Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels

by Stephen Mertz

  The train rolled out at 9 a.m. precisely, gathering momentum as they cleared the heart of Carson City and proceeded eastward, trailing soot and cinders from its smokestack. There'd been nothing in the morning paper about Isaac Grantham's death, which had surprised J.D., and while he felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Grantham's body undiscovered, he'd had enough of talking to police for the time being, trusting Hiram Koch's brief note to keep them out of Dutch. Better, he thought, for them to be long miles away when the discovery was made, with nothing to connect them to the crime.

  "It's eating at you," Kate said, when Nevada's capital was miles behind them. "I can tell."

  "It rankles," J.D. granted. "But I know Isaac would understand."

  "We may yet have a chance to pay his killers back."

  Their car was nearly empty, two women with the look of schoolmarms seated toward the front, another woman with a small boy halfway back, but they still kept their voices down, letting the rattle of the rails defeat eavesdroppers. They'd discussed security aboard the train, deciding it would be enough to watch each other's back, keeping their weapons handy, dozing off by turns if either slept at all. Beyond that, they would check their animals at every stop, make sure that nothing was awry, and feed on sandwiches selected from the dining car.

  Simple.

  There was no reason to expect a raid against the train. A coach was one thing, ambushed in the middle of a godforsaken desert, but it took more nerve, more planning, and more men to storm a train in transit. Even if successful, that would draw railroad police and Pinkertons into the case, on top of local lawmen, and would court attention from the press. So far, the stagecoach massacre was being treated as an aberration, and J.D. guessed that the killers hoped it would remain that way, forgotten when enough time passed without suspects being identified. He had no interest in helping out the law, per se, but meant to keep his deal with Hiram Koch and drag those killers out into the light by any means required. Killing his friend in Carson City, coupled with the clumsy bid against himself and Kate in Reno, made it personal.

  A serious mistake for all concerned.

  "A penny for your thoughts," Kate said.

  "You wouldn't get your money's worth," J.D. replied.

  She tapped his temple with a fingernail. "There's something going on in there. I hear the cogwheels turning."

  "I'm just counting bodies, hon. We're up to ten, so far, all over papers."

  "Someone wants them bad enough to kill whoever's in the way, along with anyone who might identify them."

  "So, I guess we're next?"

  "Wouldn't surprise me. And you know what, babe?"

  "What's that?"

  Kate smiled and said, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

  * * *

  Jacari Snow wished that he had approval to eliminate the snoops, but he could not pretend his orders had been vague or difficult to understand. He was supposed to watch them, nothing more, which guaranteed a long and boring trip from Carson City back to Provo. Going home felt good, but he was still nagged by a sense of leaving work undone.

  Somewhere along the line, Mr. and Mrs. Blaze would have to die.

  He understood why murder on the train was ill advised. Suspects were limited to ticket-holding passengers and members of the railroad crew, with nowhere he could hide on board. If he was caught—when he was caught—the law would likely work out why he'd done it, even if he lied or kept his mouth shut tight until he reached the gallows. Hasty action threatened every member of the brotherhood, and that was unacceptable.

  Snow had bought his ticket half an hour before the train's departure, only after he confirmed the targets would be riding with him, watching as they stowed their horses in the stock car. Thankfully, the train was nowhere close to being fully booked, so tickets had been plentiful. He had brushed past his adversaries in the dining car, an hour out of Carson City, when they went for coffee and a piece of crumb cake, and neither of them struck him as especially impressive. Still, they had eliminated Brother Dalyn, which put Snow on his guard.

  What bothered Snow the most was being kept in ignorance. He knew they were protecting something vital to the faith he served, but didn't have even a vague idea of what that something was, whether it had been stolen or discovered accidentally, by whom, or where. If Brother Abriel decreed the object was worth killing for, that settled any doubt in Snow's mind, but his curiosity still nagged at him around the clock.

  If he was part of Something Big, whatever that might be, his mind craved details that had so far been withheld. Asking would get him nowhere, but if he was watchful and applied himself...

  He started with a backwards-facing seat in the car next to the one his targets chose, where he could stand and stretch from time to time, using the simple exercise to see if they were talking, sleeping, or whatever. It would be too risky sharing cars, much less trying to sit where he could overhear their conversation, but this way, at least he could keep track of them. They'd passed him once so far, another visit to the dining car, but that time Snow was slouched down in his seat, pretending he was fast asleep under his wide-brimmed, high-domed hat. When they returned with sandwiches and beer, he caught part of a passing comment from the woman, with a name he didn't recognize—sounded like "duck"—and something about taking money to the bank.

  That was the trouble, when it came to using mercenaries. All they really wanted was a payoff, caring nothing for ideals. In his opinion, they fell short beside soldiers committed to a cause.

  But, on the other hand, these two had already put Brother Dalyn in the ground.

  Snow would have to watch his step around them, and be ready if word came through to put them down.

  * * *

  "Have you noticed how the towns all start to look alike?"

  "I was about to say that very thing," J.D. replied.

  "Liar."

  "Well, I was thinking it."

  And Kate was right. Salt Wells looked very much like Eastgate, which resembled Austin, and Eureka after that. Each one consisted of a main street lined with dusty-looking shops, sometimes a courthouse, church, or school—rarely all three together in one place, unless the town happened to be a county seat. Desert communities, as J.D. knew from personal experience, tended to grow around a waterhole, for starters. Someone had the bright idea that pilgrims passing through would stop, refresh themselves, and leave some of their cash behind. Coaches came next, and finally the railroads. If the water source was bountiful enough for irrigation, farming might begin. It wouldn't take long after that for whores, gamblers and whisky-peddlers to arrive, which meant, in turn, that law would be required.

  If there was ore nearby, a town might boom. Others went bust, dried up and blew away, scattering losers to the wind like tumbleweeds. Next time, they'd think, we're bound to get it right.

  The stops in each successive town were timed for travelers to board or leave the train, and give the ones continuing a chance to stretch their legs on solid ground. J.D. and Kate checked on their horses without fail, talked to the hostler, taking him a beer one time to stay on his good side, and found no evidence of anyone lurking around the animals.

  "Seems like we're clear," Kate said, as they were pulling out of Ely for a long haul to the Utah border, over mountains.

  J.D. had his doubts, but said, "I hope you're right."

  "How could they be expecting us in Provo?"

  "That depends on whether anyone's been watching us, or whether Hiram Koch is on the up-and-up."

  "You doubt him?"

  "Let's just say the only one I absolutely trust right now is you."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  "Was there any doubt?"

  "You think he'd wire ahead and tell someone we're coming?"

  "I can't see why he would, but there's a depth to this I haven't worked out yet."

  "Well, let me know when you hit bottom."

  "That's a promise."

  The mountains were a change of pace, as far as scenery. From ari
d, sun-baked flats with nothing much to show but Joshua trees and cactus, they were climbing steeply now, losing velocity, flanked by a world of evergreens and granite, cresting near eight thousand feet before its slow descent to more desert around the Great Salt Lake.

  The latter was a kind of inland sea, sprawling over some seventeen hundred square miles, its water too salty to drink or support any life besides brine shrimp and algae. Ironically, a couple dozen breeds of birds flocked to the lake, eating their fill of shrimp and surface muck before they migrated to other, more hospitable locales, and hunters lurked among the reeds to blast them from the sky.

  J.D. had never been a hunter, never saw the "sport" in killing helpless animals, although he'd stalked his share of men with bounties on their heads. On the odd occasion, far from any town and caught short on supplies, he'd bagged a deer or rabbit for the cooking pot, but it had never struck him as a leisure time activity.

  Once men had tried to take his life, and he'd killed them, the "fun" bled out of it.

  Today, gun work was just another job. J.D. was good at it, it didn't haunt his dreams, but he would no more seek an opportunity to kill something, just for the pleasure or it, than he'd walk around a city, kicking children in the streets.

  Although, when he remembered some kids he had met along he way...

  "What's funny?" Kate inquired.

  "Just daydreaming," he said. "Believe I'll get some shuteye now, if that's okay."

  "Be careful, if you dream of anyone but me."

  Already drifting, J.D. answered honestly, "It never crossed my mind."

  Chapter 8

  The train pulled into Provo more or less on time, brakes squealing as it shuddered to a halt. A crowd was waiting on the platform, some with luggage for a trip to come, others watching for specific disembarking passengers. No one expected Kate and J.D. in the state's third-largest city, as far as they knew, but they still scanned the faces assembled there, looking for someone who paid too much undue attention.

  Satisfied as they could be, they walked down to the stock car and retrieved their horses, saddled them to keep from lugging too much gear by hand, and left the depot in the fading light of dusk to find a hotel and a livery.

  Their first stop was the Seagull's Rest, a name that baffled Kate until J.D. filled in the legend of the first crop raised by Mormon migrants, back in 1848. According to mythology, a swarm of locusts had descended right at harvest time, and was about to raze the crops required by settlers to survive the coming winter, when suddenly, great flocks of gulls had appeared, hundreds of miles from any water but the Great Salt Lake, and had devoured all the ravenous insects. Mormons believed it was a miracle, the misplaced birds a gift from God.

  "You buy that?" Kate inquired.

  J.D. shrugged. "Stranger things have happened. Once, I saw two grizzly bears—"

  "Oh, Lord! The bears again."

  "All right, then. I'm just saying."

  A room facing Main Street booked for two dollars a night, but they saved half of that by forsaking the view. It wasn't much, in any case, just shops and restaurants, some offices, with no sign of saloons.

  "Where do you get a drink around this place?" Kate asked, when they had dropped their saddlebags upstairs and started with their horses toward the livery.

  "You don't," J.D. replied, "unless you know a bootlegger. Mormons are down on any kind of alcohol. From what I hear, they aren't that fond of coffee, either."

  Kate, shaking her head, said, "Now I know why I've avoided Utah."

  "When in Rome..."

  "They serve you wine, at least."

  "You've been there?"

  "I can read, babe."

  At the livery, they spent another dollar each to board their animals and told the man in charge they weren't sure how long they'd be staying. It was near full dark when they emerged, and J.D. heard his stomach rumbling.

  "Guess we'd better feed that beast," Kate said.

  "Mind of its own," he said. "Train sandwiches don't stick."

  "Even as many as you ate?"

  "Hey, I'm a growing boy."

  "I'll let you prove that later," Kate replied.

  The restaurant they chose was Cezoram's, according to the sign out front. It did a lively supper business, but the waitress found a table for them near a window facing on the street, where they could watch lamplighters on their nightly rounds. A menu, written on a chalkboard at the far side of the room, featured six choices, all including beef or chicken, with side servings of potatoes, beans, or corn.

  One platter had it all, and J.D. told Kate, "That's for me. Don't know if it's the mountain air, or what, but I feel like I haven't had a bite in days."

  "We left the mountains miles back," she reminded him.

  "But I was breathing when we passed through them."

  "Uh-huh. I'll have the stew. And look, there's coffee!"

  Heads turned at adjoining tables when her voice rose, causing Kate to blush a bit. J.D. leaned toward her, almost whispering, "Don't rile the locals, hon. At least, until we've had a chance to question some of them."

  "Speaking of that," Kate said, "why don't we start right now?"

  The waitress had returned, peering at them over her notepad with a look of curiosity. When she had jotted down their orders, Kate detained her for another moment, saying, "Can I ask a question?"

  "Sure thing."

  "We're just new in town, you see."

  "It shows," the waitress answered. "Meaning no offense, ma'am."

  "And none taken. We're supposed to meet a man here, but we've never actually seen him, and we only have his last name."

  "Are you sure he'll be expecting you?"

  Good question, J.D. thought, while Kate forged on ahead. "I'm hoping you might recognize his name," she said.

  "And that would be...?"

  "Spendlove."

  The waitress blinked once, not quite looking startled, then replied, "Ma'am, that's a pretty common family name around Utah. I don't know everyone in Provo, mind you, but without a given name or line or work, I couldn't rightly guess who you'd be looking for."

  "All right. Thanks, anyhow."

  "Sorry I couldn't help," the waitress said, and left to place their orders.

  "Did you see that look she gave me, J.D.?"

  "Well..."

  "I think she's hiding something."

  "What? She said it was a common name."

  "Listen, Jehoram Delfonso—"

  "Don't start that again," he warned her. "If we're bound to have a fight, let's finish supper first."

  "I'm telling you, she knows something."

  "And if you're right, we tipped our hand. Before we leave here, word could be all over town."

  "So? It was bound to happen anyway, as soon as we start asking questions in the morning. Am I wrong, or isn't that exactly why we came?"

  "Why not announce it to the whole damn place right now?" he countered. "We could follow anyone who makes a beeline for the door."

  "Now you're just being silly."

  "Says the gal who blew the whistle on our game before we even shook the trail dust off."

  "The 'gal'? Did you say 'gal'?"

  "Oh, Lord."

  "And for your information, there's no trail dust on a train."

  "The soot and cinders, then. Can we not have a spat right here and now? Is that all right with you?"

  "I'll tell you what's all right with me," Kate answered back, but she was interrupted as the waitress brought their meals in something close to record time.

  "Anything else that I can get you?" she inquired.

  "Some better company," Kate muttered.

  "Sorry. I can't help you there. How 'bout some coffee, though?"

  * * *

  "You sure it's them?" the shooter asked.

  "No doubt about it," said Zerin Cole.

  "Okay. No skin off me, regardless. But you answer for it if you've got it wrong, and I mean you, alone."

  "We're wastin' time," the
ir driver said, perched high above them on the Conestoga wagon's box seat.

  "Here we go, then," said the shooter, scrambling up over the tailgate, vanishing beneath the wagon's tarpaulin.

  Cole followed. He had already double-checked the pulley apparatus in the wagon that would let him hoist the right side of the tarp while they were rolling, from inside, without a need to stop and rearrange it. He'd devised the rig himself and wondered if the pride he felt for his achievement was a sin.

  The Gatling gun stood on its tripod, with the round drum magazine on top and fully loaded. It had not been fired since White Pine County, but the mercenary shooter had been over it, checking and oiling all the moving parts, cleaning the barrels to remove traces of wadding, powder, lead—whatever else sustained firing might leave behind to foul the works or interfere with accuracy.

  One more turn, Cole hoped sincerely, and the weapon could go into storage, sitting in a dark warehouse somewhere, until his brothers needed it again.

  God grant that day will never come, he thought. But if it does...

  The plan he'd put together was audacious—some might say outrageous—but he had approval from the top to carry on. Elimination of the nosy Gentiles was a top priority, essential for the preservation of a secret so explosive it could...what? Destroy the church? Not likely, in his estimation, but the scandal would reverberate from coast to coast. It might unseat the church's president, and if that happened, what was next?

  I won't allow it, Cole thought.

  "What's that?" the shooter asked him.

  "Huh?"

  "You mumbled something."

  "Did not," Cole replied, embarrassed by that he might have spoken his most private thoughts aloud.

  "There's nothin' wrong with my ears, buddy."

  "Better get 'em checked, regardless."

  "Have it your way. This is no time for distractions."

  "Don't you worry about me."