Bloody Sunday (A John Stone Western--Book 11)

by Len Levinson

  They heard the ramrod at the side of the building. “If anybody besides Gribbs draws on John Stone, I’ll plug him.”

  The ramrod’s gun leveled, he faced the gunfighters. They stepped away from Gribbs, and then a new voice came to them.

  “If the ramrod doesn’t get you, I will,” said Spruance, gun in hand.

  Gribbs raised his chin and looked down his nose at Stone. “Happy?”

  Stone brought hands to rest above his grips. His heart cold and muscles poised, he waited for the moment of deadly decision. Gribbs settled into his fighting stance, one hand above his Smith & Wesson. Stone focused on Gribbs’s right hand.

  Gribbs knew it was now or never. His confidence peaked, he snapped his wrist down, and a mournful wail came out of his mouth as Stone’s guns cleared their holsters. Red and orange flashes appeared before Gribbs’s eyes and lead tore into his chest, lifting him into the air, sweeping him away.

  The gunfighters watched in amazement as Gribbs landed on his back. Stone pivoted, aiming his gun in the direction of the others, in case someone else got brave.

  No one moved. The thunder of Stone’s guns reverberated off distant mountains. Stone backed toward the barn.

  “I’m coming with you,” Spruance said.

  The two figures eased into the night. Clancy knelt beside Gribbs and felt for his non-existent pulse. “Well, boys, I guess now we know why they call him the fastest gun alive.”

  ~*~

  Mulgrave and Eunice were making love when the shots fired. Both jumped into the air, then ran naked to the window. A crowd gathered behind the bunkhouse, and looked like trouble.

  Mulgrave dressed rapidly, grabbed the shotgun next to his bed, flew down the stairs. His wife followed, shawl flying behind her. They ran out the door, into the backyard, a man lay on the ground.

  Clancy made his report. “Gribbs called John Stone out, and you can see who got the worst of it.”

  Mulgrave and Eunice stared at the corpse of Gribbs, one of the fastest gunfighters hired. “What was it about?”

  “Gribbs thought Stone insulted him,” the ramrod explained. “Thought he could take Stone, but found out he was wrong.”

  “You mean to say you just let that happen?” Mulgrave felt himself losing his temper. “John Stone might go over to the other side. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “If two men’re a-gonna shoot each other, the onliest thing to do is git out of the way.”

  Eunice wasn’t worried about Gribbs, but John Stone was danger. She steered her gaze to the ramrod. “In the morning, somebody should have a talk with Stone.”

  Mulgrave shook his head angrily. ‘Talk hell. We’re long past that now. If John Stone goes over to Reynolds’s spread, we’ll wipe him out with the others. He’s only one man.”

  Clancy cleared his throat. “Two men. Spruance went with him.”

  “Spruance is a goddamned traitor, and I want him dead. Are there any volunteers?”

  A hand went up on the arm of Sledge. “I’ll do it, sir.”

  Clancy said, “I don’t think we should waste time on Spruance. Reynolds’s weak, and we should attack him a-fore he gits stronger.”

  Mulgrave winked significantly at Sledge, then took his wife’s arm and headed toward the main house. Clancy waited till they were out of sight, then turned to Sledge. “I saw what just went down ‘twixt you and the boss. If’n you run into Spruance, you might have to fight John Stone.”

  “There’s more’n one way to skin a rat,” Sledge replied.

  Chapter Eight

  Collars up around their ears, hats low over their eyes, Stone and Spruance rode toward Woodlawn. “Why’d you stand up for me?” Stone asked.

  “Who the fuck knows?”

  “That bunch of backshooters’ll be after you.”

  “Maybe I’ll go to Frisco. Hear there’s a big demand for gunfighters.”

  Something came fast behind them, and Stone yanked a gun, turning in his saddle. Muggs exploded out of the night and danced on his hind legs, then ran to the crest of the next hill, and saw the lights of Woodlawn.

  “You can stay in my room tonight,” Stone said to Spruance. “Sleep on the floor. My wife won’t mind.”

  “Like hell she won’t. I’ll get my own room, if you don’t mind.”

  ~*~

  Leticia lay beneath her blankets, gun in hand, unable to sleep. The hotel resonated squeaks, rattles, curses, and an occasional gunshot. How could he leave me like this?

  She rolled over and closed her eyes, but was afraid she’d shoot herself. She’d never slept with a gun in her hand before. Tomorrow I’ll ask if there’s a spare room at Mrs. Blodgett’s.

  Scraping sounds came from the door, and her hair stood on end. A key was inserted in the lock, and Leticia leapt out of bed and dived into the corner. The door opened, and she took aim.

  “It’s only me,” said John Stone.

  His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he saw the gun in her hand. An instant later he was on the floor. She eased her finger off the trigger. “A man could get shot that way,” she said softly.

  Stone picked himself up. “Next time I’ll knock. Didn’t want to wake you.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Just quit my job.” He lowered his saddlebags to the floor and unfastened the flap. His hand fished inside and came up with the bottle of whiskey he’d bought at a saloon. He unscrewed the top, took a swig, then unrolled his blanket on the floor.

  “Surely you’re not going to sleep there.”

  “No place else,” he replied, stretching out on the planks.

  “You could sleep on the bed with me. There’s plenty of room. You make me feel as if I have leprosy.”

  “If I get into bed with you, I’ll grab your little ass. So shut up and go to sleep.”

  The room fell still. Leticia thought of him touching her in the place mentioned, and felt mildly aroused. A naughty thought played in her mind. She shivered underneath the covers. He thinks I’m a little girl, but he’s wrong.

  “Johnny?”

  He sat up, gun in hand, peering sleepily through the darkness. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why don’t you lie down on the other side of the bed? There’s plenty of room, and I won’t bite you.”

  “What if I bite you?”

  “I’m sure you have far too much self-discipline for that.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “You make me feel repulsive.”

  “If I get into bed with you, there’ll be trouble. You’re too pretty for your own good, and mine too.”

  “What if I want you to come to bed anyway?”

  “You should go with the man you’re going to marry. I don’t want you on my conscience.”

  “You haven’t done anything to be guilty about. The plain truth is you don’t find me attractive. Well, I can understand that. We can still be friends. Good night.”

  She rolled over, and the room became silent. Then he heard a sniffle, followed by a whimper, and a series of sobs. He’d rather face George Armstrong Custer’s Michigan Wolverines at Gettysburg than a woman’s tears. He sat on the edge of her bed and patted her head. “Take it easy. You’re making a big issue out of nothing.”

  “Get away from me.”

  “I really like you. You’re a sweet girl.”

  “Please don’t make me hate you more.”

  “The only reason I don’t sleep with you is I don’t want to take advantage.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  She looked at him, her eyes smoldering intensities. “What if I wanted you to take advantage?”

  He held out his hand fearfully. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret ten years down the road.”

  “I might not even be alive ten years down the road,” she whispered as she kissed his ear.

  The warmth of her lips radiated through his body and tingled his toes. “You don’t know what you’re d
oing,” he mumbled.

  “I’m not innocent as you think,” she breathed into his mouth.

  Her life force entered his body and steered him in a new direction. “Listen to me,” he said, clinging to his remaining ounces of sanity, “if you keep this up, we’ll both regret it in the morning.”

  She inserted her slippery tongue into his mouth, and the fearless cavalry officer collapsed onto the bed. She crawled on top of him and covered his face with kisses. He thought he should make one last noble effort. “You’re a ... virgin. It’s nothing to take lightly.”

  “If you’re the man I think you are, I won’t be a virgin much longer.”

  He tried to withstand the delicious temptation so close and available. “This requires some … thought,” he said.

  She unbuttoned his pants as her tongue touched his throat and his hand slipped beneath the fabric of her gown. She licked his lips, and a wave of warmth rolled over him. She tasted like strawberries, and her curious hands drove him out of his mind. He reached for the hem of her gown and pulled it away. The artery in his neck throbbed like an injun drum, and his body felt like lightning bolts as he gazed at her naked shivering body resplendent in the moonlight.

  “I’m cold,” she said in a small voice.

  He lowered himself onto her. She dug her fingernails into his back as he touched his tongue to her breast. They sank into an ocean of mad lust.

  ~*~

  Sledge tied his horse to the rail in front of the hotel and looked down the street. No one was in sight. He entered the lobby, and the clerk glanced up from the year-old magazine he was reading. “I’m a-lookin’ fer Bob Spruance. He check in yet?”

  “Room three-ten.”

  Sledge climbed the stairs, chewing a matchstick. The youngest of Mulgrave’s gunfighters, he’d killed three men face-to-face, and several more in bushwhacks. He was anxious to make a good impression on the boss, and was sure he could take Spruance, whom he considered not very fast.

  He came to the third floor, tiptoed down the hallway, came to 310, drew his gun, thumbed back the hammer. He aimed his shoulder toward the door, then took a deep breath and charged. His shoulder slammed into the flimsy wood, the lock lost its grip, and he burst into the room, firing at the figure on the bed.

  Thunder rocked the hotel, the bed exploded into feathers, and Sledge heard a shot from his left flank. A bullet ripped through his rib cage, punctured a lung, his aorta, the other lung, and exited beneath his armpit. His lights went out and he collapsed onto the floor.

  ~*~

  Stone and Leticia heard shots. He rolled out of bed and pulled on his pants. “Get dressed. Might be trouble.”

  She threw off the covers, dropped the rumpled gown over her head, then put on her coat. He handed her the shotgun. “Don’t open the door for anybody.”

  “What’s going on here?” growled Sheriff Barnes, gun in hand, as he entered the hotel room.

  Spruance stood beside the window, looking into the street. ‘Tried to shoot me.”

  Barnes knelt beside the dead gunfighter, whom he recognized immediately. “Any idea what this is about?”

  “Mulgrave sent him to kill me.”

  “You got any proof?”

  “That’s your job.”

  Barnes looked at the bloody shirt. “I need witnesses.”

  “Mulgrave’s at the bottom of the range war, and everybody knows it.”

  “I thought you were one of Mulgrave’s top guns.”

  “I quit, and that’s why Mulgrave sent this birdbrain after me.”

  They heard footsteps in the corridor. Guests, armed with a variety of guns and rifles, appeared in the doorway.

  “Everything’s under control,” the sheriff said. “Go back to yer rooms.”

  The crowd heard spurs jangling and got out of John Stone’s way. He glanced into the room and saw Sledge on the floor. “How soon’s the posse leaving?”

  “Posse fer what?” the sheriff asked.

  “To throw Mulgrave in the clink.”

  “I was just explainin’ to yer friend. There’s no evidence linkin’ Mulgrave to this.”

  “That man’s one of Mulgrave’s gunslingers, and you know it.”

  “That don’t mean Mulgrave sent him here. Would a couple of you gentlemen give me a hand with the deceased?”

  Citizens lifted the dead gunfighter and carried him away, led by the sheriff. Stone sat on a chair and looked at Spruance.

  ‘Told you to sleep in my room, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “I think we’d better get out of town.”

  “Can’t leave my wife. You’d better come with me. We can watch out for each other, until we figure out what to do.”

  Spruance descended the stairs behind Stone, who withdrew the key from his pocket and knocked on a door. “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”

  She opened the door and wrapped her arms around him, then noticed another gentleman in the doorway.

  “An old friend from the Army, Bob Spruance.”

  Spruance saw an astonishingly delectable young woman. He removed his hat and bowed slightly. “How do you do.”

  Stone pushed Spruance into the room. “Mulgrave tried to kill him. We’ll be safer together.”

  Spruance raised his hand in protest. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  Embarrassed by the awkward situation, she tried to be gracious. “A friend of my husband’s is a friend of mine.”

  Stone blew out the light. Leticia threw off her coat and dived beneath the covers. Spruance dropped to a blanket on the cold hard floor. Stone sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. The hotel became quiet, and a dog barked on the other side of town.

  Stone removed his clothes and crawled into bed with his putative wife. Their bare bellies touched, she pulled the blankets over their heads, his hand came to rest on her rump.

  “We’ll have to be quiet,” he whispered.

  ~*~

  On a far-off range, a lanky young cowboy named Jeff Allerton lay on his cot, fast asleep. The wind tore a shingle off the roof, but he didn’t hear. He’d spent a long day chasing strays and watching for rustlers.

  The line shack had a bed, wooden crate for a table, fireplace made of rocks. A Bible lay open beside the cot. Allerton had been reading Deuteronomy.

  A knock came at the door. Allerton, awake in an instant, reached for his shotgun. “Who’s there?”

  A deep baritone voice sang through the wind. “A traveler, and I’m lost.”

  Allerton opened the door. “Welcome.”

  Boettcher glanced around the small room. Nothing escaped his eye, especially the stack of double eagles on the windowsill. “Got somethin’ to eat?”

  Allerton tossed him a tin of beans and a can opener. Boettcher pried off the lid. “Where the hell am I?”

  “Near Brookdale. Where you headed?”

  “I’m a-lookin’ fer a man named John Stone. Ever heard of him?”

  “What’s he done?”

  “They say he’s the fastest gun alive.”

  “Him and about twenty others. Maybe he went to Woodlawn County.”

  “What’s in Woodlawn County?”

  “They’re havin’ a little range war, an’ both sides’re hirin’ gunfighters. If the galoot you’re a-lookin’ fer needed money, and he was fast, he could name his price.”

  Boettcher hungrily spooned pork and beans into his mouth. “How far’s Woodlawn County?”

  “Two days north. They got an Army post.”

  “Let me pay you for the food.”

  Allerton raised his hand. “Naw, I got plenny. Supply wagon comes onc’t a week.”

  “Is that a mouse in the corner?”

  Allerton turned in the direction of Boettcher’s eyes, and Boettcher went for his gun. The hapless cowboy heard the smooth glide of iron against worn leather, and a second later a bullet crashed into his brain.

  Boettcher holstered his gun and finished eating beans as Allerton lay bleeding on his cot, gunsmoke in the air. The r
amrod scooped the double eagles off the windowsill and dropped them into his pocket. Then he filled his saddlebags with beans, bacon, and a big chunk of roast beef. He debated with himself whether to burn down the line shack. Best not to attract attention. Nobody cares what happened to a dumb cowboy. They’ll blame it on the injuns.

  Chapter Nine

  Dark ominous clouds covered most of the sky as Stone and Spruance walked through the gates of Fort Lloyd. The bugler blew ‘To the Colors,” and Old Glory rose in the air. Forty-odd officers, noncoms, and enlisted troopers stood at attention in razor-straight blue ranks and saluted.

  The flag fluttered in the stiff morning breeze, and the commanding officer stood ramrod-straight. He barked a command to the first sergeant, and the formation broke apart. The officer headed for the orderly room, followed by the first sergeant. Men spread across the post, and a detachment marched toward Stone, led by a crusty old corporal.

  “Left—right—hut—hup!”

  Stone leaned toward him. “What’s your commanding officer’s name and rank?”

  “Lieutenant Daltry.”

  I rank him, Stone thought, getting into the military mood. He and Spruance found the orderly room and came to a halt before the first sergeant’s desk.

  The first sergeant looked up from his morning report. Two towering cowboys stood before him, knives and guns everywhere. The plaque on the desk said: GERALD BAXTER – U.S. Cavalry.

  “I’d like to speak with the lieutenant,” Stone said in his firmest company commander tone.

  “Who the hell’re you?”

  “The name’s John Stone, and this here’s Bob Spruance. Tell the lieutenant we’re ex-officers.”

  Sergeant Baxter sized them up quickly. They damn sure strut like officers. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Be right back.”

  He knocked on a door at the rear of the orderly room and entered the commanding officer’s office. Lieutenant Daltry sat on his chair and stared out the window at mountains in the distance. He was bored out of his gourd.