Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8)

by Len Levinson

  “More armed men just showed up,” Shaeffer said. “I think we ought to send somebody to Reverend Blasingame himself and talk this thing out.”

  “Why Reverend Blasingame?” Mr. Hudspeth asked. “Don’t tell me you believe them lies about him ownin’ this whole town? I don’t know about you, but I think he’s the most maligned man in Sundust. You spent more time in his church, you’d know that yourself.”

  “He sure knows his Scripture,” somebody said.

  ~*~

  The cowboys and vaqueros from the Triangle Spur came to a stop in front of the Blue Devil Saloon. They climbed down from their horses and threw their reins over the hitching rail. Don Emilio pushed back his sombrero and looked down the street. He could feel the crazy energy of men ready to kill each other.

  “We must find La Señora” he said. “Search every place of business, and hurry. I do not like the looks of this place.”

  ~*~

  Small and spiderlike, Runge entered Collingswood’s office. He moved toward the desk, his eyes darting about nervously, his face flushed with hidden emotions. “The reverend said you knew where this Whiteside woman and her cowboys are.

  “Lew Rooney’s house, last thing I heard.”

  Runge headed for the door.

  “What’re you going to do?” Collingswood asked.

  “Kill ’em.”

  Collingswood blinked. “Did you say you’re going to kill them?”

  Runge spun around and faced him. “ ’At’s right.”

  “You invade a private home and shoot people, there’ll be serious trouble. This town’s a powder keg, and it won’t take much to set it off.”

  Runge snorted derisively. “Nobody’ll do nothin’ in this town.”

  “There’s an Army officer here. We’ll be under martial law.”

  “Reverend said shoot him, too.” Runge stepped back toward the desk. “The trouble with you is you’re a coward!”

  “Now just a minute!”

  Runge flicked his hand, and suddenly his gun was out. “You goddamned yellowbelly.”

  Collingswood stared at the gun. Realization of his fragile mortality came over him.

  “I ought to kill you,” Runge said. “You’d be the first to stab the reverend in the back.”

  Collingswood saw the lunatic sheen in the young man’s eyes. “I may not be much of a believer,” he admitted, his eyes on the barrel of the gun, “but I try.”

  “Try harder. Don’t go shootin’ your mouth off to the wrong people.”

  Collingswood stood trembling behind his desk after Runge left. Never in his life had anybody pointed a gun at him. His heart beat rapidly. He wanted to get out of town, but the plains were full of injuns and men who killed for fun, like Runge.

  He put on his stovepipe hat and ran out of his office. The street was full of armed men, their mood a palpable malignant force. He’d been earning good money, everything had been fine, and now the world was exploding.

  He came to the back door of the rectory and didn’t even bother to knock. He entered the vestibule and headed for the stairs. Little Emma came running out of the shadows. “You can’t—you can’t!”

  He pushed her out of the way and vaulted up the stairs three at a time. Moving swiftly down the hall, he came to the door of Reverend Blasingame’s office. He threw it open and saw Reverend Blasingame posing in front of a full-length mirror. Reverend Blasingame turned to him suddenly, and Collingswood saw an expression of animal terror on the pastor’s face. There was silence for a few moments, and Collingswood was surprised to see the mirror. Usually it was covered with drapes, and he’d assumed it covered a window.

  “What’re you doing here?” Reverend Blasingame asked. “How dare you barge into my office this way!” He pulled the cord and closed the drapes.

  “Had to speak with you,” Collingswood said breathlessly. “Runge just tried to kill me.”

  “Too bad he didn’t go through with it.”

  Collingswood was stung by the remark. “But … but …”

  “You’re falling apart, Collingswood. I suggest you go to church and pray for God’s protection.”

  “I don’t think you understand what’s going on. The street is full of angry drunk cowboys with guns who want to get paid. You can’t expect civilized behavior from them. Runge just told me he’s going to kill people. You don’t understand: once the shooting starts, there’ll be a bloodbath.”

  “Ever think that might be what this town needs?” Reverend Blasingame asked. “We’ll get new people who don’t know about certain relationships that have existed since the beginning.”

  Collingswood stared at Reverend Blasingame as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re talking premeditated massacre.”

  “ ‘A cleansing process’ would be my choice of words.”

  “You might be killed too, once it starts. A lot of people know about you, and this might be the first place they come.”

  “Runge and the boys’ll take care of me. Shopkeepers and cowboys won’t dare stand up to them.”

  Collingswood wanted to go somewhere quiet and think. It was turning into the worst nightmare of his life. Reverend Blasingame reached for his cane. The man knew too much, and who knew what he’d say. But he was necessary to broker the deal with Cassandra Whiteside.

  Reverend Blasingame leaned his cane against the wall. “You talk to the wrong person, you’ll be shot.”

  “I would never betray you,” Collingswood said, a tremolo in his voice.

  “You’re distraught. We all say things we don’t mean. Go home and lie down. Have a cup of coffee.”

  Collingswood departed, and Reverend Blasingame sat behind his desk, finger against his chin. Collingswood was coming apart at the seams. Maybe it was time to replace him with a more stable cattle broker, one who wouldn’t shrink at the sight of a little blood.

  ~*~

  “Any food in this house?” Cassandra asked.

  “I eat in saloons,” Rooney said. “We’ll have to go out.”

  Stone looked at the backs of buildings that faced the main street of Sundust. A crowd of men erupted out of an alley. Stone drew his Colt, Koussivitsky dropped to one knee before the other window. The fading sunlight fell on Don Emilio Maldonado, who carried the ranch’s double-barreled shotgun. Following him were cowboys and vaqueros from the Triangle Spur.

  “Our worries are over,” Stone said. “We can go anywhere we want now.”

  Don Emilio and his men crowded into the room, and they looked like a hive of angry bees. Manolo, a short, stout vaquero, saw the bottle of whiskey on the table. He pulled out the cork with his teeth, leaned back, and guzzled it down like water.

  “What is the problem?” Don Emilio asked. His eyes fell on John Stone. “A miracle—the borrachin is sober. The Madonna herself must have appeared to him. But it will not last long. A borrachin cannot stay away from his whiskey. He will be crawling on the floor soon, you will see.”

  Stone glowered at Don Emilio. “I’m getting sick of your insults.”

  The Mexican moved his hand toward his gun. “Do what you have to, amigo.”

  “I’m still hungry,” Cassandra said.

  “The restaurant in the Majestic Hotel is probably your best bet,” Rooney told her. “It’s as safe as you can get in this town, and besides, you have your own army with you.”

  The knife fighters, saloon brawlers, sharpshooters, and ex-soldiers surrounded Cassandra. “Let’s tie on the feedbag, boys,” she said, and hitched her thumbs in her gunbelt, sauntering like Duke Truscott toward the door.

  ~*~

  “I’m not sure this is a correct course of action for us to follow,” said Mayor McGillicuddy, walking down a corridor on the third floor of the Drovers Cottage.

  He was followed by Dennis Shaeffer, owner of the dry goods store. “You’ll have to talk with him. Irresponsible not to. He represents the federal government.”

  They came to the door, Mayor McGillicuddy knocked. There was no answer. He knocke
d again. “Perhaps they’re out.”

  “Desk clerk said they’re in.”

  The mayor knocked again, heard footsteps. The door was opened by a man with a black mustache, attired in a robe, a grouchy expression on his face. “What you want!”

  “I’m the mayor of Sundust,” McGillicuddy said, trying to smile, “and I’m afraid we’re having a little problem. Since you’re Army, we thought we should consult with you. We’re expecting serious gunplay. I mean large numbers of men. A town-sized war is what I’m talking about here.”

  A woman appeared to the right of her husband, and she too wore a robe. They’d been in bed in the late afternoon, Mayor McGillicuddy realized.

  “I told you before,” she said to her husband. “Every man’s walking around with a gun, talking about shooting somebody.”

  “Nothing I can do about it,” Major Salter said. “I’m not here on official duty.”

  “I’m asking for your help, Major, and Mr. Shaeffer here, our chief alderman, is my witness.”

  Many rising military careers had gone aground on civilians, and Major Salter didn’t want to take the chance. He wore a looping four-inch scar on his right cheek, and wanted a brigadier’s star. “What d’you want me to do?”

  “Maintain law and order, with the armed citizens of town.”

  “Who’re they fighting?”

  “About twenty gunmen, and don’t ask who they’re working for. We’ve got our suspicions, but can’t prove anything.”

  Major Salter stood straighter, a military man could be seen beneath the light cotton civilian robe. “Tell every man in this town to bring his weapons, ammunition, and family to this hotel. We’ll fight them from here.”

  ~*~

  Cassandra and her men reached the main street of Sundust, saw the angry armed crowd. Children ran among the adults, aiming their forefingers like the barrels of guns. A bottle came flying through the air, sailed past Cassandra’s head, shattered against the wall of a building.

  “It’s got worse,” Rooney said. “Maybe you should go to Abilene after all, and I’ll come too, until things settle down here. To hell with my commission.”

  “I think he’s right,” Stone said. “Let’s go to the stables.”

  Something big and wide crashed into him, knocking him back a few feet. A cowboy two inches taller than he, with walrus mustaches, stood in front of him.

  “Watch where the hell you’re going!” the walrus said thickly, and whiskey fumes spewed from his lips.

  Stone moved away, but the cowboy lurched into his path.

  “Wait a minute,” the cowboy said. “I ain’t finished with you.”

  “I’m finished with you,” Stone said. “You don’t get out of my way, I’ll go right through you.”

  Stone saw the punch coming for a long time, the cowboy’s reflexes were so slow. It was easy to lean to the side, and the punch whistled past Stone’s ear. Before the cowboy’s arm was fully extended, Stone was inside. He pounded the cowboy’s left kidney, right kidney, then threw one over the top.

  His fist connected with the side of the cowboy’s head, and the cowboy wobbled. Stone slammed him in the face, and he went flying into the arms of his friends.

  Stone pulled the gloves more tightly on his hands as he moved toward Cassandra and the others. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling this is only the beginning.”

  ~*~

  Reverend Blasingame studied long columns of ledgers as Abigail Thornton entered his office, wearing a black dress. She pointed toward the window. “Do you know what’s going on down there? Have you any idea what you’re doing?”

  “You appear overheated, my dear. Sit, I’ll have Emma bring you some warm milk.”

  “Need something stronger than warm milk. You don’t open that bank, you’ll have the cavalry here. I’ve heard people say you should be lynched.”

  Reverend Blasingame smiled. “We lynch rustlers, horse thieves, and niggers, but preachers generally die from natural causes.”

  She pointed her long bony finger toward him. “The crowd is getting ugly. This town could be burned to the ground.”

  “Nonsense.”

  The door opened, and Runge entered the room. He poised his mouth to talk, but the syllable caught in his throat when he saw the schoolmarm.

  “You can speak freely in front of her,” Blasingame said.

  Runge was small and wiry, backlit from the lantern in the hall. “The crew from the Triangle Spur’s pullin’ out of town, with the woman. Should we go after ’em?”

  Reverend Blasingame thought for a few moments, then a smile grew on his face. “Bushwhack them, but bring back the woman alive.”

  A grin appeared on Runge’s face. “What you want the woman fer, Reverend?”

  “There’s one more thing I want you to do. Shut Collingswood’s mouth permanently.”

  Runge left the office, and Reverend Blasingame turned to the schoolmarm. An expression of terror was on her face.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” he asked, moving toward her.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, taking a step back. Her eyes were wide, the blood had drained from her face.

  His eyes crinkled with kindness. “You’ve heard things that perhaps you shouldn’t’ve. I told you never to come here.”

  She was speechless, mouth hanging wide, hair frizzled. She moved toward the door, but he got in her way, raising his arms. “What’s your hurry? You don’t need to leave so soon. We have so much to talk about.” He moved closer to her, and her back was to the wall, fingernails digging into the wallpaper. “I know what’s wrong,” he told her. “You don’t understand your Scripture. Christ himself said he brings not peace, but a sword.”

  “I won’t say anything,” she replied in a quavering voice. “You can trust me.”

  He reached up suddenly and grabbed her throat. His thumbs clamped down hard, and she gagged as she reared back her fist. He bared his teeth like an angry squirrel and squeezed harder. She walloped the little man in the mouth. He stumbled backward and landed on the floor near his cane.

  She shrieked and rushed to the door. He drew the sword and ran after her. She screamed hysterically, waving her hands as she made her way to the stairs. Reverend Real Estate dived, plunged the sword in, covered her gaping mouth with his hand, and together they rolled to the bottom of the stairs. They landed at Little Emma’s feet, the schoolmarm wrapped in ribbons of blood.

  Reverend Blasingame could barely catch his breath. “Heat the water ...” he said, his belly rising and falling “... you’ve got cleaning to do.”

  ~*~

  Collingswood paced back and forth in his office, his hands clasped behind his back. He wanted to make a run for the Majestic Hotel, but was afraid he’d get a bullet in the back on the way.

  He’d made a serious mistake getting involved with Reverend Real Estate, he realized now. He’d always thought the preacher slightly mad, but the man had become dangerous.

  Collingswood looked out the window. What if he crawled out? Only a few feet, he’d be on State Street. The Majestic Hotel was a short distance away.

  He stood beside the window, afraid to move. A killer might be waiting for him. The doorknob turned behind him, and he spun around. The door opened and revealed Runge, thumbs hooked in his gunbelt.

  “Ain’t plannin’ to jump out that winder, was you, Mr. Businessman?”

  “Of course not. I was just... ah ... thinking.”

  Runge whipped out his gun. “You ain’t foolin’ nobody, Mr. Businessman.”

  Collingswood raised his hands. “Just a minute!”

  Runge pulled the trigger. The gunshot reverberated through the house. Collingswood fell back, horror on his face, as the truth of life dawned on him. You can’t make a pact with the Devil, and hope to come out ahead.

  ~*~

  Reverend Blasingame entered his office, carrying a slice of vanilla cake covered with thick white frosting. He sat at his desk, took out his tincture of laudanum wi
th frantic ratlike movements, fixed himself a double dose. He raised the glass to his lips and drank it down in one gulp.

  Then he dug his fork into the cake, and it became the withered breast of Abigail Thornton. Four dots of blood welled out, and the horror caught in his throat. He tried to breathe, his throat full of masticated cake and icing, but no air came. His tongue stuck out and he gagged, groping frantically in the air. He desperately needed air. He’d suffocate.

  Something slammed into his back, forced him to cough, and a ball of sweet dough was expelled from his mouth. He gulped air, and turned to Little Emma.

  “You all right, sir?”

  His chest heaved with exertion, and his clerical collar was askew. He patted her head and said gratefully, “You’re a good girl.”

  “Sheriff Wheatlock is here to see you.”

  Reverend Blasingame’s eyes widened to saucers. “Did he say what he wanted? Have you cleaned up the blood? Hurry and finish!”

  She left the room, and he glanced around, straightening articles that had been knocked over. He threw the dough into the wastebasket, adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, felt the laudanum taking hold. Everything was going to be all right. He heard the sheriff’s steps on his stairs.

  Sheriff Wheatlock looked at the inner sanctum of Reverend Blasingame. The only light came from the lantern on his desk, bulging bookcases lined the walls. Reverend Blasingame looked paler than usual.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “Some people complained ’bout screams comin’ from this house. You hear somethin’?”

  “Just the unrest in the street. A shot every now and then. It’s not the quietest night we’ve ever had in Sundust, I’m afraid.”

  “You carry weight in this town, Reverend. I was wonderin’ if you’d talk to the people, calm ’em down. Lots of ’em respect you. Might work.”

  Reverend Blasingame raised his hand like Christ in an old Russian icon. “Not good for a preacher to get mixed up in politics. God doesn’t need more enemies than he’s got already.”

  ~*~

  The gang from the Triangle Spur saddled their horses in the stable. A volley of shots erupted in the center of town. Koussivitsky opened the back door of the stable, and starlight came into view. They led their horses outside.