Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8)

by Len Levinson

  He lunged, and Stone timed him coming in, darted to the side, slashed him from wrist to elbow. The man in buckskin howled in pain, the knife fell from his hand. Footsteps approached from Stone’s right, a chair crashed onto his head, he was thrown to the floor. The cowboy stepped over him, looking for someone else to crown. Stone opened his eyes, caught his breath, saw the cowboy with the chair slam Diego, one of the Triangle Spur vaqueros. Stone got to his feet, dived, and brought the cowboy with the chair down.

  They hit the floor as fighting raged around them. The entire saloon was brawling, and the bartender screamed: “Stop it, you bastards! You’re ruinin’ me saloon!”

  His voice could barely be heard above the uproar. High on the wall, harem girls watched serenely as angry men busted each other up. Cassandra’s fingers tightened around her Colt. If any man made a move, she’d gun him down.

  Stone rolled on the floor with the cowboy who’d struck him with the chair. They punched and kicked each other, struggling to gain an advantage, when another cowboy snuck up behind Stone and hit him over the head with the leg of a chair. Stone fell backward, the whites of his eyes showing. The cowboy stood over him, ready to bash him again, when a cuspidor came flying across the saloon. The bilious fluid struck the cowboy in the face, and he was blinded. Gobs of abominable substances rolled down his face, and some got into his mouth. He coughed, vomited, staggered from side to side. Stone rose groggily in time to see a fist streaking toward his nose. He couldn’t get out of the way, the fist landed on target, and Stone went stumbling backward into the crowd.

  His assailant was named Trevino, and he was wanted for armed robbery in Uvalde County. Trevino followed Stone, trying to kick him in the head. Stone grabbed his leg, twisted, Trevino fell to the floor.

  Stone jumped to his feet. A fist streaked out of nowhere and landed on his forehead. He saw stars, wobbled backward. A cowboy jumped on him, dug his teeth into his ear. Stone elbowed him in the guts, slammed him against the wall, hit him with everything he had, and the cowboy dropped like a bushel of eggs.

  Somebody got punched through the front window of the saloon, amid shards of glass. The horses at the rail stared through the broken window at their bosses annihilating each other with anything they could lay their hands on.

  Somebody fired a shot, and fighting stopped for a second, as men checked whether they’d been struck by a bullet. Then they resumed the struggle. Behind the bar, one cowboy slammed a bottle over the head of a gambler. A freighter whacked a cattle buyer with a full mug of beer. The floor was covered with glass and a variety of liquids, not the least of which was blood. There were groans and screams of pain. Men vomited in corners from punches to the belly. The stench of whiskey was thick in the air, and the harem girls smiled sadly, frozen in time.

  Stone got to his feet, staggered, saw a big, brawny bull-whacker headed straight for him, a full cuspidor in his hands. He threw it at Stone, Stone ducked, and it sprayed over the men behind Stone, stinging their skin like corrosive acid, some suffered blurred and distorted vision.

  Stone dived on the bullwhacker. They rolled over the floor as other fighting men tripped over them. Somebody kicked Stone in the head as he strangled the bullwhacker, but the bullwhacker’s neck was thick and tough as the trunk of a tree. The bullwhacker brought both fists together and bashed them onto Stone’s head. Stone saw stars, let go, fell into the endless night.

  The bullwhacker raised his fist to punch Stone in the mouth once more, and a table came crashing down onto the bullwhacker’s head. It was in the hands of Don Emilio Maldonado, who had gone berserk.

  He was the only sober man in the saloon, enraged by Cassandra’s rejection. Built like a bull, he punched, kicked, and elbowed his way across the floor, a constant stream of vile Spanish epithets rolling off his tongue.

  Stone shook his head and tried to focus on the incredible violence unfolding around him. After so many weeks on the trail, no sleep, insufficient rations, misery, stompedes, crazy injuns, cutthroat rustlers, hailstorms, lightning, water shortages, working under ramrods who thought more of the cattle, by the time the cowboys hit towns, they were so damned mad they could kill.

  A chair flew over him, and men battled everywhere he looked. He got to his feet and turned around. Standing before him was a man with two teeth missing in front and a mad gleam in his eyes as he hurled his fist with astonishing speed toward John Stone’s head.

  Stone dodged the punch and eased to his left. The man lunged after him, and Stone threw the uppercut. It caught the man coming in and snapped his head back. He was wide open, and Stone shot a jab to his nose. The man raised his hands to protect his face, and Stone hooked him in the left kidney, right kidney, pounded his ear, took him apart. The man stumbled backward, struck the lantern, it fell to the floor.

  “Fire!”

  Fighting ceased instantly. Stone grabbed Cassandra’s hand and pulled her toward the back of the saloon. Slipchuck, wearing a black eye, smashed the rear window with a chair, stood back, and dived out. A tongue of flame climbed the wall. The bartender rushed forward with a bucket of water, threw it, causing a loud hissing and a big smelly cloud of smoke. Cassandra coughed. A shot was fired. Somebody screamed. There was mass confusion, and Don Emilio took hold of her other hand.

  “The front door would be better,” he said.

  “No,” replied Stone. “The back door is the best way.”

  Each pulled Cassandra in an opposite direction. “Let me go!” she shouted.

  They dropped her hands. She joined the morass of men trying to get out the back. Stone and Don Emilio followed, but it was difficult to see. Cassandra felt stray hands brush her breasts, her hips, and somebody pinched her behind.

  “Son of a bitch!” she yelled.

  She grit her teeth, punched, kicked, and an open path appeared before her.

  “After you, ma’am,” somebody uttered.

  She ran through the door into the alley behind the saloon, and the air carried the sweet fragrance of the prairie. She took deep breaths as men poured outside, battered and bruised, coughing, spitting, limping. John Stone, Don Emilio, and Rooney joined her, followed by Slipchuck and the other cowboys from the Triangle Spur.

  John Stone was sober and in command. Somehow he’d returned from his stupor, and so had her other men. They laughed, lit cigarettes. The mood changed from savage mayhem to low comedy.

  “Jesus—you see the guy what got hit with the spittoon? I thought he was a-gonna die!”

  “He did die, I think. Last time I seen him, he was a-lyin’ on the floor.”

  What kind of people are they? Cassandra wondered. One minute they tried to kill each other with fists and knives, now they were pals? They examined each other’s wounds, roared with glee, enacted great moments from the brawl. They’d tell the story around campfires till the day they died.

  ~*~

  Reverend Blasingame approached the back door of the church, looked both ways, inserted the key. A dim light came to him from the parlor, Little Emma held a lantern with one hand, rubbing her sleepy eyes with the other.

  Her voice was tiny and soft. “Would you like something, sir?”

  “A bit of warm milk and some cookies if you please, my dear. I’ll be in my office.”

  “A man was here to see you. He left a message—it’s on your desk.”

  Reverend Real Estate hung his coat in the hall closet. “What did he look like?”

  “Wore a big top hat, sir, and a gold earring.” She pinched her fingers around her earlobe. “Think he was from the carnival. Can I see the carnival?”

  “You go to the carnival, they’ll steal you away from me, put you on display, people will poke their fingers at you.”

  He climbed the stairs to his office, his face ashen. He opened the door, lit the lamp, sat at the desk. The scrap of paper was in the middle of the blotter, and he hesitated to pick it up. He wiped his mouth with his hand, grit his teeth, and said, “Oh, God, don’t do this to me now.”

  He
read the words scrawled in that old familiar style:

  Dear Reverend:

  Stop by the tent tonight. We got things to hash over.

  Jimmy Boy

  Reverend Blasingame gaped at the note. What he feared most had come to pass. He closed his eyes and prayed for divine guidance. There was a knock on the door. Emma entered with the tray of cookies and warm milk.

  “Did the man say anything to you?” he asked.

  “Said he was an old friend of your’n, before you was a preacher.”

  “Get out of here. I want to think.”

  He sipped milk and stuffed cookies into his mouth. The only thing to do was consult the Good Book. He picked up his desk Bible and opened it. The pages broke on Jeremiah 40:

  I will slay Ishmael

  and no man will know it ….

  ~*~

  Carnival tents, bright lights, clowns. Families had come from miles around to see the show, and it attracted an army of drunken, staggering cowboys.

  “’Round and ’round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows!” shouted a clown wearing a golden earring. “Put your money on the square, my friends, and if your number comes up, you win the jackpot. You can’t get a better deal than that. Winners all the time. Put your money down. You, sir!” he said to Stone. “Feel lucky tonight?”

  “Not me.”

  “I feel lucky,” Don Emilio said. He walked to the counter and placed his money on a square. Cowboys and farmers covered the other numbers, and the wheel of chance spun against the starry sky. It stopped, a number was called, a whoop went up from the vaqueros. Don Emilio raised both arms in the air. “This is my lucky night!”

  They came to the next tent: EGYPTIAN GARDENS.

  Another clown stood on a small stage. “Do you like ’em pretty?” he asked. “Do you want ’em to have a lot up here and lot down there.” He made comical motions with his hands to indicate portions of the anatomy the cowboys might find appealing. “Well, you come to the right place, my good people! Right here, within this very tent, I have specially trained temple dancers from Cairo, Egypt, and when they shake them hips, you’ll want to let it rip. Only a dollar, gentlemen, a mere paltry nothing for the most beautiful dancing girls in the world. Step right up. Don’t be shy!”

  The crowd moved toward the ticket booth in front of the tent, which emitted eerie music and the rumble of drums. The cowboys and vaqueros got in line, and John Stone was among them. Cassandra held back for a few moments, but curiosity propelled her forward. She felt a grip like steel on her arm.

  Don Emilio held her. “That is not a place for La Señora”

  “I want to see the temple dancers.”

  “It is disgusting.”

  “If I weren’t here, you’d be first in line.”

  “That is true, but you are here. Please, señiora, let us leave this ugly place. Ride away with me now. I assure you, it will be better than a hootchy-kootchy show.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see a hootchy-kootchy show!” She moved toward the door, but he continued to grip her arm. “Let me go!” She pulled herself away from him.

  He watched her go. Women will be the death of me yet. He moved toward her as the crowd streamed into the tent.

  Four musicians played on a rug beside the stage. Lanterns hung from the ridgepole, incense burned in a brazier shaped like the Sphinx.

  Cassandra looked for the chairs, but none were provided. The music was exotic and strange, incense tickled her nostrils, and she was the only woman in the crowd.

  “Where’s the goddamned girls!” somebody hollered.

  The flap behind the stage moved, and the clown with a golden earring appeared. “Here they are, direct from Cairo, Egypt, for your pleasure—let’s give them a big hand—the Pharaoh’s Temple Dancers!”

  The drum became louder, and the flute shrieked like an eagle in flight. Three young women dressed in diaphanous garments danced from behind the flap and moved toward the stage, swiveling their hips to the beat of the drum. They had dark skin and exotic features, Cassandra wondered what they were doing here in the middle of a godforsaken foreign land.

  They smiled and held their arms outstretched like the wings of birds. They shook their shoulders, and their breasts jiggled beneath the flimsy fabric. A roar went up from the crowd. Cassandra took a step back, because the reaction of the cowboys was as interesting as the dancers themselves.

  The men were dazzled by the mere sight of female flesh dancing to music. Cassandra could see lust on their faces. They’d kill at the drop of a hat, but a woman could subdue them with a jiggle.

  Her eyes fell on John Stone. A faint smile was on his lips, and she knew what he was thinking. How can he forget me just because a few women are dancing without clothes?

  Cowboys threw coins onto the stage, and the clown scurried about like a squirrel, picking them up. The band made its strange desert music, and Stone watched the dancer in the middle, her golden skin, the way she shook her hips vigorously. The costume showed her smooth, naked belly, and she wore a ruby in her navel.

  “Like her?” Cassandra asked, jealousy in her voice.

  “She’s all right, but not nearly as lovely as you.”

  “Maybe you’d like to spend the night with her?”

  “Of course not.” He returned his eyes to the dancer with the ruby in her navel. She winked at him, or was it his imagination?

  ~*~

  Reverend Blasingame moved through the shadows at the rear of the carnival, leaning on his shiny black cane. Two midgets approached, chatting noisily, and he hid behind a tree until they passed.

  He could hear the hurdy-gurdy, laughter of children, firing of guns. Carnival night in a small town. It brought back memories.

  He waited until the midgets passed, then skirted the rear of the tents. The band played in the Egyptian Gardens, and the barker sold freaks to the crowd. A toothless old lion in a cage growled, his coat half eaten by fleas.

  Reverend Blasingame passed the lion and made his way to a tent standing beneath a tree at the edge of the encampment. The sign said: MANAGEMENT.

  Reverend Blasingame tiptoed toward the tent and peered through a tear in the fabric. A clown with a big red nose, wearing a golden earring, sat at a collapsible table, eating steak and fried potatoes. Papers were stacked around him, and a pile of coins shimmered in the light of the lantern.

  Reverend Blasingame looked to his right and left. No one was in the vicinity. He ducked his head and entered the tent.

  The clown looked up from his plate of food. He stared at Reverend Blasingame for a few moments.

  “I’ll be a double son of a bitch,” the clown said. “Is it really you, Dickie? I heard you became a preacher. They told me you even got a church.”

  “The Mount Zion Church of God, on State Street. You should come and pray with us sometime.”

  The clown laughed heartily. “The greatest flimflam man of them all, dressed as a preacher.” He reflected professionally for a few moments, then said, “It’s a good costume. Sit down, and let’s have a drink.”

  “Can’t drink anymore, I’m afraid, but I’ll sit with you.”

  “Pour one for myself, then.” Jimmy picked a bottle and tin cup from a drawer. “Good to see you, Dickie boy. Been a long time. We hit a lot’ve towns, you and me.”

  “Many years ago.”

  “Not that many. Is it ten years? Fifteen? How the time goes, eh, Dickie? Them was the days. We went everywhere together, shared everything including our women. Do you remember the twins from France? Tumblers they were, or was it the trapeze?”

  “Tumblers.”

  “You do remember.”

  “A man doesn’t forget things like that, but I have a new life now. You shouldn’t’ve come to the rectory today. I wouldn’t want anybody to know about our connection. I lead the religious life now.”

  “What Bible school you go to? The one that met in the back room of the whorehouse where you and me lived most of the time?” The clown laughed. “Go
d, them was the days, Dickie. We was young and the world was full of good things.”

  Reverend Blasingame’s eyes flashed in the light of the lantern. “God smote me on the forehead, I fell off my horse like Saul of Tarsus. Jesus appeared to me, nailed to the cross. He told me to go forth to all the nations and preach the Gospel.”

  Jimmy placed his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Dickie, if I haven’t known you so long, I’d make a donation to your church right now. But I remember you when, so save the bullshit for the rubes.”

  “Christ could perform no miracles in his hometown. They didn’t understand how a man can be reborn.”

  “Folks say you own most of this town, steal from widows and orphans. Don’t tell me it’s not a good flimflam, because I seen a shitload of ’em, and I knows a good one when I sees it.”

  “God rewards those who have faith in him. The more you believe, the more you get. But possessions mean nothing to me. Money comes and money goes, but God remains unto eternity.”

  “You’re good. You’re damned good. And this flea-bitten carnival of mine is going under. You got a job for me, with your operation, Dickie boy? I could run something for you, like the bank. Somebody told me you own it and lots of other prime businesses in this town. How’s about a job for an old friend?”

  Reverend Blasingame smiled sadly. “I can’t let you live in this town, Jimmy. You might confuse the people. I don’t want them to know about my past. No, you must take your carnival and move on.” Reverend Blasingame held out his hand. “Let us go in peace and carry forever the memory of two happy young men making their way in the world.”

  “It won’t be that easy, bunkie. You can’t toss me away like that.”

  “I’m not your father, I’m not your mother, I’m not your brother. I’ll always remember the happy days we had together, but that was long ago. Don’t try to contact me again.”

  Reverend Blasingame arose from his chair, but Jimmy placed his hand on the pastor’s shoulder. “I think you’re forgetting something. I saved your ass a few times in the old days, when you didn’t have anything. We shared and shared alike. All I’m asking now is a little help.”