Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels

by Stephen Mertz

  One of Manwaring's eyebrows turned into a question mark, the other staying in its normal place. "We're speaking off the record, then?"

  Whatever that means, J.D. thought. And said, "Correct."

  "Well, ask away, in that case."

  Kate repeated what they'd told the barber, J.D. watching while Manwaring crossed his arms, then frowned and looked up at the ceiling. "Spendlove. Spendlove," he repeated. "No. The surname is well known, of course, but a specific Spendlove, here in Provo? No." He shook his head, and then repeated, "Sorry. No."

  "We'll quit wasting your time, then," J.D. said.

  "No problem." As they turned to leave, Manwaring gave it one more try. "Are you absolutely sure I can't convince you—"

  "Not today," Kate said, already passing through the doorway with its small bell chiming.

  "So, what's next?" J.D. inquired.

  Kate nodded toward a bank across the street. "Someone with spare money to throw around might keep it under lock and key."

  "In my experience, bankers don't generally gossip about customers."

  "Not gossip," Kate replied. "We only need an address. Maybe, if we paint it as a business opportunity..."

  "Oh well, why not," J.D. agreed. "The worst that they can do is throw us out."

  The banker's name was Fluett Stoddard, and he wasn't quite that rude, but neither would he say whether or not his bank had any customers named Spendlove. "It's a matter of their trust, you understand," he said. "Their privacy."

  "We're not after financial information," J.D. told him. "Just an address."

  "And perhaps if you were from some law enforcement agency..."

  "We have a deputy assigned to follow us around," Kate said. "Does that help?"

  Stoddard craned his neck and frowned, seeing their porky escort near the bank's entrance. "Alas, no, I'm afraid. But if the marshal's helping you—"

  "I wouldn't stretch it that far," J.D. said. "Thanks for your time."

  "Thanks for nothing," Kate said, when they were outside and out of earshot.

  "Where next?"

  "The livery," she said. "Check on our animals, and have a chin-wag with the hostler. Maybe Spendlove likes to ride from time to time."

  * * *

  Jack McCarthy wished the fat cop wasn't following his targets everywhere they went, but he could work with that. Two dead or three, it didn't matter to him, just as long as he got paid and saw the last of Utah for a while. Next time somebody tried to hire him, muttering about religion, he'd think twice about it. Maybe turn the job down flat—or, at the very last, double his price.

  But he still owed Abriel Hamblin two dead bodies, and he meant to get it done.

  McCarthy carried three pistols: a Smith & Wesson Model 3 tied low on his right side; a Colt New Line revolver in a shoulder holster, underneath his left armpit; and a Remington double-barreled derringer in his right-hand vest pocket. That gave him fourteen shots without reloading, and McCarthy hadn't seen a day when two marked targets—much less one of them a woman, for God's sake—could stand against that kind of fire.

  Now, all he had to do was pick the time and place.

  McCarthy watched them leave the bank and wander east along the main drag through downtown. He let the couple and their skulker have a good lead, then joined the parade a hundred yards or so behind his marks, glad that he didn't have to wear the parson's garb favored by his Danite employers. What he'd heard of them before they reached out to him, it surprised McCarthy that they'd hire their killing done, but it was clear to him that they were more concerned about their so-called Brotherhood than his well-being.

  Say it plain: he was expendable.

  No problem there. In fact, it was the story of his life. The eighth of eight kids on a poor, hard-scrabble Massachusetts farm; a young recruit in Union blue, thrown into front-line action as a piece of cannon fodder; now a gun for hire, whose only value to the highest bidder was performance on demand.

  The men who'd hired him this time would get what they paid for.

  And so far, they'd paid him well.

  * * *

  "Spendlove?" The hostler's face was twisted up, like Kate had posed her question in a foreign language. "No, ma'am. Got nobody by that name with horses stabled here."

  "Nor dropping by from time to time, renting a buggy? Anything like that?" J.D. inquired.

  "No, sir. I'd have remembered that."

  "And you aren't new here?"

  "Goin' on my seventh year in charge. Afore that, I was stable boy to old Boydell Williams. He passed away in—"

  "No Spendloves in all that time," Kate said.

  "No, ma'am."

  "But everywhere we go in town, people keep saying it's a common name."

  "Could be," the hostler said, nodding. "I won't dispute it. Just don't know any, myself."

  Kate stroked her Palomino mare and told J.D., "I guess we're done, here."

  "Right. What say we make the rounds of hotels, next?"

  "Suits me. Our shadow needs more exercise."

  "You're wicked."

  "It's been said," she granted, smiling.

  It was getting on toward ten o'clock, too early for a lunch break yet, and in the absence of saloons, liquid refreshment was elusive. J.D. squinted into bright sun as they left the livery, spotting their deputy off to the left, slouching against a shop's wall, puffing on a quirley. He pretended to ignore them as they exited, and J.D. made a point of doing likewise while he scanned the street.

  Besides the Seagull's Rest, where they'd already posed their questions, he could see two more hotels, the Nazareth and Helam House. "You want to flip a coin?" he asked Kate.

  "I'm fresh out. The Nazareth is closer. Let's start there."

  They let a freight wagon pass by, then left the wooden sidewalk, angling catty-corner toward the Nazareth Hotel. Halfway across, J.D. caught sudden movement from the corner of his left eye, pivoting in that direction, just in time to see a stranger with a pistol raised, its muzzle smoking.

  "Kate!"

  Instead of reaching for her this time, J.D. drew his Colt, preparing to return fire as the shooter's bullet passed him with an inch or two to spare. Too close for comfort, definitely, and he had to glance at Kate, then, risking everything until he verified that she was on her feet and whipping out her own pistol.

  Somehow, the deputy who looked as if he couldn't find his gunbelt underneath the gut he carried got there first, winging a shot at their assailant on the move. The shooter seemed to weigh his options for a fraction of a heartbeat, then swung toward the lawman, scarcely aiming as he fanned a quick shot from the hip.

  It should have missed, but didn't. J.D. heard the bullet slap on impact, saw the deputy break stride and tumble to his knees, left hand outflung to keep him from collapsing on his face. He still had the revolver in his right hand, fired it once more as he crumpled, but his shot went high and wide, smashing the window of some shop a block down range. A woman screamed, somewhere around the point of impact, and J.D. saw shoppers scattering for cover, clearing sidewalks to his left and right.

  He fired too quickly at the gunman, knew it was a wasted shot before he saw the puff of dust between his target's boots. Kate got a shot off next, rippling the shooter's left coat sleeve, and then another round came their way, making Kate and J.D. hit the dirt together, minimizing their exposure to incoming fire. From there, they both rolled out in opposite directions, forcing their attacker to decide which one of them he wanted more, giving the other one a fighting chance to bring him down.

  Except, he didn't play the game.

  He cut and ran, instead.

  "Damn it!" J.D. got off a parting shot but couldn't tell if it went home or not. If he had scored a hit, it didn't slow the runner down.

  "This shit again!" Kate spat, and bolted to her feet, racing in hot pursuit. "Come on, Jehoram! Shake a leg!"

  Chapter 11

  Jack McCarthy didn't mind the odds at two-to-one, but he was mad as hell about the clean shots he h
ad missed. It wasn't what he'd call professional, and that was vitally important for a hired gun's reputation in the West—or anywhere, for that matter. Still, it would be all right if he could drop the two marks who were chasing him and make it look like something he had planned out in advance.

  And if they killed him...well, it wouldn't matter, either way.

  There were no paydays in the bone yard, and a reputation didn't count for naught.

  He made the wooden sidewalk on the north side of the street and hunched his shoulders as a bullet smacked the wall beside him, spraying paint chips and splinters. An alley yawned ahead, and three more loping strides let him duck into it, stopping at once to fire a wild delaying shot at his pursuers. Without waiting to determine whether either of them fell, unlikely in his haste, McCarthy turned and ran again.

  Two rounds left in the Smith & Wesson, and he couldn't very well reload. Instead, McCarthy reached under his jacket with his left hand, awkward but still doable, and snagged the Colt New Line out of its shoulder rig, switching it to his right hand, while the Smith & Wesson filled his left.

  There was nothing to the alley, fifty feet or less of sand and gravel underfoot. He cleared it quickly, ducked off to his right, and froze again, waiting and listening. He'd hear his enemies approaching, whether they charged blindly down the path or tried to sneak it, being quiet. From the spot he'd chosen, he could lean around the corner, maybe dropping one or both of them before they had a chance to answer back.

  And damn, McCarthy wished he'd brought a shotgun.

  That would finish it, and no mistake, but walking down the thoroughfare with a twelve-gauge was bound to draw attention, since he hadn't brought a duster to conceal it. No, he'd have to make do with his pistols, and they'd never let him down so far.

  A minute passed, and he was getting antsy when he heard the first footfall on gravel, at the far end of the alley. They were smart enough to keep their mouths shut as they stalked him, but it wouldn't save them now.

  McCarthy let them close the gap from fifty feet to forty, thirty-five, coming within prime pistol-fighting range at twenty, thereabouts. Some shooters—most, in fact—were shaky even at that range, but he could nail a fast-draw bull's-eye eight times out of ten on his worst day.

  The question now: was this one of those days?

  McCarthy was about to spring from hiding when the footsteps stopped. He caught himself, already stepping forward with his pistols leveled, frozen in his tracks.

  What were they up to now?

  Caution was one thing, but if they suspected he was standing by to ambush them, would they attempt to wait him out? More deputies would be arriving soon, anxious to even up the score for their fat friend, and while McCarthy had stood fast in wartime, watching hundreds charge him with their bayonets, he didn't plan on doing that today.

  Screw it, he though. And made his move.

  * * *

  It had been Kate who signaled J.D. to slow down, then halt, soon after entering the alley. Stricken with a sense of déjà vu, she thought about the chase in Reno, with the unnamed man who'd tried to kill them there, and knew another trap might well be waiting for them just ahead, the latest shooter hoping they would blunder into it.

  Instead of speaking, even in a whisper, Kate directed J.D. to the far side of the alley with a gesture. "Far" was relative, in his case, barely ten feet distant, but he got the message, flattening himself against the wall there, waiting while she did the same, then inching on toward daylight at the alley's exit, planting one slow, nearly silent step after another.

  Nearly silent was the problem, since the mix of sand and gravel underneath their boots was never meant to offer quiet passage through the alley. J.D. knew their would-be killer likely wasn't deaf, and anyone with normal hearing could be tracking them right now. He only had to wait and bide his time, then—

  J.D. noticed that he hadn't cocked his Colt after the last shot he had fired. It was an oversight, and he corrected it, but cautiously, easing the single-action hammer back as delicately as he could, still wincing when it clicked back into place, ready to fire. He felt Kate's eyes upon him, only for a moment—maybe angry, maybe disappointed—but he didn't face her, concentrating on the gash of sunlight dead ahead of them.

  And if the shooter wasn't waiting there to ambush them? What then?

  They would have granted him the time he needed to escape, sprint off to east or west behind the shops facing Main Street and find himself a place to hide. J.D. would recognize the gunman if they met again, but getting Marshal Allred to begin a search was problematic. Even with one of his own men dead or wounded, J.D. reckoned Allred would be happier to lock two nosy strangers up than beat the bushes for a vanishing assassin.

  And their guns had both been fired now. If the marshal put his mind to it, he might convince a local judge and jury that J.D. or Kate—maybe the two of them, in concert—were responsible for gunning down his deputy. There had been witnesses, of course, but at the moment, J.D. didn't feel like trusting any Provo locals with his life, or Kate's.

  So, if they couldn't find the shooter—

  "There!" Kate snapped, already ducking, diving toward the ground, as J.D. saw a blur of movement up ahead.

  * * *

  Jack McCarthy's patience was exhausted. Waiting was the hardest work he did on any killing job, though he'd grown used to it during his army days, before he had been old enough to buy a legal drink. Patience was something learned and cultivated, but it ran against his grain. Given a choice, he would take action every time, and damn the odds.

  Like now.

  The day was hot, and he was sweating through his clothes. Nerves played a part in that, though no one watching him would see a tremor in his hands. McCarthy had a mental trick, imagining himself with roots extending from his boot soles, down a mile or so into the earth. He was immovable, unshakable, until a switch tripped in his head and he propelled himself into explosive, lethal motion. When he stood his ground, based on experience, he knew that blades and bullets might open his flesh, but he could still fight back, still drop his enemies.

  The creeping footsteps had advanced, too slowly for his liking as he stood out in the open, half expecting deputies to close around him from the town's side streets, but he was almost ready. Five or six more feet, by his best estimate, and he would have the targets in his sights. He'd settle it the way he should have done before, without the damned theatricality of cranking up the Gatling gun.

  Danites.

  He scowled, leaned slightly forward, like a cougar poised to spring upon its prey. Another second, maybe two, and—

  Now!

  It only took one step, a pivot on the boot heel he kept firmly planted, and McCarthy swung his pistols into line. He heard the woman's cry of "There!" and then his marks were dropping facedown in the alley's shadows, like a move rehearsed, the muzzle flashes of their pistols winking at him, gunshots battering McCarthy's ears.

  He felt the first slug hit him, low and to the left, maybe an inch about his gunbelt. One of them did better with the second, drilled him near the midline of his torso, clipped something inside McCarthy that began a gushing flood. He staggered, deep-down roots deserting him, and tried to spray his killers with a blaze of rapid fire, but cocking either of his pistols suddenly became a problem, no communication happening between his brain and thumbs.

  McCarthy felt his legs fold, dropped his Smith & Wesson while his left hand found the nearby wall, supporting him. Cursing a blue streak, using up the last ounce of his strength, he raised the lighter Colt and aimed it at the woman's face. At least he would take one of—

  Two more shots drilled Jack McCarthy's chest and slammed him over backwards. His last shot was wasted on a clear blue sky.

  * * *

  "Too close for comfort," J.D. said, when he was on his feet again.

  "We need to hurry," Kate advised, already moving toward the man they'd taken down. "Before the marshal and his men show up."

  "He's dead, Kate."


  "Doesn't mean he still can't tell us something."

  By the time J.D. had reached the corpse, Kate was already rifling the dead man's pockets, starting with the jacket spread around him like a pair of crumpled wings. J.D. began patting the trouser pockets, felt a folding knife and left it where it was. A wad of something in another pocket proved to be a couple hundred dollars in greenbacks, secured with a silver money clip. J.D. returned it and began to feel along the shooter's legs, unsettled by the way they quivered underneath his hands.

  "What are we looking for?" he asked.

  "I'm not exactly—" Kate stopped short, then spun to face him. "Maybe this."

  She held a piece of paper in her hands, bloodstained around one corner, and unfolded it. "Looks like directions," she told J.D. "And a hand-drawn map."

  "Leading to what?"

  "See for yourself," she said, and handed him the paper, rising to her feet.

  The message read: "Ten mi. N by NW." The map below those curt directions, crudely drawn, featured a square box labeled "Provo" at the bottom and an arrow angling upward from it, canted slightly to the left, a rough approximation of northwest. The arrow paralleled, then crossed, a squiggly line marked "PR," which J.D. assumed must be the Provo River. Some distance beyond that crossing, the mapmaker had inscribed a circle with a dollar sign inside it.

  "Telling this one where to come and get his pay," J.D. said.

  "Looks that way to me, husband."

  "Where someone should be waiting for him."

  "More than likely."

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  "Maybe we should go collect it for him? Ask some questions while we're at it?"

  J.D. smiled. "You read my mind."

  "I've had some practice," Kate replied. "But first—"

  Down at the far end of the alley, Marshal Allred bawled at them, "Lay down them guns and step away from 'em!"

  Allred had three deputies behind him, all with rifles shouldered, sighting on J.D. and Kate.

  "We'd better play along," she said, stooping to set her pistol near the dead man's feet.

  J.D. did likewise, back turned long enough for him to slip the folded map inside a shirt pocket, beneath his vest, before he straightened up to face the law. Allred was closing on them, red-faced, while his men fanned out as far as possible to either side, in case they had to fire around their boss.