Moonshine Massacre

Chapter 13

“Wait just a doggone minute,” Matt said.

“We’re not gunfighters,” Sam said.

Frankie pointed at Matt. “He is. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve heard of you, Bodine. People say you’re mighty fast on the draw, and I figure this fella you’re riding with probably is, too.”

“Just because I can handle a gun doesn’t mean it’s for sale,” Matt said.

“Anyway, we can’t afford to hire no gunfighters,” Thurman Harlow said. “And even with the two o’ them, we still wouldn’t be no match for Kane’s bunch.”

“We’d stand a better chance than we do now,” Frankie argued.

Matt said, “You could just ask us to help you, you know.”

Sam lifted a hand. “Wait a minute. You can’t just volunteer us to get in the middle of a…a whiskey war, Matt.”

“You wanted to volunteer us to be deputies for Marshal Coleman,” Matt shot back. “How’s that any different?”

“Well, for one thing—” Sam looked at their host. “And I mean no offense by this, Mr. Harlow…Marshal Coleman isn’t breaking the law.”

“Oh, no offense, no offense,” Harlow said. “We all know it ain’t legal to cook up that moonshine. It’s sort of a family tradition, though. Harlows’ve been cookin’ ’shine back in the mountains for longer’n anybody can recollect. Even if it was still legal to buy it in town, we’d be makin’ our own. We just wouldn’t be sellin’ it.”

Matt said, “The thing of it is, you’re not doin’ anybody any harm. That law’s crazy, and folks won’t stand for it very long. In the meantime, there’s no good reason you can’t help people out by makin’ a little good whiskey.”

“Other than the fact that it’s against the law,” Sam said.

“A crazy law! Weren’t you listenin’?”

Harlow held up his hands. “Now, there’s no need to go to fussin’, especially a couple of pards like you fellas. I told you, you’re welcome to spend the night ’cause of what you done for Frankie. There’s no reason for anybody to feel beholden to anybody else. Lemme fetch a jug, and we’ll all have a friendly drink.”

He went over to a cabinet and took out a jug with a cork stopper. He brought it back over to the table and set it down in the center.

“You fellas ain’t been introduced to my boys yet,” Harlow said. “This here’s Alf…Quint…Dex…and Farrell.”

One by one, the Harlow brothers nodded. They still didn’t seem very friendly, but at least they weren’t trying to kill the blood brothers anymore. Matt and Sam returned the nods, and Sam said, “Pleased to meet you. Sorry about the misunderstanding earlier.”

A couple of grunts was as close as the Harlows came to acknowledging that. One of them pointed at the jug and asked, “We gonna drink or talk, Pa?”

“We’re gonna drink,” Harlow said. He pulled the cork from the jug and then held it out to Matt. “Guests first, Mr. Bodine.”

Matt took the jug, lifted it, and swallowed a healthy slug of the clear, fiery liquid inside it. He tried not to gasp as he lowered the jug. “That’ll warm up your insides right smart,” he said as he handed the jug to Sam.

Sam took just a small sip, and even though he didn’t drink much, he had to say in admiration, “That’s mighty smooth…and mighty potent.”

“Thank you kindly,” Thurman Harlow said with a smile. “We aim to please.”

He took a drink, then passed the jug on to his sons. It had to be almost empty by the time it made it around the table.

“How about me?” Frankie asked.

Harlow frowned and shook his head. “You know I don’t hold with gals a-drinkin’, Frankie. ’Tain’t ladylike.”

“So it’s all right for me to tote the stuff around over half the countryside and get shot at by Cimarron Kane because of it, I just can’t even have a taste, is that it?”

“I never said it was all right for you to get shot at.”

Frankie blew out her breath, rolled her eyes, and shook her head. “I’m going to bed,” she muttered as she turned away and started toward a door on the other side of the room.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” Harlow called after her.

More muttering was Frankie’s only reply as she went through the door.

Harlow picked up the jug and shook it back and forth. A sloshing sound came from inside it. “Sounds like there’s just a taste left,” he said. He held the jug out toward Matt and Sam. “One of you fellas want it?”

“You go ahead,” Sam told his blood brother. “I’ve had plenty.”

“Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm…” Matt said. He took the jug, lifted it to his mouth, and polished off the last few drops of moonshine. Then he licked his lips in appreciation.

“Want anything to eat?” Harlow asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, thanks. We had supper in town with Marshal Coleman and his daughter.”

“Ol’ Marsh Coleman’s a fine hombre, sure enough. Knowed him ever since he come to Cottonwood. Hate to see a fella like that put in such a bad position.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Havin’ to enforce that liquor law like he does. I know good an’ well Marsh don’t believe in it.”

“He’s sworn to uphold the law, though, whether he agrees with it or not.”

Harlow nodded. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. If he caught Frankie or one of us sellin’ booze in town, he’d be bound to arrest us. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d do it.”

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “Could be he’s turnin’ a blind eye to Loomis’s secret saloon in that old barn. Surely he’s heard rumors about it by now.”

“Mebbeso,” Harlow said. “I wouldn’t want to risk it, though. That’s why we only make our deliveries at night, and we’re mighty careful about it even then. Or Frankie is, I should say.” He clasped his hands together in front of him. “Well, if you gents are ready to turn in, don’t let us keep you up. Alf, get these fellas some blankets to take out to the barn. Plenty o’ hay in there you can bed down on, and there shouldn’t be any varmints. Got a couple o’ old cats that’re damn fine mousers.”

“We’re much obliged for the hospitality,” Sam said.

“We’ll figure out some way to pay you back,” Matt added. “Maybe give you a hand with your troubles.”

“Matt…” Sam began.

Thurman Harlow held up a hand. “Don’t you two go to squabblin’ again. Ain’t no need for that. We’ll be fine. We’ll figure out some way o’ dealing with Cimarron Kane.”

Alf Harlow came back with an armload of blankets. He handed them to Matt and Sam, who took the bedding and said their good nights. They headed out to the barn.

“You’re bein’ downright rude,” Matt said as they walked through the night.

“How?” Sam asked. “By not wanting to get us mixed up in a shooting war that’s none of our business?”

“You saw for yourself in town what Kane’s relatives are like. And then tonight the rest of them ambushed a helpless girl!”

“Frankie didn’t look all that helpless when she was shoving a gun against your throat.”

“She wouldn’t have stood a chance against Kane and his bunch, though, and you know it.”

“I reckon you’re right about that,” Sam agreed. “I don’t like it when anybody attacks a woman, no matter how good she is at defending herself.”

“You see? You heard what Mr. Harlow said. The Kanes have them outnumbered two to one. They’re in for a heap of trouble.”

“Well…they wouldn’t be if they gave up making moonshine and let Kane take over the illegal whiskey trade.”

Matt growled in frustration. “You just don’t understand, do you? Since when did you become such a champion of law and order? I seem to remember you bein’ right beside me a few times in the past when we were bendin’ a few laws.”

“That’s true, but we were trying to help folks who needed our help. People who were the victims of injustice, or who couldn’t defend themselves.”

“I’d say it’s an injustice for Cimarron Kane to try to murder these good folks.”

“Good folks who are making illegal whiskey.”

Matt threw his hands in the air. “I give up! I don’t know what’s got into—Wait just a damned minute.”

“What?” Sam asked.

Matt came to a stop and faced his blood brother. “This is about Hannah Coleman, isn’t it? You still want to help her father because of how you feel about her.”

“Hannah’s got nothing to do with it,” Sam insisted.

“Sure she does. You’re sweet on her. I said it before, and I still believe it.”

“You can believe whatever you want,” Sam said stiffly. “That doesn’t make it true.”

Matt grunted and shook his head. “Yeah, that’s it. I see it all now.”

“I’m not sure you see anything…except the way Frankie fills out those jeans she wears.”

“Blast it, Sam, you’ve got no call to go talkin’ like that!”

“Just let it go, Matt,” Sam said with a sigh. “I’ve got a hunch we’re not going to be able to see eye to eye on this argument.”

“Huh. Bet a hat we won’t.”

They went into the barn and found a couple of widely separated places to spread the blankets Alf Harlow had given them. Then they curled up in the hay to sleep. Both of the blood brothers had trouble dozing off, though. Each was thinking about the trouble they had unwittingly ridden into here in western Kansas.

Each had the image of a beautiful young woman floating in his mind, too. In Matt’s case, a fiery, pistol-packing brunette; in Sam’s, a more demure but no less lovely blonde…

Matt wasn’t really aware of going to sleep, but he knew when he woke up because his senses alerted him that something was wrong. His eyes opened and his ears listened intently. Someone moved close by, the hay stirring faintly under the weight of someone’s feet. In absolute silence, Matt’s hand reached out and closed around the butt of one of his Colts, which rested near his head where he had coiled his shell belts. With a whisper of steel against leather, the revolver came out of its holster.

Then Matt exploded into action, lashing out with one leg and sweeping the legs of whoever was sneaking up on him out from under them. With a startled cry, the lurker fell into the hay next to him.

Like a flash, Matt was on top of the person, earing back the hammer of his gun and warning in a harsh whisper, “Don’t move or I’ll shoot!”

That was when he realized that he was sprawled atop the undeniably shapely curves of a woman.