Night Marshal Books 1-3 Box Set: Night Marshal/High Plains Moon/This Dance, These Bones

by Gary Jonas

  Smart girl.

  And that’s what confused Jack. Sara Beth was a fool if she thought Wolcott would give her the money and let her leave town. Lord Bucky didn’t seem like the type to overpay for anything, but why would Wolcott make the deal if he planned to go back on it? Sara Beth was no danger to him. If he wanted her dead, he could kill her whenever he liked. Well, not quite whenever. Wolcott was as trapped as Jack during the day. Perhaps he feared Sara Beth would flee without selling the land. Maybe it was as simple as making a dinner reservation. If he told Sara Beth where to be, she would be there.

  Jack smacked his forehead. This wasn’t about Sara Beth. It was about him. Chief had been right. Wolcott feared him and he saw tonight as his last chance to act. By making an appointment with Sara Beth, Wolcott was really making an appointment with Jack. He wanted to know where Jack would be come ten tonight.

  So why had Sara Beth asked him to be there at nine-thirty? Obviously she had a plan of her own, one that probably involved a different story than the one she’d told him a few minutes ago. She wanted time to explain that plan. She needed an opportunity to convince Jack to help her. Most of all, she wanted to guarantee he was at her house and on her side when Wolcott came calling.

  What she didn’t know was that she wouldn’t be leading this dance. Jack didn’t like Chief’s plan, but he assumed it would be better than whatever Sara Beth was cooking up. Jack didn’t have time to come up with an idea of his own and he needed something that at least had the chance to work. He might get blown into a thousand pieces tonight, but he would do it on his terms. He would arrive early, well before nine-thrity, and would bury the nitroglycerin. When Wolcott arrived, he would be waiting for him.

  Hours remained before sunset and Jack started to pace again. Now that he was committed to a course of action, he didn’t want to wait. As the shadows grew long outside the barn, he longed for the comfortable setting of a good saloon. He preferred to gamble his afternoons away in a place where he couldn’t see the sun and wasn’t reminded that it controlled his life now.

  He didn’t know how long it took to brew up a batch of nitroglycerin, but he was surprised when the sun set and Chief wasn’t back yet. Jack should wait, but he’d done enough waiting. As the last of the daylight faded, Jack headed to the saloon. He had no way to know what the night might bring, but if he was going to get himself blown up or eaten by a pack of werewolves, he wanted to die with his hat on.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Jack made it back to the barn, Chief was waiting. Jack enjoyed the momentary pleasure of noting that Chief was pacing.

  “Where were you?” Chief asked.

  “Well Mother, your little boy is all grown up now. He gets to leave the house without asking your permission.”

  Chief squinted, then shook his head. “Yonega humor.”

  “It’s all right, Chief. I just swung by the saloon to get my hat, my saddlebags, my Henry rifle, and my winnings from the other night. The winnings were a little light, but half of what I won is better than nothing.”

  “That must have been some hat. I’ve been waiting nearly an hour.”

  “See, Chief, telling time like that is what makes us Gringos get a watch. I was gone maybe forty-five minutes. I had to buy a drink for the barmaid who kept my hat.”

  Chief glared.

  “A drink—only one—and it’s not like she didn’t offer more.”

  “We have a mission.”

  “You have a mission. I have a schedule.”

  Chief’s eyes widened. The movement was slight, but for Chief it was equivalent to an emotional outburst. “What do you mean?”

  Jack grinned. “I know when Wolcott’s showing up tonight.”

  ***

  As Chief packed the nitroglycerin carefully into Jack’s saddlebags, Jack put his clothes, his spare pistol, and everything else from the saddlebags into an old burlap sack, which he stored in a corner of the barn. He then told the Indian almost everything Sara Beth had told him. The only part he didn’t mention was the pleasant surprise Sara Beth had promised. After Wolcott was dead, he didn’t think Chief would mind his collecting a bit of well-earned reward, provided Sara Beth would consent even to that. Personally he was sure that once Wolcott was out of the way, she would suffer a sudden case of the vapors.

  After Jack finished, Chief said, “You trust this woman too much.”

  Jack snorted. “Hardly. I simply can’t find anything not to trust. She hates Wolcott more than I do. He killed her husband.”

  “You killed her husband. And her grief—it did not last long.”

  “I put the husband out of his misery. Wolcott killed him. But trusting her or not trusting her is irrelevant. We have to do this, right?”

  Chief grunted. “Yes. We have little choice. But you should go soon. I do not trust the time the woman gave you.”

  Jack didn’t bother pointing out that he’d always planned to leave as soon as the nitro was packed and ready. “You mean you can’t tell time, so you don’t trust the time she gave us. I was gone for an hour? Really, Chief?”

  “Shut up and drink this.”

  Chief handed him a waterskin.

  Jack opened the skin and sniffed at the liquid inside. His mouth immediately watered. “Human?”

  “You need to be at full-strength tonight.”

  Jack swallowed the saliva that had gathered in his mouth and forced the skin away, trying to get the odor away from his nose.

  Chief chuckled. “Do not worry. I did not kill anyone to feed you.”

  After studying Chief’s face, Jack decided the big man was telling the truth about not killing anyone. Without hesitation, he put the skin to his lips and drank greedily. Normally he could not have stopped until the blood was gone, but this time he pulled away with the skin still half full. The blood had a funny taste and as he paused, trying to figure out where he’d tasted it before, he swayed, suddenly a bit tipsy.

  “Where’d you get this?” Jack asked.

  “Every place I have ever been has a town drunk. Hays City has dozens. I took a bit from each. Not enough to hurt them any, but your drink should be—uh—flavored already.”

  “It is, and not in a good way. Next time you want to get me drunk, Chief, just buy me a drink the old-fashioned way.”

  “Beggars should not be choosers,” Chief said, but he looked amused. For Chief, that meant he wasn’t scowling.

  Jack hesitated, but he did need his strength. Even if everything went perfectly tonight, the blast could hurt him in any number of ways. Jack imagined himself lying in the rubble of the shack, his back broken, helpless as werewolves gathered around to gnaw off his face.

  While Jack finished the blood, Chief held up a second water skin. “This will be for after the fight. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  Jack wiped his mouth and dropped the water skin he’d just emptied. “We should take it along then.”

  “No,” Chief said. “The false-wolves will smell that long before they smell you or me. Besides, you never know when one of them will decide to bite it instead of you. You must have blood available when the battle is over. In your hunger and desperation, you might try to kill someone. That would be bad.”

  “Why’s that, Chief? You afraid I might try to bite you?”

  “No. But I would hate to have to cut off your head and fill your mouth with garlic.”

  “Think you could?”

  Chief appeared to consider the idea. “Maybe. The garlic is not up yet. Even if it was, finding enough to fill a mouth as big as yours might be tough.”

  Jack could never tell when Chief was joking, but his expression held no hint of humor. Still, with that damned perfect poker face of his, Jack couldn’t be sure. “Do you really think you could kill me?”

  Chief stopped packing the nitroglycerin long enough to stare at Jack. “If you attacked an innocent, I would gladly feed your entrails to wild dogs and your feet to wild pigs.”

  “You’ve thought this out
, haven’t you?”

  “The main part of your body would go to Father Wolf. Your hands could go to Brother Raccoon, I think—“

  “I get the point,” Jack said, his voice rising.

  “Do you, spirit taker? You treat your hunger as something that can be controlled. It cannot. If you become injured, your body will heal itself. If you are injured repeatedly, the dark magic that flows through you will heal those injuries, but your hunger will grow. If your energy is tapped enough to cloud your mind, you will feed. You have no choice.”

  Jack started to respond in anger, but checked himself. This was no time to argue. In the calmest voice he could muster, he asked, “What are you saying, Chief?”

  “I am saying you should plan ahead. You should have been the one to collect blood for tonight. You should always have blood on hand.”

  Jack’s voice rose again. “I’m not an animal.”

  “No. You are spirit taker.”

  Both men looked at each other for several long moments. Chief was the first to look away.

  Jack hated to admit it, but Chief had a point. Jack hated the hunger, but most of all he hated the lack of control. He believed he could control his hunger because he had to believe he could learn to control it. Without that control, what future did he have?

  Chief finished packing the nitroglycerin and turned back to Jack. “You must go now.”

  “Relax, Chief. I’m going, but Sara Beth said Wolcott wouldn’t arrive until ten. It’s not even eight yet.”

  “Remember, you must ride slowly. Also, you need time to bury the—“

  Jack raised his hands. “Alright, alright. I’m going already, you old squaw. Just give me time to get my horse.”

  Jack stepped quickly toward the door, thinking maybe the squaw comment had been a bit too far and wondering if he was about to get a bowie knife in the back. He stopped short when Roulette met him just outside the barn and nickered.

  “Clever boy” Jack stepped forward and reached into his pocket for several cubes of sugar that he had picked up at the saloon. The horse’s warm lips danced across Jack’s palms as they gathered up the sweets. He should have brought him an apple, but he knew that Roulette would understand.

  Jack swung into the saddle and started when he realized that Chief had silently followed him out of the barn.

  The big man handed him the saddlebags. They jingled as Jack took them. Puzzled, Jack undid the leather straps and looked inside. On one side, packed tightly in straw and nearly hidden were several bottles of liquid. On the other side, he found— “Silverware?”

  “Yes,” Chief agreed. “Silver dinnerware. For the false-wolves. When you dig the hole, place in the bottles first, then carefully pack the silverware around them. When the nitroglycerin explodes, many of the false-wolves will be killed.”

  “Ya, and it won’t do Wolcott any favors either. Good thinking, Chief. But where did you get all the silver?”

  “Borrowed it,” Chief said dryly.

  Jack laughed. “Of course you did.”

  He thought about tying the saddlebags to his saddle and decided a horse’s ass was no place for nitroglycerin. He hefted the saddlebags over one shoulder. “I think I’ll just carry these.”

  Chief grunted. “Ride smooth, my friend.”

  Jack straightened at the word. “Friend?”

  “When someone is carrying nitroglycerin, I always call him ‘friend.’”

  “Ya. I understand that. You’re not coming with me?”

  “Hell no. What you think? Me crazy Indian?”

  Jack laughed again. He reached out a hand and Chief took it.

  Chief added, “This nitroglycerin is fresh. It takes days to purify it, but it is cool out. As long as you ride softly, you will have no problems. I will drop in on Wolcott after you trigger the explosion.”

  “You’re an interesting man, Chief.”

  “Likewise,” Chief said, his poker face firmly in place. “Now get the hell out of here.”

  “Have no fear. I never keep a lady waiting.”

  After a nod of his head, Jack turned Roulette carefully and urged the horse down the road and into the night.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jack didn’t know if it was the drunk-man blood or if he was just glad to be on the way and enjoying some measure of control, but he felt confident, almost cocky. Sobering, he reminded himself that cocky people usually got themselves killed.

  He looped the reins over the saddle horn and let Roulette have his head. As he rode, he double-checked his Peacemaker and his Henry rifle to make sure they were fully loaded, always being careful to keep the saddlebags somewhere they wouldn’t fall or be jostled. He also realized he hadn’t brought a stake with him. He didn’t even have Chief’s big bowie knife. Not a problem. He would find a stake after he arrived at Sara Beth’s.

  It was a gorgeous night. The full moon had already risen and the knee-high, straw-colored prairie grass swayed rhythmically in the gentle breeze as if the earth were breathing. Jack and Roulette followed the moon-cast shadow of their silhouette, man and horse, inseparable.

  “What say we take a break after this job?” Jack asked Roulette.

  Roulette didn’t provide an answer and Jack hadn’t expected one. Jack had been on the road, on the run, mostly from himself, since Sonya’s death. Would it be possible to relax a bit? When he’d left Silver Plume last winter, he’d had no plan—just a need to do what was right. In the months that followed, he could truthfully say he’d made the world a better place, but it wasn’t enough. Perhaps it never would be, but the temptation of staying here was strong. Snow lay waist deep on the ground back in Denver and spring in Kansas could be very pleasant indeed. It would be a relief to linger in Hays City for a few days and enjoy what this world still offered him.

  The break would be more pleasant if he convinced Sara Beth to stay with him. While Sara Beth loved her feminine wiles even more than he did, she was the only person he knew in Hays City outside of the sheriff and Chief—and he had no desire to spend his nights with either of them.

  Then he thought of the look Sara Beth would have on her face when she discovered he was a vampire. The horror, the hate, the fear. He would need to find a way to hide his true self from her for a few days, at least. Yes. He could do that.

  As Jack topped the last rise, he spotted the distant glow of Sara Beth’s home. Roulette, sensing his eagerness, quickened to a trot. Jack touched the reins and Roulette immediately slowed. “Sorry for the confusion, old boy,” Jack said, “but we’re hauling a load that doesn’t like anything faster than a walk. I’m eager to get there, but we need to get there in one piece.”

  Jack had been thinking of the explosion in his mind, horse and man parts flying everywhere, and Roulette slowed his walk to half the speed it had been before. Jack smiled. “It’s all right, boy. We’re nearly there.”

  As he and Roulette approached the front of the shack, Roulette snorted and stamped his feet. Jack held the saddlebags away from his body, trying to absorb as much of the movement with his arm as he could. “What’s wrong, old boy?”

  That’s when he spotted the buggy in the shadows beside the shack. With a covered top and decorative silver trimmings, it sported a black leather driver’s seat and painted wheels. It looked like a rig that would belong to a big city undertaker—or perhaps a town madam feigning respectability. Jack could think of only one person in Hays City who might wish to ride around in such an overly plush conveyance.

  Roulette continued to snort and stamp, his flanks trembling. Jack urged him forward until they were directly in front of the shack. He saw no one and he heard nothing beyond whistling breeze and rustling grass.

  “Steady,” Jack urged Roulette. He lifted one leg over the saddle, then slid slowly down. He bent his knees as he landed, keeping the saddlebags in motion. No sudden stops. After he straightened, he held his breath for a moment. It was silly. If the nitroglycerin were going to blow, it would have done so during the dismount.


  Jack retrieved his rifle, then stepped clear of Roulette. He had all he needed from the horse. Turning away, he faced the shack. A moment later, hooves thudded against the ground as the horse trotted off into the night. Good. Whatever happened, he didn’t want to take any chances with Roulette. Women, he could replace. Roulette was one of a kind.

  “Sara Beth!” Jack called.

  At the sound of his voice, she appeared in the shack’s doorway as suddenly as if his invocation had summoned her there. She smiled, apparently unconcerned, obviously happy to see him, but her face looked too much like a stage actor’s mask and too little like the face of the woman he’d caressed the night before. Jack tensed, twisting left and right and glancing behind him, but he saw no one. Her mask of confidence could be hiding a simple case of nerves. His shoulders relaxed and his hand came away from his gun.

  “Where’d you get the buggy?”

  Sara Beth’s smile faltered, but was quickly back again. “Lord Wolcott let me borrow it. After we arranged to meet tonight, he loaned it to me as a sign of good faith. It allowed me to ride in style instead of walk like a dusty old farmer’s wife.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “That’s unexpectedly decent of him.”

  “Not really. Once you get to know him, you find out pretty quickly that he knows how to treat a lady.”

  Sara Beth said it the way a woman speaks about a man who’s shared her bed. But that couldn’t be.

  Jack’s tone hardened. “What did you do, Sara Beth?”

  A smug grin slid onto Sara Beth’s face. “You know, he said you’d arrive early tonight.”

  Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. When she’d been at the barn this afternoon, he’d known that she had something extra planned for tonight, something she wasn’t telling him, but working with Wolcott against him? It wasn’t possible. She’d spent last night in his arms. Together they’d reached her full flower and afterward she’d collapsed against him, clinging as if she never wanted to let him go. What he was thinking now had to be wrong. She couldn’t do this to him. She wouldn’t.