Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8)

by Len Levinson

  “Wait a minute,” Stone said, glancing around. “Slipchuck’s missing.”

  They looked at each other and realized it was true. The old stagecoach driver had vanished.

  “I bet I know where he is,” Cassandra said, a frown on her face. “We can’t leave him behind.”

  ~*~

  A crowd of cowboys gathered in front of the bank, hollering obscenities. They held guns, bottles of whiskey, knives, torches, boulders, rocks, lengths of lumber.

  A barrel-chested waddie stood before the bank doors. His name was Scroggins, he was half-drunk, and somehow he’d become leader of the mob.

  “We come a long way!” he hollered. “We deserve better’n this!”

  The cowboys in the crowd roared their agreement, and one threw a bottle at the bank’s shuttered window.

  “We din’t ask to come here!” Scroggins continued. “Folks from this town rode out an’ invited us in! Where’s the money?”

  The crowd took up the chant: “Where’s the money? Where’s the money?”

  “I say we should take what’s due us! Burn the son of a bitch to the ground!”

  The crowd surged toward the bank. Scroggins aimed his six-gun at the lock.

  “Hold it right there!” said Sheriff Wheatlock, pointing his gun at Scroggins. “Touch that lock, I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

  Scroggins couldn’t back down now. He and the mob were drunker and more angry than last time, and harder to intimidate. If Sheriff Wheatlock could shoot the gun out of Scroggins’s hand, he’d stop them, be a hero, maybe get a raise from the town council. He fired, a red smirch appeared on Scroggins’s sleeve. Scroggins screamed in pain. The mob shouted a cacophony of disapproval, many of the cowboys drew their guns. Wheatlock stood his ground.

  “Any man touches this bank, I’ll shoot him down.” The crooked sheriff was outnumbered, but not afraid.

  The crowd stopped. They hadn’t come all the way from Texas to get cheated out of their money. Wheatlock glared at them, no coward. The situation was tense, could explode any moment.

  Then, out of the night, came the order: “At ease!” A major in the U.S. Army marched toward the bank. He wore his full dress uniform, sword at his side, pistol in a holster. Most of the cowboys had been soldiers, and relaxed in the middle of the street.

  The major’s campaign hat was tilted at a rakish angle, medals covered his chest. He’d been from Bull Run to the Battle of the Washita, with numerous stops in between.

  “My name is Major Salter!” he told them in a booming voice. “I’m ordering all of you to disperse in the name of the United States Government! Don’t do anything tonight that you’ll regret the rest of your lives!”

  “Where’s the money!”

  “The train’ll be here tomorrow afternoon! You’ll get your money then!”

  “What if the train don’t come?”

  Major Salter placed his fists on his waist. “If the train doesn’t come, I’ll help you burn the town down, because I want to get out of here myself!”

  They cheered, threw hats into the air. “I want to buy that man a drink!” They hoisted Major Salter onto their shoulders, carried him toward the Bucket of Blood Saloon.

  ~*~

  The wheel of fortune spun, the freak show went on. A new act had joined that day: Dr. Abner Wenders, dentist. A cowboy sat on the chair, mouth opened wide and eyes glistening fear. Dr. Wenders held a pair of pliers in his hand, tried to pull the tooth out of the cowboy’s mouth.

  It wouldn’t come, and Dr. Wenders yanked more energetically. He placed his knee in the cowboy’s lap for greater leverage. The cowboy yawped like a wounded steer as his friends offered encouragement.

  Dr. Wenders removed his pliers from the cowboy’s mouth, and blood trickled down the cowboy’s chin. A bottle was passed to the cowboy, and he guzzled down several swallows. He was trying to be a man, but the pain was horrific.

  Dr. Wenders grasped the offending tooth with pliers, placed his free hand on the cowboy’s hairy, bearded jaw, pulled the clamps tight, and tugged. He focused every ounce of energy in his body, just as they’d taught him at the Western Alabama College of Dental Arts. Something loosened in the cowboy’s mouth. Dr. Wenders knew victory was in sight, and pulled again. There was a terrible crunching sound, the tooth broke loose. Dr. Wenders went flying backward, and the cowboys caught him. The patient passed out from whiskey and pain. Dr. Wenders waved the bloody tooth in the air. “Only two dollars! Pay yer money down!”

  Outside the freak show tent, Slipchuck approached the old lady selling tickets. His hat was low over his face, so nobody would recognize him. He paid his money and went inside.

  The sound of the hurdy-gurdy became louder. A group of gaily costumed midgets performed flip-flops in the air. The tattooed man delivered his lecture.

  “I need ink,” he said. “It’s food for my blood.” He flexed his tiny bicep muscles covered with a sailing ship. “Whenever I feel weak, I get me another tattoo.”

  “What happens when you got no more room?” a cowboy asked.

  “Tattoo over the old ones.”

  Slipchuck passed behind the tattooed man. The object of his deepest desire drew closer. He stared at her incredible unimaginable breasts. She had the face of angel, a crown of auburn hair fell to her shoulders, and beneath it an enormous mass of flesh.

  He walked toward her in a trance as she placed another spoonful of pudding into her bottomless mouth.

  ~*~

  Runge and his gunfighters, guns drawn, entered the stable. They examined the brands on horses and didn’t see any from the Triangle Spur.

  “Flew the coop,” Runge said. “Let’s git after ’em.”

  He holstered his gun and moved toward his horse when a shadow moved behind a bale of hay. Runge slapped iron. The old stable manager moved into a shaft of moonlight, his hands in the air and beady eyes fixed on the gun barrel pointed at his chest.

  “You see which way the crew from the Triangle Spur went?” Runge asked.

  “Heard ’em say somethin’ ’bout a-stoppin’ by the carnival ’fore they pulled out.”

  A faint smile cracked Runge’s tiny vulpine face. “This looks like it, boys. We got ’em where we want ’em now.”

  ~*~

  Major Salter wobbled slightly as he made his way down the corridor to his hotel room. One free drink had led to another. He’d saved the town from bloodshed, nothing was too good for him.

  He came to the door of his room, and hesitated to knock. He was a husband coming home late, smelling of drink, expecting to get nagged. He’d rather face an angry mob than his angry wife.

  He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, raised his fist, knocked. The door opened, and his wife wore a yellow silk dressing gown that showed the outlines of her nipples. “I saw the whole thing from the window,” she said. “You were wonderful. I’m so proud I married you.”

  Major Salter was dazed as her lips touched his. He nearly tripped over his sword as she dragged him toward the bed.

  ~*~

  Slipchuck stood before the fat lady, who nibbled the drumstick of a chicken. “I remember you,” she said, “the little man who snuck into my tent while I slept. That wasn’t a nice thing to do.”

  “Meant no harm,” Slipchuck said. “I done it for love.” He gazed into her eyes, hoping to ignite a fire with his mad passion. “I might not look like much,” he admitted, “I could never give you what you want, but just let me look at you fer a while longer, ’fore I leave and we never see each other again.”

  Slipchuck heard a footfall behind him, spun around, drew his Colt. The tattooed man stood there, naked but for his loincloth. Both men aimed loaded weapons at each other.

  The tattooed man was surprised by Slipchuck’s fighting stance. “Stay away from my wife,” he stuttered.

  “Drop that gun,” Slipchuck told him. “You can catch me once, but you’ll never do it again.”

  The tattooed man had never been in a showdown before, a terrifying pr
ospect. He dropped the gun to the ground. Slipchuck picked it up, jammed it into his belt. Then he turned to the fat lady.

  “I could fight fer you,” he said. “I ain’t afraid of nothin’.”

  “I love my husband,” she replied. “Go away.”

  Slipchuck looked like he’d been trampled by a stompede. He dragged his feet toward the dark shadows, gun in hand. If he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want to live. He raised the barrel to his head.

  A hand clamped on his wrist. John Stone towered above him. “What you think you’re doing, pard?”

  Cassandra said, “We’ve got work to do, and you’re holding us up. Let’s be on our way.”

  The fat lady made a little wave. The love of his life had dismissed him for a plate of mashed potatoes. Slipchuck followed the others toward the tent’s exit. The other feller always gits the pretty gals.

  They emerged from the tent, walked toward the horses. Stone placed his arm around Cassandra’s waist. “We’ll get married in Abilene. In a real church with a decent pastor, not Reverend Real Estate.”

  Moonlight shone on his fine profile. He had nobility when he was sober. Why couldn’t he be this way all the time? “I wouldn’t marry you unless you promised to stay away from whiskey.”

  “Even at the big party?”

  “You can have the party, but after it’s over, nothing for thirty days. Then I’ll marry you, if you still want to.”

  Stone had the weird sense that he was shaking the firm grip of Duke Truscott. Slipchuck slouched, a defeated man. He’d caught a glimpse of ecstasy, but it wasn’t meant to be.

  Manolo, the Mexican knife fighter, placed his arm around Slipchuck’s shoulders. “Do not be unhappy, amigo. A thing like this happens to every man. You come to Mexico with me, you like fat girls. I know a whole village of them near Vera Cruz. They walk like this.”

  He stuck his belly out and waddled like the fat lady. Even Cassandra had to laugh. The ears of the horses were pricked up, they looked toward the carnival. Stone spun around, couldn’t see anything.

  “Something’s out there,” he said. “Horses’re spooked.”

  They searched the night, saw only shadows among tents. “Let’s get out of here,” Cassandra said. “This place is giving me the willies.”

  The night filled with thunder and lightning. Cowboys, vaqueros, and Cassandra dived to the ground. The barrage of gunfire exploded into the ground all around them.

  The military part of Stone’s brain clicked on. He weighed the options and didn’t have all night to come up with the answer. If they made a run for the horses they’d be cut down.

  Bullets peppered the ground, but they were difficult targets lying flat in the moonlight. Moose Roykins tried to bandage his left arm with a torn length of shirt. “Bastards got me!” he said through clenched teeth.

  Midgets, freaks, clowns, and dancing girls ran in all directions, screaming. The old lion roared mightily in his cage, and the tattooed man escorted his immense wife to safety behind a wagon. Stone saw a comet passing through the sky overhead. He dived through the air, caught the bound sticks of dynamite in his hands.

  The fuse sizzled angrily, he reared back his arm. A bullet creased his left ear, he hurled the packet with all his strength. It arched into the sky, terrific explosion, tents blown to smithereens. Stone was on his feet in a second. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Koussivitsky hollered the battle cry of the Don Cossacks. All the others rushed behind him. Muzzle blasts dotted the stand of trees to their left. Stone dived into the grass again. Bullets stitched into the ground in front of his nose. They had to get the rifles and shotgun. He tensed for a run at the horses, when two more bundles of dynamite came looping lazily through the autumn night.

  Stone leapt into the air, while Don Emilio reached for the explosives on his side. A bullet shot through Don Emilio’s thigh, but he held steady and threw the dynamite back. Then he fell to the ground as if someone had rammed a red-hot poker into his leg. He rolled over, cursed in Spanish. Stone heaved his dynamite, then dropped down again.

  The explosives detonated among the tents, bodies blew into the air. It was war, and Stone felt that old rush of juice. He reached toward his belt for his sword, but only his empty holster was there.

  “Let’s get out of here!”

  “I cannot move!” Don Emilio replied, his Mexican vaquero pants drenched with blood.

  Stone ran toward him, picked him off the ground.

  “You will never make it with me,” Don Emilio said. “Leave me behind.”

  “You’re coming with us whether you like it or not!”

  Don Emilio weighed one hundred ninety pounds, and Stone tipped the scales at two-forty. Stone ran slower than the rest, but he steadily made his way toward the horses. The enemy wasn’t firing anymore. It looked like they’d get away.

  A new voice resounded in the night. “Hold it right there! This is Major Salter of the Seventh Cavalry! Drop your guns and put your hands in the air!”

  An officer in blue held a sword in one hand and a gun in the other as he led a horde of armed townspeople up the hill. “We were about to ride out of here,” Stone said, “and somebody in those tents fired at us.”

  Don Emilio’s eyes were like raging infernos. “I ever find who they are …”

  “Heard the explosions in town,” the officer said, and Stone noticed half his buttons were undone. “My name’s Salter.”

  “John Stone.”

  Cassandra stepped forward. “He works for me. I suggest you put this town under martial law immediately.”

  Major Salter had spent most of the day in bed with a woman, but that didn’t prevent him from admiring another woman. “Any of your people hurt?”

  “Over here,” said Slipchuck, illuminated by torches held by townspeople. Manolo lay at his feet, a bullet through his chest. “Nothing you can do for him,” Slipchuck said. “He’s daid.”

  Everyone stared at Manolo, knife fighter and brutal killer, but good compañero across many hard miles.

  Major Salters noticed Stone’s hat. “What outfit were you with?”

  “Wade Hampton.”

  “Wesley Merrit.”

  They shook hands for the first time. A man with a pug nose and freckles stepped forward. “Captain Lewton Rooney, also of the Hampton Brigade.”

  It was the officer corps gathering in the midst of the crowd, and they were joined by Captain Koussivitsky of the Don Cossacks, a strange military brotherhood among men who hardly knew each other.

  They examined the area in the torchlight. Dead men lay on the ground, and the wounded groaned. Stone kneeled next to one of them. “Who put you up to this?”

  “Go to hell,” the man said through clenched teeth, guts spilling out of his stomach. Stone admired his loyalty, but would’ve preferred a traitor.

  “Over here!” shouted Slipchuck.

  He was perched on his hands and knees, looking at the ground, while beside him stood a cowboy with a torch. “One of ’em come this way.”

  The torches illuminated drops of blood on the grass. Stone got on his knees and examined it. Slipchuck had been giving him tracking lessons, and he noted how the grass was bent back, direction of the blood trail. It led toward town.

  Slipchuck drew his gun and looked toward the sparkling lights of Sundust. “We foller this trail,” he said, “we’ll find the varmints what shot mi amigo.”

  Chapter Eight

  Reverend Blasingame slept on the sofa in his office, dreaming of the hottest regions of hell, where imps with forked tails shoveled coal into raging fires, and sinners roasted on slowly turning spits.

  The stink was rotten eggs, screams of agony hurt his eardrums. He ran among red-hot coals, as rivers of boiling water streamed past him, and belches of pestiferous steam assailed his nostrils.

  A tidal wave of molten lava rolled toward him, bubbling and seething. A little red demon raised his head out of it and shrieked. The heat set Reverend Real Estate’s clothes on f
ire, he tried desperately to move his feet, but they were glued to the ground. Somebody shook his shoulder.

  He opened his eyes, and it was Little Emma. “Sir … terrible ... a man ... downstairs ...”

  Reverend Blasingame reached for his cane. “Is he armed?”

  “He’s dying ...”

  Reverend Blasingame jumped out of bed, his heart chugging in his chest. Everything was going wrong, his life disintegrating, one crisis after another. He ran quick as his short legs could take him down the stairs, saw a man slumped in a chair beside the kitchen table. Emma appeared behind Reverend Blasingame, and she held the lantern in her hand. It illuminated Trevino with his arms wrapped around his chest. His hands and the front of his shirt were drenched with blood.

  Reverend Blasingame knelt in front of him. “What happened?”

  Trevino opened his mouth, but no sound came. His eyes went glassy, and he leaned forward. Reverend Blasingame tried to get out of the way, but he was a roly-poly little man. Trevino fell on top of him.

  Reverend Blasingame squirmed away, covered with Trevino’s blood. He rose to his feet, and a wave of panic overtook him. His eyes darted excitedly about the room, searching for a solution.

  Little Emma peered out the window. “People comin’!”

  He rushed toward the window. A crowd carrying torches and guns approached the rectory. With Abigail’s corpse in the root cellar, Reverend Real Estate’s worst dream was coming true. He had to pull himself together and do something.

  In the extremity of his deep anxiety, he had a vision. He was being presented with the ultimate test of his faith. His moment of doubt and shame passed. A smile came over his face. Of course.

  ~*~

  The crowd gathered behind the rectory. Slipchuck squinted at the ground. “Went right in that door,” he said.

  Major Salter looked at the church building, and a wave of foreboding came over him. Preachers belonged to organizations with offices in Washington.

  “What you waitin’ fer?” Slipchuck asked. “I told you where he went!”