William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

“My word, that young lady can dance!” he said.

Heathcote dug an elbow into Seymour’s side. “You aren’t complaining, though, are you, Marshal?”

Seymour turned even redder, but he said, “Not in the slightest.”

“Sitting this one out?”

“Yes, Maggie said she needed to catch her breath, and to tell the truth, so do I. I was glad to oblige her.”

“Do I hear matrimonial bells in the offing? Should I save space on the front page of the paper for a wedding story?”

Seymour looked shocked. “Good Lord, no!” As the other men grinned at him, he hurried on. “I mean, that would be vastly premature. Perhaps someday…if Maggie and I…I mean, if Miss O’Ryan and I continue to…grow closer…I mean, if we decide that we want to…”

“Why don’t you stop right there, Seymour?” Matt drawled. “I reckon we all get your drift.”

Seymour took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Good.” He paused and then went on. “I saw some of the men from the Double C going out the back door a few minutes ago.”

“Probably somebody’s got a jug outside,” Matt said.

“They’ll guzzle down some of that Who-hit-John and then be back inside,” Sam added.

Seymour nodded. “I suspect that you’re correct. The only reason I was worried was because I saw Jeff Riley and some of the men from Pax follow them.”

Matt stiffened when he heard that. Jeff Riley was Esau Paxton’s top horse-breaker, and he was one of those hotheads Heathcote had alluded to. He’d been involved in more than one scuffle with riders from the Double C. Matt supposed that all the jerking and jolting Riley’s brain had gotten while he was on the backs of those wild broncs might have something to do with the man’s rash behavior.

“Maybe we’d better go take a look, just to make sure nothing’s brewing,” Sam suggested.

Matt nodded. “The back door, you said?” he asked Seymour.

“That’s right,” Seymour replied. “I’d better come with you.”

“That’s all right,” Matt said quickly.

“We can handle this,” Sam said. “Might be better for you to keep an eye on things in here, Marshal.”

“Oh.” Seymour blinked. “Of course. I’ll stay in here while the two of you see what’s going on outside.”

Seymour was trying to sound decisive, but it didn’t really come across that way. Matt felt bad about the way he and Sam had contradicted Seymour’s decision to come with them, especially in front of Heathcote and Mitchell.

But even though Seymour had come a long way and nobody questioned his courage anymore, he was still pretty inexperienced when it came to gun trouble. Matt and Sam were both confident that they could handle anything the Double C and Pax crews might come up with, but it would be easier if they didn’t have to worry about Seymour accidentally getting in the way of a bullet.

The blood brothers didn’t seem to hurry as they crossed the room, skirting around the dancers. But there wasn’t a wasted movement between them, and they arrived at the rear door pretty quickly.

Not quite quickly enough, though, Matt saw as he and Sam stepped outside. The moon and the glow of lamplight that came through the windows of the school building provided enough light for them to be able to see the two compact groups of men facing each other. The cowboys crouched, their hands hovering over the butts of their guns as they stood ready to hook and draw.

In the next breath, the next heartbeat, shots would roar out, Colt flame would bloom in the night, and men would die.

Chapter Two

Matt’s eyes took in the scene instantly, and he reacted just as fast. He saw Jeff Riley standing out in front of one group, while facing him was Tom Danks, one of the Double C’s top hands—and just as big a hothead as Riley.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Matt launched himself in a dive from the little porch at the top of the three steps leading down from the rear door of the schoolhouse. He tackled Riley and drove the bronc-buster off his feet. Both men crashed to the ground.

“Hold it, Danks!” Sam’s shout sounded loud and clear in the night. “Get your hand away from that gun!”

The hard-edged menace in Sam’s voice meant that he had his own Colt out and had the Double C hands covered.

Meanwhile, Matt had rolled away from Riley and come up on one knee. His fast action had shocked the cowboys on both sides into immobility for a second, and that had been long enough for Sam to draw his gun and take control of the situation. Nobody wanted to slap leather when faced with a Colt that was already rock-steady in Sam Two Wolves’ hand.

Riley pushed himself up and yelled, “What the hell!” His eyes fastened angrily on Matt. “Why’d you jump me like that, Bodine?”

“You and Danks were about to draw on each other, weren’t you?” Matt asked as he got to his feet.

Riley scrambled up, too. “What if we were?” he demanded, his voice hot with rage. “That’s our own business, ain’t it?”

“Not tonight,” Matt snapped. “Not right outside a schoolhouse where there’s a dance goin’ on. There are a lot of innocent folks in there, Riley. Some of ’em could’ve gotten hurt if lead started to fly out here.”

Riley, who was a wiry man with a lean, foxlike face, sneered at him. “For a gunslinger, you’re mighty concerned about innocent folks gettin’ hurt. You always think about that every time you slap leather, Bodine?”

“Not always,” Matt answered honestly. “Sometimes, there just isn’t enough time for that. But I don’t go out of my way to endanger anybody either.”

“The two o’ you struttin’ around town all high-and-mighty,” Riley sputtered. “You make me sick. You ain’t even real deputies. You got no right to tell me what to do.”

There was a jug being passed around somewhere outside the school, Matt thought. That was for damned sure, because Riley was already half-drunk.

Tom Danks spoke up. “Bodine, why don’t you go get the marshal? I want Riley arrested.”

“Arrested?” Matt repeated. “For what?”

“Slander. He called Shad Colton a rustler.”

An ugly laugh came from Riley. “That’s what he is.”

Sam said, “Nobody’s going to get arrested for slander. Why don’t all of you either go back inside and enjoy the dance, or else get your horses and go home. Either way, there’s not going to be any gunfight out here tonight.”

Riley laughed again. “I’m sure as hell not takin’ any orders from a filthy redskin. I don’t care if you are wearin’ white man’s clothes, Injun.”

Sam’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He had long since heard every slur that could possibly be directed toward his mixed white and red heritage. He didn’t let them bother him.

Matt knew that, but he knew as well that Riley had no call to be saying such things. “Shut up,” he said. “You’ve done all the dancin’ you’re gonna do tonight. Get the hell out of my sight, Riley.”

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” Riley swayed closer to Matt. “I’m not gonna draw on you, Bodine. I know you’d kill me.” His hot breath reeked of whiskey as it gusted in Matt’s face. “So how are you gonna make me leave?”

Matt stared at him for a moment, narrow-eyed, then muttered, “The hell with it.”

His fist came up and shot out with blinding speed.

The punch didn’t travel more than six inches or so. It landed squarely on Riley’s jaw with enough force to send the bronc-buster flying backward. Some of the other Paxton riders might have caught him, but they got out of the way instead and allowed him to crash to the ground on his back.

The other cowboys from Pax would have stood with Riley in a fight, but that didn’t mean they liked him. And none of them wanted to go up against Matt Bodine either.