ about, there ain’t no reason.”
“No, it was the Harlow girl,” Matt said.
“That’s who I’m talkin’ about. Frankie Harlow. That’s what she goes by. I don’t know what her real handle is. But she can shoot the wings off’n a gnat at a hundred yards, and she’s got the disposition of a surly ol’ badger. Ever’body around these parts knows not to take no liberties with her. They’d be riskin’ gettin’ a hole in their hide if they did.”
“Maybe so,” Matt said. “But what about those special marshals the governor sent out?”
Loomis frowned, scratched at his beard, and said, “You know, I never thought about that.”
“Those fellas are dangerous, especially for anybody who’s got anything to do with the whiskey trade. Now, will you tell us where to find the Harlow place?”
Loomis nodded. “Sure. I don’t reckon it’d hurt anything to make sure Frankie gets home all right. I’d plumb hate to see anything happen to that gal.”
While Matt and Sam were putting their saddles on their horses, Loomis explained that the Harlow farm was about five miles west of town, then a mile south of the main trail.
“It was just a hardscrabble homestead at first, but when Thurman and his boys couldn’t make a go of it, they started brewin’ whiskey. Their corn crop might not’ve been good enough to support ’em, but it was fine for makin’ corn squeezin’s.”
As Matt drew his cinches tight, he said, “I think if we hurry, we can catch up to Frankie before she gets to the turnoff. We can follow her and make sure she gets home all right.”
“Best do your followin’ at a distance,” Loomis advised. “If’n you come up on her too suddenlike and spook her, she’s liable to start shootin’.”
“We’ll be careful,” Sam promised. He still thought Matt was probably worrying a little too much about Frankie Harlow, but he was willing to go along with this idea if it made his blood brother happy.
A few minutes later, they swung up into their saddles as Loomis opened one of the doors enough for them to ride out. “If the light in the office is out when you get back, I’ve turned in. I’ll leave the doors unlocked, though, so you can bring your hosses in. You boys seem trustworthy to me.”
“Thanks, Mr. Loomis,” Matt told him.
“You might be doin’ me a favor. I don’t want anything happenin’ to any of the Harlows. Without them, I might not be able to keep my saloon open. Folks come from miles around for that Who-hit-John they cook up.”
The blood brothers lifted their hands in farewell and then rode out, heading west from Cottonwood.
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