Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8)

by Len Levinson

  Koussivitsky introduced the cowboys to the dancing girls. Seema’s eyes were downcast as Stone sat opposite her. The dancing girl named Ishtar served strong coffee in tiny bowls. They drank in awkward silence. Wind ruffled the skirt of the tent, and goose bumps were on the skin of the girls.

  Koussivitsky arose, cleared his throat, took Ishtar’s hand. They moved toward the darkness at the rear of the tent. Stone looked at Rooney, and Rooney shrugged. He got to his feet and held out his hand to the dancing girl named Ruhla. They left the tent, and Stone was alone with Seema.

  “When you were dancing,” he said, “did you smile at me?”

  She glanced at him shyly and said something in Arabic. She didn’t speak English, probably smiled at all the men. He feasted his eyes on her many charms. She was exquisite, trained to entertain royalty, gone bust in Kansas.

  She took his hand, he followed her through a network of canvas passageways. She lit a lamp in a small chamber. A rug and blanket lay on the floor, a covered basket sat nearby.

  She sat on the rug, and he lowered himself beside her. He wanted to kiss her rose petal lips, but hesitated. Something didn’t feel right. What about Cassandra and Marie? He and Seema didn’t know each other, couldn’t speak, she was a strange frightened creature in a land full of armed men, and he felt like an intruder. She needed the money, and really didn’t care about him. Besides, he was supposed to marry Cassandra in a few days. With a sigh of confusion and regret, he reached into his pocket and handed her the twenty-dollar silver eagle.

  She stared at it in the center of her palm, and he reeled out of the tiny room. Darkness and tent poles, he pulled his Apache knife, tore a slit in the canvas. Then he stepped through and found himself in another small room. A large dark shape lay on the floor.

  “Took the wrong turn,” Stone said in an apologetic tone.

  Koussivitsky lay on the floor with his massive arms around Ishtar, her slender legs grasping his formidable waist. “Take left turn,” the Cossack commander said.

  Stone found himself outside. The air was clean, the moon sat on the horizon. He staggered past tents, filling his lungs with the pungent scent of the plains at night. His legs like rubber, he advanced onto open prairie, grass chewed to the roots by herds of cattle that had passed this way. Ahead were hundreds of miles of nothing at all.

  He heard an opera of insects and birds. A vast unimaginable land sprawled before him in the light of the moon and stars. His head spun, he lost his footing, reflexes and coordination gone. He landed in a pile of cow manure.

  Fatigue hit him like a powerful drug. He closed his eyes and fell asleep instantly, while in the distance the sound of tinkling pianos and laughter in the saloons floated on the cool night air.

  ~*~

  A lone horse trudged across the tractless wastes, its eyes half closed. Frank Quarternight slept in his saddle, chin on his chest. His hands rested loosely on the pommel, and he raised up and down with the movement of the horse. Sometimes his eyes opened and he looked around, then fell asleep again.

  Nocturnal creatures watched solemnly behind trees and bushes as the gunfighter passed. He dreamed of a bloodied dead girl beckoning to him, dancing voluptuously, luring him onward.

  She held out her hand and smiled, and he followed her dutifully across the endless sprawling night.

  ~*~

  Slipchuck crawled across the carnival ground like a Sioux warrior homing in on a scalp. He’d searched for the fat lady in every tent, and this was the last one. She had to be inside, sleeping on her bed, resplendent in her nightgown. Maybe if she were alone .. .

  He came to the edge of the tent, paused and listened. Nothing was about. He pulled his knife and cut a rope attached to a tent peg. Then he lifted the canvas flap and poked his head inside the tent.

  She lay before him, moonlight illuminating her head and shoulders. She wore a white silk nightgown, her belly rose like a continent, her head rested on a fluffy white pillow, her rich thick hair caressed her perfect profile.

  Slipchuck crept closer, reached the edge of the bed, brought his beady eyes near her plump hand.

  Her fingers were like little fat sausages, and Slipchuck wanted to kiss them. He heard a sound from the other side of the bed. The mattress bounced, and a gun pressed against his forehead.

  “Thought I heard a goddamned varmint over here. What you want, you old fart?”

  The tattoed man had the drop on him, but Slipchuck had been around the corral a few times. He smiled and raised his hands. “Guess I’m in the wrong tent. Shucks.” He tipped his hat. “Sorry to bother you.”

  Slipchuck gazed at the features of his lady love. Her bosom rose and fell smoothly, and the skin of her face was like the finest Italian marble. He heard the tattooed man shout for help, but Slipchuck’s eyes were fixed on the woman of his dreams. He wanted to take off his clothes and crawl into bed with her. Maybe she liked older men. You never could tell about those things.

  Chapter Six

  Frank Quarternight saw the first faint rays of dawn on the horizon. Slouched on his saddle, he steered his horse toward the nearest low prairie hill, dismounted, pulled the saddle off his horse, hobbled it in the midst of plush buffalo grass.

  The hump of earth didn’t offer much shelter. He unrolled his blanket, noticed the bullet hole in the bottom where the girl tried to kill him, placed his rifle beside him, and lay on the blanket, his Smith & Wesson in his right hand. He rested his head on the saddle and closed his eyes.

  The sun rose in the sky. A soft snore escaped his lips. The dead girl danced sinuously before him, her long, slim arms undulating in the dawn light.

  ~*~

  Weird and deserted, gaily painted canvas signs hanging limp, the carnival was silent in the morning mist. Its grounds were littered with empty whiskey bottles, chicken bones, cigarette butts. Gone were the crowds, music of the hurdy-gurdy, voice of the huckster. The dancing girls were fast asleep in sheets of fine Egyptian cotton.

  A head appeared in the opening of a tent. It was a midget with a shock of red hair, yawning and carrying an ax. He wore only pants, and waddled on short, stumpy legs across the open ground. His head appeared too large for his body, and his arms too short. He came to a stop next to a pile of wood, placed a piece on a stump, raised his ax, chopped.

  The sound of steel against wood traveled through Sundust. Cassandra opened her eyes. The light of dawn shone through rough muslin curtains. She was accustomed to sleeping on open ground, fully dressed, with boots on in case of stompedes.

  Her long blond hair splayed over the pillow, and she wished John Stone were there. Work to do. She threw the covers off and stood beside the bed. Her body was lithe and well-muscled as she reached for her britches. She was supposed to meet Collingswood in his office at nine o’clock, and had to hurry. She was selling the herd, her long ordeal was nearly over, or so she thought.

  ~*~

  Buckalew finished his last gulp of coffee, then turned the cup upside down and shook the grounds out. He stood, stretched, spat, and walked toward a gunny sack lying near his saddle. He picked it up, it rattled noisily, full of tin cans. He dropped to one knee and laid out cans like a rank of tin soldiers.

  He backstepped until he was at dueling distance, wore his gunbelt with the holster on the left side, tied to his leg. His left hand withdrew the gun, it came out smoothly, the leather oiled and slick. He holstered the gun, tensed, held his breath. Then he dropped his left hand, pulled the gun, fired. The sudden detonation sent a flock of birds flying into the air nearby. Dirt kicked a few feet from the cans.

  The gun felt awkward and strange in his left hand. He dropped it into its holster, got set, drew again. The stillness of morning was shattered by another shot, and the bullet struck a few inches closer. Buckalew sniffed the acrid gunsmoke and squeezed the gun handle in his fist. His speed was off, so was his aim. But the body was the same, and practice would put everything right.

  He was fifteen when he killed his first man. The rich needed bo
dyguards in a land without police, and he was never strapped for funds again. His daddy said God gave him the talent.

  He drew again and fired. The bullet struck closer to the can. He dropped the gun into its holster, got set, yanked again. The sound of the shot pealed across the endless plains.

  ~*~

  John Stone opened his eyes. A small furry prairie dog looked at him curiously. The terrible stench of cow manure arose from Stone’s clothing. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, and the prairie dog ran away.

  The prairie stretched before Stone, and cattle grazed in the distance. His head ached and he felt sick to his stomach. His mouth tasted foul as a dead rat. He had to get cleaned up.

  He spotted a stream, headed for it. Every time his foot came down, a hammer struck his head. I’m killing myself. I’ve got to stop drinking. The night had been full of fights, midgets, the fat lady, a dead clown. He was losing Cassandra, her ranch, children they planned to have.

  He came to the edge of the stream, pulled off his boots, unstrapped his guns, emptied his pockets. Then he dived in, clothes, hat, and all. The icy water shocked his mind to attention, he surfaced spouting like a whale. Dirt and manure dropped away, he felt reborn. I’ll never touch another drop of whiskey again in my life.

  ~*~

  Cassandra sat in the dining room of the Majestic Hotel, eating fried eggs, bacon, and grits. The daily routine of beef and beans finally was over.

  On the other side of the window, cowboys stirred on benches and in alleys, awakening after their wild night on the town. Wagons and riders filled the street. Storekeepers swept debris from the fronts of their establishments.

  “May I join you?” It was Lewton Rooney, hat in hand, wearing a business suit with pants tucked into riding boots. He hung his hat on the hook and lowered himself onto a chair. “Johnny awake yet?”

  “I haven’t seen him since last night. He was so drunk he could barely stand. He may not make this meeting.”

  He detected annoyance in her voice. The top two buttons of her shirt were unfastened, her smooth skin was inviting.

  “I’ve seen him drunker,” Rooney said.

  “Hard to get drunker than he was last night, I’d say.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “If he doesn’t get here soon, we’ll have to leave without him. Slipchuck is still in jail for killing that clown. Do you know a good lawyer?”

  “The sheriff doesn’t have any real evidence against Slip-chuck, from what I’ve heard. I’ve got just the man, and he also happens to be mayor. If he can’t get Slipchuck off, nobody can.”

  ~*~

  Stone walked on the dirt sidewalk, hat low over his eyes. Every time bright light struck his eyes, it was a dagger through his brain. He felt nauseous, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. His stomach quivered and he felt as though he’d black out at any moment.

  He saw a sign: JEWELRY.

  Gleaming in the window were bracelets and necklaces encrusted with precious stones. In one corner sat a photo in a silver frame. Stone unbuttoned the pocket of his damp shirt and took out his photograph of Marie. A man in a suit sat behind the counter, reading the Sundust Clarion.

  “Help you?” he asked, laying the paper down.

  Stone held out the picture. “The frame too far gone to fix?”

  The jeweler examined it in the bright sunlight streaming through the window. “Might be a few marks here or there, but otherwise should be good as new.”

  He wrote on a slip of paper. Old clocks and watches hung on the walls, ticking away merrily. The display case contained brooches, rings, stickpins, and in Stone’s blurred vision they looked like strange sparkling insects.

  “Come back day after tomorrow,” the jeweler said, placing Marie on a shelf behind him. “Should have it for you then.”

  Stone stepped into the street and saw a sign: SHERIFF.

  He crossed to the other side of the bustling shopping area. Children played in alleys, jumping over prostrate bodies of sleeping cowboys who stank of whiskey and vomit.

  Sheriff Wheatlock looked up from his copy of the newspaper. He was early thirties and wore a mustache.

  “Want to see a prisoner name of Slipchuck,” Stone said.

  The sheriff gazed at Stone thoughtfully for a few moments, then picked a ring of keys from the wall, unlocked the back door. Stone followed him into the jail.

  Slipchuck stood with his hands grasping the bars of a cell, broken battered hat on the back of his head, shame on his wrinkled toothless face. He pinched his lips together. “I’d druther face Comanches than jail.”

  “We’ll get you out fast as we can.”

  Slipchuck held the bars more tightly. “I din’t kill no clown, Johnny. You know that, don’tcha?”

  ~*~

  “Sure, I know it. But you shouldn’t sneak into other people’s tents at night. Good way to get shot.”

  The door opened, and they were joined by Cassandra, Rooney, and an unshaven man in a stovepipe hat. Cassandra said crossly, “Didn’t think you’d be up this early, trail boss.”

  “On time every time,” Stone replied from the depths of his severe hangover.

  “How’re you this morning, you old gopher?” she asked Slipchuck.

  “I din’t knife nobody,” he replied sullenly.

  “We’ve brought you a lawyer. Mayor McGillicuddy, this is Ray Slipchuck, one of my top hands.”

  Mayor McGillicuddy cleared his throat and stepped forward, fingers gripping his lapels. The fragrance of whiskey accompanied him as he cleared his throat. “What were you doing in the fat lady’s tent?”

  “I was a-gonna ask her to marry me, yer honor.”

  “Who was the last person you saw before you were arrested?”

  “Them two.”

  Mayor McGillicuddy looked at Stone and Rooney. “What time did you last see this man?”

  “About a half hour before he was caught,” Stone said.

  “The victim was dead several hours before he was found. I think I can have this man released, but”—he lowered his voice—”I might have to distribute some money to the sheriff.”

  Cassandra replied, “I own nearly three thousand head of the finest cattle in America—I’m good for it. How soon before he’ll be out?”

  “An hour.”

  Slipchuck shuffled nervously in his cell. “Much obliged, boss lady. I can ever do somethin’ for you, just ask.”

  “Stay out of women’s bedrooms, if you’re not invited.”

  Cassandra left the sheriff’s office, followed by Stone and Rooney. A wagon piled high with buffalo skins rolled past. They came to Dexter Collingswood’s office. The clerk admitted them to the inner chamber. Collingswood sat behind his desk. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing Mr. Rooney,” he said.

  “He wants to look at the herd,” Cassandra replied.

  “I thought you and I were doing business alone.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “But Reverend Blasingame said ...”

  “I don’t care what Reverend Blasingame said,” she replied. “Mr. Rooney served in the war with my trail boss, and I’m giving him an opportunity to bid for my herd.”

  “Bid? I didn’t realize I was getting into a bidding match!”

  Rooney chuckled. “Afraid I’ll give her a better price?”

  “I’ll beat anybody’s price.” He turned to Cassandra. “What’re you asking?”

  “What I told you yesterday. Twenty-two dollars a head.”

  The price was high, but Blasingame ordered Collingswood to buy the herd at any price. She wouldn’t get the money anyway. “I’ll go to twenty-two dollars a head; we can sign the contract right now.”

  Cassandra wondered what was going on. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “We can transact the deal now for twenty-two dollars a head, without you looking at the herd?”

  “I don’t keep large sums of money in my office. I’ll have to go to the bank.”

  “I bid twenty-three dollars a head,” Rooney
said.

  Collingswood went into a mild state of shock. Twenty-three dollars a head was unheard of in the current market. “Are you crazy!”

  “Put up or shut up.”

  “Your company would never pay such a price!”

  “It’s my bid. What do you say, Cassandra?”

  “I want to get the best price I can—”

  “Twenty-three-fifty!” Collingswood shouted. He sat behind his desk, face mottled with emotion. People would say he was crazy for paying that much, but orders were orders, and she wouldn’t get the money anyway, according to Reverend Blasingame.

  “Twenty-four,” said Rooney.

  Collingswood stared at him in horror. “No herd’s worth that amount!”

  “My bid stands!”

  “But...”

  “If you don’t have a higher bid, we’ll consider the matter closed.”

  “Let me consider your offer,” Collingswood said hastily. “Please have a seat. There’s whiskey in the cabinet.”

  Stone made a movement toward the cabinet, but stopped. When a man wakes up on a pile of cowshit, he’s gone too far.

  Collingswood tried to remain calm outwardly, while a wreck inwardly. It was an unprecedented situation in his life. He couldn’t agree to more than twenty-four dollars a head, but Reverend Real Estate said make the deal.

  “Twenty-four-fifty,” he said.

  Rooney smiled. “You just bought yourself a herd.”

  It was a setup, the oldest flimflam in the world, and Collingswood had fallen for it. He wanted to kick himself, but he’d only followed orders. Let Reverend Real Estate worry about it.

  “I’ll have my clerk draw up the contract,” he said. “Take about an hour. You might like to go out for some fresh air and come back?”

  Cassandra, Stone, and Rooney left the office, and three doors down was the Pecos Saloon. An old Negro swept the floor, and one sleepy-eyed waitress was on duty. Behind the bar, a man washed glasses in a tub. They sat at a table in back, and the waitress took their order.