Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels

by Stephen Mertz

  "Go easy, here," he whispered, answered by a silent nod from Kate. She had her own Colt drawn and ready to respond at the first hint of danger.

  J.D. found an opening between two hanging tarps and brushed through, sweeping with his six-gun as he entered Isaac Grantham's storehouse. Kate was close behind him, gasping slightly at the sight that met their eyes.

  Arrayed before them stood a Gatling gun upon a wheeled caisson, a mountain howitzer chambered for twelve-pound cannonballs, and racks of long guns gleaming with the rich patina of firearms that had been well cared for. J.D. saw shotguns, Henry rifles, Winchesters, Spencers, and several he didn't recognize off-hand. A perforated board, nailed to the east wall, had no less than fifty pistols dangling from it, wooden pegs shoved through their trigger guards.

  "So, is he selling guns," Kate asked, "or getting ready for a war?"

  "I'll ask, soon as we find him."

  "Where'd he live, in all of this?"

  "A little place upstairs," J.D. replied. "This way."

  They climbed a narrow staircase, bolted to the inner west wall of the warehouse. At the top, another door stood open, just an inch or two.

  At that one, J.D. knocked and called out, "Isaac? J.D. Blaze. I just dropped by to introduce my bride."

  "Liar," he heard Kate whisper at his elbow.

  J.D. shushed her, knocked again, and raised his voice. "Isaac? You in there?"

  Nothing.

  "Would he normally go off and leave the place like this?" Kate asked.

  "Never, that I know of."

  "Well, then?"

  "We're coming in, Isaac," he told the silent door. "Don't shoot, all right?"

  "You first," Kate said, and poked him from behind.

  The door opened at J.D.'s touch, as quiet as the one downstairs. A lamp was burning on a table where he once had taken meals with Isaac Grantham, now so long ago. No supper had been served today, no plate or silverware laid out.

  "The bedroom's this way," J.D. said. Kate trailed him to the small apartment's southwest end, where Grantham kept an army cot.

  They found him there, laid out in bed, a bullet hole centered between his eyes. It hadn't bled much, and they saw the reason why below the dead man's chin, where someone first had cut his throat from ear to ear, so deeply that J.D. could glimpse white vertebrae. That wound had sprung a gusher, soaking Grantham's clothes, his bedding, and the floor beneath his cot.

  "Too late, damn it!" Kate said.

  J.D. reached out to touch his old friend's face, then lift one of his arms and let it drop.

  "He's cold, but rigor's passed. Twenty-four hours, more or less."

  "You link it up to what we're working on?"

  "Hell if I know," he said. "Arms traders aren't the best-loved people, but they're useful. Isaac's been around for years. For him to wind up dead right now...it feels connected."

  "And competitors would probably have cleaned him out, downstairs."

  "Say it happened yesterday, at suppertime. The cops were done with us in Reno. Someone could've wired the order down," J.D. said.

  That fit the time frame. No one could have ridden down from Reno fast enough, after their dustup with the man who'd stabbed himself. But Western Union could reach anyplace that had a telegraph, in seconds flat.

  "We're dealing with a group, then. Not just shooters from the coach ambush," said Kate.

  J.D. holstered his Colt. Said, "We should clear out now, before somebody else comes snooping."

  "No police?"

  "Not this time. They can puzzle this one out, themselves."

  "Where are we headed?"

  "Nowhere, for tonight. We'll get a room, some supper, and decide what's next."

  "I'm thinking Provo," Kate said. "Where the documents were meant to go."

  With no better ideas to offer, J.D. said, "You're on."

  Chapter 6

  St. George, Utah

  "Brother Dalyn's dead?"

  "As dirt," Abriel Hamblin said.

  "They killed him?" Moroni Finlinson inquired, between clenched teeth.

  "They helped. Blew out his knee, after he missed them both, then Dalyn killed himself, by accident."

  "That sounds more like him."

  "Either way, we have a problem to resolve that should already have been settled."

  "Understood."

  "Dalyn was supposed to kill the nosy Gentiles," Hamblin said, "and end it there. Turns out he wasn't up to it. I take responsibility for that."

  "I share the blame, for recommending him."

  "Agreed."

  "How can I make it right?"

  They sat together in a hotel room, a small deal table in between them. All were dressed in black frock coats and pants. Their matching high-crowned, flat-brimmed hats lay on the bed together.

  "Finish up what Dalyn started," Hamblin said.

  Finlinson nodded. "Yes, sir. Are they still in Reno?"

  "Carson City, for the moment."

  "After Grantham?" Now he sounded worried.

  "And too late," said Hamblin. "Brother Jacari is more efficient than poor Dalyn, thankfully."

  "Without the dealer—"

  "They can still keep prying into things that don't concern them."

  "Yes, of course. If I leave now, with Brother Carlan—"

  "No. We don't have time for you to chase them all over the continent. Besides, I'm confident that they will come to us."

  Almost afraid to ask, Finlinson still managed to say, "How can you know that, Brother Abriel?"

  "I'm not a psychic," Hamblin answered. "We have eyes in Carson City and across the state. Two hours ago, they booked passage by train, to Provo, leaving in the morning."

  Moroni smiled at that. "If we had someone on the train..."

  "We shall, but only as a watcher. Any further trouble in Nevada threatens to expose us. Here, at home, we're better able to control reporting."

  "As you say, Brother."

  "What progress with the mercenary?" Hamblin asked.

  "He should be here tomorrow night, with Brother Zerin."

  "And the weapon?"

  "Safe and in their care. The wagon cannot travel swiftly."

  "When shall we dispose of him?"

  "He'll be expecting payment," Hamblin said. "I'll settle his account, after he does another job for us."

  "The meddlers?"

  "Why not? Then, when he's expecting gold, we pay him off in lead."

  Moroni frowned at that. "He's dangerous. You know his reputation, Brother."

  "It's the reason why we hired him."

  "But if we fail to kill him on the first attempt..."

  "Don't judge us all by Brother Dalyn."

  "No, sir."

  "I thought you might enjoy handling the Gentile personally."

  Finlinson could feel the color draining from his face.

  "Alone?"

  "Not in a stand-up fight, of course. He'd kill you, easily. When the time comes, use craft and cunning. That's your strength."

  Finlinson was unsure whether Brother Ariel had complimented or insulted him. Rather than ask, he said, "I sense you have a plan."

  "As always. If authorities should find him with the weapon..."

  "They could blame the stagecoach robbery on him, alone."

  "If there is nothing to refute that theory," Hamblin said.

  Finlinson ran the checklist through his mind. The documents had been retrieved and Norval Jolley silenced. Clumsy Brother Dalyn had erased himself. The arms dealer was dead. Once the snooping Gentile couple and the mercenary had been dealt with, nothing tied them to the series of events that would have scandalized their faith. When the ripples faded, it would be as if nothing had happened in the first place.

  All the death and suffering would be as but a dream.

  * * *

  Carson City, Nevada

  J.D. and Kate ate supper at a restaurant across the street from their hotel. The food was adequate: beefsteak with baked potato, corn and turnips on
the side, followed by cherry pie. They barely spoke of Isaac Grantham's murder, never used his name, keeping it cryptic against eavesdroppers. Kate, at one point, thought their waitress lingered longer than was necessary, but she chalked that up to flirting with J.D.

  "It's nothing," he assured her.

  "Little bitch can't see our wedding rings?"

  "Now, Kate..."

  A Western Union runner found them then, before she had a chance to spoil J.D.'s dessert. He stood beside their table, seeming nervous under the combined force of their stares.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Blaze?"

  "The very same," J.D. replied.

  "The clerk at your hotel sent me across with this," the young man said, handing J.D. the standard flimsy envelope. "If there's any response, I can—"

  "How 'bout I read it first?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  J.D. opened the envelope, read the enclosed message, then handed it across to Kate. "No answer," he replied, and gave the kid a nickel for his trouble.

  "Couldn't spare a dime?" Kate asked, after the messenger had left.

  "He draws a salary."

  "Miser."

  "That's how you build a fortune."

  "So, where's ours?"

  "You tip him next time. What about the telegram."

  It lay beside her plate now, and J.D. could read it upside-down.

  WIDOW HAS FOUND NOTE FROM HUSBAND STOP PROVO BUYER'S SURNAME SPENDLOVE STOP. GIVEN NAME UNKNOWN STOP – H. KOCH, GBSCL

  "More than we had, at least," Kate said.

  "You don't think it's peculiar, her finding it just now?"

  "This whole thing is peculiar. Do you think she lied?"

  "I wouldn't put it past her," J.D. said. "But you're still right. It's all we have to go on."

  "How many Mr. Spendloves can there be in Provo?"

  "Reckon we'll find out. You done?"

  "Just one more bite of pie."

  Leaving the restaurant, they looked both ways before crossing the street, not worried about traffic, but potential lurkers in the shadows. Somebody had silenced Isaac Grantham, and in J.D.'s mind, the odds were fifty-fifty it was done to keep him from discussing any recent sales of Gatling guns. A massacre had repercussions, and the men responsible were doing everything within their power to escape detection.

  Which put Kate and J.D. squarely in their sights.

  They reached the hotel without incident, retrieved their key, and went upstairs. Outside their room, J.D. stood listening for one full minute without any jibes from Kate. When they went in, both had their pistols drawn, sweeping a room as plain and empty as they'd left it. Kate went so far as to check beneath the bed.

  "Nobody home but us," she said, rising to sheath her Colt and unbuckle her gunbelt.

  J.D. locked their door from the inside, then took the room's one straight-backed chair and wedged it underneath the doorknob. "We'll just keep it that way, shall we?"

  "Suits me fine," she said, unbuttoning her denim shirt. She stopped halfway and told J.D., "Sorry again, about your friend."

  "It's not like we were close, the past six, seven years. Still, something like that hits you hard."

  "I know, babe. But at least we have a lead, now."

  "If it's real."

  "And even if it's not, asking around could still stir something up."

  "Someone, you mean."

  "Same thing."

  "Not tired of people shooting at us, yet?"

  She smiled. "As long as we can both shoot back."

  "Okay, then."

  "I believe you need a little pick-me-up," she said, fingers returning to the buttons she'd left fastened.

  "Pick-me-up, or lay-me-out?" he asked.

  "Your pleasure."

  "Then, I'll race you."

  It was close, but J.D. shed the last bit of his clothing seconds before Kate. "Not fair," she said. "I wear more underneath."

  "Feel free to do without it, any time."

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  Taking her in, in all her naked glory, J.D. said, "Yes, ma'am."

  She stepped into his arms and raised her face to kiss him, while their hands explored each other slowly, knowingly. Kate gasped and said, "Not fair" again, as J.D.'s fingers entered her, teasing, probing.

  "My turn."

  She knelt before him, took his member in her mouth, and started rocking on her haunches, while her head bobbed back and forth. J.D. endured as much as he could stand without erupting, then stepped back and drew Kate to her feet, turning her toward the footboard of their bed.

  "Oh, my," she said, bent forward from the waist, feet spread, her sex and derriere presented for inspection. "You know how to make a girl feel helpless."

  "Just the way I want you," J.D. told her.

  Dropping to one knee, he kissed Kate's nether lips and ran his tongue along their sweet divide. She shivered, made a little mewling sound, and thrust her buttocks back against his face. Encouraged, J.D. let his tongue probe deeper, delving, tasting her, eliciting more audible expressions of delight.

  "Right there," she said, hips squirming. "That's the spot."

  He concentrated, alternately flicking her and lapping, like a cat drinking a bowl of cream. Her taste, aroma, and the sounds she made kept J.D.'s cock as rigid as a copper's billy club. She groped around for him, but he was too far out of reach in the position where he kept her, both hands locked around her hips.

  At last, his oral ministrations did the trick. He felt Kate shivering, unable to contain the pent-up energy that radiated from her loins. She stood on tiptoe, every muscle in her body taut, and clutched the bed's quilt to her as she moaned, "Coming! Oh, God! Right there!"

  He gave her five more seconds, then stood up, hearing a gasp of disappointment just before he plunged his tumid cock into her wet, warm depths as deep as he could go.

  "Oh, God!" Kate cried, then clapped a hand over her mouth reflexively, to muffle any further sounds that might escape in her delirium of pleasure. J.D. rode her like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, clinging to the ripe swell of her hips so that she couldn't throw him off. Her back glistened with perspiration, and J.D. felt more upon his chest, although it wasn't hot inside the hotel room, except where he was joined with Kate.

  She came a second time, the muting hand forgotten as she cried, "Jesus! Oh, yes!"

  J.D., on cue, began to pump more energetically and swiftly, whipping himself toward his own powerful climax, slumping over her in near exhaustion as he spent.

  "Can't...breathe," Kate gasped, beneath him.

  "Sorry."

  He'd forgotten she was bent over the bed's footboard, his weight too much when piled on top of hers. Retreating, J.D. ducked, lifted Kate in his arms, and placed her gently on the quilted bed. He rolled across and lay beside her, one arm thrown across her rib cage, bodies touching from shoulders to ankles.

  "I like surprises," she said, when she had her voice back.

  "You had that one coming," said J.D.

  "You had me coming," she replied, and giggled.

  "Least that I could do."

  "Was it? I wonder who'd survive your best."

  "No one but you will ever have a chance to see."

  "Good answer, husband."

  "I thought so."

  "Because you know what happens if your not-so-little doggie strays."

  "I hate to even think about it," J.D. said, still smiling.

  "Don't. Just stay right on the straight and narrow, darlin'."

  "What choice do I have?" he asked.

  "I'd call it slim to none."

  When they had lain together for a time, and the afterglow began to fade, Kate asked him, "What about Provo?"

  "I'd start asking around for Mr. Spendlove, whoever in hell he is, and go from there."

  "And if nobody's ever heard of him?"

  "Try, try again."

  "It could be dangerous."

  "That's why they pay us," J.D. said.

  "But if we're up against those Danites t
hat we talked about—"

  "That was a maybe situation, Kate."

  "But if we are, that means they're organized and think they're doing God's work. Worse, since nearly everybody in the state is Mormon, they'll have tons of friends."

  "Not necessarily," J.D. replied. "The church has changed some, since the old days. It gave up polygamy, for instance, and a lot of them don't care for blood atonement."

  "What?"

  "The doctrine that a sinner being executed only finds his way to Heaven if his blood's spilled."

  "Thanks for sharing."

  "And the Danites won't have such a following as thirty, forty years ago. That's even if they're still around."

  "I don't need soft-soap, lover. If we're walking into trouble, don't put sugar on it."

  "Riding," he corrected her.

  "How's that?"

  "We're riding, on the Virginia and Truckee Railroad. Which leaves at eight o'clock tomorrow."

  "Meaning we should get some sleep," she said.

  "Meaning exactly that," J.D. replied, gathering Kate into his arms.

  Chapter 7

  Kate and J.D. ate an early breakfast, steak and eggs, before they fetched their horses from the livery and walked them to the railroad depot. There, they supervised the careful loading of their animals aboard a stock car, making sure the stalls were clean, the ventilation adequate. Their tack and saddles would be riding with the horses, while a hostler on the railroad's payroll oversaw the animals in transit, tending to their needs.

  The run from Carson City, east to Provo, spanned four hundred and thirty-odd miles by rail, over desert and mountains. At top speed for the Virginia and Truckee line's locomotive, they could have arrived in about six hours, but the train had scheduled stops in seven other towns before it reached their final destination. Figure thirty minutes at each depot on the way, with no other mishaps, and they'd be lucky if they made Provo by suppertime.

  It still beat traveling on horseback, though, a ride that would have taken them ten days, at least, including passage through the Schell Creek Range and across the Great Salt Lake Desert. Those two obstacles had stopped many a wagon train, or forced them to divert their course, before iron rails made travel through the wasteland more or less routine.

  Their train had nine cars altogether, not counting the locomotive with its tender and the tagalong caboose. Besides the stock car, there were four for passengers, a dining car, and three boxcars for merchandise. J.D. and Kate chose one midway between the dining car and stock car, staking out two seats that shared a window on the world outside.