Free Blood Bond 5 by William W. Johnstone

again,” Sam muttered.
    â€œWell, don’t complain about it. It was your idea!”

6
    Only the three regular deputies were informed of Matt and Sam being deputized. Both brothers took down Greeners from the gun rack and stuffed extra shells in their pockets. They slipped out the back of the jail and took up positions on opposite sides of the building. Their patience paid off after a silent hour. They heard just the faintest rustle of footsteps slipping up the dark alley. Then the shadowy forms of four people could be seen. A fifth man stepped out, then a sixth. Whispers came to the brothers.
    â€œThe three deputies is on the rooftops. Tom Riley is sittin’ outside the office.” Something flashed in the night. “Marcel will be settin’ the fire in five minutes. That ought to draw Tom away.”
    â€œAnd if it don’t?” someone asked.
    â€œThen we kill him.”
    Matt lifted his Greener and fired both barrels into the soft night air. The sound was enormous, and it put the six men flat on the ground and brought Tom on a run through the narrow valley. He appeared on Sam’s side of the building.
    â€œGet down!” Sam told him. Ten seconds later he had brought the marshal up to date, speaking in a whisper.
    â€œWhat’s goin’ on back yonder?” Van called from a rooftop.
    â€œWatch out for a fire!” Matt yelled, reloading the twin barrels of the sawed-off. “Marcel Carlin will be lighting one any second. Alert the fire brigade.”
    â€œYou men on the ground,” Tom called. “And we can see all of you. Stand up with your hands over your head, or we start blasting in ten seconds. I’m counting. One . . .”
    â€œDon’t shoot, Tom!” a voice called. “We’re standin’ up.”
    â€œThe hell we are!” a defiant voice yelled. The speaker opened up with a .45.
    Two shotguns and a rifle barked and boomed at the flashes. The man was blown to bloody ribbons.
    â€œJesus God!” a voice that Tom recognized as belonging to Clement Carlin yelled. “Don’t shoot no more. Stand up, boys. Keep your hands away from your guns.”
    â€œI got this little turd Marcel!” a man called. “He was about to set my shop on fire.”
    The town had thrown monetary reasons to the wind and united at the threat of armed takeover and fire. Men and women appeared with rifles and shotguns and pistols.
    â€œBlast anyone who tries to leave the Carlin House,” Tom called. “By the front or the back.”
    â€œWill do, Tom,” the tobacco and gun shop owner called. “I’ll take the back.”
    The five members of the break-out team were marched up the alley and to the jail. A blanket was tossed over the bloody remains of the defiant one.
    Johnny and Clement Carlin and three hands stood sullen-faced in the office. Marcel was shoved inside by an angry citizen. Another citizen carried a jug of kerosene and a bag of kerosene-soaked rags. Marcel reeked of the flammable liquid.
    Tom pulled young Parley to one side. “Ride for the judge, Parley. Bring him up to date and escort him back here tomorrow. I ’spect the sheriff will come along, too. Go, boy.”
    Tom jammed the Carlin brothers and the hands into one cell. He was mad to the core, and his face showed it. “Van, you and Nate stay here.” He turned to Matt and Sam. “You boys game for enterin’ the Carlin House?”
    â€œLet’s go,” Matt said.
    The three men, armed with sawed-off shotguns, walked across the street, and Tom shoved open the batwings and stepped inside, Matt to his left and Sam to his right. Tom’s Greener was pointed straight at John Carlin’s belly. Tom walked to the rancher and placed the twin muzzles against his shirt, belly high.
    â€œIt’s over, John. I don’t care what you and Bull do to each other—outside of this town. But if all your hands haven’t dropped