by Len Levinson
Lodestone prides itself on being the fastest-growing town in Colorado, but John Stone knows a con game when he sees one. And this is a con the size of the Rockies. The low-down varmints running the scam don’t want to see him meddling—they’d rather see him dead. Stone’s dodging bullets...and getting ready to fight back. Once, John Stone had everything a man could ever want: wealth, position, and a woman who loved him. But that was before the Civil War. Now, he’s lost his fortune: and his fiancée has disappeared. All he has left is his Colt, a picture of Marie, and a mission—to roam the West until he finds the woman he loves.
BOOM TOWN
THE SEARCHER 10
By Len Levinson writing as Josh Edwards
Copyright © 1992, 2016 by Len Levinson
First Smashwords Edition: March 2016
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover image © 2016 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
Chapter One
The rumbling, clanging train roared through a valley carpeted with trees. Far in the distance, the great snow-capped Rocky Mountains lay like jagged teeth against the blue sky. A flock of birds flew past the sun.
John Stone gazed through the window of the railway car. He felt puny, his cares inconsequential. These mountains will be here long after I’m dust in the wind.
He sat on the rear seat of the car, back against the wall, facing men and women dressed in eastern finery, others in the rough garb of the frontier. On the opposite side of the aisle, a brunette’s eyes struck sparks.
A potbellied stove provided heat. Stone wore a fringed buckskin jacket, his old Confederate cavalry hat hanging on the peg above his head. He was six feet four, two hundred forty pounds. The brunette read a book, traveling alone, not more than eighteen.
Women. He opened his shirt pocket, removed a small daguerreotype picture in a silver frame. A teenaged beauty with light hair gazed at him. His imagination filled in blond tresses, blue eyes, rosy cheeks.
They grew up together on neighboring plantations in South Carolina. The last time he saw her was late 1864, shortly before Sherman’s armies devastated the area. When he returned home after the war, she was gone. They said she went west with a Union officer. He’d been searching for her ever since.
No woman ever affected him like she. People said he was crazy. He’d tracked her across the Great Plains, brush country of Texas, Arizona desert where Apaches nearly got his hair.
He’d searched, struggled, wandered from town to town, never enough money, most nights spent under the stars. People sent him on wild goose chases, for their perverse amusement. Others provided well-intentioned wrong information. The life drove him to drink. Nearly killed in a hundred saloon brawls. But at last he had a solid lead.
At Fort Hays, Kansas, picked up her trail. They said she left for San Francisco two weeks before with Derek Canfield the gambler. Now Stone was on his way to California, to hunt her down.
She thought he’d been killed in the war. He’d never stopped loving and needing her. At night his bones cried out for her. Watch out for me, sweetheart. I’m a-comin’ on through.
The train chugged up an incline. The door opened, an outrageous figure in a rumpled filthy white suit appeared: Ray Slipchuck, old stagecoach driver of plains, drunk out of his mind as usual. His pink tongue hung out the side of his mouth, he staggered up the aisle. Passengers cringed, afraid he’d fall on them.
He made his way around the stove, singed his pant leg, remnants of meals on his shirt and tie, a gold chain hung across his stomach. Short, wiry, with a full gray beard, he looked like an aging gopher, but packed a Colt in a low-slung holster. His rusty spur caught the leg of the stove, he tumbled to the floor. Stone grabbed his arm, lifting him as though he were nothing.
“Maybe you should taper off the whiskey, pard. You’re out on your feet.”
“Time I had me some sleep,” Slipchuck said, adjusting the big white cowboy hat on his head.
Stone led him to the bench. Slipchuck fell asleep immediately. They met on a stagecoach in Arizona a few months ago, the wildest old man Stone ever saw. The train slowed as it climbed the steep grade.
Stone’s eyes met the brunette’s. It weren’t for Marie, he’d strike up a conversation. But he’d see Marie soon in San Francisco, didn’t need more complications.
Stone looked out the window at a narrow mountain pass rimmed with pine and fir. Modern trains traveled twenty to forty miles an hour in comfort, faster and safer than horseback, but he missed clean air, the big sky.
The transcontinental railroad was a year and a half old. Immigrants poured into the west, built farms and towns. Cattle rode east, to the stockyards of St. Louis, Chicago and New York. The energy and resources of a nation at war now were diverted to the frontier; excitement, adventure, and wealth everywhere, or at least that’s what many believed.
The train slowed more, as if coming to a stop. Something wrong? Stone couldn’t see anything unusual out the window. Passengers fidgeted. Mechanical difficulty, most probably.
The train came to a sudden halt. Passengers were thrown forward amid shouts and confusion. The far door of the car opened, two men appeared, bandannas covering their faces, guns in hands. “Raise ’em high!”
Stone wore two Colts in crisscrossed gunbelts, slung low and tied down, but they had the drop on him. The outlaws advanced into the car, knuckles white around the butts of their firearms. One, wearing a black bandanna, carried a gunny sack. “Drop yer belongin’s in here, nobody’ll git hurt.”
Red bandanna held his gun on the frightened passengers as black bandanna approached the first eastern dude.
“Empty yer pockets, feller. Ain’t got time to play.”
The man was pale, lips quivering with terror as he thrust his hands into his pockets. Four masked riders galloped past the car, a shot rang out at the front of the train. A third robber, also wearing a red bandanna, entered the car, gun in hand. He reached to the overhead rack, pulled down a suitcase, rummaged through its contents, found a teak box filled with jewels, tossed it into the bag.
Black bandanna moved toward an elderly farmer, who held a few coins in his hand. “All I got,” he said, a note of hope in his voice.
“Toss it in the bag.”
An explosion rent the air, the safe in the mail car had been blasted with explosives. Black bandanna held the bag in front of the brunette. She pointed to the topaz heart brooch on her blouse. “It belonged to my mother.”
Black bandanna tore it away, she screamed, underclothes exposed. Black bandanna threw her purse into the gunny sack.
The next passenger, a hulking man in work clothes, frowned angrily as the outlaws approached.
“Ain’t got all day,” black bandanna said.
“Come git it,” the passenger replied belligerently.
Black bandanna pulled his trigger. The bark of his gunshot reverberated off the walls of the car. The passenger was hurled back, bitter smoke filled the car. He fell to his back, blood gushing from a hole in his chest.
Red bandanna went through the dead man’s pockets as black bandanna held his gunny sack to hands eagerly dropping valuables inside. Green bandanna pulled open the lid of a suitcase. Ins
ide was frilly lady’s underwear. “Who belongs to these?”
“I do,” said the brunette.
The robber looked her up and down, reached out his black-gloved hand, squeezed her shoulder. Her face went pale. The railway car was silent except for booty dropping into the gunny sack.
“Take your hand off me,” the brunette said.
“Make me.”
John Stone stepped into the aisle, wearing his old Confederate cavalry hat. Red bandanna drew his gun on him. “Where you think you’re goin’, asshole?”
“Get away from her.”
Green bandanna lifted his hand from the girl’s shoulder and moved toward Stone. “How’d you like to die today, cowpoke?”
Stone didn’t flinch. The door was thrown open, a stocky man in a black leather vest entered the car, gun in hand. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Feller there’s gittin’ frisky.”
“Finish yer job. We ain’t got all day.”
Black vest wore a black bandanna over his face. He turned toward Stone, who noticed a tiny scar like a scimitar at the corner of his left eye. The outlaw chief pulled Stone’s guns out of their holsters.
“A man needs his guns,” Stone said. “This is injun territory.”
“You’ll git ’em when we’re finished.”
Black bandanna tapped Stone’s pockets, heard the coins. “Out with ’em.”
Stone reached into his pocket and removed nearly a hundred dollars, all his wealth in the world. He let the coins fall into the bag. The robber held it in front of Slipchuck.
“Goddammit,” Slipchuck said bitterly, “first time in me life I ever had dinero, the bastards’re takin’ it away.”
Black bandanna laughed, tossed a twenty-dollar gold eagle back at Slipchuck. “Keep this, Pops.”
Everybody’s gun collected, the last passenger dropped his tinkling coins into the gunny sack. “Let’s get out of here,” black bandanna said.
The robbers filed out of the car. Passengers dropped to the floor to collect their belongings. The dead man stared lifelessly at the ceiling. The brunette buttoned a blouse over her exposed underclothes.
Stone turned toward the window. A group of outlaws rode past, twin chargers pulling a wagon loaded with loot. Their black-vested chief led them toward a mountain trail.
Stone walked out the door, jumped to the ground, saw a stack of guns lying near a car two lengths down. He ran toward it, as other passengers stepped from train platforms. Stone searched through the pile of revolvers and derringers, a small arsenal. At least they left the guns, a decent human gesture considering Shoshonis roamed the area.
He found his Colts and checked the loads as a crowd of passengers gathered around. They searched for their guns; Stone looked down the road where the gang rode. Probably a hideout in the mountains.
“They got the gold shipment!” A short, stout conductor ran toward them. “Killed the guards!”
Stone holstered his guns. “Excuse me,” said a female voice. He turned to the brunette. “Thank you for standing up for me. My name’s Gail Petigru.”
He touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat. “John Stone. Traveling alone?”
“I’m visiting my sister in Lodestone. How about you?”
“I was on my way to San Francisco, but guess I’ll have to stop in Lodestone to raise funds.”
“Do you know anyone in Lodestone?”
“Not a soul.”
“My brother-in-law is a banker. Perhaps he’ll be able to help you.”
Slipchuck joined them, an expression of disgust on his face. “They even took me bloody watch!”
“My partner, Ray Slipchuck,” Stone said, introducing the old historian of the West.
Slipchuck raised his hat. “Whenever I want to find John Stone, I jest look fer the purtiest gal, and thar he is.”
Stone cleared his throat. Slipchuck realized he said the wrong thing again. The engineer walked toward them, wearing a scarred leather apron and billed cap. “Better git movin’,” he said. “Injuns live ’round here.”
Passengers returned to the train. Stone moved Gail Petigru’s baggage to the rear of the car with his. She sat opposite him on an upholstered bench. His long sprawling legs almost touched hers. Slipchuck pulled out the twenty-dollar golden eagle. “Don’t know about you-all,” he said, “but I need a drink.”
He moved unsteadily toward the parlor car, leaving Stone with Gail Petigru. She examined him at close range, weather-beaten features with scars and fresh bruises, dark blond hair, not bad-looking.
The train jerked, Gail fell forward. Stone held her shoulders. The train lurched up the hill. Gail returned to her seat. He had tremendous strength in his hands. “Were you in the war?”
“Long time ago.” He paused. “Where you coming from?”
“Maine. How about you?”
“South Carolina originally.”
“What do you do?”
“A little this, a little that.”
“I just graduated from Bradford College. Did you ever go to college?”
“Long time ago.”
“What’d you study?”
“Don’t remember.”
The train gathered speed. Often he ran into pretty women, but generally remained faithful to Marie. What about this time? Gail Petigru was sweet and innocent. Leave her alone.
“Should be in Lodestone by suppertime,” she said. “Supposed to be an interesting place.”
“Mining town, I understand.”
“Growing by leaps and bounds. Even have their own police department. Where will you live?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Maybe you can stay with my sister and brother-in-law. They’ve got lots of room.”
“They don’t know me, neither do you. For all you know, I’m a worse outlaw than the men who were here.”
“I’m a good judge of people. I know you’re not an outlaw. You’re a southern gentleman. Do you have a profession?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What’s your purpose in life?”
“Looking for somebody.”
The train leveled off. Passengers grumbled about the robbery. “A detachment of soldiers should travel with every train!”
“How long’s your sister been living in Lodestone?” Stone asked Gail.
“Two years. It’s the fastest growing city in Colorado, after Denver. I can’t wait to see it.”
~*~
Slipchuck sat in the parlor car, glass of whiskey in one hand, cheroot in the other. His eyes half-closed, he stared out the window at a mountain peak wreathed in clouds.
All his life he wanted to go to Frisco. They said it had the best whorehouses in the world. Almost there, his trip cut short by a bunch of outlaws, the common man can’t git an even break. Instead I’m a-goin’ to a mining town—high prices, thieves in every shadow, garbage in the streets.
“Aren’t you a friend of the gentleman who stood up to the outlaws?” asked a British accent in a blue suit.
“What’s it to you?”
“Is he a professional gunfighter?”
Slipchuck was drunk, his tongue ran away with him. “He ain’t no perfeshional, but he’s got the fastest hands I ever seen.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Look fer the prettiest gal on the train.”
Stone dozed in his seat, head rolling gently with the motion of the train. Gail Petigru gazed at him. He was mysterious, moody, a lost puppy dog, and something more she didn’t want to think about.
“Sir?”
A man stood over Stone, shaking his shoulder. Stone opened his eyes.
“Are you John Stone? I work for Mr. Tobias Moffitt, an official of this railroad. He’d like to speak with you.”
Stone remembered the special luxury car hitched in front of the caboose. A vice president of the Kansas Pacific traveling to San Francisco with family and friends. “What about?”
“A job.”
Stone unlimbered from the s
eat and put on his hat. He tapped Gail on the knee. “Let’s see what a private car looks like.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. She followed willy-nilly down the aisle, his grip like steel. They passed startled passengers, entered the next car. Passengers stared at them. Slipchuck appeared, on his way back from the bar.
“Where the hell you goin’?” Slipchuck asked, leaning perilously to one side.
Stone placed his arm around Slipchuck’s shoulder. “We’ve got a job.”
The strange procession entered the parlor car, robbery victims glanced at them. Slipchuck tried to act dignified, but tripped over a doctor’s black bag, flew down the aisle, hit the stovepipe, cracked it apart. A pound of black granular soot fell onto his white suit.
The next door led to the private car. Stevenson, the British butler, hit the knocker. A small window in the door opened, two beady eyes appeared. A moment later the door opened. A man in a railroad conductor’s uniform stood at the entrance.
“This way, please.”
Red velvet curtains hung over the windows, walls paneled with mahogany. Well-dressed people sat in an opulent living room. Stevenson stopped before a man with a face like a bulldog. Two large eyes turned down at the corners examined Stone. “Come here.”
Stone walked toward him. “This is Mr. Moffitt,” Stevenson said, “vice president of the Kansas Pacific Railroad.”
Mr. Moffitt hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “Understand you stood up to those outlaws back there. Are you a professional?”
“No, sir.”
“Where’d you get that hat?”
“Long time ago.”
“Still fighting the war?”
“Not me.”
Slipchuck teetered forward, covered with soot. “He ain’t no perfeshional, but you’re a-lookin’ at the man what shot Tod Buckalew!”
Moffitt shrugged. “Who’s Tod Buckalew?”
On the opposite side of the table, a gray-haired man spoke. “Tod Buckalew was a fast gun from Kansas, some say the fastest.”
Moffitt narrowed one eye as he looked up at Stone. “I need a bodyguard between here and Lodestone. I’ll pay ten dollars in cash when the train pulls into the station.”
