"You're joshin' me. Him? That yahoo shot Ben Blackmun?"
J.D. motioned him closer and spoke in a low voice.
"We want him to get the reward money. A wedding present since he and his missus have been through such hell. Truth is, he wasn't the one who shot Blackmun."
He glanced at Kate to see if she wanted credit. A tiny shake of her head left him free to spin a bit more on a tall tale. The lie protected them all and kept tongues in town from wagging endlessly.
"This here six-shooter is responsible." J.D. touched the butt of his Colt slung in the cross-draw holster.
"That's more like I'd have expected," Marshal Nesbitt said. He laughed. "Only thing I'd have believed less likely than that boy gunnin' down an outlaw would be if you said your missus was responsible."
"That would be something to go on about, wouldn't it, Marshal?" Kate reached out and touched J.D.'s arm. "He's about the fastest draw I ever did see."
"Don't go sayin' that in town. Wilderness is a peaceable place, most times, but braggin' on the speed of your gun brings out the young fools lookin' to make a reputation for themselves. I'll see that Smith gets the money, but the details won't get bandied about. That's best for everyone's sake."
They began riding back to town.
"What brought you out in such a hurry, Marshal? You looked like your horse's tail was on fire." J.D. saw how uneasy the question made the lawman.
"Well, truth is, we got some highfalutin guests on the way. They're stoppin' in Wilderness for the night on their way to do some huntin' in the high country."
"Hunting?" J.D. had visions of a cavalry troop going into the mountains after Ulysses Borman and the remaining member of the Blackmun gang.
"Territorial governor, a couple congressmen and the district judge. And all their party. Scouts, gun bearers, the like."
"Gun bearers?" Kate snickered at the idea. "That sounds like an African expedition to hunt lions and elephants."
"Might as well be," Nesbitt said glumly. "Them Washington folks never seen a bear or mountain lion. I wanted to ride on out and greet them, slow them down a mite, since the town's not ready yet."
"What do you mean by that, Marshal?"
"Well, Mr. Blaze, we got red, white and blue banners all strung across the main street. A band is supposed to play patriotic songs, but most of 'em went and got drunk to celebrate bein' asked to perform. Folks are tryin' to sober them up so as not to embarrass us. There's not enough coffee in the entire territory for that."
"I doubt a politician would care if the band's off-key, as long as there's a crowd to talk to," J.D. said.
"Might be, but I got to do what I can. The townsfolk look up to me to handle things like this."
"You rode west toward the mountains. Wouldn't the hunting party come from Rock Springs or even Cheyenne?" That was far to the east.
"Mr. Blaze, this whole thing's got me so turned around I don't know which end's up." Nesbitt heaved a sigh. "I got to admit you done me and everybody a favor bringing in Blackmun like this. That sidewinder was loco enough to rob the bank while the governor and everybody was in town."
"That would have been hard to explain," Kate said.
"Seems like we're getting back at exactly the right minute," J.D. said.
As they rode in from the west, the band struck up a rendition of "The Whorehouse Bells Were Ringing" to greet a dozen riders and two wagons coming from the east.
"Oh, sweet Jesus, I told them to play 'Battle Hymn of the Republic' or somethin' else. Not that."
"I don't know, Marshal," Kate said. "How's that song go? 'The whorehouse bells were ringing, and the pimp stood in the door; He'd had a hard-on all day long to screw some dirty whore.' Sounds about right for a wagon train of politicians."
"Oh, sweet Jesus, oh, no, oh no." Marshal Nesbitt galloped away to greet the dignitaries.
"Where'd you learn words like that?" J.D. looked at his wife, a twinkle in his eye. "That's mighty dirty stuff."
"I'll show you mighty dirty. Later. It didn't take them long to get all settled into town. The speeches are starting."
"I'll be damned," J.D. said. "This is better than I could have hoped for." He fell back and handed the reins to Ben Blackmun's horse to Jesse. "You take the body on over to the undertaker."
Jesse nodded somberly.
"You decide on marrying her?"
"What?" Jesse perked up. "Sure, me and her are gonna get hitched, but with the parson dead, there's nobody to do it."
"You get the corpse to the digger man, then go straight away to the courthouse. Wait there. We're going to have a wedding today." J.D. saw the panic on Jesse's face and the way Abigail lit up.
"I should get my dress on and—"
"Go right on over. Don't worry. All brides are beautiful," J.D. said. "This has to be done quick, but it will be done legal."
He watched them trot off, the horse with Blackmun's body draped over it following as if it realized its load would soon be gone. Kate pressed close to him.
"All brides are beautiful?"
"You were the most beautiful," he said. "Abigail will be...merely beautiful."
"What a liar. And what a schemer. I know what you've got in mind."
"Then go on over to the courthouse and wait for our blushing couple. If all goes well, I won't be longer than ten minutes. Maybe fifteen if I have to get some whiskey into him."
Kate laughed, snapped the reins and headed for the courthouse down a side street. J.D. dismounted, found a hitching post and then walked to the platform where the governor was launching into a long-winded speech detailing why Wyoming ought to be admitted to the Union. He went around to the side and started up, only to be stopped by a rough looking galoot sporting a pair of six-shooters, one on each hip. It took J.D. only an instant to size him up. The man was all show and no go, but creating a scene was the last thing he wanted when he came to beg a favor.
"I want to talk to Judge Carver."
"Ain't supposed to allow nobody on stage."
"To protect the governor?"
"And them two from Washington." The man frowned. "Can't remember who they are, but they're important folks."
"Tell the judge that J.D. Blaze wants to speak with him right now."
"Blaze?" The man stepped up onto the platform and looked down. "You the gunfighter I've heard about?"
J.D. wondered if Marshal Nesbitt's worry about nobodies trying to be somebodies was coming true, only with the governor's guard and not a Wilderness citizen.
"You haven't heard half the stories, Mr. Knowles. And the ones you have heard were understated. This is, indeed, the J.D. Blaze." Judge Carver pushed past the bodyguard and went down two steps. He thrust out his hand. J.D. shook hard.
Most judges had hands softer than soap suds, spending their time rapping the gavel and holding a shot glass full of rotgut. Not Henry Carver. The calluses showed he still put in an honest day's work.
"You still foreclosing on all your neighbors to expand your ranch?" J.D. released the judge's death grip.
"That fine looking woman still riding with you? I'll trade you half my spread for her."
"Half?" J.D. laughed at this. "She's worth twice what you got. More. And I know it. And so do you, Judge."
"That's a pity, J.D. Most folks I can rook. You always knew the price of most things and the value of everything."
"I know the value of everything important in life." J.D. peered around the judge. The governor was swinging into full blown speech and would be at it for at least another hour. "You have to listen to that hogwash or do you have a minute to repay a favor?"
"Repay what favor? We were even-steven after I settled that back shooter's hash for you. He's in the territorial prison and will be for another ten years."
"I saved you having to try the entire Blackmun gang. You've heard of Ben Blackmun?"
"Nasty bastard. You're telling me you are claiming the reward?"
"For all of them. No need for a trial since they're all dead."
"She had a part. Anyhow, the time and money for their trial is moot."
"So I owe you that?"
"At least the five minutes it would have taken for you to sentence them to hang."
J.D. went back down the steps, Judge Carver following. They fell into step as they headed for the courthouse.
"You always were an interesting fellow, J.D. Mysterious and one to make life a tad more lively. Or deadly, if you ended up on the wrong side of your six-shooter."
J.D. saw Custis and Maybelle Hurst going into the courthouse. Kate had sent word to them.
"I need you to pronounce sentence on those two up there in the front of the court."
Carver sized up Jesse and Abigail, saw the Hursts and Kate and came to the right conclusion.
"Life sentence? I declare, J.D., I haven't performed a wedding in a year. Nobody asks a hanging judge to hitch 'em up, for some reason. They think it's a bad omen."
"It won't matter if you forget the words. They're not hearing you."
Jesse and Abigail stood holding hands, looking into each other's eyes like mooning calves.
"I've seen that before, and you're right." Judge Carver lengthened his stride and went to stand in front of the desk. He cleared his throat. "I am Judge Horace Carver, presiding federal judge for the entire Wyoming Territory. I have been asked to marry these two young people. So come on up. You stand there, son. And you, my dear. Well, you don't have to let go of his hand."
Carver looked up. Kate moved to stand behind Abigail. But Jesse didn't have a best man.
J.D. stepped up. Jesse turned and whispered, "My best man lit out. I paid him two dollars, and that's all I got. What am I going to do?"
"Go on with the wedding. I'll stand up with you."
"You will, Mr. Blaze? Thanks!"
"Now that's settled, let's get down to it," Judge Carver said. He began an impassioned service that caused J.D.'s thoughts to wander.
He looked at Kate and saw she was looking at him, too. Their own wedding service hadn't been elaborate. Even this was more formal than theirs, but that meant nothing to him. The bonds between them grew stronger every day. There wasn't any woman he wanted beside him more, and he knew there wasn't any man or woman alive he would rather have at his back other than Kate.
"All right," the judge said. "It's time. The ring, please."
J.D. saw Jesse stiffen. His anguished whisper could be heard by everyone in the courthouse. "I ain't got the ring. Floyd had it."
"Who's that?" asked Judge Carver.
"The cowboy I hired before to be my best man."
"Your financial dealings are not in question now. The ring," Judge Carver said impatiently, louder this time. "There's other folks waiting for my services."
J.D. knew the only ones desiring Horace Carver's presence right now were bellied up to the bar, knocking back rye whiskey one shot at a time. And they would start their serious drinking with or without the judge.
Maybelle Hurst came up behind J.D. and poked him. He looked at her, then saw she held a ring in her palm. She pushed it out for him to take.
"It was my ma's. By right, Abigail would get it when I die. This is better, her getting it this way."
J.D. took the ring and then grabbed Jesse's wrist. He forced open a clenched fist and put the ring in it. Jesse's eyes were as big as saucers, but they couldn't match Abigail's. Tears ran down her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe them away.
"Good, the ring. Put it on her finger, son. Repeat after me. With this ring, I thee wed."
Jesse's voice came surprisingly strong.
"By the power vested in me by the territory of Wyoming and the United States of America, I say you're married. Kiss her, damn you, or I'll do it for you!" Judge Carver clapped Jesse on the back. There was no reason for him to urge either bride or groom further.
The two left the courthouse, arms around each other. J.D. saw Custis whispering angrily with his wife, then she kissed him and he subsided.
They followed their daughter and new son-in-law into the street.
"I'll buy you a drink, J.D. you, too, Kate, if you're up for carousing with the menfolk." Carver put his arm around both of them.
"That's a mighty kind offer, Judge, but we've been on the trail for too long to appreciate anything but a hot bath and a soft bed."
"Soft bed, eh?" Carver shook his head in wonder. "You two go on, get all cleaned up, but I'll wager there's something hard on top of that soft mattress." He chuckled, then left J.D. and Kate alone in the courthouse.
"I'm getting mighty hungry," Kate said.
"Me, too."
"For food?"
J..D. showed her what he was hankering for. Food and whiskey and a hot bath could wait.
BLAZE!
AMBUSHED
MICHAEL NEWTON
Prologue
The Gatling gun was nearly four feet long and weighed one hundred thirty-five pounds without the Broadwell drum on top of it, packing two hundred forty rounds of .45-70-405 ammunition, slotted into sixteen columns holding fifteen rounds apiece. The whole thing sat atop a tripod, in the flat bed of a covered Conestoga wagon, its six muzzles pointed toward the wagon's tailgate and the dusty road beyond. The man behind the weapon couldn't see that road, because the wagon's canvas flaps were down.
The gunner wasn't worried, though. He had friends on the ground outside to warn him and retract the flaps, when it was time for him to open fire. They'd recognize the target, making sure he didn't blast the wrong people to kingdom come by accident.
That would have been embarrassing, and worse—fatal for all concerned.
The shooter had no problem killing strangers. He had done it in the war, for four long years, then turned it into a profession afterward, minus the uniform and sanction from his government. What was the difference?
He pulled a trigger. Someone died. And he got paid.
Simple.
This job was different, he understood. More urgent than the usual assignment, where he got the name and the presumed location of a target, sometimes with a photograph to help him spot the victim, so he didn't have to ask a name. He'd never killed the wrong man yet.
This time, if all went well, he would be killing half a dozen people, maybe more, and didn't know which one was his intended prey. His two companions knew the target's name and face, presumably. All they required from him was nerve and steady aim.
Which hardly mattered with the Gatling, at close range.
It was hot inside the wagon, cut off from whatever breeze might waft across the stretch of desert where they'd stopped to wait, but he could live with it. A dry heat, anyway, not like the muggy swamps of Mississippi and Louisiana where he'd fought during the war. For what his boss was paying, he could well afford to sweat a bit.
Now he heard hoofbeats in the middle distance, drawing closer, and the rattling of some vehicle making a decent speed over the desert road. One of the pair outside came by and slapped the Conestoga's sideboard, telling him, "It's them."
The shooter took a wad of cotton from his pocket, shredded it in half, and stuffed his ears, protection from the Gatling's roar under the wagon's tarpaulin. Squatting atop a stool he'd measured in advance, for perfect height, he gripped the weapon's crank in his right hand, wrapped his left around the handle that would let him swing it on the tripod, left or right.
"Ready!" the same voice called, and sudden sunlight filled his space as both assistants drew the canvas back, one off to either side. The shooter winced, but instantly picked out the stagecoach, with its team of four in harness, rolling toward them from a hundred yards due south and trailing dust.
He couldn't use the Gatling's open sights with the drum magazine in place, but didn't need them. This was going to be easy.
Loud and hideous, but easy.
When the coach had closed to fifty yards, its guard and driver still unable to make out what waited for them in the covered wagon, he began to turn
the Gatling's crank. At top speed, he could fire about two hundred rounds per minute while the ammunition lasted, spewing out a hurricane of lead to greet the unsuspecting horses and their masters.
No exceptions. Everyone must go.
Staccato thunder filled his ears, gunsmoke blurring the image of his target, but the shooter saw it well enough. The horses ran into a wall of flying death and crumpled in their traces, blood exploding from their shiny hides, cut down without a chance to whinny.
Physics took control then, as the coach's falling tongue collapsed under the dying animals and jammed the kingpin, even as the driver pumped his brake and hauled back on the reins against dead weight. Before the coach could topple, he was tearing it apart, riddling its fragile body with slugs traveling nearly fourteen hundred feet per second.
The driver and his guard died next, on their high box seat, screaming, shot to ribbons. Inside the coach, shoulder-to-shoulder, there was nowhere for the paying passengers to hide. The slugs—each one weighing twenty-six grams, propelled by seventy grains of black powder—tore through the coach and through their jerking bodies, in one side and out the other.
When the coach stood still and silent in a cloud of dust, he gave the Gatling three more cranks, just for the hell of it, then rocked back on his stool and studied the result. Blood dribbled from beneath the doors on both sides, making rusty-colored mud below. The shooter stretched and shifted on his stool, boots stirring drifts of bright brass cartridges.
His two companions now approached the stage on foot, one to each side, drawing pistols from beneath their black frock coats. They peered inside. One said, "This guy's still breathing," and his partner fired a shot into the coach.
"Not any more."
"All right," the first one said. "I'll start in here. You check their luggage in the boot." He turned back toward the Conestoga, calling out, "You wanna help us look?"
"For what?" the shooter asked him.
"Never mind. Just watch the road. Somebody shows up, you know what to do."
Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels Page 39
