by Len Levinson
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
Once, John Stone had everything a man could ever want: wealth, position and a woman who loved him. That was before the Civil War. Now he’s lost everything: fortune and his fiancée has disappeared. With only his Colt, a picture of Marie and a mission – leaving him to roam the West until he finds the woman he loves.
John Stone came to Dumont in search of his love. Instead, he found himself caught in the middle of a bloody war of revenge when Hank Dawon’s son was found dead. Stone falls under suspicion – and he’s about to find out what he will do to survive.
LYNCH LAW
THE SEARCHER 2:
By Len Levinson
First Published by Charter/Diamond in 1990
Copyright © 1990, 2014 by Len Levinson
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: March 2014
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.
Cover image © 2013 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
The sun was a pan of gold in the clear blue sky over Dumont, Texas. John Stone stood on the main street, looking at a sign that said SHERIFF. People walked past on the planked sidewalk, and Stone was covered with the dust of the trail. He reached for the doorknob and entered a square room of medium size. The sheriff was reading an old newspaper, his feet propped on top of the desk. The jail to his rear was full of prisoners behind steel bars.
Stone walked toward the sheriff’s desk, his spurs jangling. He wore two Colts in crisscrossed gun belts with the holsters low and tied to his legs, and removed an old Confederate cavalry officer’s hat.
The sheriff had a white mustache with the ends turned up. “What can I do for you?”
Stone took a small photograph in a silver frame out of his shirt pocket and handed it to the sheriff. It showed a young blond woman in a high-necked dress, gazing at the photographer. One of the prisoners murmured something, and the others laughed, but Stone couldn’t make out what was said.
“Ever see her?” Stone asked.
The sheriff lowered his feet from the top of his desk and opened the top drawer, removing a pair of eyeglasses with wire rims. He put on the eyeglasses and examined the photograph again.
“Who is she?”
“Friend of mine.”
The sheriff returned the photo. “Never saw her, I don’t think.”
Stone pushed the photo back into his shirt pocket and buttoned down the flap.
“Got a cigarette?” asked a voice behind him.
Stone turned and saw an unshaven man wearing black pants, a black shirt, and a black hat. He gripped the bars with his hands and reminded Stone of a spider on a web.
“Mind if I give him some tobacco?” Stone asked the sheriff.
“Give him anything except your guns.”
Stone walked toward the jail and handed the prisoner his bag of tobacco with some rolling paper.
The prisoner’s hair was long and unruly, and he looked wild, as if he’d been living in the elements most of his life. He was in his late twenties like Stone, but shorter and slimmer. He rolled himself a cigarette.
Stone took out the photograph and showed it to him. “Ever see this woman?”
The man in black looked at it. “Can’t say I have.” He pinched off the ends of the cigarette and put it in his mouth. Stone lit it with a match.
“Much obliged,” the prisoner said.
Stone walked back to the sheriff. “What’s a good restaurant in this town?”
“Gallagher’s, down the street on the left.”
“What’s that man back there done?”
“That’s Tad McDermott. He shot a man.”
Stone looked at McDermott, and McDermott looked back at him. Waiting for the hangman. Stone turned and walked out of the sheriff’s office.
It was late in the afternoon, and two middle-aged matrons passed by. Stone took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. His face was tanned and weather-beaten, and his eyes were steely blue. His hat was discolored where the old Confederate Army insignia had been torn off.
He returned the hat to his head and tipped it low over his eyes, then headed for the restaurant. He passed a barbershop, a general store, and came to the JACKPOT SALOON.
He’d intended to go to the restaurant, but his throat was awfully dry. He opened the doors and entered the Jackpot Saloon.
It was a large square room, with a painting of naked women in a Turkish harem above the bar. Men sat at tables, fingering cards and drinking whiskey. A few whores sat with them.
Stone stepped to the bar. “Whiskey.”
The bartender was young, and placed a glass and a bottle on the bar; Stone filled the glass halfway. Pushing back his hat, he raised the glass to his lips and took a swig.
He’d been on the trail five days, and there was nothing like a good saloon. Stone felt himself unwind as he carried the glass and bottle to a table and sat with his back to the wall. The saloon was redolent with the fragrance of good whiskey, tobacco, and ladies’ perfume.
He rolled a cigarette and thought of Tad McDermott in jail, waiting for the hangman. Wonder who he killed? Stone lit the cigarette and saw through the haze a figure descending the stairs that led to the rooms on the second floor. She was blond, slim-waisted, and bore a resemblance to Marie. Accompanying her was a cowboy tucking in his shirt.
She kissed the cowboy’s cheek, then placed a hand on her waist and surveyed the room like a hawk searching for meat. Her eyes raked over Stone, came back, and settled. Then she opened her black fan and walked toward him.
The closer she came, the more she didn’t resemble Marie. This woman’s features weren’t as refined, she was muscular rather than graceful, and she didn’t have that sparkle.
“Mind if I sit down?” she asked with a smile.
Stone arose and pulled back her chair. She motioned to the bartender for a glass. Her face was covered with cosmetics and she looked like a wicked doll.
“Don’t reckon I ever seen you here before,” she said. “What’s yore name?”
“John Stone.”
“I’m Mary Ellen. Where you comin’ in from?”
“Indian Territory.”
“Were you with that wagon train that pulled in this morn-in’?”
“Yes.”
“Heard that wagon train had quite a fight with injuns.”
Stone didn’t reply. He took another sip from the glass.
“Where’s yore wife?”
“Don’t have a wife.”
“Want to come upstairs with me?”
“No thank you.”
She smiled. “Don’t think I’m pretty?”
“You know you are.”
“Only two dollars for the screw of yore life.”
“I’m engaged to get married.” Stone took out the picture of Marie and handed it to her. “Ever run into her?”
“If’n I seen her, I would’ve remembered her, so I guess I ain’t.” She returned the picture and looked at Stone’s old Confederate cavalry hat. “My brother Bobby Joe was killed as Murfreesboro. Were you at Murfreesboro?”
“No.”
“Bobby Joe would’ve been about yore age. Sure wish the war never happened. What were you before the war?”
“We raised cotton.”
/> “My daddy worked in the post office, and that’s what he did in the army too, but Bobby Joe went to the front.”
The bartender brought a clean glass for Mary Ellen, and Stone poured whiskey into it. “Do you know who Tad McDermott is?” he asked.
“They’re a-gonna hang him Saturday.”
“What’s he done?”
“Stealin’ and killin’ for about ten years. Last week he tried to hold up the bank all by his lonesome, but got caught. Folks from miles around will come to the hangin’. You sure you don’t want to come upstairs?”
“Sorry.”
She slugged down the whiskey and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Got to get back to work. If yore pecker ever gits hard, you know who to see.”
She walked away, and Stone remembered the dismal day he’d returned home from the war, and found out his father and mother were dead, his home had been burned to the ground by Sherman’s army, and Marie had disappeared. An old friend of his father’s said he’d heard Marie went west with a Union officer, but Stone found that hard to believe. Marie had been a true daughter of the South, and she might’ve gone west, but not with a Union officer.
Stone remembered sitting near the ashes of Marie’s home one afternoon, wearing his tattered old uniform, smoking a cheap cigar, and wondering what to do with himself. It didn’t take long to conclude that he’d lost everything except his need to see her again.
He’d been looking for her ever since, and had just arrived in Texas on the wagon train. Now he intended to go from town to town showing her picture, hoping someday a person would say he knew where she lived.
He finished his whiskey and walked out of the saloon. On the sidewalk, an old woman in a hoop skirt held a conversation with a small dog on a leash. He turned and walked toward the restaurant, his stomach grumbling. He’d have a meal, take a bath, and have a night of drinking and cards.
He came to Gallagher’s Restaurant, and two drunken cowboys, their arms around each other’s shoulders, staggered out the door. Stone let them pass, then dusted himself off and walked inside.
It was filled with businessmen, ranchers, cowboys, gamblers, and ladies. Brass coal-oil lamps were affixed to the walls and polished wood frames surrounded the windows. A crude painting of a steer hung from one of the walls.
Stone couldn’t see any empty tables and didn’t know anybody with whom to sit. He thought he’d better look for a restaurant that wasn’t so busy.
“Care to sit down?”
Stone turned and saw a well-dressed couple seated at a table for four against the wall. The man was in his mid-thirties and had a receding hairline, and the woman was early twenties, with black hair and almond eyes. She looked like a panther in a pearl necklace.
“Wouldn’t want to intrude,” Stone said.
“No intrusion at all. Have a seat.”
Stone hung his hat on the peg, and the man introduced himself: “I’m Craig Delane, and this is my wife Cynthia.”
“John Stone.”
Stone sat at the table, and his heavy guns knocked against the table legs. The Delanes were drinking coffee, and on the white tablecloth were plates covered with the residue of the pie they’d had for dessert.
“If you’re wondering what to order,” Delane said, “may I suggest the steak? They also serve a fine whiskey.”
His accent was from the northeast, and they were dressed impeccably in conservative upper-class fashion. Stone became aware of his trail-worn clothes and dusty boots. He smelled like a horse.
“You work on one of the ranches around here?” Delane asked.
“Just passing through.”
“What brings you to Dumont?”
Stone took out the picture of Marie. “Ever see her?”
Delane looked at the picture, and Cynthia leaned her head close to his. “Let me see too.”
“She’s very beautiful,” said Craig Delane. “Who is she?”
“Friend of mine.”
Cynthia asked, “How did you lose her?”
“That’s a long story.”
The Chinese waiter arrived, wearing a white apron, carrying a glass. He was skinny, with straight black hair. “What you want?”
“A steak with whatever vegetables you’ve got.”
The Chinese waiter scurried away, writing on his notepad, harried and overworked, and his pants were too short, showing white stockings and strange Chinese slippers.
Stone poured some whiskey into the glass. “Where are you folks from?”
“I represent a consortium of investors from New York,” Delane explained. “I’m setting up a ranching operation for them.”
Cynthia looked at Stone with her velvet eyes. “How did you lose your lady friend?”
“It’s kind of personal.”
Silence came over the table, and Stone felt Cynthia’s eyes boring into him.
Delane lit a cigar. “You look like you’ve had a hard day,” he said to Stone.
“I arrived on that wagon train that came in this morning.”
“You sound as if you have an education.”
“So do you.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“West Point.”
“I take it you were a Confederate officer during the war?”
“Yes. Were you in the war?”
“No.”
Stone figured Delane bought his way out of the Union Army. A rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight.
“I’m always on the lookout for a good hand,” Delane said. “If you’re interested, we can put you on the payroll.”
“I’d intended to head south.”
“If you change your mind, see me at the HC Ranch.”
Cynthia looked at Stone and said, “Is that woman in the picture your wife?”
“No.”
“How’d she get lost?”
“Dumont County must be quite a change for two New Yorkers. What do you think of the frontier?”
“It gets boring out here,” Craig said. “Neither of us hunt, and that’s generally the pastime.”
“Most people drink a lot,” Cynthia added. “And we’re not accustomed to having no police. Violence can break out at any moment, and there’s nothing you can do.”
“We’re near the Dunstall River northwest of here,” Craig said. “Why don’t you come out and have dinner with us one night before you leave? It’s so seldom we find someone we can speak with.”
“Most people only talk about horses and cows,” Cynthia said. “I feel as if I’m in the most remote corner of the world.” She looked at Stone. “How long have you been looking for that woman?”
“Since the war.”
“That’s nearly five years. What’ll you do if you don’t find her?”
“Cynthia,” said Craig, “don’t you think that’s a rather personal question?”
“Just curious.”
On the other side of the restaurant, somebody bellowed, “Where’s my goddamned grub!”
Stone saw a heavyset cowboy with a beard sitting at a table with two other cowboys. The skinny Chinese waiter shuffled toward them.
“Dinner not ready yet!” the waiter said. “Wait little while longer!”
The heavyset man arose and grabbed the waiter by the front of his shirt, picking him off the floor and pinning him against the wall.
“I’m tired of waitin’, you slant-eyed son of a bitch! You better git my grub out here, or I’ll beat yore ass!”
Stone could see the terror on the waiter’s face as he stretched paralyzed against the wall. The heavyset man picked him up and threw him toward the kitchen, and the waiter stumbled, crashing into a table, upsetting a group of diners, but they arose meekly, food all over their clothes. The waiter picked himself up off the floor and ran into the kitchen.
The heavyset man laughed as he strutted back to the table and sat down, reaching for his glass of whiskey. One of the cowboys at the table patted him on the shoulder and murmured, “You showed him who’s boss, Way
ne.”
“Who’s that?” Stone asked.
“Wayne Dawson, son of Hank Dawson, who owns the Circle Bar D and most of Dumont County. I’ve been negotiating with Hank Dawson for the purchase of cattle for my herd.”
“He didn’t teach his son good manners,” Stone said.
Cynthia replied, “He’s a pig, and you can’t expect a pig to have good manners.”
Craig raised his finger to his lips. “Not so loud. We don’t want to get on the wrong side of these people.”
“I despise him,” Cynthia said. “It’s disgusting the way everybody bows and scrapes before the Dawsons.”
“Keep your voice down, Cynthia.”
She raised her cup of coffee, and Stone looked at Wayne Dawson spitting something dark and vile onto the floor. Then he reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table.
“A chink ain’t nothin’ but an injun turned inside out,” Wayne said loud enough so everyone could hear. “A good chink is a dead chink!”
“Maybe we ought to kill one before we go back to the ranch,” one of the cowboys said.
The people in the restaurant ignored them and continued to dine quietly. The door to the kitchen opened and the waiter came out, carrying a plate of food. His face was cold and stoical as he placed the plate in front of Wayne Dawson.
Dawson took one look at the food and banged his fist on the table. “That’s not what I wanted!”
“You say chicken!” the waiter replied.
“I said roast beef!” Dawson jumped up and grabbed the waiter by the throat, shaking him in the air as though he were a rag doll. The waiter flailed desperately with his legs and arms, and was turning a bright shade of green.
“You son of a bitch!” Dawson roared, drawing back his fist. He held the waiter steady and punched him solidly in the mouth, and the waiter’s head was knocked backward. The cowboys at the table laughed as if it were hilarious. Dawson readied his fist again and slammed the waiter in the face, and the waiter went flying against a wall, sliding down and lying in a heap on the floor.
Dawson advanced toward him, an expression of his contempt on his face, and he recited an old ditty he’d heard at his father’s knee when he was a boy:
“Chinky, chinky Chinaman eats dead rats. They’re good for his belly and they make him fat!”
