Blood Bond 3 by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page B

part of the big general store and ordered beer.
    â€œYou boys look like you been hard-travelin’,” the barkeep remarked.
    Matt drank half his beer before replying. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re looking for punchers with a good sand bottom who aren’t afraid of a fight if it comes to that. And we’re payin’ top dollar.”
    A chair was pushed back within the shadows of the room and jingling spurs approached the bar. Matt turned around. A cowboy who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties was staring at him.
    â€œName’s Barlow,” the cowboy said. “I drifted up this way from down on the Rio Grande. Ranched down there for ten years. Fought Apaches, Comanches, and outlaws. Damn drought finally done me in where nothin’ else could. Who you boys ride for?”
    â€œThe Circle S. Up on the Pecos northwest of here. Range war shaping up there.”
    â€œIs that right? Tell me more.”
    â€œWant a beer?”
    â€œI’d drink one. Let’s sit over yonder.”
    The conversation was short and blunt. Matt and Sam pulled no punches.
    â€œThis John Lee shapes up like a rattler that needs stompin’ on. But then, I ain’t heard but one side of the story.”
    â€œI’m not known for telling lies. My name’s Bodine. Matt Bodine.”
    â€œHeard of you. I ain’t no fast gun.”
    â€œWe’re not looking for fast guns. Just punchers.”
    Barlow sat for a moment, then drained his mug. He looked at Sam. “You got Injun blood in you?”
    â€œI’m half Cheyenne. That make a difference to you?”
    â€œNot unless you try to lift my hair some night. Then I might get hostile.” He smiled. “If we leave now we can make a little no-name town east of here by evenin’. I know an ol’ boy over there name of Gilley. He can ride anything with hair on it, he’s good with a rope, there ain’t no back-up in him, and he’s a fair hand with a gun.”
    â€œYou got a horse?”
    â€œI damn shore didn’t walk up here!”
    They made the settlement just at dusk and stabled their tired horses. The three of them arranged with the hostler to sleep in the loft and then went to the saloon for a drink before eating supper at the small café in the settlement.
    â€œLookin’ for a cowboy name of Gilley,” Barlow told the saloon keeper.
    â€œHe’s around. Tryin’ to find work. I think he’s choppin’ wood for his supper.”
    â€œGot a swamper you can send to fetch him?” Matt asked, placing a coin on the bar.
    â€œYou bet.”
    Gilley was in his late thirties. His boots were patched and run down at the heels, and his clothes were old, but he carried himself proudly and wore his six-shooter like a man who knew how to use it. And more importantly, would use it.
    After the introductions, Barlow said, “Hard times befall you, Gilley?”
    â€œYou might say that. Man I was ridin’ for lost it all and I ain’t found steady work since. You hirin’ your gun out, Barlow?”
    â€œI ain’t no gunslick; you know that. Man up north and west of here got range trouble. He’s payin’ top dollar for men who won’t back up. You interested?”
    â€œOnly if you feed me first,” Gilley said with a grin. “I ain’t et since yesterday.”
    The four of them pulled out the next morning. They rode nearly forty miles before finding a small five-building town with a saloon.
    They had a beer and a cold roast beef sandwich while they were looking around the saloon.
    â€œI’m looking for punchers,” Matt said, and the room fell silent. “Men who don’t look under the bunk every night for ghosts and who don’t have to be nursemaided. Is there anybody like that here who wants to earn top dollar—fighting wages?”
    â€œFeller was in here about six weeks ago, sayin’ the same thing,” a