by Len Levinson
“That’s enough!” screamed Belle, breaking through the crowd. She fought her way forward and ran between them. “Stop it!”
“Hiding behind a lady’s skirt, Mr. Stone?”
“Step back, Belle,” Stone said. “This is none of your business.”
“He’ll kill you, Johnny! You don’t have a chance! That there’s Randy LaFollette! He’s the fastest gun alive!”
“Somebody get her out of the way,” replied John Stone, “before she gets shot.”
Four miners detached themselves from the ground, grabbed Belle, dragged her back as she tried to bite and kick them. “Let me go! It’s goddamned murder!”
Down the street, Marshal Kincaid sat on a second-floor balcony, boots resting on the rail, puffing his corncob. Ready to draw and fire, he had no doubts about the outcome. His John Stone problem would be over in a minute.
Stone and LaFollette measured each other in the middle of the street. Gail watched from the sidewalk, quivering with amazement and horror. Lumberjacks brawled in the barrooms of Bangor, but nothing like this.
“I’ll let you go first, Johnny Reb,” LaFollette said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Stone grit his teeth and dived his hand toward his Colt. LaFollette saw the crease on Stone’s shoulder, drew his Smith & Wesson, took aim at the massive target, pulled the trigger. A hair before tripping his hammer, Randy LaFollette was struck in the chest by a raging churning cyclone, coughed, his gun fired, the bullet flew over Stone’s head.
John Stone couldn’t believe he was still there. Almost got me. He broke out into a cold sweat. LaFollette staggered to the side, blinded by confusion and pain. He tried to raise his technologically advanced Smith & Wesson, it weighed a ton. How could I lose? His legs gave out and he dropped to his knees. The crowd stared at the widening dark blotch on his purple shirt. Randy LaFollette’s head hung down, blood flowed out his ears, nose, and mouth. He appeared to be bowing before John Stone, as if relinquishing something.
The fastest gun alive fell on his face. All eyes turned to John Stone. Mystified, shaken, but victorious nonetheless, he dropped his gun into his holster.
Belle’s skirts dragged in the mud. “How in hell you do that?”
The crowd gathered around. Mr. Moffitt slapped John Stone on the back. “Good show!”
Gail was paralyzed. A dead man lay in the street, and John Stone shot him before her very eyes! A hand dropped onto her shoulder, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “You all right, missy?” Slipchuck asked, an expression of concern on his weather-beaten features. “Can I take you home? I won’t try nothin’ fancy. You don’t have to worry none ’bout old Slipchuck.”
She didn’t feel very steady. “All right.”
They walked away from the crowd swirling about John Stone. Edgar Faraday, notepad in hand, advanced toward the man who shot Randy LaFollette. “Tell me what you thought when you pulled the trigger?”
Stone felt the world out of kilter. He should be bleeding in the mud right now. Every crazy son of a bitch in the world will try to kill me, to make their reputations. Belle took his arm and led him toward the door. “You’d better lie down, honey. You had a hard night.”
~*~
A group of uniformed deputies sat around the stove in the main room of the marshal’s office.
“Unbelievable,” one of them said.
“Maybe Randy LaFollette wasn’t fast as everybody thought.”
“He looked plenty fast to me. But John Stone was faster.”
They knew the threat John Stone posed. The doorknob turned, Kincaid entered the office, lips set in a grim line. He sauntered toward the table and didn’t bother sitting. “Time to move on, boys. John Stone’s a-gonna be on us like stink on shit.”
“There’s eight of us and only one of him,” Corbelli replied. “Let ’im come.”
“Every lawman and soldier in the territory’ll be here once John Stone starts talkin’. We best clear the hell out. He’s prob’ly wirin’ Fort Logan right now.”
~*~
John Stone lay in the middle of Belle’s bed, arms and legs flung out, eyes closed, alone, all lights extinguished. He tried to calm down. For a moment he’d seen the bowels of hell in Randy LaFollette’s gun. When his Colt fired, he thought it was LaFollette’s Smith & Wesson. He even felt something strike his heart, but the famous gunfighter rocked back on his heels. I don’t know how I beat him, but I did. Maybe I’m the fastest gun alive.
That’s the most dangerous thought you can have. Forget about it. But he couldn’t. Was he unbeatable? Could he walk through the world like a god, because no one could kill him?
He almost beat me. I could be a corpse right now. He felt exhausted. His heart and brain slowed after an unusually long and stressful day. He went slack on the bed, listening to cannons fire at Bloody Sharpsburg.
~*~
Two figures passed through a dark alley littered with garbage. A rat lurking beside a trash barrel watched them pass, twitching his nose. A bad smell came from them.
Jamie carried a tin of coal oil in each hand, Belle dressed like a man in a long coat and cowboy hat. They crossed the street, entered another alley, Jamie muttering and mumbling below his breath, trying to change her mind, she paid no attention to him.
She intended to kill Rebecca Hawkins, nothing would stop her now. The preacher woman went too far. Men killed each other for far less, humiliation kept returning, alternating with fierce hatred for its perpetrator. Dried-out bitch. I’ll teach her to point her finger at me.
They came to the preacher lady’s house, surrounded by a fence. Dead flowers bordered the front porch. Belle nodded to Jamie. He made a griping sound, she responded with a mean face. They glanced around the quiet neighborhood, all lights out. Each took a tin of coal oil and poured it around the wooden base of the house. The night air filled with powerful chemical fumes.
Coal oil splashed onto her boots as she walked along the wall. Belle didn’t falter once. Burn her like bacon in the fire. Jamie appeared around the far end of the house. They moved toward each other, poured final drops of coal oil onto rags they brought with them.
Jamie flicked a match and lit the coal oil at the base of the house. It caught flame and crept slowly around the unpainted wooden shakes. Belle held oil-soaked rags in her hand, Jamie lit them with a match. Belle tossed fire through an open window. They watched tongues of flame creep up the walls of the preacher lady’s house.
~*~
Rebecca Hawkins, naked but for her nail-studded leather belt, knelt on the floor of her room, delirious from lack of food and sleep, her waist a band of festering suppurating pain.
She passed in and out of consciousness. Why have you abandoned me, my Lord? She saw a grotesque monster eating the infant Jesus. Never felt so spiritually bereft, what if it’s all a fairy tale?
A sob escaped her throat. She felt worthless, hopeless, lost. She’d done all the right things in her life. Every day she prayed for at least two hours, fasted every Sabbath, mortified her flesh, denied herself the decent wholesome pleasures of home and hearth in the unceasing pursuit of God’s love. Give me a sign. Otherwise I have no reason to give.
A ribbon of flame danced in front of her. There it is! She reached toward it, her fingertips burned. I dwell within unapproachable fire. She bowed her head and clasped her hands together. “My God,” she uttered, “you’ve shown yourself glorious to me.” Elated, she burst into tears of joy. Dancing flames encircled her, something crashed, sparks sprayed into the air. She coughed, floor hot, tiny whirls of smoke creeping through cracks between boards. I’m coming, Lord.
A lick of flame seared her cheek. Another set fire to her hair. Pain needles dug into her skull. She leapt to her feet and screamed, “This is Hell!” Sheets of flame ran up the walls, her eyebrows scorched, air torrid in her lungs as she tried to breathe. She staggered from side to side. A glimmer of something terrible came to her mind. Judge not that ye be not judged, for as ye judge, so shall ye be judged. Smoke and he
at overcame the preacher lady, she fell to the floor, her skin crackled and spattered, she’d never point that finger again.
~*~
Belle and Jamie ran across a deserted street. Behind them, fire reached toward the heavens. They darted into an alley and passed a miner lying on his stomach, a knife protruding out the middle of his back.
Hoofbeats in the street, they pressed their backs to the wall of the alley. Wagons and men on horseback roared past, heading toward the northern part of town. Belle and Jamie waited until they passed, then ran across the intersection, paused to catch their breaths in the shadows on the far side of the street. Whoever they are, they’re in an awful hurry, Belle thought. The sky was bright at the east end of town. “Fire!” A bell clanged.
She and Jamie slunk through the shadows, heading for the back door of the Grand Palace.
~*~
Kincaid rode at the head of the wagons and men on horseback galloping away from Lodestone. He heard the fire bell and turned around to look at the town where he’d enjoyed the greatest success of his life. Hope the whole damn place burns down, with John Stone in it.
Hard to believe John Stone outdrew Randy LaFollette, but saw it with my own eyes. Maybe John Stone’s Jesse James. His wife held the reins of two horses pulling the wagon, money and valuables stored in crates, other supplies at the hideout, ten members of the gang lived there permanently.
Had to end someday, Kincaid thought. He wondered if the cavalry would come after them. No fun to go on the dodge at his age, with a nagging wife. That goddamned John Stone. Of all the trains in Colorado, why’d I have to rob his?
~*~
Belle looked out the window of her bedroom, a patch of sky orange on the far side of town. She heard something click behind her. “Don’t move,” said John Stone from the bed.
“It’s me.”
Stone thought somebody had come to kill him. He holstered his guns. “What’s out the window?”
“A fire.”
He came behind her, placed his hands on her hips. “Where’ve you been?”
“In my office downstairs.”
“I’d better check the saloon.”
“The bartenders know what to do, and if they don’t, I’ll fire ’em. Meanwhile, I need a bath.”
She sat on a chair and pulled off her boots. A strange odor filled the room. She walked in stocking feet to the maid’s quarters. Stone lifted one of her boots. How’d she spill coal oil in her office?
Chapter Nine
Upon arriving at the bank next morning, Bart Madden learned the incredible news. John Stone outgunned Randy LaFollette. Marshal Kincaid and his law deputies left town, under suspicion of robbery. What if John Stone finds out I put up half the money to hire Randy LaFollette?
Bart Madden feared John Stone. The man who shot Randy LaFollette was no one to trifle with. The town in an uproar, he worried about a run on the bank. With no marshal, depositors wanted to safeguard their money.
He reached to an inside pocket and pulled out his derringer. Maybe I should blow my brains out and get it over with. He held the gun to his head. Swallowing hard, he returned the derringer to his pocket.
They’ll lynch me if the bank runs out of money. How’d I get into this mess? He wished Belle were there to comfort him, but she lay in bed with John Stone. Wherever he looked, the source of his trouble was John Stone.
Once word got out that Lodestone was wide open, outlaws would descend like buzzards on a dead cow. First place they’ll come is the bank. But the crowd’ll clean me out first. I’m finished.
He sat at his desk and buried his face in his hands. How’d it happen? He planned everything cleverly, nothing left to chance. Then he got mixed up with Belle. She derailed him more than anything.
He thought of her lying naked in bed, except for her diamond necklace. How wonderful to make love with a drunken woman, nothing she wouldn’t do. Dumped him like an old tattered dishrag after John Stone showed up.
Arrogant son of a bitch. Walks around like he’s still in the Reb army. Who the hell does he think he is? More’n one way to kill a man.
His chief teller appeared in the doorway, anxiety etched into his face. “Sir, time to open the doors.”
Madden glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock on the dot. “Go ahead, Sutherland.”
Pale as mountain snow, the chief teller walked down the corridor to the front door. The two other tellers examined his face for guidance in the looming disaster. At least a hundred men waited in the street to withdraw their money. The head teller opened the doors.
The men lined up, the first bank book thrown down.
“Wanna git all me money.”
Madden lit a cheroot. They might even tar and feather me when the money runs out. Maybe I’ll be hung from the nearest tree. Should I get out of town right now, while I have the chance?
~*~
Dr. White opened the door of his office and saw John Stone standing in front of him, crisscrossed gunbelts and enormous shoulders. Stone removed his old Confederate cavalry hat. “I’d like to see the deceased.”
The coroner led Stone to a small room at the back of his house. Randy LaFollette lay stretched out naked on a table, ugly mangled purple crater in the middle of his chest. His complexion pale blue, eyes closed, mouth at peace, the fastest gun alive dead as a mackerel.
“He had this card in his wallet,” Dr. White said.
IN CASE OF ACCIDENT OR DEATH
NOTIFY AMANDA LAFOLLETTE
CRESCENT HOTEL, DENVER
“I understand he had a large sum of money on him,” Stone said.
“Oh, yes, of course. I forgot all about it. Ha ha. I’ll get it.”
Randy LaFollette commanded a high price for his skills. Stone figured he was carrying the money with him, and if anybody was entitled to it, it was him.
The doctor returned with the wad of bills. “Might as well turn it over to you,” he said nervously. “Wondered who to give it to. Wasn’t gonna keep it for myself, you understand.”
Stone flipped through the sheaf of paper money. Five hundred dollars.
“What’s going on out there?” asked the doctor.
Stone looked out the window. Men danced and screamed in the middle of the street. “Gold! We hit the mother lode!”
The owners of the Western Sovereign Mine held burlap bags full of ore. The magic word passed from lip to ear like a disease. Gold!
The crowd grew as news spread like wildfire across Lode-stone. A box was brought forward, the president of the Western Sovereign Mine stepped upon it. Twenty-five years old, wearing a floppy-brimmed hat, already seriously inebriated, he reached into his burlap bag and came out with a lump of ore, held it in the air, tried to speak. The crowd roared.
He blithered, appeared insane. “I was asleep, and a voice said: Albert, go down in that mine, you’ll find gold. I thought it was just another crazy dream, but then I thought what the hell. So I put on my clothes and went to the mine, crawled down into it, lit me lantern. Then I started digging. I only went down a little ways when I found this!” He held up a lump of ore. “We hit the mother lode!”
The crowd dispersed to get their picks and shovels. The officers of the Western Sovereign Mine headed toward the Lodestone Savings Bank, to deposit their great wealth in the safe. Everyone made way for the heroes. They reached the tellers’ cage, placed their bags on the counter.
“Want to put this in our account.”
Miners lined up to return funds just withdrawn. In his private office, Bart Madden drank a sip of brandy. He’d forgotten the salted mine, but the same trick worked again. Goddamn idiots didn’t suspect anything. A knock on his door.
“Come in.”
Jonas Brodbent approached his desk, a conspiratorial grin on his face. Somebody fired a gun in the street. “Gold!” someone shouted. “They found gold!”
Madden and Brodbent shook hands. “You saved my life,” Madden said. “I’ll never forget you.”
Unable to restrain their gle
e, they embraced and danced a jig in the middle of the floor.
Stone sat on a chair in Belle’s living room and stuffed his belongings into his saddlebags. He didn’t know whether to go after Kincaid, or continue to San Francisco.
I can’t let Kincaid get away with it. Have to look over my shoulder for him the rest of my life. The train’s leaving for San Francisco in two hours. What should I do?
Slipchuck entered the living room, a glum expression on his face. “Cain’t leave. This whorehouse is in me blood. I know we’re pards and all, but this is the best job I ever had.”
“You said you wanted to go to San Francisco, the only place you never been. You’re giving that up to push a broom in a whorehouse?”
Slipchuck placed his hand on Stone’s shoulder and said solemnly, “I’d give my left ball to push a broom in this whorehouse.”
Belle carried a tray covered with eggs, bacon, home fried potatoes, loaf of bread, pot of blueberry jam. Washed, coiffed, cosmetics carefully applied, she wore a blue and white polka dot silk robe.
“Made up yer mind?” she asked Stone. She passed him a plate covered with food.
Slipchuck said, “You can’t take on Kincaid and his gang alone, Johnny. Too many of ’em.”
“You never know when you might run into Kincaid again,” said Belle. “He tried to kill you the nice way, but it din’t work. Next time he might bushwhack you.”
Turmoil and disturbance in the vestibule, then the mayor, president of the town council, numerous politicians and business leaders, plus Mr. Moffitt of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, entered the living room.
“We’d like to have a word with John Stone,” the mayor said in his stentorious voice. Stone arose from his chair. The mayor shook his hand. “Congratulations on your fine display of shooting. We’ve just had an emergency meeting, decided to offer you the post of marshal, salary one hundred dollars per month.”
“Who’s Mr. Moffitt?” asked Belle.
Everyone turned to her, resplendent in her tight-fitting silk robe, a cigar held between her fingers. The railroad magnate stepped forward and bowed. “I am at your service, madam.”
