Blaze! Ride Hard, Shoot Fast

by Wayne D. Dundee

  "Save it for next time," J.D. told her, grinning.

  * * *

  Later, once J.D. finally had the chance to wash up and guzzle a brace of cold beers ("As hot as you were, I'm surprised all of this ice didn't melt just from bein' close by," he'd quipped when he first reached into the bucket) they sat together at the folding table and ate off the plates Kate had piled high and brought over earlier from the mess tent. As they ate, they talked—updating one another on anything new either had encountered. Even more so than the previous day, however, this made for pretty meager telling.

  For J.D., managing to hold his own in the race pretty much summed up his day.

  Kate recounted her time with the reporters, answering their questions and slipping in a few subtle inquiries of her own to try and learn more about Colfax, Hudson, Kanelly, and Dykstra. "For my trouble," she stated, "I gained very little. Virtually nothing new on Hudson, Kanelly, or Dykstra. What was at least of some news to me, though not especially significant, was that Brewster Colfax hails from Omaha where he's known to the police there as a smalltime thug and leg-breaker. What brought him west and attracted him to this race, nobody seems to know."

  "Lot of folks from Omaha caught up in this thing," J.D. pointed out, "what with the big finish scheduled to happen there. Also, the article that got the whole thing rollin' appeared in Edgar Grigg's Omaha Voice, one of their biggest newspapers."

  "I guess," Kate allowed. "But the rest of it is this: My inquiries got around to the particular attention of Colfax. He came looking to chat with me about my interest in him not too long before you and the others came riding in."

  J.D. stopped in mid-chew and he went visibly tense. "You sayin' he threatened you?"

  "No. Not really. Basically, he wanted to let me know that he knew I'd been asking around about him. And he didn't seem to like the notion, as he put it, of me 'poking my pretty little nose' in his business." Kate paused and then added, "Now, before you get your hackles worked up any sharper, you need to settle down and remember I'm a big girl who can take care of herself. Which I made very clear to Mr. Colfax."

  "That's all well and good," J.D. chuffed. "But I'm thinkin' maybe I need to reinforce the message a little."

  "No you don't. I'm handling this end of things, your focus is out on the race course. Remember? If my questions got under Colfax's skin because he's planning something to try and queer the race, then maybe it'll make him itch bad enough to do something foolish, something that'll indicate what he's got in mind. If it comes to that, it would be a good thing, right? It's why we're on hand, exactly the kind of thing we're on the lookout for so we can put a stop to it."

  "But what if this Colfax tries something while I'm out ridin' in the race and you're on your own to deal with it?"

  "There was always that possibility when we set it up with us being separated like we are each day. Don't you think I can hold up my end?"

  "Of course you can. You were makin' your way with a gun before I ever came along." J.D. made a face. "But that don't mean I have to like the notion of you havin' to do so now that we've thrown in together."

  Kate smiled. "That's because you love and care about me so much."

  "Something like that."

  "That's good to know, but it still doesn't change the facts of the situation. You've got your job to do, I've got mine. Besides, Colfax's reaction doesn't really prove anything. Fella like him, with a history of always being on the dodge from the law, it's bound to bug him if he hears somebody has been asking around about him. Plus it smelled like he'd been drinking, so that could have nudged him along some, too. It all makes reacting like he did predictable...Only it still doesn't mean he is up to anything that's a concern of ours."

  "But, until we know for sure, he damn sure continues to rate keeping an eye on."

  "No doubt about it. And I never intended otherwise." Kate pushed away her plate without completely emptying it. "Now. Something else that rates keeping an eye is you. You need to put Brewster Colfax out of your mind and not waste any more time worrying about something I'm perfectly capable of handling. What you do need to concentrate on is getting some sack time so you're rested and ready for another long, hard day tomorrow."

  "The last time I was in the sack," J.D. reminded her, "gettin' any rest wasn't hardly on the menu."

  "You complaining?"

  "Just sayin', that's all."

  "Well I promise to behave this time."

  When they'd completed their lovemaking, J.D. had bothered only to pull his pants up and Kate had shrugged into his discarded shirt, fastening only a couple of its buttons so that plenty of her kept peeking out here and there as the garment shifted around on the nude curves underneath.

  "The way that shirt you're almost wearin' keeps gaping open, ain't exactly what I call behavin'," J.D. observed.

  "You know, I do believe I could make a pretty strong argument that you are complaining." Kate pursed her lips in a way that looked half thoughtful, half pouty. "Maybe I should borrow Estelle Grigg's black wig again and see if I can't summon another visit from Mr. Bold. I don't recall him ever complaining about my behavior."

  "If Mr. Bold shows up here tonight," J.D. groaned, "I'll kick his ass. I need some doggone sleep, woman!"

  Kate smiled triumphantly. "Of course you do, poor baby. And you can trust me to make sure you get some...eventually."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thunderstorms were infrequent over the semi-arid Sandhills. But when they hit, usually in the spring and early summer, they often did so suddenly and furiously. Such was the case tonight. Shortly after the Blazes turned in, the wind came up outside, turning rapidly from a low, rustling moan to hard, roaring gusts. And right behind the wind came a driving downpour of rain accompanied by sizzling bursts of lightning and ground-shaking rolls of thunder.

  The tent structures of the encampment were put to the test of holding up under such an onslaught, but almost all of them made it through intact. Luckily, the train crew's maintenance men had spent part of the day modifying the one remaining cattle car so that its six original stalls were increased to nine—meaning it was ready and able to provide shelter for all of the horses entered in the race.

  The full force of the storm lasted less than an hour, then faded to a cold, steady drizzle that hung around until just before daybreak. At the seven o'clock start time for the resumption of the race, the sky was still overcast and gloomy and the grounds of the encampment were a muddy, sloppy mess. But there was no delaying the race—weather conditions had to be met in accordance with the "endurance" part of the contest. Meaning, somewhat ironically, that while pains had been taken to give shelter to the horses during the night, had it still been raining at race time they would have had to perform in it nevertheless.

  The air was still cool and damp when the starting gun went off. But a glance at the way the gray clouds overhead were starting to break up gave a hint that, once they fully cleared, it was going to be another scorcher; and, until the dampness got baked out of the saturated ground, the air would also hold an uncomfortable level of humidity.

  * * *

  Milling amidst the crowd of onlookers as it dispersed following the departure of the racers, Kate made her usual scan of faces and body language, alert for anyone or anything that might be a sign of trouble. Nothing warranted any closer scrutiny. There were just the people she was by now accustomed to seeing, going about the things she was accustomed to seeing them do.

  One thing gave her pause, though. She didn't spot Brewster Colfax anywhere in the throng. Inasmuch as she'd never been particularly looking for him before, she didn't know if that held any significance or not. After last evening, his ugly mug was understandably one she would from now on take notice of; but she couldn't recall if he'd been part of the send-off either of the previous mornings or not. Considering the stink of alcohol on his breath last night, he possibly made it a habit of waking up at least partially hung-over and therefore not prone to being an early riser.

&
nbsp; Kate didn't think much more about it. Like a bad penny, she figured he'd be showing up soon enough.

  * * *

  As implied by the name, the Nebraska Sandhills were a vast expanse of rolling, treeless, grass-anchored dunes long believed to comprise an uninhabitable "inland desert". For decades, the reach of westward expansion, largely following the Platte River flowing just to the south of the dunes, avoided the region for that very reason. Only recently had it been discovered that—due to a massive underground aquifer stretching all the way down from Canada—the low-lying areas between the towering hills contained lush grasses, ponds, and even small lakes that sustained a wide variety of wildlife including deer, antelope, and extensive herds of buffalo. Recently, to the east but expanding rapidly, cattle ranches had begun developing across this wide open range.

  The suggested course that the race was to follow over the stretch of rugged Sandhills ahead for today, was plotted in accordance with existing ponds and other topography considered best to avoid. But it was up to the individual riders whether or not they wanted to follow the suggested route exactly, as long as they made an appearance at the checkpoints.

  As the race got underway this morning, it became evident before long that today there was going to be some variance from the plotted course—something that had happened only minimally over the previous two days. The change was coming from Pete Blaylock. Apparently recognizing how far behind the leaders he'd fallen and knowing he wasn't likely to gain ground by continuing to run head to head against them, it looked like he was opting somewhat desperately to seek a short cut over ill-advised ground in order to try and improve his position.

  The plan all along had been for J.D. to maintain two goals while riding in the race: One, to keep an eye on the other riders for any sign of foul play that might affect the outcome of the contest; two, to also keep an eye on Estelle Grigg for the sake of helping to ensure her safety.

  Now J.D. was faced with a choice. With Blaylock branching away from the main part of the pack, ostensibly to seek out a shortcut, he could be out of sight for hours. Since things had boiled down to where he was one of the main suspects for potentially trying something shady, that was not desirable. But if J.D. altered his own course to stick with Blaylock, then it would be Estelle Grigg he'd lose sight of for some length of time.

  J.D. didn't like one prospect much better than the other and he couldn't afford a lot of time to ponder over it. Estelle had been doing a pretty good job of staying up toward the head of the pack, meaning she'd be well within sight of other riders in case anything went wrong, he told himself. And, through the early part of the morning at least, there was no reason to think she'd drop off substantially. Blaylock, on the other hand—especially if his motives turned out to be something other than a ploy to improve his standing in the race—would be totally clear of any scrutiny or restraint.

  Shit.

  With a tug of the reins, J.D. swung Charger off the prescribed course and set instead in the direction of where Blaylock had dropped out of sight over the swell of a grassy hill.

  Chapter Fifteen

  J.D. heard the sound of a single gunshot from somewhere up ahead. He didn't know exactly what it meant, but it most likely couldn't be good. The fact there was only the one report was somewhat hopeful, though. Maybe Blaylock or his horse had simply been spooked by a rattler.

  Nevertheless, J.D. eased back on Charger's reins and proceeded more slowly, more cautiously. He estimated Blaylock was about a quarter mile in front of him. They'd been riding for the better part of four hours now, mostly over washboard-like terrain consisting of a series of high, sharp ridges that fell off on the back sides into narrow, V-shaped low points before ascending once again, often at ninety-degree angles. This meant that Blaylock had been regularly dipping out of sight in the distance, only to pop into view after a little while and then drop off again.

  Blaylock had given no indication he knew J.D. was behind him. The man seemed so intent on closing the time gap on the race leaders by taking what he perceived to be a shortcut (the prescribed route looping quite a ways to the north in order to skirt around this grueling saw-toothed landscape) that all of his focus was concentrated on that goal.

  But now, for one reason or other, there was a good chance the gunshot may have forced a slowdown.

  At length, J.D. reached the peak of yet another of the washboard ridges and came in sight of Blaylock. The man was at the bottom of the slope stretching down from J.D.'s vantage point. This time, the low-lying area between ridges was wider and flatter than any of the previous ones they'd crossed and a buffalo wallow had been formed there. In the wake of last night's storm, the wallow was thick and sloppy with deep, gritty-looking mud. It clearly got regular use, leaving the grass chewed and rubbed away over a broad, oval area. From the agitated look of it, a good-sized herd had spent some time there very recently.

  Blaylock was on his knees in the middle of the wallow. The mud-spattered, lifeless lump of his horse was stretched out before him. J.D. didn't have to study the scene very long to conclude what had happened...Blaylock must have tried to ride his mount straight through the center of the wallow instead of going around it. The horse had stepped wrong in a deep hole or rut in the hardpan underneath the muck and broken its leg. The gunshot J.D. had heard was Blaylock putting the animal out of its misery.

  J.D. gigged Charger slowly down to the edge of the wallow.

  Blaylock remained on his knees, balefully watching J.D.'s approach. He, too, was spattered with mud and, if J.D. wasn't mistaken, there was a tear track running crookedly down one cheek.

  "You," Blaylock said in a dull voice. The familiar glare returned to his eyes. "Well, you've got me in a fine fix now, don't you? Right about the way you'd like it, I suppose."

  "You're in a fix, right enough," J.D. allowed, frowning. "But I wouldn't call anything about it fine. And what have I got to do with getting you there or why would I like it?"

  "Don't play dumb with me. Why try to string me along anymore now?" Blaylock insisted. "You think I ain't seen you watchin' me, trackin' my every move? Just bidin' your time for the right chance."

  "Mister, you're talkin' as loco as a sage hen with a fried brain," J.D. said through gritted teeth. "You know damn well that me and my wife have been hired to help keep this race on the up and up. So, yeah, we gave you some extra consideration on account of your outlaw past. But the only reason I paid any extra attention to you beyond that, is because you kept askin' for it by the way I caught you givin' me the sly eye every damn time I looked your way."

  "You figure a fella is layin' for you, what do you expect? Was I supposed to just pay you no never mind and pretend I didn't know you was gonna sooner or later make your play on me like you did all the rest?"

  "Make what play? On all the rest of who?" J.D. wanted to know.

  "The Hector Bayliss gang, that's who. All the ones you gunned down, one by one, over the past eight years."

  "Hector Bayliss?" J.D. echoed. "Jesus, I tangled with him and his brother Clem clear back...yeah, I guess it was about eight years ago. But my beef was strictly with the two of them. And that was only because they called me out and tried to make their play on me. After I got the best of Hector and Clem, the rest of the gang scattered and I never gave another thought about any of 'em."

  "Then how do you account for each and every one of 'em endin' up cut down afterwards?"

  "What the hell would you expect, man? They were lowlife outlaws who never changed their ways. How else were they gonna end up?"

  "Okay, so why are you on my tail now? Out here this morning when I've cut away from the route the rest of the race pack is followin'?"

  "Exactly because you did cut away. Fact is, it seemed kinda suspicious so I figured I oughta follow along and make sure you weren't up to no good."

  "Yeah, I bet you did."

  J.D. scowled. "Are you saying you were part of the Bayliss gang all those years ago?"

  "That's right," Blaylock confir
med. "I was 'til everybody split up after Hector and Clem went down. Then that string of stage robberies put me behind bars over in Laramie. That's where I started hearin' about the other gang members bitin' the dust one after the other. And, in my mind, I kept hearin' old Moses Sawyer warnin' us the day we rode off after you did Hector and Clem that, if we didn't go back and take care of you, you'd come huntin' the rest of us. But none of us paid any attention to him...leastways not until I started hearin' about the others goin' down."

  "I honestly don't remember a single other name from the Bayliss gang. Hell, I don't think I ever heard any of the other names. And I didn't give a damn because I had no interest in 'em...and that includes you. The only way the name Blaylock meant anything when it came up—and I can't help it that we held it as a possible mark against you, but that's what you have to do when you take on a job like ours—was because we had it on report about your stage robbin' past and prison time."

  A battle of confusion, doubt, and finally acceptance showed in the expressions that played across Blaylock's face. "Jesus...all this time, ever since I showed up for this race and spotted you...I even thought about tryin' an ambush because I knew I couldn't take you straight on...yet all the while..."

  As far as his own emotion, J.D. would have felt little or no compassion and maintained a much harder attitude toward the man if not for that damn tear track on his cheek. Anybody who'd shed a tear over a downed horse—even if his own recklessness played a part in causing the injury—couldn't be all bad.

  J.D. cleared his throat and said, "Reckon it's clear enough you're out of the race. Reckon I am, too, as far as comin' in anywhere near the top. But my job means I got to stay part of it, so I need to catch up as best I can...Not much more we can do here right now. You ought to be able to find somebody at the train who'll bring you back, retrieve your saddle and what not, maybe drag the horse out and get it buried decent-like."

  Blaylock rose to his feet and stood gazing down at the dead animal. "Yeah, she deserves at least that much. Dakota Sue...best horse I ever had. I really thought me and her had a chance at finishin' in the money on this thing...But she didn't let me down. It was the other way around. I did her wrong."