The Searcher
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
THE SEARCH BEGINS ...
Once, John Stone had everything a man could ever want: wealth, position, and a woman who loved him. But that was before the Civil War. Now he’s lost his fortune, and his fiancée has disappeared. All he has left is his Colt, a picture of Marie, and a mission—to roam the west until he finds the woman he loves.
HE IS THE SEARCHER ...
The settlers were on their way to a new life in Texas, while John Stone was stirring up the ashes of a life that died with the war. Still, he signed on to act as a scout for their wagon train. Maybe Marie had found her way to Texas ... Maybe he’d find someone who’d seen her ...
Or maybe he’d die on the trail, killed by Indians, outlaws or thirst.
Either way, John Stone had a dream. And nothing could stand in his way.
SEARCHER
THE SEARCHER #1
By Len Levinson
First Published by Charter/Diamond in 1990
Copyright © 1990, 2013 by Len Levinson
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: December 2013
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover image © 2013 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
Pouring sheets of rain whiplashed the main street of Crawford, Kansas. Wind rattled windows and whistled past storefronts, and not a soul was in sight. The middle of the street was a swamp.
A tall man appeared in the doorway of Gallagher’s Stable. He wore a poncho and a big pearl-colored ex-Confederate cavalry officer’s hat with the insignia torn off, and his pants were tucked into his boots cavalry style. He tightened the poncho around his neck and ran across the street, splashing water in all directions, tripping and nearly falling as his boot went into the muck up to his ankle.
He vaulted onto the boardwalk on the far side of the street in front of a sign that said: SALOON. A roof over the boardwalk sheltered him from the rain, and he loosened the poncho around his neck, then pushed open the door and entered the saloon.
Several men stood at the bar. A few others sat at tables. It was a dark, dingy place, and a piano was in the corner, but nobody played. The wind howled outside on the street. He strolled to the bar.
“Whiskey.”
The bartender was also big, but thick around the middle, with a black handlebar mustache and long black sideburns. He placed a glass and a bottle of whiskey on the bar in front of the newcomer.
All eyes were on him, and he was aware of their interest. He’d been on the frontier long enough to know that violence could break out at any moment in a small town saloon.
He poured some whiskey into the glass and tossed it into his mouth. It burned all the way down, dispelling some of the chill in the air. A kerosene lamp was behind the bar near the cash register, casting its glow on the stranger’s face. He had dark blond hair and steely blue eyes and his expression said: Don’t fuck with me.
He poured himself another drink and gulped it down. The bartender washed a glass. The men in the saloon returned to their conversations, ignoring the stranger.
His name was John Stone, and he took off his hat, laying it on the bar. He pulled his poncho over his head, shaking it out on the floor and hanging it on a nearby hook. Underneath the poncho he wore a pale blue shirt and dark blue jeans. His Colt was slung low on his right side and tied to his leg. He put his hat back on and sat on the stool.
Cowboys laughed at a corner table. Stone sipped some whiskey. This saloon looked like the one in the last town and the town before that. It had rough-hewn planked walls, a few racy pictures tacked up, a billiards table, and the head of a grizzly bear mounted above the bottles.
Stone opened his shirt pocket and took out a small photograph in a metal frame, covered with isinglass. It showed a young woman with blond hair wearing a party dress and looking to the side of the photographer.
“Bartender—ever see this woman?”
The bartender put on a pair of glasses and squinted at the photograph. “Can’t say I have.”
The bartender handed the photograph back, and Stone put it into his shirt pocket, buttoning the flap. He carried his bottle and glass to an empty table in a dark corner and sat down. Lightning flashed in the street outside, and a few seconds later a peal of thunder reverberated across the town.
Stone opened his other shirt pocket and took out a small leather tobacco pouch, rolled a cigarette, lit it, then leaned back in his chair. Rain pelted the windows of the bar, and thunder exploded overhead.
It reminded him of the war. During the Chambersburg Raid in October of 1862, he and his men had been soaked to the skin far behind Yankee lines at night, with stolen horses and supplies, and Yankee patrols were scouring the countryside for them.
He remembered the tension and discomfort, the feeling they weren’t going to make it, but somehow they returned, and now scholars considered the Chambersburg Raid one of the most outstanding exploits in the history of cavalry.
Stone puffed his cigarette. Last he’d heard, Bobby Lee was president of Washington College. Wade Hampton was a politician back in South Carolina. Jeb Stuart was dead. The world he loved was gone forever, and all he had to show for it was an old faded picture in his shirt and a few coins in his jeans.
The saloon was half general store, and clothes hung from the rafters. Bags of beans and corn leaned against the walls. Three men played cards at the table nearest Stone. On the other side, a man was passed out cold. In the corner, an elderly man with a white mustache sat with a bottle and an old newspaper. A group of cowboys was at the bar.
Stone had run into many cowboys since coming to the frontier. They drank a lot and got awfully rowdy. They also traveled a lot.
Stone rose from his chair and walked toward the bar, taking the picture out of his shirt pocket. The cowboys heard him coming and turned around, because everybody on the frontier watched his back all the time. They eyed him suspiciously as he drew closer.
“Howdy,” Stone said. “I’m looking for this woman. You ever see her?”
He held out the picture, and one of the cowboys took it. He was a grizzled young man wearing a black and white checked shirt.
“She’s real purty,” the cowboy said. He clucked his teeth and showed the picture to the next man. Stone realized they were very drunk. One cowboy looked at the picture and giggled. Two whispered something and another laughed out loud. They passed the picture around, and there were four of them. They smelled like horses, cattle, and too many days on the trail.
The last man was big like Stone. He looked at the picture and winked at the cowboy with the black and white checked shirt. Then he made his face mock solemn and passed the picture back.
“I think I seen the lady,” the big cowboy said.
Something in his voice said he was lying, but Stone was hoping that wasn’t so. “Where’d you see her?”
The cowboy grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “In a whorehouse in Dodge. She had one guy on top, one guy on the bottom, one guy on each side, and she was doin’ it to all of ’em at the same time. I jest took my pecker out and waited my turn with all
the other cowboys.”
Stone moved to take the photograph out of the cowboy’s hand, but the cowboy pulled his hand back.
“What’s yer hurry?” the cowboy asked. “I jest wanted to take another look at the whore.”
“Give me that picture.”
“What’s yer rush, boy?”
“I’m not going to tell you again.”
“You’re not gonna tell me again?” The big cowboy laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stone hit him with everything he had, and the big cowboy’s knees buckled. He went crashing to the floor. Stone turned around and faced the other cowboys.
They glowered at him but not one moved. Stone took the photograph out of the hand of the big cowboy, tucking it into his shirt pocket. The big cowboy was out cold, his lips pulped by the force of the blow. Stone walked back toward the table.
He heard a shuffle of boots behind him, and the cowboys jumped him before he could turn around. One tackled his waist and another grabbed him around the throat, trying to hold him steady so a third cowboy could punch him in the mouth.
Stone bucked like a wild horse, grabbing the arm of the cowboy who held him by the throat, spinning around. The cowboy’s arm bent weirdly, and the cowboy screamed. Stone pushed him out of the way and brought his fist down like a hammer on top of the head of the cowboy who held him around the waist, and the cowboy slid to the floor. The other cowboys charged Stone, and he picked up a table, hurling it at them. They tried to get out of the way, but it crashed into them, knocking them backward.
Stone drew his Colt and pulled back the hammer with his thumb.
“Hold it right there.”
They were sprawled all over the floor, their hands hovering above their guns. It was silent for a few seconds as the cowboys stared hatefully at Stone.
One of the cowboys went for his gun, and Stone fired. The other cowboys reached for their guns. Stone rolled out and went into a crouch, fanning the hammer as fast as he could. The saloon filled with gunsmoke, and the bartender dived for cover. Stone dropped to the floor as bullets whizzed over his head. He rolled over and came up on one knee, still firing. Screams filled the air, and bodies went crashing to the floor.
Stone fired his last cartridge, and his hammer went click. Gunsmoke was so thick he could barely see. Still on one knee, he thumbed fresh bullets into his Colt. The bartender raised his head.
“It all over?”
Four cowboys lay on the floor; Stone’s heart beat wildly. He returned to his table, poured himself a few fingers of whiskey, and drank them down.
“Somebody’d better go for the sheriff,” the bartender said.
A cowboy put on his hat and ran out of the saloon. Stone took another drink of whiskey. All eyes were on him, and he knew he should get out of town, but he had no money, no place to go, and his horse was tired because he’d just arrived. He hoped the sheriff was a reasonable man.
Better stop drinking, he said to himself. He pushed the bottle away and rolled a cigarette. The man with the white mustache approached, carrying his bottle and glass.
“Mighty fine display of shootin’ you just put on.’’
He pulled out a chair and sat at the table opposite Stone. His face was gnarled and weather-beaten, and his mustache was stained with nicotine.
“My name’s Taggart.”
“John Stone.”
“Live around here?”
“Passing through.”
“Where you headed?”
“Looking for somebody.” Stone took out the picture of Marie and handed it to him. “Ever see her?”
Taggart looked at the picture. “Who is she?”
“Friend of mine.”
“When you get old like me, people start to look alike.”
The front door of the saloon opened, and a lanky man with a tin badge on his shirt entered. He took one look around and said: “What the hell happened here!”
Everybody looked at Stone. The sheriff recognized Taggart at the table with Stone.
“Hello there, wagon master,” the sheriff said. “You didn’t kill all these people, did you?”
“This young man did,” Taggart replied, “but it was self-defense all the way. I saw the whole thing. They egged him on and shot first.”
The sheriff sat at the table and pushed his hat back. He smelled like whiskey and gazed longingly at the two bottles on the table.
Taggart shouted, “Bartender—Let’s have another glass over here!”
The bartender walked toward the table with a clean glass.
“You see what happened?” the sheriff asked the bartender.
“Yes, sir.”
“The wagon master here said the cowboys started it.”
“That’s the way it looked to me, too.”
The sheriff turned to Taggart. “Sounds like a simple case of self-defense.”
“That’s the way it was.”
The sheriff reached for the bottle, pouring himself three fingers of whiskey. Taggart winked to Stone, who puffed his cigarette calmly, reflecting on frontier justice. You could get off scot-free after shooting people, or a posse could string you up on the spot for stealing a horse, and the little kids would cheer as you swung in the breeze.
The sheriff gulped down his whiskey, then took out his notepad. “What’s yer name?” he said to Stone.
“John Stone.”
“Where you from?”
“Just passing through.”
“Where’d you start out from before you was jest passin’ through?”
“South Carolina.”
“You say these men egged you on?”
“That’s right.”
“And you shot all of them?”
“Yes.”
“Must be awful fast. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
Stone was silent.
“I said, where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“In the war.”
“You fought for Bobby Lee, I take it.”
“That’s right.”
The sheriff held out his hand and smiled. “So did I.”
They shook hands. The sheriff put on his hat and walked toward the bar, where he conferred with the bartender, who poured him another drink. Taggart puffed his cigar and looked at John Stone.
“What did you do in the war?”
“I was in the cavalry.”
“What rank?”
“What does it matter?”
“I’m lookin’ for a good man.”
“To do what?”
“Scout, for my wagon train. Interested?”
“Maybe.”
“What was your rank?”
“Captain.”
“Line or staff?”
“Line.”
“Want the job?”
“I don’t know anything about wagon trains.”
“If you could command cavalry in war, you can work a wagon train.”
“How many wagons?”
“Maybe a dozen.”
“What’s the destination?”
“Texas.”
“That’s a long trip,” Stone said.
“That’s why we need a good scout.”
“Should be a lot of good men around.”
“That’s what you think.”
The sheriff walked toward them from the bar. “Everybody backed yer story,” he said to Stone. “Yer free to leave.”
Stone took the picture out of his shirt pocket. “Ever see this woman, Sheriff?”
The sheriff looked at it. “Don’t think so. Them cowboys you shot got friends. I’d be on my guard if’n I was you.”
Stone put the picture back into his shirt pocket, and the sheriff walked toward the bar. Taggart leaned toward Stone.
“Lots of people go to Texas,” Taggart said. “Yer lady friend in the picture might be there.”
Stone drained his glass.
“Have another drink.”
“Can’t afford to drink anymore.”
&nbs
p; “I’m buyin’.”
Stone filled his glass to the halfway mark, then rolled another cigarette.
“In other words, you’re broke,” Taggart said.
“Damn near.”
“What were you plannin’ to do for money?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“You might as well take me up on my offer. You got nothin’ else to do.”
“Texas is a long way off.”
“Only a month or two, dependin’ on conditions.”
“We haven’t talked money yet.”
Taggart held up his hand. “Can’t pay much. It’s a poor-ass wagon train. Mostly dirt farmers and church folk.”
“How much?”
“We’ll supply your meals, shelter and horses.”
“How much?”
“Thirty dollars a month.”
Stone sipped his whiskey. Thirty dollars a month was what cowboys earned, but he was down to his last few dollars and had no hot prospects. And maybe Taggart was right— maybe Marie was in Texas.
“Let me think about it.”
The door to the saloon opened, and men wearing ponchos entered. They lifted the dead bodies and carried them out into the storm. The bartender dropped sawdust on the blood and moved the tables back to where they’d been before the gunplay.
Taggart took out a cigar. “You hungry?”
“Yes.”
Taggart raised his hand in the air. “Bartender—two steak dinners with all the trimmin’s.”
The bartender walked through a doorway into a back room. Lightning flashed in the street outside, and thunder shook the rafters of the saloon.
“When’s your wagon train leaving?” Stone asked Taggart.
“Few days from now.”
“Expect Indian trouble?”
“Sometimes we run into ’em and sometimes we don’t. If yer worried about Indians, you might as well hightail it back to South Carolina. There’s Indians all over the frontier. You can’t git away from ’em.”
“What happens if you’re attacked by Indians?”
“What you think happens?”
“Is it common?”
“What do you call common?”
“Is every wagon train attacked?”
“Not everyone, but sometimes a wagon train might get hit two or three times. Sometimes we have trouble with outlaw gangs, too. A wagon train ain’t no picnic. If yer worried about fightin’, maybe this ain’t the job for you. You got a family?”