Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8)

by Len Levinson

  “Is he dead?” Stone asked.

  “Not yet. The doctor is upstairs with him.”

  Stone climbed the stairs. The door to the bedroom was open. Against the far wall, the doctor bent over Rooney’s chest, the wound stitched together into a thick maroon scab. Cassandra watched from the foot of the bed.

  “How is he?” Stone asked.

  “Touch and go,” Dr. Wimberly said.

  Rooney was pale, eyes closed, tinged with blue. Anguish welled up inside Stone. He craved whiskey.

  “All we can do is wait it out,” the doctor said. “If he comes to, send for me.”

  He bandaged the wound. Cassandra and Stone looked at each other wordlessly. Stone felt like crawling under the rug. The doctor left the bedroom. Stone couldn’t look Cassandra in the eye.

  “Don’t blame it on yourself,” she said. “You can’t help being what you are, and it’s not your fault there’s no law and order in these towns.”

  “I’ll never drink another drop of whiskey in my life.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  There was something he had to tell her, and this was as good a time as any. He took the picture of Marie out of his shirt pocket. “She’s at Fort Hays, and that’s where I’m going soon as I get paid.”

  Cassandra let the words sink in for several seconds, then she said, “I knew you’d leave me if she ever showed up.”

  “She’s married to somebody else. I have to see her, find out what happened.”

  “I hope she really is at Fort Hays, and she throws you out on your ass!”

  She left the room. The clock ticked on the dresser. The herd would soon arrive at the pens. He had to be trail boss of the Triangle Spur for the last time. His world was falling apart again, but whiskey could put it back together. “You’ve got to pull through,” he said to Rooney’s comatose form. “I couldn’t handle it if you don’t.”

  Stone descended the stairs, exploded out the front door, headed toward the stable. Maybe work would take his mind off the demons raking their claws across his brain.

  ~*~

  Men sat on the front porch of the Bar Z Ranch, and one rose abruptly. “Look who’s comin’,” he said.

  They gazed at two riders approaching from the direction of Sundust, Phineas Blasingame and Tod Buckalew. “This is it,” Buckalew said, placing his palm near the butt of his gun.

  “Let me do the talking,” Blasingame replied.

  Blasingame sat on his horse like a ball of clothes wearing a cowboy hat, his saddlebags filled with gold. He and his son stopped in front of the hitching rail as men crowded onto the veranda.

  Some wore bandages, all were armed. Runge was in their midst, smiling weirdly. Blasingame climbed to the ground, threw the saddlebags over his shoulder, pulled his hat low over his eyes. He waited for Buckalew to join him, together they advanced toward the veranda.

  “Look who’s here,” Runge said with a nervous smile. “The man with a bad wing.”

  Buckalew raised his right hand and showed the bandage. “ ’S bad all right, but it ain’t the only wing I got, if you’re lookin’ fer lead.”

  Runge made the brave smile he used whenever pressed. Blasingame could see gunplay brewing, but had to hold them together. He took the saddlebags off his shoulder, opened the flaps, poured the gold coins onto the ground.

  The magic substance shone brightly in the sun. “Providence brought me to you for one last purpose,” he said. “Sundust must be destroyed. Tonight we’ll put it to the torch!”

  “He’s gone plumb loco,” somebody said.

  Blasingame dropped to his knees in front of them, filled his hands with gold, raised the coins into the air. “There’s lots more in Sundust, my friends. It’s waiting for us, and all we have to do is go in and get it.”

  “Men died last time we went in,” said Runge. “That town is tough.”

  “Not at three o’clock in the morning when they’re asleep,” Blasingame replied. “Bring men in from all the farms and ranches, fifty of us or more. Hit that town like a hurricane, and when we’re finished, there won’t be anybody left.”

  “Man wants to wipe out Sundust,” said a voice in amused disbelief. Somebody laughed. Buckalew saw dismay on his father’s face.

  Buckalew stepped forward, hand near his gun. The boys settled down. Blasingame pulled himself together for another try. “What’s the matter with you men?” he asked. “I thought you were professional gunfighters. You’re not afraid, are you? A few bullets flew, you lost your nerve?”

  Runge stepped forward, his left shoulder twitched. “We lost six men.”

  “You haven’t been hired to serve tea.” Reverend Blasingame pointed to the pile of gold on the ground. “You want your pockets full of that, you follow me. I’ll give you enough to make you rich, and the devil take the hindmost!”

  They were laughing aloud now, and Blasingame’s voice choked in his throat. Buckalew stepped forward, wound tighter than a spring. The men stifled their mirth. Nobody wanted to mess with him.

  Except Runge, who’d always hated Buckalew. Runge moved forward and held his right hand above his gun. “You tryin’ to scare somebody, Buckalew?”

  “Git back with the others, or I’ll shoot yer damn lights out.”

  The short, wiry gunfighter made his most sinister smile. On the veranda, men jumped over the rails to get out of the line of fire. Runge turned to Blasingame. “Did you tell ’im what you told me? I’m the new boss?”

  “That’s a lie!” Blasingame said.

  Buckalew waved his father out of the way. The two young gunfighters faced each other across the lawn in front of the ranch house. A horse whinnied in the corral.

  “Make yer play,” Buckalew said to Runge.

  Runge worked his shoulders and limbered his fingers. He maintained his thin smile, and looked like a rattlesnake in a cowboy hat. “Make your’n.”

  Buckalew went for his gun, and so did Runge. Both men fired at nearly the same instant, and a red dot appeared in the middle of Runge’s forehead. His eyes closed and he staggered to the side, blood trickling down the bridge of his nose, then he collapsed onto the dirt. Buckalew stood still for a few moments, the barrel of his gun sending up a thin trail of black smoke.

  “We don’t want no trouble, Buckalew,” one of the boys said, wearing chin whiskers, “but we don’t feel like takin’ on no whole town. That’s one wild crowd of cowboys down there. I ain’t never seen a man pick up lit dynamite before.”

  It was like his father said: they’d run if a few of them got hit. “Anybody who wants to leave, git the hell out of here!”

  They headed for the stable. Blasingame and Buckalew were left alone in front of the ranch. “Don’t worry,” Buckalew said, placing his hand on his father’s shoulder. “We’ll just go someplace and start over again.’’

  “No we won’t boy.”

  “We can’t take on the whole town by ourselves!”

  “You’ve got a score to settle with that fellow who shot you in the hand, haven’t you?”

  “John Stone in town?”

  “Him and his whole outfit. You said you were faster’n him, didn’t you?”

  “Damn right I am.”

  Blasingame adjusted the scarf so that it covered his face, and pulled his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes. “No one’ll recognize me.”

  The boys rode out of the barn and headed in separate directions, singly or in small groups, to other towns where fast hands could be bought and sold. Blasingame felt his power slip away.

  Buckalew looked at him. “Runge was lyin’ when he said you made him boss, wasn’t he?”

  “He was just trying to rile you, and it worked. You’d better pull yourself together, boy, you want to face off with John Stone.”

  “Don’t you worry none about me,” Buckalew said. “He’s a dumb cowboy who got lucky. Next time I’ll take him by surprise.”

  Blasingame scooped the gold into the saddlebags, and Buckalew looked at Runge, con
fidence renewed by the kill. He still had the touch, maybe even faster with his left hand. He yanked the gun, twirled it around, tossed it into the air, caught it behind his back, brought it around, and took aim. Every movement was perfect, the routine lasted only seconds.

  He remembered the day John Stone humiliated him. Your time has come, you son of a bitch. I’ll feed you to the hogs.

  ~*~

  The railroad engine huffed and chugged clouds of gray smoke into the air. Behind it snaked cars full of mooing, hooting cattle stacked together for the last ride of their lives. They smelled acrid smoke, heard terrible scrunching sounds, moved faster than ever before. They wondered where the longhorn god was taking them.

  At the end of the train, sandwiched between the mail car and the caboose, were three passenger cars, and one had a lounge with a bar and tables. The train came to a stop in front of the station, it was time to take on passengers for the run to Kansas City.

  The train would leave in a half hour, but Mrs. Salter was ready with the major because she didn’t want to miss it. The thought of another day in Sundust was almost too horrible to bear.

  A group of citizens talked with her husband, thanking him for his help in quelling the riot, while she fidgeted with the luggage, wondering if she remembered her comb and the dressing gown behind the closet door.

  She became aware of a woman standing next to her. “You look like somebody I know,” Mrs. Salter said.

  “Marie Scanlon?” Cassandra asked.

  “Are you a relation?”

  “We just happen to look alike. I realize you’re in a hurry, but I’ve often wondered about this woman who resembles me so much.”

  “Don’t ever let your husband alone with her,” Mrs. Salter said. “She’s a flirt, takes advantage of men. Most people treat their dogs better’n she treats her husband. Marie Scanlon’s a dirty little two-face who’d stab you in the back. If I were you, I’d stay away from her. And if John Stone’s got any sense, he will too.”

  ~*~

  Stone took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He was seated atop Tomahawk, herding cattle into the pens.

  The men shouted, whacked animals with lariats, kicked them with their boots. Dust and manure were strong in the air, Stone’s nose and mouth covered with his bandanna. He looked like an outlaw, and so did the other cowboys and vaqueros from the Triangle Spur.

  They rode back and forth energetically, working the cattle. The sooner they penned the herd, the sooner they’d hit the saloons, and Sundust would never be the same again.

  The train whistle blew, they raised their eyes from the cattle. In the distance a train pulled out of the station, headed north toward civilization, and every man wished he were on it. With a hundred dollars in his pocket, even the lowest waddie can be king for a day.

  Stone was flanked by cowboys and vaqueros, and they herded the longhorns toward the gates. The men had been working them most of the day, and only a few hundred head were left. They laughed as they rode back and forth, minds turbulent with images of drunken orgies and swarms of whores.

  Stone wondered how could he hold off when everybody else was drinking. He’d given up whiskey many times, but surrendered easily at first opportunity. He couldn’t do it again and call himself a man. If I swallow one drop, it’ll be the end of me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sundust was a dot of light in the midst of a vast prairie night. Cowboys rode down the middle of the street, firing guns into the air. Groups gathered in the alleys, shooting dice. A cockfight was being held near the carnival. Saloons were ablaze with light, and men’s laughter carried over the rooftops.

  But nowhere was the decor brighter and livelier than the dining room of the Majestic Hotel. Half the tables had been cleared away for a dance floor, and an orchestra of two fiddles, a tambourine, and the Prairie Troubadours had been hired for the night. They strummed and hummed in practice while Slipchuck set up the bar at the other end of the room.

  Cassandra spent most of the afternoon rounding up women. It hadn’t been cheap, but nothing was too good for her men. They’d brought her herd to Kansas, fighting injuns, rustlers, and the elements every step of the way. Tomorrow she’d pay off creditors, but her men came first.

  She knew about cowboys and vaqueros, living with them on the drive. Their main interest in life was whores. If that’s what they wanted, by God she’d give it to them.

  But it bothered her. Prostitution was a blot on the face of civilization, yet her men put their lives on the line for her on many occasions. She could be righteous about her life, but not theirs. They wanted a party, she’d give them the best money could buy.

  She looked around the room to make certain every detail was ready, her long red velvet dress swirled in the air. It buttoned to her throat, and the shoulders puffed out. Colored bunting hung from one wall to the other. It resembled a ballroom in New Orleans before the war.

  She looked at whores with bad teeth and tobacco stains on their fingers, wearing cheap gaudy dresses and the most god-awful jewelry, perfume that made Cassandra gag. Her gun-toting and knife-wielding cowboys had talked incessantly about such women over campfires all the way up the trail. These poor soiled doves were the chief romantic interests of their lives.

  Everything was ready. She moved toward the door. From the other side she heard a sound like cattle rumbling prior to a stompede. She opened up, saw them freshly shaved and newly clothed, with the flushed features of drunkards, guzzling whiskey constantly from the moment they hit town.

  The band broke into a Virginia reel, and the soap-smelling cowboys and vaqueros filed politely past her, grinning like dogs. One bunch ran to the bar, the other toward the whores. Diego fired a shot at the ceiling, which Cassandra mentally added to the bill.

  The former segundo walked woodenly into the room, his purple face a horrendous mask. He’d attracted no special attention in a town full of drunken cowboys, many half-blind and numb in their brains. The former segundo sat at a table and gazed blankly at the revelers.

  The drive was over, Cassandra had her money at last. Many times she didn’t think they’d make it. The night they’d been hit by an Osage war party, she’d nearly been trampled to death. The time the Comanche warrior nearly got her scalp while she was taking a bath. One fight after another. Disaster followed catastrophe. But they’d arrived at the railhead finally. She’d clear up her business and hit the trail for Texas day after tomorrow, rebuild the old Triangle Spur, and drive north again next year bigger and better than ever.

  Truscott, wherever he was, would approve. The only life for her now was the open range far from the boundaries of the workaday world. She and her men, nothing they couldn’t do. If John Stone wanted to chase a picture, that was his business. By the way, where was he?

  ~*~

  He sat on his bed in his darkened room, smoking a cigarette, looking out the window. Somewhere out there, Marie slept with her husband. He wondered what’d happen when he hit Fort Hays. Maybe she’d tell him to go away. Or they’d run off together, as in the old days.

  He couldn’t forget her. She was too close, the pull too strong. Three days to Fort Hays. Then he could have it out once and for all, get all his questions answered, maybe have some peace of mind at last. If she wouldn’t leave her husband, Cassandra might take him back.

  Sounds of the band erupted through the floorboards of his hotel room. The party was under way. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life hiding from whiskey. He was weak, but not that weak. Never again would somebody else stop a bullet meant for him.

  He’d wasted enough time, smoked too many cigarettes. He got to his feet and looked at himself in the mirror. He wore a new red shirt, black britches, and his old beat-up boots, because he hadn’t had time yet to order a new pair of tailor-mades. Putting on his old Confederate cavalry hat, he left the room.

  The lobby was crowded with cowboys trying to bust into the dining room. Word had spread through Sundust that the boss lady of the
Triangle Spur was throwing a party with free whiskey and whores. The Majestic Hotel filled, everybody carried a cup or glass to put beneath the spigot of a whiskey or beer barrel. Sloppiness set in, and the floor was awash near the beverages.

  Cowboys and doves danced merrily, while the band pumped out one song after another. Somebody whooped, and the second shot of the night was fired. The former segundo sat in a corner, his blank eyes recording the spectacle before him.

  Stone squeezed through the doorway, found himself in chaos. A woman screamed on the dance floor. A cowboy grabbed her dress and ripped it off her body. Her breasts fell out, he laughed.

  She groped toward her garter belt, her bloomers showed, but she found what she was looking for: the derringer in her garter belt. She pulled it and aimed between his eyes. He stepped backward, holding out his hands, talking quickly. Somebody hit him over the head with the butt of a gun, he collapsed like an accordion. Cowboys carried him to an open window, threw him outside. Meanwhile, Slipchuck stepped onto the stage.

  “I was a-wonderin’,” he said, “if there’s any woman here knows how to dance the Houlihan!”

  A female voice shrieked, and Slipchuck jumped to the dance floor. The star-crossed couple made their way to each other. She was in her mid-fifties, had seen better days. The crowd opened up; a significant performance was about to take place. Slipchuck planted his fists on his hips and placed one foot forward. The wrinkled old dove did the same. The band played a lively Irish song, and the couple danced on their toes, kicking back and forth.

  Stone smelled whiskey. If he could get through tonight, he’d get through anything. The crowd spilled into the lobby and onto the street. Cowboys, doves, railroad workers, errant husbands and wives, everybody came running. The Majestic Hotel became the center of a wild frontier bacchanal. A second band, comprised of amateur cowboy musicians, twanged on the veranda. People from the nice side of town came to see what was going on, drink-crazed cowboys and doves danced in the street.

  Stone sat at a table with people he didn’t know, and Cassandra pulled up a chair beside him. “I’m going back to the Triangle Spur with Don Emilio,” she said. “We’ll see what works out.”