Thunder of Eagles

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.

Riley tried for a second to get up, then groaned and sagged back down. The limp sprawl of his arms and legs showed that he had passed out.

In disgusted tones, Matt ordered, “Somebody put him on his horse and take him back out to Pax. When he wakes up, tell him not to come back to town until he’s sober and willing not to cause trouble.”

A couple of cowboys moved to do as Matt said. While they were busy with that, Sam said to the rest of the men, “Like I told you, either go back into the dance or go home. But the trouble is over, understand?”

Mutters of grudging agreement came from them. Both groups broke up, some of the men returning to the schoolhouse, others drifting off into the night.

Matt joined Sam on the porch. Sam still held his revolver, but he had lowered it to his side. “Think the ones who left will start taking potshots at each other in the dark?” he asked.

Matt shook his head. “I don’t reckon that’s likely. Looked like Riley and Danks were the ones who were stirrin’ things up.”

Sam leathered his iron and said, “I wonder what that business about Shad Colton being a rustler was all about.”

“Just a drunk mouthin’ off, I’d say. Riley was tryin’ to get under Danks’s skin.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sam still sounded interested, though.

They went inside, where Seymour hurried over to them right away. “What happened?” he asked. “People are saying that there was almost a gunfight, and there was something about punches being thrown.”

“Punch,” Matt said with a smile. “There was only one punch…and I threw it.”

“You were right to worry, Seymour,” Sam said. “A couple of men from the Double C and Pax were about to slap leather, and if they had, the rest of both bunches would have joined in, too. It could’ve been pretty bloody.”

“But you stopped them,” Seymour said.

Matt nodded. “Yeah.”

“This time,” Sam added. “Somebody ought to have a talk with Colton and Paxton and see if they can’t be convinced to patch up their differences and put an end to this feud.”

“I agree,” Seymour said, “but I couldn’t do that. I haven’t been here long enough. Neither of those men would listen to me.”

“That’s right,” Matt agreed. “Anyway, I’ve heard about these Texas feuds. Usually, the only thing that ever ends them is when one side is killed out.”

“My God. That would require wholesale slaughter.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, “that’s about the size of it.”

Matt Bodine’s comment was still on Seymour’s mind as he walked Maggie O’Ryan back to her house after the dance was over. “Is that really the way it is here in Texas?” he asked her as they strolled along. “One family commits mass murder on another family?”

“Well, they sort of commit mass murder on each other,” Maggie said. “That’s why they call it a feud.”

Seymour shook his head. “I’ve learned a lot about the West in the relatively short time I’ve been here, and there’s a great deal I like about it. But I’m not sure if I’ll ever become accustomed to the cheapness with which human life is regarded on the frontier.”

Maggie stopped, which made Seymour come to a halt as well. She turned toward him and said, “It’s only some of the people who feel that way, Seymour. We’re not all like that. I wish there never had to be any violence at all. I…I worry about you, being the marshal and all. Something could happen to you.”

“I’ll be fine,” he told her with a smile. “I’m learning all the time how to handle the job, and as long as I have Matt and Sam around to help me—”

“But that’s just it,” Maggie interrupted. “Mr. Bodine and Mr. Two Wolves won’t be around Sweet Apple forever. They’re drifters, Seymour. You’ll wake up one morning and they’ll be gone.”

“I know,” he said. “Matt warned me that they were…violin-footed, I believe was his word, although I’m not quite sure I understand the derivation of it.”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Fiddle-footed, Seymour. I’m sure he said fiddle-footed.”

“Oh. Yes, I believe he did. I suppose that makes a bit more sense. But at any rate, I know that the time will come when I have to maintain law and order in Sweet Apple by myself. I’m confident that by then I’ll be up to the job.”

“I hope that’s true, Seymour.” She slipped her arm through his as they started walking again. “You don’t know how much I hope that’s true.”

Her words made his heart swell. During his time in Texas, he had grown very fond of Miss Magdalena Elena Louisa O’Ryan. She was smart and pretty and very sweet. She was devoted to her job of educating the town’s youngsters—often whether they wanted to be educated or not—and Seymour found that quite admirable. Civilization brought education, and education brought progress of all sorts. The better educated people were, the less likely they would be to settle all their arguments and disputes with gunplay. Feuds such as the one between the Coltons and the Paxtons would cease to exist.

As if reading his mind, Maggie said, “You know, I’m sure there are people back East who are prone to violence, too.”

Seymour shook his head. “Not like there are out here,” he insisted. Continuing with the line of thought that had just been occupying his mind, he went on. “Take the Coltons and the Paxtons. These are two of the leading families in the entire area. They own successful ranches. Their children are educated. They’re not low-bred hooligans. And yet, if hostilities between them continue to escalate, there’s a good chance that soon they’ll be shooting at each other. Something like that would never happen back in New Jersey, where I come from. People are simply too civilized there to resort to such tactics.”

“Maybe you’re right, Seymour,” Maggie said with a sigh. She didn’t sound like she fully believed it.

Seymour did. No respectable Easterner would ever resort to violence to remove an obstacle from his path.

It just wasn’t done.

In Trenton, New Jersey, Cornelius Standish sat behind the big desk in his office, in the building that housed the Standish Dry Goods Company, and intently regarded the three men who stood before him.

Warren Welch was a fresh-faced young man with curly brown hair and a friendly expression. You had to look at his cold, snakelike eyes to know what sort of man he really was. Daniel McCracken was a redheaded, belligerent Irishman. Standish didn’t fully trust him, but he was said to be good at his job. Ed Stover was the tallest and the oldest of the three, a broad-shouldered man with a mostly bald head and a fringe of gray hair under his pushed-back derby.

All three men were associates of the late Wilford Grant, who had been hired by Standish to do a particular job—and who had failed miserably at that job. Grant, along with his cohort Spike Morelli, had paid for that failure with their lives, but that didn’t help Standish. He was still faced with the same problem he had sent Grant and Morelli to Texas to take care of for him.

McCracken pushed his jaw out and said in a surly voice, “I ain’t sure I’m carin’ for th’ job ye’ve proposed, Mr. Standish. Who in his right mind is goin’ t’ believe that we’re dry-goods salesmen?”

“No one will question it,” Standish snapped, “because I’ll be with you.”

Stover scratched at his bald pate with a blunt finger. “That worries me a little, Mr. Standish,” he said. “You comin’ along with us, I mean. No offense, but we can handle this without havin’ you lookin’ over our shoulders.”

Standish shook his head. “I made that mistake once already when I trusted Grant and Morelli. This time, I’m going to make sure that nephew of mine is out of the way.”

It was bad enough that Seymour owned half of the Standish Dry Goods Company, the company that had been built into a success by Cornelius and his brother, Seymour’s late father. Half of the profits that should have belonged to Cornelius now went into Seymour’s bank account, even though he was no longer here in New Jersey and had resigned his position as a salesman for the company.

The thing that was really goading Standish to take action against Seymour was the way the company was increasing its ties to the criminal element in Trenton and elsewhere in New Jersey and New York. One way to increase business was to make it difficult for your competitors to be successful. If it took beating up deliverymen or artificially inflating freight rates for everyone else or even seeing to it that a fire “accidentally” broke out at a rival company’s warehouse…well, that was just business. A smart man didn’t draw the line at whatever tactics were necessary. The only “line” that mattered was the one that showed a profit or loss in a ledger.

But Seymour—soft, gullible, innocent Seymour—wouldn’t understand that. If he ever found out about the way his uncle had the company branching out into legally questionable enterprises, he would cause a big stink and ruin everything. Cornelius Standish was sure of it.

Therefore, something had to be done about Seymour. Standish had thought that dispatching him to Sweet Apple, Texas, would take care of that. The place had a reputation for being one of the most dangerous settlements on the frontier. Standish had been certain that Seymour wouldn’t last a week there before one of the local badmen gunned him down.

That had almost happened, in fact, but somehow Seymour had survived. Not only survived, but apparently he was thriving in Sweet Apple, as unbelievable as that might be. Those idiots had even made him the town marshal, and now he was regarded as some sort of hero.

That wouldn’t last, Standish had vowed. He would see to that himself, with the help of the three men who now stood before him.

He continued. “Until I’ve had a chance to look the situation over and decide on the best plan of action, the three of you will pretend to be salesman who will be working the western part of Texas for the company. You shouldn’t have to actually sell anything because I don’t expect it to take very long to accomplish our real goal. Now, are all of you in…or not?”

Welch, McCracken, and Stover exchanged glances. They were brutal, uneducated men, but they were experienced enough and had enough natural cunning to know that if they backed out now, after Standish had revealed his plans to them, they would be putting their own lives in danger. Behind Cornelius Standish’s smooth, prosperous veneer was a man who was every bit as ruthless as they were.

“We’re in,” Welch said as he jerked his head in a curt nod. The other two agreed.

“Very well,” Standish said, keeping his face and voice expressionless so he wouldn’t reveal how pleased he was by their decision. “We’ll be leaving for Texas on the eleven o’clock train tomorrow morning.”

With their business concluded, the three men left Standish’s sanctum. When they were gone, Rebecca Jimmerson came in from the outer office. A beautiful young woman with sleek, honey-blond hair, Rebecca was Standish’s secretary—and his mistress. She asked, “Did they agree?”

“Of course. They’ll be well paid, and they know it. I’ll need you to go down to the train station and purchase four tickets on the eleven o’clock westbound.”

Rebecca came over to the desk and perched a trim hip on it so that she could lean closer to Standish. “Why don’t I purchase five tickets,” she suggested, “and make two of them for a sleeper?”

“You want to go?”

“I’ve never been to Texas,” Rebecca said. “In fact, I’ve never seen anything west of New Jersey.”

Standish shook his head. “From everything I’ve heard, Texas is a horrible place. You wouldn’t like it.”

“I was thinking that when your business was done there, we might go on to San Francisco for a week.” She touched his cheek with soft fingertips and murmured, “Wouldn’t you like to spend a week in San Francisco with me, Cornelius?”

She wasn’t supposed to use his first name when they were in the office like this, but he couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her. Not with the way her delicate scent filled his senses and the warmth of her breath brushed his face. Even though he tried not to, he couldn’t help but think about San Francisco and all the things they could do there…

“I suppose it would be all right,” he conceded. “The office can get along without both of us for a while.”

“Of course it can.” She leaned closer and nuzzled his ear. “Thank you, Cornelius.”

He slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her onto his lap, and kissed her. After a moment, he drew back and said in a voice that was rough with desire, “Go lock the door.”

“Of course.”

It was dangerous, indulging their passion in the office like this, but Standish didn’t care. He wanted her too badly to hesitate.

And his need was fueled by something else, too, something that filled him with power and made his fleshly appetites even stronger.

That something was the sure and certain knowledge that soon, very soon, his nephew Seymour would be dead.