Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels

by Stephen Mertz

"I'm not," the shooter said. "My neck's the only one concerns me. And my pay."

  Cole cursed the Gentile missionary in his mind, but he took care not to let the words slip out. Instead, he barked out to their driver, "Go! Not fast, until I tell you."

  Slowly, steadily, the wagon creaked down Main Street, following its harnessed team.

  * * *

  "Good stew?" J.D. asked Kate. Her meal had come with biscuits, and he caught her as she finished dipping one, the lump of baked dough dripping, halfway to her open mouth.

  "Your timing's not the best," she said.

  "I'll try to work on that."

  "Assuming that you get the chance."

  "I live in hope."

  "You're still not on my good side."

  "Babe, I didn't know you had a bad side."

  "More soft-soap."

  "Whatever gets you lathered, darlin'."

  "We can talk about that later. Maybe."

  "Where should we start tomorrow morning?" J.D. asked.

  "The marshal's office?"

  "Maybe not the best idea to get the law involved, right off."

  "Because you think they're Mormon?"

  "Chances are."

  "I never knew you to be prejudiced," Kate said.

  "Because I'm not. But facts are facts. The Mormons run this state, or all of it that counts, at least. They make the rules, on legal paper and behind closed doors. If there are Danites—"

  "If."

  "That's what I said. If there are Danites, they aren't operating on their own. Somebody has to pull the strings. I'd rather start around the grassroots if we can, instead of jumping off a cliff into the deep part of the lake."

  "Salt Lake?" she asked. "I hear a body floats."

  "It it's the same to you, I'd rather not test that."

  "Are you afeared?" she teased.

  "I'd call it being cautious."

  As he spoke, a Conestoga wagon rumbled into view outside, taking its time to pass the restaurant. J.D. was watching it, when suddenly, the near side of its canvas cover flew back, showing him two men inside the wagon's bed, one of them crouched behind a Gatling gun pointed their way.

  "Get down!" he cried, and didn't wait for Kate's response, grabbing her arm and dropping with her to the floor as sudden thunder rocked Cezoram's, shattered glass and woodwork flying in a storm of lethal hail.

  It seemed to last forever, bullets raking back and forth across the restaurant, drilling the walls, upsetting chairs and tables, bodies tumbling pell-mell to the floor. Men cursed and women screamed, some of their voices merely croaking, gargling sounds of death. Blood sprayed the walls and pooled beneath still bodies where they'd fallen.

  In the midst of it, while shielding Kate's slim body with his own, J.D. glanced up and saw their waitress hit. A bullet took her in the back, as she was running toward the kitchen doorway, lifting her and slamming her face-first into the doorjamb. When she dropped, her form seemed boneless, stripped of all vitality.

  Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the firing stopped. J.D. heard a whip crack, someone shouting inarticulately from the street, and when he dared to raise his head, the Conestoga wagon was retreating in a cloud of dust, raised by its team and churning wheels. J.D. considered firing after it, then put it out of mind.

  "Come on," he told Kate, holding out his hand. "We ought to leave, before—"

  "Nobody move!" a loud voice ordered.

  Turning to the door, J.D. saw one of Provo's lawmen standing grim-faced, with a pistol in his hand.

  Chapter 9

  "You're new in town," the city marshal said.

  "We told you that already," Kate replied.

  "Is that coincidence?"

  She smiled and said, "It happens every time that I get off a train, somewhere I've never been before."

  J.D. tried to defuse the situation, asking, "Were there any other new arrivals in the restaurant, Marshal?"

  "I ask the questions here, Mister!"

  "Well, how about a new one, then?" Kate challenged him.

  "I ought to lock you up."

  "For what?" she asked. "Not getting killed?"

  They were seated in the marshal's downtown office, watching while he paced behind a small desk piled with paperwork. The lawman's name was Allred. He was whip-thin, with a close-cut beard, flanked by two burly deputies who stood like bookends, keeping him from roaming too far to the left or right.

  "We've never had an incident like this in Provo. Never! Now, within an hour of you two hitting town, I have five people dead and twice as many wounded. If you're gonna tell me that's an accident—"

  "I'd say you're lucky," J.D. interjected.

  "Come again?"

  "Last time that Gatling gun was used, across the border in Nevada, it killed eight people and four good horses."

  "Are you tellin' me you recognized the gun, while you were down there on the floor?"

  "Call it a hunch," Kate said.

  "You'd best explain that," Allred ordered.

  "We were hired to find the man or men who staged the massacre in White Pine County," J.D. said. He raised a hand, reaching inside his jacket for the business card from Hiram Koch, then froze as Marshal Allred and his deputies slapped hands onto their holstered six-guns.

  "Easy, there," the marshal cautioned.

  "Slow and steady," J.D. countered, drawing out the card and handing it across the desk. "That's our employer. You may be familiar with the stage line."

  "See 'em roll through all the time," Allred replied, after he'd read Koch's note. "Don't mean he carries any weight against the law."

  "Nor should he," J.D. said. "I'm simply showing you we're not some drifters looking for a fight."

  "You found one, though. Looks like a world of trouble followed you to Provo."

  "Think about it, Marshal, and you'll see you've got it backwards," Kate replied.

  "How's that, Missy?"

  "It's Missus," she corrected him. "And if you think about it for a second, you might realize a covered wagon following a train couldn't land in town an hour after we arrived. They'd be a week behind us, more than likely, coming through the mountains."

  "So, you think whoever shot the tar out of Cezoram's restaurant was here already, waiting for you?"

  "Obviously," J.D. said. "Somebody spotted us, most likely at the depot, and they set it up to hit us where they had a decent shot."

  "Unless," Kate added, "you think someone else was the intended target."

  "We'll be lookin' into that," the marshal said.

  "And good luck to you," J.D. said. "You should be looking for the same people they're hunting in Nevada. This makes fourteen folks they've killed."

  "Fourteen we know about," Kate added.

  "I'll admit that I been outa school a while," Allred replied, "but five plus eight still makes thirteen, far as I know."

  The deputies were snickering when J.D. said, "They also killed a man in Carson City. That's—"

  "I know where Carson City is," the marshal interrupted. "Why'd you say they killed this other guy?"

  "We didn't say, but he's the one sold them the Gatling gun," Kate said. "We think they didn't want him telling tales."

  "You think. I'll tell you what I think."

  "Unless we're being charged with something," J.D. cut him off, "why don't you save it, Marshal?"

  Allred's facial color matched his name, now. Leaning on the desk, he said, "I've got nothin' to hold you on, so far. But I don't want you leavin' town until this mess is settled."

  "Suits us fine," Kate said. "We'll start our own investigation, first thing in the morning."

  "And you'll keep your nose out of police business in Provo. Understand?"

  "We hear you, Marshal," J.D. said. "But you won't mind if we keep chasing the Nevada leads, since they're outside your jurisdiction anyway."

  "Just watch your step. 'Cuz we'll be watching you."

  They rose to leave, Kate pausing near the door to ask, "You wouldn't know a man called
Spendlove, would you Marshal?"

  "Know a passel of 'em, now you mention it. The name's right common, among LDS members."

  "So we've been told."

  "You have any particular Spendlove in mind?"

  "Not yet," Kate said.

  J.D. added, "This one was in the market for some kind of documents. He made a deal to buy them from a man named Norval Jolley, out of Reno. Jolley's one of them the Gatling gunner killed in White Pine County, on the coach he ambushed. Now, surprise! The documents are gone."

  "Sounds like some kinda fairy tale," Allred replied, but neither of his deputies were laughing now.

  * * *

  "You missed them? With a Gatling gun?"

  The shooter, Jack McCarthy, wasn't worried. Sure, he was surrounded in a small room by three men, all armed, who might begin unloading on him any minute, but so what? Fear had been burned and blasted out of him at Bull Run, Pea Ridge, Gettysburg, and Chickamauga. In his thirty years he had been shot four times and bayoneted once. He had survived it all, unlike the men who'd tried to kill him—and if this turned out to be his last day breathing, he would take some of the bastards with him, going down.

  "You picked the field of fire," he told the man in charge. "Or, rather, he did." Nodding toward the nervous one, Jacari Snow.

  "Even so. How could you kill five others, while the two we sent you after walk away without a scratch?"

  "It happens. Shootin' up a place of business isn't like a stagecoach, when you've only got so many people and they're all stuck in a box. Scared folks will run around, hop up and down, whatever. They get in the way."

  "So, that's your answer?" Hamblin pressed him. "Other folks got in the way?"

  "Your people called the tune," McCarthy said. "I told 'em, if they wanted a precision job done close-up, I should walk into the place and do the pair of 'em with pistols. This one," with another nod toward Snow, "wouldn't hear of it."

  "Now, Brother Abriel—" Snow began.

  "Quiet!"

  "Yessir."

  "What we have now," Hamblin said, "is a worse problem than we started with. Before, those two were snooping for the stagecoach line and drawing pay for it. They might have given up, in time."

  "It was a bad idea to go in gunning for them, then," McCarthy said. "Not my idea."

  "Nobody likes a failure when he's smug about it," Hamblin said. "My point is, that by missing them, you made it personal. They'll know tonight wasn't some random accident."

  "You think so?" McCarthy smiled. To hell with whether any of them liked him.

  "They'll keep on snooping now, whether they're paid or not, until they find out who's behind it."

  "So?"

  "We need to settle it."

  "That's fine with me. You pay me by the job," McCarthy said.

  Hamblin was nodding now. "That's true. And since you didn't do the job I paid you for tonight, the way I see it, you still owe me one."

  McCarthy could have argued, but he saw no profit in it. He'd feel foolish, claiming that there was a principle involved. Killing for hire depended on a shooter's reputation. He would soon be out of work if Hamblin spread the word he'd welched on an assignment—not to mention all the jobs he'd miss if he were dead.

  Just get it done, McCarthy thought, and get the hell away from all these crazy people.

  "Fine," he said at last, smiling again. "But how about we do it my way, this time?"

  Hamblin thought about it, nodded. "Fine. But make it soon."

  * * *

  "They're onto us, that's obvious," Kate said, pacing their small room at the Seagull's Rest.

  "Whoever 'they' are," J.D. answered.

  "You don't think it's Danites anymore?"

  "I'm still leaning that way, but..."

  "What?"

  "You ever start to think we've bitten off too much to chew?" he asked her.

  "Why? Because the marshal doesn't like us hunting on his patch? That's nothing new."

  "It's not just that."

  "What, then? You think because most everyone in Utah's praying in the same church Sunday mornings, they support this kind of thing?"

  "Of course not. But it stands to reason that they'd stick together, doesn't it? Nobody likes a scandal when it hits too close to home."

  "So, what? We just turn tail and run? Forget they tried to kill us over supper and killed all those dozen others doing it?"

  J.D. seemed to consider it, frowning, his eyes downcast.

  "Jehoram Del—"

  "Stop that! We can't run," he agreed, "but I don't want to drag it out, either. The longer we're tied up in this, the more folks stand to suffer in the crossfire."

  "So, you're only worried about them? Strangers?"

  "Can't say I like the thought of dying much, myself," J.D. replied.

  Kate glared at him. "Well, thanks for that. You're pretty goddamn dense sometimes, you know?"

  "And losing you would likely kill me."

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "Oh, J.D." Kate ceased her restless pacing, came to sit beside him on the hotel bed. "You always say the right thing, even if you take your own sweet time."

  "I try and save the best for last."

  She slipped an arm around him, snuggling close, and said, "We'll make the rounds tomorrow, looking for this Mr. Spendlove."

  "Could be Mrs.," J.D. said.

  "You think so?"

  "No, not really. Mormon men like running things. But I don't want to walk around with blinders on, in case I'm wrong."

  "Okay. We'll look for this Spendlove, whoever he or she may be. If anyone looks skittish, turn up the pressure."

  "Marshal Allred won't like that."

  "Or bribe them. Hiram won't mind paying out a little something extra for his peace of mind."

  "You're on a first name basis with him now?" J.D. inquired.

  "Well, you know. Fellow in a business suit and all."

  "Uh-huh. You're getting tired of boots and trail dust, are you?"

  "Nope. But I enjoy seeing you sweat sometimes."

  "Hmm. I don't suppose...no, never mind."

  "J.D.? What is it?"

  "Nothing. I just wondered if you'd like to see me sweat right now."

  "I'd call that fresh talk, Mister."

  "And I wouldn't argue with you. How about it?"

  "Mmm. Let's see." Her hand crept up his thigh and found him, squeezing lightly. Her eyes widened in mock surprise. "I hope you aren't about to start without me."

  J.D. shivered. Said, "That may depend on what you're doing with your hand."

  "Sorry." She feigned a pout.

  "That wasn't a complaint," he said.

  "Oh, no?"

  "Too many clothes," he told her, rising and beginning to undress.

  "You go ahead. I'll just watch for a minute."

  "Lazy bones."

  "I promise you," Kate said, "I'll catch up when it's time."

  Chapter 10

  Cezoram's restaurant was still a shambles in the morning, even with a crew of workmen laboring all night to put it right. J.D. and Kate considered skipping breakfast, but their stomachs disagreed. They wound up at another place, called Gideon's, that smelled as if the cook might know his way around a stove.

  "Suppose they'll let us in?" Kate asked.

  "Why not?"

  "The last place didn't fare so well, if you recall."

  "Not our fault. If they try to toss us out, I'll file a grievance with our escort."

  They'd found one of Marshal Allred's sullen deputies outside the Seagull's Rest when they emerged. He didn't speak to them or physically acknowledge their existence, but when they were fifty yards or so from the hotel, he fell in step behind them, waddling to keep up.

  "I feel safer already," Kate said. "You suppose he'll watch us eat?"

  "Long as he wasn't watching us last night," J.D. replied, "I'm fine with it."

  "You were a naughty boy."

  "And you loved every minute of it."

/>   "Can't deny it, but I'm starving now. Come on."

  The deputy waited outside, glancing occasionally through the restaurant's front window at them, making sure J.D. and Kate hadn't eluded him by slipping out the back. It seemed to pain him when they waded into ham and eggs, with flapjacks drenched in syrup on the side. They lingered over coffee, planning their itinerary for the day, to let their watchdog cook a little longer in the morning sunlight, then went on about their rounds.

  Their first stop was a barber's shop, since everyone eventually needs a trim. The shop's proprietor was killing time and perked up as they entered, though he took one look at Kate and said, "I don't cut women's hair."

  "No problem," Kate replied. "We're after information."

  "Oh?" Suspicion swept across his face like sudden shade. "Like street directions?"

  "If you know where we can find someone named Spendlove," J.D. said.

  The barber's left eye had acquired a nervous twitch. "Can't say I know the name."

  "You're positive?" Kate pressed.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I've been told the name is fairly common," J.D. offered.

  "Not to me."

  "This Spendlove purchased something valuable," Kate went on. "The man transporting it suffered an injury, and now we're acting in his place. Unfortunately—"

  "Seems that other man would know where to deliver it," the barber said.

  "No doubt," J.D. replied. "But he can't tell us now. He's dead."

  "Bad luck for him, and you. Sorry I can't be any help," the barber said, not sounding sorry in the least.

  They left him peering after them, their escort following, and moved on to the office of a local newspaper, the Provo Clarion. Inside, a man in his mid-twenties, decked out in sleeve garters and an eyeshade, sat behind a desk, writing in pencil on a yellow pad. The backroom clanked and rumbled with the sound of presses turning.

  A tiny bell above the front door warned the scribbler they'd arrived. He rose to greet them, then looked startled as they introduced themselves. "You were the travelers! From last night, at Cezoram's!"

  "Well, we're traveling," J.D. allowed. "And we were there, all right."

  "Jeffren Manwaring, editor and publisher of this newspaper. Have you come for an exclusive interview, by any chance? Because—"

  "No, sir," Kate cut him short. "We have a question for you, on the private side."