Boom Town (A Searcher Western

by Len Levinson

  ~*~

  Kincaid and his men rode down the narrow winding mountain trail, heading toward the main trail leading back to their camp. Furious with himself, chagrined that his soft life was over, Kincaid vowed to retire when things settled down. Gittin’ too old for this stuff.

  They came to the wide trail near the entrance to the pass. Kincaid held up his hand, his men settled down. They listened, heard nothing. Stone and the posse were probably on their way back to Lodestone for help. By the time Stone got there, he’d find the charred ruins of the hideout.

  Leaves fell lazily from trees. A squirrel chattered on his branch. The outlaw band formed a column, three men riding abreast, Kincaid rode in front, leading them back to the hideout.

  One of the outlaws said, “You should’ve waited till they was in the pass, Bill. Why’d you shoot?”

  “Thought I could stop ’em if I killed John Stone. You boys want a new boss, I’m ready to step down. It was a dumb mistake.”

  Kincaid never talked like that before. They’d become soft due to their easy life, all their robberies successful so far. They neared a bend in the trail.

  Stone and his posse, concealed by trees and bushes, heard the approach of the outlaw riders. They raised their rifles and sighted in. Stone hid behind a massive boulder. The outlaws came into view, Kincaid in front. Stone ducked his head, his rifle cocked and ready to fire. The score would be settled at last.

  The outlaw gang twenty yards away, they didn’t notice guns aimed at them. Onward they plodded, on the dodge once more. Kincaid tried to cheer them up. “Always wanted to hit an army pay wagon,” he said. “We’ll go up to Fort Logan an’ get rich.”

  Something moved in front of him. John Stone stepped out from behind the boulder. “Raise your hands, or we’ll shoot you down!”

  The forest bristled with barrels of guns. Surprised outlaws raised their hands and glanced around fearfully. Kincaid jammed spurs into his horse, the animal leapt toward John Stone, who fell back out of the way.

  Kincaid sped past, yanking his gun. He turned in his saddle and aimed at Stone’s badge. The dirt exploded next to Stone’s boot. He ran three steps and leapt into his saddle.

  The chestnut roan stretched out long legs, Stone sped down the trail, following Kincaid. He rammed his rifle into its scabbard and pulled a Colt.

  Kincaid aimed his gun backward, squeezed off a shot, but his horse bounced him around, the bullet rocketed into the sky. Stone fired a bullet wide of the mark. Kincaid rounded a bend, Stone came after him, gaining steadily.

  Kincaid turned for another shot, squeezed the trigger. The gun fired, he couldn’t hit Stone, but lead might scare him away. Stone leaned against the chestnut roan’s mane. “Go get him, boy. We’re almost there.”

  Stone drew closer. Wind whistled through the creases of his old Confederate cavalry hat and washed his cleanly-shaven cheeks as he drew a careful bead on Kincaid’s back. Kincaid fired another unsteady shot, then desperation took over. He aimed at the center of the chestnut roan’s chest, pulled the trigger. Before his gun fired, something sharp and hot pierced his left kidney, he gasped in pain, his bullet struck a tree beside the trail. The black stallion continued his frenzied dash toward safety, Kincaid tried to hold on despite violent agony. Blood spread over the back of his shirt and seat of his pants, he dropped his gun and leaned to the side.

  Stone pulled back his reins as Kincaid fell out of his saddle. The ex-marshal of Lodestone hit the ground, bounced, and rolled. Stone ran to his side, gun ready to fire. Kincaid lay on his stomach, face in the dirt.

  Stone pushed the outlaw onto his back. Kincaid looked up and wheezed. Stone detached his canteen from his saddle, unscrewed the top, gave Kincaid a drink. Water spilled on Kincaid’s face, he coughed, grimaced, bared his teeth. “First moment … I ever set eyes on you, I knew ... you was trouble.”

  “You should’ve left me alone. I meant you no harm.”

  “Din’t … trust you.” Kincaid blacked out, then came back, looked at the man who shot him, felt the need to make his last confession. “Bart Madden put up half the money ... for Randy LaFollette.”

  Kincaid went into convulsions, blood dribbled down his chin. The ex-marshal of Lodestone died with his boots on.

  Chapter Eleven

  Night in Lodestone, stars twinkling in the sky above the mountains. Bart Madden sat in his hotel room, drinking whiskey out of a glass, looking out the window to the street below teeming with an influx of miners, prospectors, investors, thrill-seekers, adventurers, and whores. Deposits in his bank soared to nearly a half-million dollars in the course of the day.

  The future appeared promising. Transfer money to other banks, and by the time they knew what happened, he’d be in Geneva, a respected wealthy gentleman, maybe marry a countess and live in a castle on the Rhine.

  Regarding Jamie Boggs, Bart’s word against Belle’s. The circuit judge was a friend of his. Madden, a pillar of the community, had more credibility than the whore.

  He wondered what he ever saw in the vulgar blowsy woman. Too pudgy, drank and smoked excessively, teeth yellowing from tobacco, breasts sagging. How dare she spurn him? He’d find another in Europe, where women understood the meaning of elegance.

  He looked at himself in the mirror, his clothing rumpled. He wondered whether to return home and get more suits. I paid for that house and I’ll go there whenever I goddamn please.

  The desk clerk nodded as he crossed the lobby. Madden walked along the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, thinking of John Stone. Kincaid’ll take care of him for me.

  He felt uneasy on the sidewalk with so many drunken armed men. His hand closed around the derringer in his pocket. If anybody bothers me, shoot first and ask questions later.

  He approached the front door of his home, turned the doorknob, rapped the brass knocker. “Open up!”

  “What do you want?” asked his wife on the other side of the door.

  “My clothes.”

  She unlocked the door. Why am I living in a hotel when I own this house? He thought of forcing Patricia and his sister-in-law to move out, but the banking community might not understand. Maybe my lawyer can argue that she committed adultery with John Stone. The big dope won’t be alive to deny it.

  He climbed the stairs to the second floor and continued to the attic, where he found trunks and suitcases left over from the original trip to Lodestone. He carried them downstairs, stuffed his clothes inside. Tomorrow he’d hire Negroes to carry everything to the hotel. He snickered at his cleverness.

  Gail walked by his open door, her adorable face visible for a brief moment. Now that’s what I need, somebody young who can learn, instead of a tainted woman who drinks and smokes cigars like a man. No one respects a woman like Belle McGuinness. Did Gail smile just now?

  She always seemed interested in me, even when we first met. Younger women sometimes are fascinated with older men; once he met a banker fifty-eight years old with a wife twenty-two, the power a successful man wields.

  He walked down the corridor and knocked lightly on Gail’s door. “May I speak with you?” he asked politely. He pushed open the door and entered her bedroom. Clean underclothes lay folded on the bed, she blushed as he ogled them.

  “What do you want?”

  He held his lapels and planted one foot in front of the other, taking a stance he thought made him appear heroic and appealing to the female mind. “We like each other, and I think it’s time we came out and admitted it.” To his jaded eyes, she feigned confusion and innocence. “I realize it’s difficult for a young inexperienced woman like you to admit something like that, but I understand.” He moved closer and held out his arms.

  She pressed her back against the wall. “Don’t come near me.

  He thought she was leading him on. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, bending toward her delightful little earlobe.

  “Get away from me!” She slapped his face with such strength his head spun to the side.

  “You littl
e bitch!”

  She raked her fingernails across his cheek, he caught her with a left hook to the jaw. She crashed against the wall and fell to the floor. The door flew open, Patricia stood there with a loaded double-barreled shotgun. “Touch her and I’ll kill you!”

  “Not what you think—she was tempting me,” he replied. “Had to stop her. You don’t know your little sister as well as you think.”

  “Get out of this house, and don’t come back. If you want your clothes, send somebody.”

  He gauged her eyes, trying to see if she had sufficient courage to pull the trigger, decided she did. “This isn’t like you, Patricia.”

  “Start walking, and don’t make me mad. I might kill you by mistake.”

  She followed him into the corridor. The aunt who raised him spanked him with a board. His schoolmarm cracked him over the head with a ruler. Slimy castrating creatures. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned and faced her. “If only you knew how much I hated you, you whimpering, simpering fat pig. I never loved you, even at the beginning. You were just something I used, until I could find something better. Who could ever love you?”

  Her hands trembled, she struggled to prevent herself from killing him. “I can lose weight, but you’ll never be anything but a lowdown sneaky skunk.”

  “You know what I hate most about you? You don’t have a brain in your head. I’ve had many lady friends, you never even suspected.” He recited names, her eyelashes fluttered, she appeared faint. Her closest friends!

  “You’re a liar!”

  She became distracted for a moment. He rushed forward, yanked the rifle out of her hand and, hit her in the head with the butt. Her knees gave out, she went crashing to the floor.

  “How dare you defy me?” he asked, a strange glitter in his eyes. He placed his fingers around her throat.

  ~*~

  Tyrone walked across the backyard, scratching his empty stomach. He hadn’t eaten all day, maybe the nice white ladies would feed him again. If not, the baker might give him some stale bread.

  A warm glow came over him whenever he thought of yesterday, the plate of food and motherly affection. A poor homeless boy sometimes needed the affection more than the food.

  I’ll ask ’em if’n they needs any work done. Don’t want nothin’ fer nothin’. I can wash the dishes if there’s a box they can stand me on.

  Knee exposed through the hole in his pants, shivering in the cool night air, on his way to the front door, he passed a window. His eyes widened, he opened his mouth and screamed: “Halp!”

  Madden glanced up. Letting Patricia’s throat go, he grabbed the shotgun and ran to the window. A little boy sped off through the night, waving his arms and hollering at the top of his lungs. Madden knew, in that instant, his life was over. Angrily he bashed the window with the butt of the shotgun, then turned it around, aimed wildly, pulled both triggers.

  The shotgun sounded like a cannon on the still October night, reverberating off the walls of buildings. Madden pulled back, blew out the lamp above the fireplace, knelt beside his former wife.

  She was dead, thumb impressions around her throat where he’d strangled her. He felt happy, frightened, aware he’d gone too far. But hatred for the namby-pamby bitch overcame his reasoning.

  He wondered what to do. Can I talk my way out of this? He snapped his finger, the perfect story came to him. No marshal in town, a thief broke into his house and attacked his wife. Madden tried to save her, the attacker ran away, Madden fired the shotgun but missed.

  Two witnesses could contradict him: the little boy and Gail. A lawyer would tie the little boy in knots on the witness stand, and Gail, maybe the intruder killed her too?

  Madden climbed the stairs, a grim smile on his face. I can think circles around anybody in this town. Wouldn’t be anything here but gophers, it weren’t for Bart Madden.

  ~*~

  A crowd of late-night revelers watched the strange procession advance down the main street of town. John Stone rode in front of the posse, with Slipchuck to his left and Kevin McGeachy to his right. Behind them, Belle McGuinness and Bill Kincaid were tied head down over their saddles, Belle’s long blond hair trailing in the mud.

  The posse came to the stop in front of the marshal’s office. They climbed down from their saddles, threw reins over the hitching post. “Take the bodies to Dr. White,” Stone said.

  Slipchuck and two other posse members led the horses bearing dead toward the doctor’s home. Stone entered his office and took a double-barreled shotgun down from the wall. He loaded it, stuffed his pockets with additional cartridges.

  “Who you a-gonna shoot?” McGeachy asked.

  “Bart Madden.”

  Stone walked out of the office, shotgun cradled in his arm. A miner lay unconscious in the gutter, the deserted street illuminated by light filtering through saloon windows. Stone stepped over the miner and headed toward the Madden residence. His lips compressed to a thin line, he thought of Belle and Kincaid lying side by side in the coroner’s examining room.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago he made love to Belle. He hadn’t bathed since, her perfume still clung to him. He couldn’t quite accept that she put her life on the line for him. No woman, not even Marie, ever made the supreme sacrifice. She loved me, I used her.

  “Johnny?”

  Edgar Faraday teetered in front of a saloon, notebook and paper in hands. “Saw you pass by. Posse back? How’s about your exclusive story for the Lodestone Gazette.”

  “Ask somebody else.”

  “You’re the man who shot Randy LaFollette. My readers want to know about you.”

  “Write about me, a thousand lunatics’ll try to shoot me down.”

  Faraday made a face of exaggerated mock indignation. “You wanted to print the truth about other people, but I can’t tell the truth about you?”

  “Something I got to do.”

  Stone’s spurs jangled every time his boot heels hit the sidewalk. Plinking pianos could be heard through closed windows of saloons. Wish I sat down with Kincaid and had a talk. Could’ve settled everything, but he was afraid I’d give him away.

  Stone stepped over another miner lying unconscious on the sidewalk. He heard footsteps across the street. A scrawny little Negro boy dressed in rags ran toward him.

  “Marshal. Marshal.” The boy waved his arms excitedly in the air.

  Stone tossed him a coin. “Buy yourself a steak.”

  “Marshal ... Marshal ...”

  Stone reached for another coin. “Get some food for your brothers and sisters while you’re at it.”

  “But, Marshal ... Mr. Madden done kilt his wife!”

  ~*~

  Bart Madden lit the lamp in the bedroom. Gail drew herself to her hands and knees on the carpet, a black and blue bruise on her forehead where he’d crowned her previously. She glared at him in half fear and half anger. He pointed the shotgun at her. “Stand up.”

  She rose unsteadily to her feet, held the bedpost for support. The room spun around. “Where’s my sister?”

  “A thief broke into the house and killed her.”

  Gail hoped she hadn’t heard what he said. Head pounding, she sat at the edge of the bed. This isn’t really happening.

  “It was the same burglar who knocked you out. Don’t you remember?”

  “You’re the one who did that,” she said.

  “It might be best if you forgot. Otherwise ...”

  He aimed the gun at her. Hair rose on the nape of her neck. Say anything he wants. Do whatever he asks. The longer you talk, the longer you live. “Yes,” she said shakily, “I see what you mean.” She forced a smile, hoped it looked enticing. “With Patricia gone, you can marry her sister, isn’t that so?”

  A sigh escaped his lips. “I’ve been right all along. You cared for me even at the beginning?”

  “You have the nicest smile.”

  “Darling,” he said, reaching toward her.

  She aimed a careful kick at his most sensitive spot, but
he saw it coming in time, wiggled to the side, her toe connected with his thigh. He dived onto her and pinned her hands to the bed. “You little idiot!”

  She struggled against him. He felt her young lithe body, wished he had two more hands. I’ll say the burglar killed both of them while I was out cold on the floor. He let her hands go and pulled his derringer. She shrank from his ugly .32 caliber weapon. He arose from the bed.

  “You’re a very stupid little girl. We could be happy, if you’d see me as I really am.”

  She balled her fists and said, “I do see you as you are! You’re a madman! You’ll never get away with this!”

  “Of course I will. You and your sister were murdered by a thief. No one’ll suspect Bart Madden, the man who made Lodestone.”

  She realized he was right. He’ll get away with it. Have to do something. Again, she forced a smile. If it worked once, might work again. “You’re a bad man, Bart Madden, but you sure know how to think.”

  “You don’t know half the story.” He pointed to his head. “I made Lodestone out of my brain.”

  “Patricia never really appreciated you.”

  “She thought she was a match for me, who built a town where was nothing but trees before.”

  Her mind raced for something to say. If only someone would knock on the door. “You could do anything you wanted. A man like you could be President of the United States. The woman who ends up with you would be lucky.”

  “Could’ve been you.”

  “I see you in a different light now. You fascinate me. I wouldn’t mind living in luxury, and as for Patricia, we weren’t as close as you thought.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Gail. Do you really think a silly little goose like you can fool the man who built Lodestone?”

  “I’m young and inexperienced. You could teach me things. I’d do anything you said.”