Moonshine Massacre. William W. Johnstone

you boys worry about any of that,” Coleman went on. “I’ve been the law here for five years, and I packed a badge for more’n twenty years in other places before that. So I know how to handle trouble.”

      “I’m sure you do, Marshal,” Sam said. “If you need any help while we’re here, though, don’t hesitate to call on us.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind,” Coleman promised.

      They chatted about more pleasant subjects for a while. Like most Westerners, Coleman obviously didn’t believe in prying into a man’s past, so he didn’t ask Matt and Sam to tell him about themselves. They volunteered some information anyway, talking about how they had grown up as friends in Montana and telling the marshal about some of the adventures they’d had since going on the drift several years earlier.

      When Hannah joined them on the porch a little later, Matt hopped up to give her his chair. She smiled and sat down, then asked, “Has Dad been talking your ears off?”

      “Not at all,” Sam said. “In fact, I think Matt and I have been doing most of the talking.”

      “Well, I’m sorry I missed that. Maybe you can join us again some other time while you’re in town.”

      Sam nodded. “I’d like that. I mean, we’d like that. Wouldn’t we, Matt?”

      “Do you know how to make any other kind of pie?” Matt asked.

      Hannah laughed. “Oh, yes, all kinds. I bake cakes sometimes, too.”

      “Then we’ll come back any time you want,” Matt said.

      After they had visited a while longer, Matt practically had to drag Sam away from the house. They said their good nights, Hannah brought them their hats, they said good night again, rubbed Lobo’s ears, and finally the blood brothers were strolling back toward Main Street.

      “Those are mighty nice people,” Sam said. “Sitting down with them was almost like being home again.”

      “Salt of the earth,” Matt agreed. “I don’t much like the sound of that Cimarron Kane fella, either.”

      “So you think we should stay and lend Marshal Coleman a hand, too?”

      “We’ll see how the next few days play out,” Matt said. “He may be a good lawman, but I don’t think he’d be any match for a real gun-wolf.”

      “That’s what I thought,” Sam said.

      “I also think we should mosey on down to that old abandoned livery barn Ike Loomis told us about and see what’s going on there,” Matt added.

      Sam frowned. “You mean that secret saloon?”

      “Yeah.”

      “We’d be breaking the law.”

      “A damn crazy law that nobody except the governor and those hired-gun marshals of his believes in.”

      “Well…” Sam hesitated. “I don’t suppose it would hurt anything to go have a look.”

      A grin spread across Matt’s face. “That’s what I was hopin’ you’d say.”

      When they reached Main Street, they turned left instead of right and headed for the western end of town. Matt vaguely recalled seeing the big, apparently abandoned barn when they rode in, but he hadn’t really paid any attention to it.

      Cottonwood was quiet and peaceful, and from the looks of it a lot of its citizens had already turned in for the night, although lights still burned at the hotel, of course, and several of the other businesses that stayed open late, including Pete Hilliard’s store. The old livery barn was dark as Matt and Sam approached it, though, but Matt noticed one thing that was odd.

      He nudged Sam in the side with an elbow and said quietly, “Lots of horses tied up at this end of town. Where are all the hombres who rode in on them?”

      “Yeah, I saw that, too,” Sam said. “I reckon you know the answer as well as I do.”

      They walked around the barn and found a narrow door at the back. No light came through the cracks around it, and they couldn’t hear any noises coming from inside the structure.

      “You think maybe that old liveryman was just joshin’ us?” Matt asked with a frown.

      “I don’t know. You sure can’t tell from out here that there’s anybody inside.”

      Matt lifted a hand. “Let’s find out.” He rapped sharply on the rear door.

      For a long moment, there was no response. Then the blood brothers heard somebody fumbling with a latch inside the door. The panel swung back a couple of inches.

      “Yeah?” a man’s gruff voice asked.

      “Ike Loomis from the livery stable at the other end of town told us we could get a drink here,” Matt said bluntly.

      “He did, did he?” The door swung open farther. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Come on in!”

      Darkness loomed inside the barn. Matt and Sam glanced at each other, then warily stepped forward into the shadows. If this was some sort of trick, whoever was trying to pull it was going to be mighty sorry.

      The door whispered shut behind them. Then another door opened, and as light flooded in, Matt and Sam realized that they had been admitted to some sort of small anteroom. When both doors were closed at the same time, they wouldn’t let any light out. The little chamber probably hadn’t been in the barn when it was being used as a livery stable. It must have been added on later.

      As Matt and Sam walked into the barn, they looked around in surprise. Even though Ike Loomis had told them they could get a drink here, they hadn’t really expected to find a full-fledged saloon in operation, complete with a hardwood bar with a brass foot rail, tables and chairs, including a poker table, and shelves full of liquor bottles behind the bar. There was even a tasteful painting of a nude hung on the wall, much like the one in the hotel’s card room, only the gal in this one had blond hair and if anything was even more lushly built than the other. More than a dozen men stood at the bar, drinking, and several of the tables were occupied, as well.

      The only real differences between this establishment and a real saloon were that the floor was dirt here, instead of wood, there were big sections of black cloth hung up over the front doors like curtains to prevent any light from seeping around them, there was no piano player or music of any sort, and the customers were talking quietly, without any loud, raucous conversation or laughter.

      The man who had let them in was huge, with brawny arms, massive shoulders, a pugnacious jaw, and a red handlebar mustache to go with a shock of rusty hair. He told Matt and Sam, “You fellas go on in and have a good time. Just be quiet about it. We can’t afford to have any ruckuses in here. My pa and Marshal Coleman are old friends, and it’d be mighty awkward if the marshal had to arrest Pa and me for runnin’ an illegal saloon.”

      “Ike Loomis is your father?” Matt asked.

      The big young man nodded. “Yep. My name’s Mike. Red Mike, they sometimes call me, on account of my hair. I take care of this place for Pa.”

      “Well, we won’t cause any trouble,” Sam assured him. “My friend here just wants to get a drink.”

      “What about you?” Mike Loomis asked.

      “I don’t use the stuff that much.”

      “Good. You look like a half-breed to me, and Injuns don’t handle booze too well.”

      Sam stiffened in anger, but Matt put a hand on his arm and said, “Come on, Sam.”

      “Wait a minute,” Mike Loomis said. “I recognize you fellas now. You’re the hombres who helped Marshal Coleman arrest those troublemakers who attacked old Pete Hilliard.” He held a hand out to Sam. “I’m sorry about what I just said, mister. I didn’t mean no offense.”

      Sam