by Len Levinson
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
With six good men murdered in a single smoking night, Woodlawn was starting to feel more like a cemetery than a town. John Stone had no plans to stick around ... until the local killers sparked his wrath by gunning down his riding companion. Pinning on the tin star, Stone declares martial law. It’s the bloodiest range war west of the Missouri. And Stone would rather die than declare a truce...
THE SEARCHER 11: BLOODY SUNDAY
By Len Levinson writing as Josh Edwards
Copyright © 1992, 2016 by Len Levinson
First Smashwords Edition: June 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
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
Chapter One
A forest of ponderosa pines bent beneath the lashes of a storm as John Stone opened his eyes. He lay in a cold cave, and rain slanted across its jagged entrance. Yawning, he reached for his boot, but a rattlesnake raised her sleepy head from its murky depths. Stone leapt backward and grabbed the nearest Colt.
The rattler ignored him disdainfully as she slithered sleepily across the ground, in search of a mouse or bird’s egg. Stone checked his other boot carefully. Rattlers all over the goddamned place. He gathered dry wood, lit a match, and warmth visited the gloomy mountain enclosure.
He wore dirty old blue pants and a thick red wool sweater. Dark blond beard extended halfway to his chest, and he looked wild as a bear as he ground coffee beans between two rocks. Muggs, his mongrel dog, lay by the fire and sensed unhappiness in his friend. Gray vaporous clouds hung like a pall over the mountains.
Stone poured thick black coffee into his tin cup, then leaned against the hard wall. He’d lived in the cave five weeks, hoping for a vision or insight to help him understand his confusing life.
Things had been going wrong for quite some time. Some mornings he didn’t want to get out of bed. He’d come to the cave from Frisco, where one woman tried to kill him, and another, whom he’d loved, sent him away. And then there was the problem of Marie.
He removed a daguerreotype from his shirt pocket. It showed a pretty blonde wearing a ball gown, gazing at the photographer. Bittersweet longing came over Stone as he recalled happy days before the war. He’d searched for Marie since Appomattox, finally tracked her to Frisco, but she flew the coop again, with a wealthy man, destination unknown. She thought Stone had been killed in action at Bentonville.
He put on his poncho and carried the water bucket outside, beginning his round of chores. Gather wood, hunt food, think about what to do, go to sleep, every day the same. Muggs disappeared to catch his breakfast in the thick underbrush of the valley.
Stone sliced the remaining chunk of bacon, threw it into the frying pan, where it sizzled and spattered. A drop of rain flew in and touched his cheek like a woman’s kiss. He lived like a monk, but thought constantly of women.
He drank second and third cups of coffee. Muggs returned to the cave, mashed face and bright cheerful eyes downturned at the corners, glistening with good health. Stone mopped up the last gob of bacon grease with a chunk of biscuit, then lit a cigarette. Before Fort Sumter, his future looked brilliant. His father owned a fine plantation in South Carolina, he’d been accepted at West Point, and the most beautiful girl in the county said she’d marry him.
Then war came. Many of his friends were killed, he’d been wounded, the South was crushed. He’d lost family and fortune, but not his memory of Marie. They said she went west with a Union officer, and he’d been searching for her ever since.
He’d been from Texas to Frisco and Bloody Kansas to the desert of Arizona, home of the Apache. He followed a dream of love, and it led to a damp dismal cave hacked into the side of the great Rocky Mountains.
He picked up King James and flipped to Ecclesiastes.
Chapter Two
The storm ended next day. Stone strapped on twin Colts in crisscrossed gunbelts, then tied the holsters to his legs, gunfighter style. His right boot sheathed an Apache knife with an eight-inch blade, his left boot contained one of similar length given him by the Sioux. He cleaned his rifle, packed his saddlebags, prepared Warpaint, his chestnut stallion, for the trip. Muggs paced the cave excitedly, tail wagging, eager to get going.
Stone kicked dirt onto the fire. He looked around his dank sepulchral home, then led Warpaint down the path to the valley as sunlight peeked through the clouds. Stone had experienced flashes of insight in the cave, and once thought Jesus was there, but when you hug your blankets on a cold autumn night, they don’t hug back.
At the bottom of the mountain, he climbed into the saddle and sat tall. Warpaint needed no special instructions, he knew they were headed south. Muggs sniffed soil fragrances, while faint wind rustled bare autumn branches. Stone wore a fringed buckskin jacket over his red sweater, his old Confederate cavalry hat pulled tightly onto his head. He rocked back and forth with the motion of Warpaint’s gait as he returned to civilization.
~*~
He spent the night on open ground, wrapped in his blankets and canvas ground cloth, beneath patches of stars visible through scattered clouds. He dreamed of the day he arrived at West Point, a lifetime ago.
He and the other would-be cadets rode up the mighty Hudson River on a steamboat from New York City. They passed Bear Mountain, Storm King, Crow’s Nest, and Fort Putman covered with maple and oak resplendently green. Constantly changing vistas stunned the eye, and he’d read in a New York newspaper about a coterie of artists who devoted their lives to painting the Hudson in all its moods and glories.
It was his first time away from home, except for vacations and visits. His family wouldn’t see him again until spring, and he’d live under the harsh regimen of the United States Military Academy.
“There it is!” somebody shouted. “West Point!”
A flag fluttered on a plateau, and Stone’s heart swelled with pride and anticipation. He wore a new suit with frock coat and starched collar, taller than everyone in the vicinity. The boat docked, a cheer arose from the plebes, and the ladder lowered. The eager young men descended to the dock, and a sergeant appeared. He ordered them to form a column of twos, and marched them to the plain, following the footsteps of great American officers such as Robert E. Lee and Thomas J. Jackson, heroes of the Mexican War. The young plebes came to the library, chapel, and rows of turreted four-story granite barracks.
Drums of history beat in Stone’s blood as he watched cadets in neatly pressed gray and white uniforms marching on the parade ground. I give it everything I’ve got, and maybe, if I study hard, I’ll be a general someday.
~*~
Two days later, in the evening, Stone saw a dot of light in the distance. A building came into view, brick chimney crooked, timbers sagging, shingles missing from walls and roof. The lamp in the window illuminated eight saddled horses tied up at the rail. Stone inspected their flanks, unbranded, strong animals, pick of any bunch. His mouth watered at the thought of whiskey, and he needed bacon, flour, and grain.
He tied the horse to the rail and checked his guns. Then he advanced ov
er the muddy path, his old Confederate cavalry hat slanted low across his eyes. He turned the knob and entered a small dark room. In the corner, at a round table, cowboys played poker.
“Down and dirty,” said the dealer, flicking a card onto the scarred wood table.
Muggs stared at a cat arching its back in a corner. Behind the bar, an old man with white hair to his shoulders reached for the bottle of whiskey. “You come to the right place, cowboy!”
The bartender filled the glass with liquid pale as water. Without hesitation, Stone grabbed it and belted down the contents. His throat on fire, he covered his mouth with the back of his hand and coughed.
“White lightning,” the bartender said. “Make it myself, from an old family recipe. Where you comin’ from?”
“Frisco.”
“How’d you like it?”
“Most dangerous place I ever saw in my life.”
Laughter erupted at the table, the card players having a wild time, but no money showed. “What’re they gambling for?” Stone asked the bartender.
The man in the apron whispered softly, “Yer horse, I believe.”
“Be back for the supplies in the morning.”
Stone headed for the door, but heard the voice of an outlaw at the gambling table. “Goin’ somewheres?”
They were mean-looking mountain riders with owl hoot stamped all over them. The one who’d spoken was red-bearded and burly, sitting with his back to the wall, hat low over his eyes.
“You just got here,” said another cowboy, who wore black suspenders and an orange bandanna.
“Movin’ on,” Stone said, not slackening his pace, reaching for the knob.
“A man could take offense,” replied Redbeard.
Stone stopped, turned, and faced him squarely. “Offense at what?”
“Don’t like our company?”
“Never saw you before.”
“Why don’t you buy me’n the boys a drink?”
“No time.”
The outlaw turned down the corners of his mouth. “What’ll I do with ’im, boys?”
“Shoot Mm,” mumbled one of the outlaws.
“You heard what he said,” Redbeard announced, getting to his feet. “Reckon I got to shoot you. Whaddaya think about that?”
Stone said nothing as he loosened his shoulders and limbered his fingers. First saloon since Frisco, and here I go again. Redbeard stepped from behind the table and came to a halt six feet in front of Stone. “You get down and kiss my boots, I’ll let you go. Otherwise you’re dead meat.”
An outlaw at the table laughed up his sleeve. The bartender crouched behind the counter, only his eyes and the top of his head showing. Stone dropped into his gunfighter’s crouch, both hands poised over his matched Colts.
Redbeard grinned. “Well looka here. The wood tick’s actin’ like he knows what he’s a-doin’.”
Stone said not a word, steely malevolence emanated from his eyes, and Redbeard entertained a doubt, but only for a moment. “I like to know the names of the men I kill,” Redbeard said.
Again, Stone didn’t reply, his eyes narrowed to Redbeard’s hand. The general store fell silent as a tomb, and Redbeard went for his gun. Stone’s peripheral vision caught the other outlaws hauling iron at the same moment. The ex-West Pointer threw himself to the side as bullets slammed into the door, sending wood splinters flying. He drew both Colts, got low, and triggered rapidly. The room filled with thunder and gunsmoke, and the bartender dived for cover. A bullet whistled past Stone’s left shoulder, another nicked his pants, a third put a hole in his old Confederate cavalry hat. Stone held steady, firing at writhing shapes until his gun hammers struck empty chambers.
He kicked a table over, ducked behind it, and loaded his guns quickly, expecting them to rush him. Silence came from the other side of the room, and then somebody groaned. The bartender raised his head. Outlaws lay around the tipped-over table, cards and broken whiskey glasses covering the floor.
“I’ll be a son of bitch,” the bartender said.
Stone aimed his guns at the outlaws, ready for another barrage. Smoke rose to the ceiling, and Redbeard lay unmoving, his head in a puddle of blood. The bartender poured Stone a double shot. Stone tossed it down, then held on as the store disappeared in white glare.
“That was some shootin’,” the bartender drawled. “What you say yer name was?”
Stone didn’t reply, and the bartender poured another double. Stone’s heart chugged like an old railroad engine as he carried his whiskey to a table and sat heavily. The bartender joined him, carrying a sheet of paper. “Them galoots is prob’ly wanted, and the marshal might want to send you some reward money. What’s yer address?”
“John Stone, San Antone.”
“Seems to me I heered that name before.”
Stone took out the daguerreotype of Marie. “Ever see her?”
“Now that’s a real purty woman, but don’t think I knowed her.”
“Ten pounds flour. Raisins or dried apples if you got ’em. Coffee. Bag of beans.”
The bartender wrote the order. Across the floor, the outlaws lay silent. Stone took off his hat and gazed at the bullet hole.
“Nearly got you,” the bartender said.
“Got to get it patched.”
“Ask an injun. Do wonderful things with leather. You could use a new pair of boots.”
“Some other time.”
The bartender thought for a few moments, then snapped his fingers. “Are you the John Stone what shot Randy LaFollette down Coloraddy way?”
“Don’t know the gentleman.”
The bartender winked. “I won’t say nothin’, Mr. Stone. Honored to meet you, sir. Let me get you another whiskey. How’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“What happens to their horses?”
“Prob’ly stoled. The sheriff’ll return ’em to their owners.”
“I’d like to take one, for a packhorse.”
“You can take whatever you want, Mr. Stone. I sure as hell ain’t a-gonna argue with you.”
~*~
Stone made camp that night at the edge of a silvery lake. The Milky Way blazed a path across the sky, and the icy wind cut through the mountains. He still felt rattled from the shootout in the general store.
He couldn’t walk away from a killing as though it were nothing. A human life is a human life, even if it belongs to an outlaw. They expected him to bow down, and paid the price. His inability to grovel had caused no end of trouble since coming to the frontier.
He lay on the ground and rested his head on his hand-tooled saddle. Above him in the blazing heavens stood Orion the warrior, wielding his sword of stars. Stone didn’t fall asleep for a long time. He wished he had some whiskey to settle him down.
~*~
Three days later, he was low on water. The map indicated a hole at the far end of a plain covered with brown grass. The more he worried about cool refreshing liquids, the more his thirst increased. He stopped for a break, let Warpaint, Muggs, and Moe, his packhorse, drink thirstily from his canteens. “We’ve got to ration it,” Stone warned them.
The weather grew warm as they traveled south, and Stone removed his buckskin jacket. Birds burrowed for insects in the grass, and prairie dogs gazed at him solemnly, standing atop their villages. He spotted the water hole in early afternoon, and congratulated himself for his map-reading skill. Warpaint plodded toward it, and Stone daydreamed about guzzling.
The worst part of travel was supply, like the Army. And then there were injuns, because Stone had been bushwhacked at water holes before. He examined every ravine, hogback, and shadow as Warpaint quickened his pace. Muggs dashed ahead, tongue hanging out of his mouth, hoping for water. Stone said a prayer, and then the mood changed suddenly. The animals lagged, but Stone didn’t want to admit the truth, not even when Warpaint came to the edge of the crater, and the hole was empty.
“We’ll dig a few feet,” Stone said. “I know there’s water down there.” The animals gaz
ed at him skeptically as he removed the shovel from his saddlebags and dug into dry sand. “Few more scoops, and we’ll all have a good drink.” But the deeper he dug, the more his enthusiasm vanished. Finally, up to his thighs in the hole, he gave up. He climbed out, sat on the ground, and studied his map.
He located another water hole about a day’s ride to the southeast. They all can’t be dry, he tried to convince himself, scanning surrounding terrain to make sure no injuns were creeping up on him. Then he climbed into the saddle and headed south.
They pressed on until nightfall and made camp on the open prairie. His horses recovered a small amount of moisture from the grass, and Muggs drank the blood of a gopher, but Stone’s mouth was cardboard and his throat parched every time he swallowed. I’ll go loco if I don’t get some water pretty soon.
He slept fitfully and hit the trail early in the morning, before the sun came up. Drooping in his saddle, he hoped there wasn’t a dead lobo in the next water hole, or somebody poisoned it. He’d give every penny for a cup of ordinary brackish water.
He had the urge to bite his arm and drink the blood, but restrained himself. The water hole’s dead ahead. They all can’t be dry. Lady Luck won’t let me down, will she?
I might die in this godforsaken country. Nobody’ll know, and nobody’ll give a damn. He tried to see the bright side of the situation, but couldn’t find one. Above his head, buzzards circled in the sky, waiting for him to fall. He had difficulty swallowing, and his head spun dizzily. I’m not really going to die here, am I?
It became increasingly clear that he might become buzzard bait. He thought of the cruel selfish things he’d done, the men he’d shot, and wished he could’ve been a better person. He remembered Marie and the feel of her body. I’ll never see her again.
He felt sorry for himself, and slumped lower in the saddle, but then caught a glimpse of his shadow. Stiffening his spine, he sat erectly, like a soldier. Bright sun seared his eyes, and the strange eerie sound of bells came to his ear. Where’s that goddamned waterhole?
