Deadly Road to Yuma. William W. Johnstone

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BLOOD BOND Deadly Road to Yuma

      BLOOD BOND

       Deadly Road to Yuma

      William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone

      PINNACLE BOOKS

       Kensington Publishing Corp

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 1

      “I’m thirsty,” Matt Bodine said.

      “When are you not?” Sam Two Wolves said.

      “No, really, Sam, my whistle could sure use wettin’.”

      “I repeat—”

      “We’re stoppin’ up there in that town,” Matt said, interrupting his blood brother.

      “Of course we are,” Sam said. He waited a moment, then added, “Do you think we could try to stay out of trouble this time?”

      “We always try to stay out of trouble. At least I do.”

      Sam just rolled his eyes, shook his head, and hitched his horse forward, starting down the long, gentle slope toward the flat where the settlement was located.

      They had crossed the border between New Mexico Territory and Arizona Territory not long before, following the San Francisco River as it twisted through this bleak, rugged country. The Gila Mountains loomed to their right, the Peloncillos to the left. The settlement they were approaching was the first one Matt and Sam had come to in several days.

      It had been a long, relatively uneventful ride from Sweet Apple, Texas. The blood brothers were in no hurry to get anywhere, because they didn’t have anywhere to be. They were just drifting, seeing what was on the other side of every hill they came to…the same way they had spent most of the past several years.

      One of these days, they would settle down and return to the ranches they owned in Montana…one of these days. But until then, they had good crews running those spreads, so Matt and Sam were free to roam. It suited their restless nature to do so.

      Best friends and blood brothers since childhood, Matt Bodine and Sam August Webster Two Wolves could have almost passed for real brothers. Both young men were tall and muscular and had ruggedly handsome faces.

      Sam’s longish hair was midnight black, a legacy from his Cheyenne father Medicine Horse along with the faint reddish tint to his tanned skin. Matt’s close-cropped hair was a little lighter, dark brown rather than black.

      The Cheyenne ritual that had bonded them together made them onihomihan—brothers of the wolf. They were brothers of the gun as well, because despite what Matt had said about trying to avoid trouble, it seemed determined to follow them wherever they went.

      Luckily for their continued survival, both young men were plenty tough and plenty fast with a gun. In fact, Matt Bodine was known to be as slick on the draw as just about anybody west of the Mississippi, in the same league as famous pistoleros such as Smoke Jensen and Falcon MacCallister. He wore two irons in holsters supported by crossed cartridge belts and was deadly accurate with either hand.

      Sam carried only one Colt and was a little slower than Matt…which still made him faster than nine of ten men he ran into. A razor-sharp bowie knife rode in a fringed sheath on his left hip.

      There was fringe on his buckskin shirt as well, while Matt wore a faded blue bib-front. A battered old brown Stetson was thumbed back on Matt’s head. Squared up on Sam’s head was a black hat with a flat brim, a slightly rounded crown, and a band studded with conchos.

      “What do you reckon this place is called?” Matt asked as they reached the bottom of the slope.

      Sam shook his head. “I have no idea. I don’t think we’ve ever been through here before.”

      “I couldn’t remember. We’ve been so many places.”

      “That’s certainly true. And in most of them, they were glad to see us leave.”

      “Hey, that’s not our fault.”

      “Didn’t say it was.”

      This was ranching country—it wasn’t good for much of anything else—and the settlement appeared to be a typical cow town with a wide, dusty main street that stretched for several blocks. Most of the residences, a mixture of adobe and frame houses, were on the cross streets.

      A small, whitewashed church with a steeple sat at the far end of the main street, just beyond a wooden bridge that crossed the San Francisco where it looped around the settlement. At the nearer end was a building that was probably a school. That put this place ahead of some frontier towns that had neither of those harbingers of civilization.

      In between were businesses, including a livery stable and blacksmith shop, barbershop and bathhouse, a couple of mercantiles, and half a dozen saloons, another sure sign that this was a cow town. Cowboys had to have plenty of places to blow off steam when they collected their forty-a-month-and-found.

      A few wagons were parked in front of the general stores, and a couple of men on horseback moseyed along the street. Pedestrians made their way here and there, including several women in long dresses and sunbonnets. A big yellow dog dozed in the middle of the street.

      “Peaceful-looking town,” Sam commented.

      “Mighty peaceful,” Matt agreed.

      Sam looked over at him. “How long do you reckon it’ll stay that way?”

      “Now, Sam, why do you have to be such a pessimist? Maybe nothin’ bad’ll happen while we’re here. Maybe it’ll be plumb dull the whole time.”

      “I went to college, you know.”

      Matt grinned. “Yeah, I seem to remember hearin’ somethin’ about that…like every time you try to convince me that I’m wrong and you’re