Moonshine Massacre. William W. Johnstone

      “That’s right. That’s my Elsa, God rest her soul. A fever took her when Hannah weren’t but a little tyke.”

      “We’re sorry,” Matt murmured.

      “It was a hard thing, but life’s that way. You got to take the bad with the good, or not have any of it at all.”

      “And that’s Hannah a few years ago,” Sam said, pointing at a portrait of the lovely young woman.

      “Yep. One of those traveling photography fellas came through here with his wagon and set up for a few days to take everybody’s picture who wanted it took. I reckon she was sixteen or seventeen then.”

      Hannah came into the room and said, “Dad, don’t bore our guests with a lot of family history. We asked them here for supper, remember?”

      “We’re not the least bit bored, Miss Hannah,” Sam said. “And that’s a beautiful picture of you.”

      She blushed a little. “Thank you.”

      “But I think you’re even lovelier now,” Sam added.

      “Oh, go on with you.” She wore a white apron over a blue dress dotted with yellow flowers. She took off the apron and went on. “Come in the dining room. Supper’s ready.”

      The delicious aromas grew even stronger as they went into the dining room and sat down at a table covered with a cloth of snowy white linen. From the looks of the place settings, Hannah had brought out the fine china and silver. In the center of the table sat a serving platter with a roast on it, surrounded by bowls of potatoes, peas, and carrots. Steam rose from a basket of fresh rolls nestled in a cloth. Everything looked almost as good as it smelled.

      “Sit down and dig in, boys,” Coleman said.

      “Not until we say grace,” Hannah corrected.

      “Oh, yeah.” Coleman bowed his head. The blood brothers followed suit. Coleman went on. “Thank you, Lord, for the bounty we are about to receive, and for the visitors you have brought to grace our house with their presence. Amen.”

      “Amen,” Hannah murmured. She reached for a chair, but Sam beat her to it, pulling it out and holding it for her as she sat down.

      The food was the best that Matt and Sam had had for a long time, and the company was certainly pleasant. Matt asked Coleman to tell them about Cottonwood.

      “Place got started because there were quite a few big cattle spreads around here. They needed someplace to buy supplies, so Pete Hilliard and his brother Bob sunk their life savings in some wagons and the goods to fill them and drove out here about ten years ago to set up a trading post. All they had at first was a big tent. But that grew into a regular store, and when folks heard about it, they came to start other businesses, and in a few years the place had turned into a real town. Bob Hilliard’s ticker went bad on him, so he had to move back east. He sold out to his brother Pete, who was the first mayor of Cottonwood. Folks decided to call it that because of the trees growing along the creek bank.”

      “Seems like a nice town,” Sam commented.

      “Oh, it is, it is. Since it’s not on the railroad, it’ll never be as big as, say, Abilene or Dodge City, but that’s just fine with the folks who live here.”

      “It’s big enough to have some troublemakers, though,” Matt said.

      Coleman frowned. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that. Still, two bad ruckuses in one day, like we had today, ain’t all that usual. Seward Stone always was sort of a hothead, though.”

      “What did he do for a living?” Matt asked.

      “Owned part of the stagecoach line that comes through here. His partner did most of the work, so I reckon that won’t change much.”

      “What about those three hombres you arrested earlier?”

      “You mean the ones you fellas nabbed for me?” Coleman shook his head. “Once I found out their last name, I wasn’t surprised they started a ruckus as soon as they came into town. They’re some more of Cimarron Kane’s shirttail relatives.”

      “Who’s Cimarron Kane?” Sam asked.

      “Seems like I’ve heard the name before,” Matt added.

      “Cimarron Kane’s an owlhoot,” Coleman said. “He grew up around here, but went off when he was younger to raise hell in Colorado and New Mexico and Arizona. I don’t know what-all he did, but I wouldn’t put much of anything past him. Heard he killed at least three men in gunfights. Reckon when the law made it too hot for him in those other places, he came back here to Kansas. He’s not wanted for anything in this state, so I can’t arrest him. The old Kane homestead is about five miles northwest of here, and for the past year or so, his relatives have been showing up to stay with him. Most of them are just like those three you tangled with today: right out of the mountains in Tennessee and rough as a cob.”

      “How do they get by?” Sam asked. “Farming?”

      Coleman shook his head. “They run a few cattle, but if you ask me, they’re up to something no good out there. Those few scrubby cows wouldn’t make ’em much money.”

      “And the three men you arrested are part of the clan?”

      “Yep. Dudley, Nelse, and Wiley Kane. Claim they’re cousins to Cimarron and said that if I’d send word to him, he’d come in and pay their fines.”

      Hannah said, “But you’re not going to let them off with just fines, are you, Dad? They tried to kill you. They deserve to go to jail!”

      “That ain’t up to me,” Coleman said with a shake of his head. “I’ll abide by whatever the judge says.”

      “Would’ve simplified matters if we’d just killed ’em,” Matt said. Then as Sam turned to frown at him, he said, “What?”

      “You’re a barbarian, you know that?”

      “Heard a fella say once that barbarism is the natural state of mankind,” Matt replied with a grin. “Pass me another roll, would you?”

      Chapter 8

      The rest of the meal went smoothly, and after they had finished eating—including healthy servings of the deep-dish apple pie Coleman had advised the blood brothers to save room for—Sam offered to help Hannah clean up.

      “That’s not necessary,” she told him.

      “I really don’t mind.”

      She shooed him out of the dining room. “No, you go with Dad and Mr. Bodine. Dad usually sits out on the porch in the evening after supper, and I’m sure he’d be glad for the company.”

      Coleman took one of the rockers on the porch, Matt the other. Sam sat on the steps and rubbed the ears of the shaggy little mutt Lobo, who seemed to revel in the attention.

      As Coleman took out a tobacco pouch and started packing his pipe, Matt asked, “Is that Cimarron Kane hombre liable to make any trouble because you arrested his cousins?”

      Coleman scratched a match into life on the sole of his boot and held the flame to the pipe’s bowl. When he had puffed on it until the tobacco was burning good, he shook the match out and said, “Probably not. Like I said, there are no reward dodgers out on Kane here in Kansas, and I reckon he’d like to keep it that way. He’s always on his best behavior when he’s in town, and he tries to keep the rest of the clan in line, too.” The lawman smoked for a moment, then added, “I don’t know what he’ll do, though, if he thinks those fellas are going to prison. He might not stand for that.”

      Matt and Sam exchanged a glance in the light that spilled onto the porch through the open door. Sam had already started making noises about hanging around Cottonwood for a while to give Marshal Coleman a hand. There might be even more reason to do that if Coleman found himself facing potential gun trouble from a hardcase