Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8)

by Len Levinson

  Stone came to life. “Don Emilio?”

  “What do you care? You’re going after the girl in your pocket, and I hope you find her. I’ve got a feeling you deserve each other.”

  “Maybe I’m making the biggest mistake of my life,” he said, “and I’ll regret it till the day I die, but I’ve got to see Marie.”

  “You love her more than me, and that’s the part that hurts.”

  “You’re running away with a man you barely know. How quickly you’ve gotten over me.”

  “You’re a son of a bitch, John Stone. You promised the world, and now you’re leaving for the girl in your pocket.”

  “You’re running off with Don Emilio, don’t preach to me.”

  He was cold sober. What woman could hope to tame him? She’d given him the best love she had, but he wanted his childhood sweetheart, the girl he left behind.

  Don Emilio limped toward her, sombrero on the back of his head. She arose from her chair. Stone forced himself to look in another direction. Slipchuck danced the Houlihan with the old dove. Now there’s a man who knows how to live. Bounce from one to the other.

  He returned his eyes to Cassandra and Don Emilio having a conversation. Don Emilio touched her cheek, and Stone wanted to punch him. Instead he looked away. The world would be a much simpler place without women. He needed a drink. Women were driving him crazy.

  Something immense came to rest beside him. He turned to Koussivitsky in a voluminous cowboy shirt, arms thicker than most men’s legs. “What is wrong, my friend? Women still? I say put them all in prison. If a man wants one, he take her out. If she is good, she stays out. If she is not good, back she goes.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “Even worse than women,” Koussivitsky continued, “is being far from Mother Russia. There is an old Cossack legend about a man who loved Mother Russia so much, he sacrificed his young wife, the person he loved most, to show devotion. Threw her into the Volga, which symbolized Mother Russia to him, and she drowned. It is a true story, they say. Be glad you have your country at least.”

  Stone heard the scrape of a chair, and Don Emilio sat opposite him, a thin black cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “I believe you have heard the good news,” he said. “La Señora and me, we are going back to Texas together.”

  “You break her heart, I’ll kill you.”

  Don Emilio smiled. “You could not kill me on the best day of your life.” He turned around and hollered something in Spanish to Domingo, who brought him a glass of whiskey. Don Emilio placed it in front of Stone. “Go ahead, borrachin. Take a drink. You know you will give in sooner or later.”

  Stone slapped the glass across the table into Don Emilio’s lap. Both men got to their feet and drew guns. Stone aimed his Colt at Don Emilio’s stomach, and Don Emilio’s gun wasn’t clear of his holster.

  Don Emilio grinned good-naturedly. “My leg slowed me down, I am afraid.”

  “It’s not your leg. I’m faster than you, and you know it. You don’t treat Cassandra right, I’ll track you down if I have to follow you all the way to Chihuahua.”

  “Do not worry about La Señora” Don Emilio said. “She will be far happier with me than she ever was with you.”

  Don Emilio left the table. Stone lit his cigarette. A dove lighted onto the chair beside him. “You from the Triangle Spur?” She pressed her body against him. “Wanna go upstairs?”

  “Not now,” he replied.

  “I’m not yer type?” She licked his ear. “Tell me what you want, cowboy. I’ll do anything.”

  Cowboys cheered as more barrels of whiskey and beer were carried into the room. Somebody fired the third shot into the ceiling. Cassandra stood with her back against the wall and watched the mad drunken orgy she’d arranged. Even Mayor McGillicuddy, Alderman Shaeffer, and Sheriff Wheatlock were there, drinking whiskey, pawing doves.

  It was a madhouse, the band continued to play. Underneath a table, a cowboy and a dove looked as though they were performing an intimate act. The new barrels were opened, the fourth shot was fired at the ceiling, and splinters of wood fell on the celebrants below.

  Truscott would love the party, she thought wistfully. He’d been a saloon rat and whoremonger like the rest of them. Cassandra felt a rush of emotion, as if one part of her life were ending, and another beginning. She was out of debt, a whole new wonderful world lay ahead.

  Slipchuck appeared in front of her, his pants half-unbuttoned, red smudges of ladies’ cosmetics on his collar, cockeyed drunk. “You said you was a-gonna give us a party, and by God, you did! Could an old galoot have the pleasure of yer next dance?”

  She extended her hand, and he led her to the floor. The band played a waltz, and the gray-bearded man danced away with tall blond Cassandra.

  Don Emilio watched from his table, and he was at a turning point in his life too. No more tequila, because La Señora didn’t like it. No more señoritas with flashing eyes. But La Señora was the golden goddess he’d dreamed of all his life. Now that he’d won her, he was a little afraid.

  Diego placed his arm around Don Emilio’s shoulder. “You look unhappy, amigo. What is bothering you?”

  “It is not good to marry a rich woman. She will always have something over you.”

  Diego winked, and slapped Don Emilio on the back. “Do not be a fool, amigo. Take her for every peso she has got!”

  A fight broke out near the whiskey barrels. A man leaned out a window, vomited into the alley. Stone sat at a table with strangers, and a gambler pushed a tin cup of whiskey toward him.

  “Have a drink,” the gambler said.

  “No thank you.”

  “Don’t drink?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Life is short, and whiskey a rare pleasure.”

  The gambler had a black mustache and goatee, and looked like the devil as he raised the cup and poured burning liquid down his throat. Stone felt wild, wanted to rip the place apart.

  The principles he’d learned at West Point were silly vainglorious pomposity, and too many men had been killed, but yet those principles had saved his miserable worthless life. He had to hold on to them, because he had nothing else.

  On the dance floor, cowboys and vaqueros spun doves gaily through the burgeoning throngs. A few men could be seen passed out on the floor near the walls where they’d been rolled so no one would step on them.

  A dark muscular figure entered the door: Ephraim, Negro cook from the Triangle Spur. He looked around, face immobile, out of place. Slipchuck shook his hand, pulled him toward the whiskey barrels. Ephraim didn’t want to go, never drank.

  Ephraim moved into the shadows, feeling uneasy among so many drunk and armed white men, but he was part of the Triangle Spur too, and a trail crew is only as good as its cook.

  Cassandra took his hand, pulled him toward the dance floor. Panic came over Ephraim, sure he’d get lynched. She placed her hand on his shoulder and danced him away. Ephraim felt the noose tighten around his neck, but the word passed around, he was biscuit shooter for the Triangle Spur, and the boss lady was showing her appreciation for a job well done. The blond woman and black man twirled across the floor, making certain their bodies never, under any circumstances, touched.

  Stone was glad he’d never have to look at Ephraim again. He’d seen enough of his ex-slave to last the rest of his life.

  There was a shriek, a clown burst into the room. He was followed by the fat lady, who barely made it through the door, then the tattooed man, a variety of freaks, midgets, hunchbacks, the sword swallower, the tumbling Gypsies. The carnival closed for the night, and the performers joined the party.

  It reminded Cassandra of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. She was amazed at what she’d done. All it took was money and the wildest conglomeration of people in the world drawn together by destiny into one clapboard hotel in Kansas, and the party careened madly onward into the night.

  ~*~

  Blasingame and Buckalew turned their horses onto State
Street, and were surprised by the mob in front of the Majestic Hotel. It looked as though a major event were taking place.

  They heard laughter, music, a shot. People danced in the street like Sodom and Gomorrah; Blasingame raised the scarf over his face. Horses and wagons were sandwiched side by side at the hitching rails. Buckalew steered into an alley, and they came out behind the buildings. They rode to the rear of the Majestic Hotel and tethered their horses to a tree. They didn’t loosen cinch straps, intending to be right back.

  They walked down the alley, came to the street, and moved through the crowds, looking for John Stone. Blasingame spotted members of his congregation, adjusted the scarf over his face. He was dressed like a cowboy, wore a Colt in a holster tied to his leg like a gunfighter.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” Buckalew asked a drunken cowboy.

  “Triangle Spur’s throwin’ a party in the Majestic Hotel. Drinks on the boss lady.” The cowboy raised his glass, poured the contents down his throat.

  Blasingame saw a couple lying in an alley, and it appeared as if they were ... The mayor staggered in the middle of the street, a mug of beer in his hand, shouting drunkenly. A dove passed out cold on a bench, and a cowboy rifled her purse.

  It looked like the end of the world to Blasingame; he walked beside his putative son toward the veranda of the Majestic Hotel. The front door was open, they could see dancers, revelers, clowns swirling in gay profusion.

  Slipchuck stood beside the whiskey bar in the lobby, watching the dancers. Best party of my life, whole damn county’s here. He felt something against his leg. A little person was down there, and Slipchuck thought he was one drink over the line. He dropped to one knee beside her, a midget with a bad back.

  Slipchuck smiled and held out his hand. “Hello, dorlin’.”

  “Hi,” Little Emma replied in a shy voice.

  “Kin I git you sawmthin’ to drank?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Want to dance?”

  “Don’t know how.”

  “Ain’t nawthin’ to it. I’ll show yer.”

  He picked her up and carried her to the floor, spinning her around. The music became louder, people laughed, she felt light as a sparrow as he swooped her through the air. She giggled, her eyes sparkling in the light of the lamps.

  “You’re a real good dancer,” he said. “You stick with me, I’ll teach you the Houlihan.”

  The smile vanished from her face as she focused on a short, dumpy cowboy passing through the crowd. His face was hidden by a scarf, but she’d know that walk anywhere. She twisted loose from Slipchuck’s grip.

  “What’s the matter, dorlin’?”

  She disappeared into the crowd. A nervous murmur passed like a wave through the carousers. Tod Buckalew had been spotted, and the warning was making the rounds. He had his mean face on, they moved out of his way, he passed among them like the lord of death.

  He scanned faces, couldn’t see John Stone. Another party was in the next room; he stepped through the doorway, dodged out of the backlight, let his eyes rove. The band stopped playing, dancers came to a halt. Everybody was afraid to move. The smell of the grave was in the air.

  Stone saw him the moment he entered the room. Buckalew continued to search faces, while behind him Blasingame slipped through the doorway. Cassandra sat at a table with a Mexican’s arm around her shoulders. Blasingame maneuvered for a clear shot.

  Buckalew advanced into the room, and a path opened before him. “I’m lookin’ for a man named John Stone!”

  “Over here!”

  Buckalew saw the big trail boss near the far wall. A smile came to Buckalew’s lips. “Remember me?”

  “Where’s your tin badge?” Stone asked.

  “Got somethin’ better,” Buckalew replied, hand near his gun. “You caught me off balance once. I swore I’d kill you, and here I am.”

  Buckalew went for his gun, and Stone’s hand slapped the worn wood handle of his Colt, swung up quickly. Buckalew’s gun was clear, he drew back his hammer, and Stone drilled him through the chest.

  A cloud of gunsmoke rose into the air. Buckalew took a step backward. The gun fell out of his hands, his legs became jelly. He clasped hands to his wound, dropped to his knees, looked at Stone elongated and huge from Buckalew’s low perspective. Buckalew’s mind filled with confusion, he collapsed onto his face.

  John Stone reloaded the empty chamber. A crowd gathered around Buckalew. Stone had shot the fastest gun in Sundust. His cold, focused fury had been a sight to behold.

  A corpulent figure loomed out of the darkness, Blasingame sneaking up on Cassandra Whiteside for a head shot at close range. Eve, the wicked temptress, would not survive this night. He reached for his gun in the shadows.

  A high-pitched scream rent the air, and a furious little creature jumped on his arm. His gun fired at the floorboards, women screamed, the crowd swarmed over Blasingame, he went down. The last thing he saw was Little Emma and her fingernails buried into his wrist.

  “Let me at ’im,” said Sheriff Wheatlock.

  The crowd rolled off Blasingame. “It’s Reverend Real Estate!”

  “He killed the schoolmarm!”

  “String him up!”

  They grabbed him roughly by his arms and pulled him to his feet.

  “Now hold on!” Wheatlock said.

  The drunken crowd turned angry, Blasingame had tried to shoot the Triangle Spur boss lady in the back, and no one except the U.S. Cavalry could stop them now. They dragged the former preacher to the door, somebody whacked him in the mouth, a foot crunched his ribs. The ages of darkness descended upon him.

  They pulled him outside, a rope was thrown over the branch of a cottonwood. A cowboy brought a horse. Blasingame tried desperately to gain control of the situation. “People of Sundust!” he hollered. “Your souls are in the gravest danger! Be careful what you do! The blood of Christ will be on you and your children forever! Thou shalt not kill!”

  The enormity of what he’d said struck him, because he’d killed too. But he’d done it for the Lord. Why was this happening? He became frightened and uncertain; they led the horse to the noose dangling in the breeze. His chest felt tight, he was lifted to the saddle, the noose adjusted to his neck. He saw fires, a sea of molten lava rolled toward him. Thou shalt not kill. I am the handmaiden of God.

  Somebody whipped the horse’s flanks, the beast leapt forward. Blasingame shrieked as the noose tightened, and his little legs kicked in the air. The molten lava rolled over his head, and his brains roasted till the end of time.

  Stone lit the lamp next to Rooney’s bed. The room glowed orange, Rooney’s eyes were closed, skin waxen. Stone sat on a chair. I was a drunken pig, and he the warrior. This man saved my life.

  “That you, Johnny?” Rooney asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Hurts real bad.”

  Stone gripped his hand. “Sorry.”

  “You would’ve ... done it … for me.” There was silence. Rooney tried to make himself comfortable. “How long ... I been here?”

  “A day.”

  “Them your saddlebags ... I see hanging ... on the bedpost?”

  “I’m cutting out for Fort Hays.”

  “One of my sergeants ... saved my life ... at Chancellorsville. If ...” Rooney’s voice trailed off.

  Stone knew what he was trying to say. Somebody saved Rooney’s life at Chancellorsville, Rooney saved Stone’s life in Sundust, and in some other town, on another day, maybe Stone would save the life of another old soldier.

  Stone threw his saddlebags over his shoulder, descended the stairs, made his way to the stable. A man has to follow his brightest star no matter where it leads.

  He found Tomahawk in the stall, threw the blanket onto his back. “We’re going for a ride, boy,” Stone said softly in the darkness. “Just you and me, like the old days.”

  He heard a voice behind him. “What about me, pard?”

  Stone spu
n around and saw a short, spindly figure with a bedroll on one shoulder and a new wide-brimmed hat on the back of his head. “You wasn’t fixin’ to pull out on me, was you, pard?” Slipchuck asked.

  “Afraid I was, pard. Figured you wanted to stay with the brand.”

  “You’re gonna need somebody watch yer back,” Slipchuck said, “ ’cause you’re the man what shot Tod Buckalew, and he was the fastest gun in these parts.”

  “You’ll need somebody to watch your back too, because you outdrew Frank Quarternight, and he was no slouch either. If you’re not worried about a jealous husband taking a potshot at you, saddle up your cayuse and let’s hit the trail, pardner.”

  They readied their horses, climbed aboard, and rode toward the big proscenium door. Moonlight cast long shadows of buildings and trees on the ground. Stone found the North Star and headed in a northwesterly direction toward Fort Hays.

  The only sounds were the snorting of horses, creak of saddles, hooves striking the ground. They advanced onto open prairie, guns loaded, rifles in scabbards, knives in boots, their path led directly through injun country.

  The prairie spread before them, ghostly and mysterious in the moonlight.

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  1: Searcher

  2: Lynch Law

  3: Tin Badge

  4: Warpath

  5: Hellfire

  6: Devil’s Brand

  7: Stampede

  8: Reckless Guns