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  It’s John Stone’s first cattle drive, and it won’t be an easy ride—especially since he’s travelling with a band of vagabonds and desperadoes. But he’d brave anything to get one step closer to the women he loved and lost ...

  The journey over the Chisholm Trail is even more dangerous than he expected. Menaced by rustlers, a Comanche war party and one man with an insatiable thirst for vengeance, Stone fears his first cattle drive could also be his last ...

  STAMPEDE

  THE SEARCHER 7

  By Len Levinson writing as Josh Edwards

  First Published by Diamond Books in 1992

  Copyright © 1992, 2015 by Len Levinson

  First Smashwords Edition: June 2015

  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. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  The cowboys from the Triangle Spur sat around the campfire, eating steak and beans. It was night, a chill was on the prairie, and the indigo sky was splattered with stars. The men were exhausted, clothes torn, fingernails caked with dirt. On the trail nearly a week, it was a constant struggle to keep the longhorns shaped, bunched, and pointed toward Abilene.

  Near the flames, John Stone leaned against his saddle, his old Confederate cavalry hat on the back of his head. His clothes were covered with dust, and it permeated his dark blond hair and beard. This was his first cattle drive, and he rode the drag.

  The other men were as bedraggled and beat as he. They were the usual assortment of misfits, vagabonds, adventurers, and desperadoes, firelight flicking on their bearded faces, because nobody had the time, energy, or inclination to shave. Some had driven longhorns to Abilene before, while others like Stone were making their first trip. They knew hardship lay ahead, and other cowboys had died violently on the trail, ending up in lonely graves on the tractless wastes, but so far the drive had been without incident.

  Nearby, on a grassy Texas plain, the herd was like a great sullen being, spread over a few hundred acres. It could trample the cowboys to smithereens, but so far grudgingly advanced ten miles a day toward the slaughterhouses of the East.

  There was no hint of the blood and guts of that showdown now. The night was still, mountains and buttes glowing in the light of the full moon. A log fell in the fire, showering sparks into the sky.

  Stone finished his last scoop of beans and lay his tin plate on the ground. Broad-shouldered, six feet four, he wore two Colts in crisscrossed gunbelts, with the holsters tied to his legs gunfighter style. He poked a twig into the fire, it caught flame, and he lit the cigarette.

  He was ready to turn in, and felt like a productive citizen for a change. He hadn’t touched whiskey since hitting the trail, and the exercise was toughening him. For the past three months he’d been drunk nearly all the time, but now was on his way back to strength and health.

  Stone’s dream was to straighten out his life and become a rancher with his own herd, family—everything a decent man would want. He’d joined the Triangle Spur to learn the cattle business, starting at the bottom. That was the plan, but he had one major problem.

  Shadows danced on the canvas walls of the chuck wagon, where Ephraim, the Negro cook, sat on the wagon tongue, eating his meal. Ephraim looked up, and his eyes met Stone’s.

  Deep visceral malevolence passed between them. By a freak quirk of circumstance, Ephraim had been one of John Stone’s father’s slaves before the war, and hated Stone with fierce passion. Once, in a dark alley in San Antone, they’d clashed fiercely, bloodying each other considerably, but with no clear-cut winner—the fight had been interrupted by townspeople. Now they were looking for the opportunity to be alone somewhere, and finish the job.

  Ephraim was only one of Stone’s problems. He looked to the right of the chuck wagon, and saw the buckboard and tent of Cassandra Whiteside, the boss lady, who unfortunately bore a strong resemblance to Marie, Stone’s former fiancée.

  Stone had been searching for Marie since the end of the war. Like a tramp he’d made his way across the frontier, showing her picture in every saloon, church, and pool hall, encountering one disappointment after another. He thought he’d struck pay dirt near Tucson a few months ago, when a rancher told him he’d seen the lady in San Antone, but when Stone finally reached San Antone, he found Cassandra Whiteside instead. It had been a major disappointment, the last in a long line.

  Cassandra offered him a job with the Triangle Spur, and he decided to give up his search for Marie. Five years of futility across the length and breadth of the frontier had turned him into a drunkard and a bumbling fool. Now he wanted to learn the cattle business and find someone else to marry.

  But first there was Ephraim. One of these days they’d go off behind a hill, or into the cottonwoods, and battle it out with knives, fists, guns, it didn’t matter. There wasn’t enough room in the world for both of them.

  No one else knew of their vendetta. If they clashed in front of the others, Ephraim would be hung from the nearest tree for daring to fight a white man. Neither wanted anybody to stop them once they started beating on each other, so they bided their time, and in a few days, when things settled down, they’d get it on.

  They glowered at each other over the crackling flames. I’ll cut your heart out and feed it to the coyotes, Ephraim’s eyes seemed to be saying. I’ll kick your ass, Stone replied.

  ~*~

  Cassandra Whiteside sat on the cot inside her tent, illuminated by an ornate brass coal-oil lamp hanging from the ridgepole. She was twenty-three years old, bone-tired, and hadn’t had a bath since San Antone. Her golden hair was pulled to a bun behind her head, and she worried about her future.

  She had three thousand head of mixed longhorns, and was in debt to her eyeballs. Her former husband had kept a chorus girl on the side, made bad investments, stole most of her inheritance, and tried to murder her, but now he was dead, she was free from his wicked power, in a desperate struggle to repair her financial stability. The ramrod told her the drive might last two or three months, depending on trail conditions, the mood of the Indians, the proliferation of rustlers, and so on. She was afraid creditors might show up any moment, demanding cattle as payment.

  The longhorns were worth eight dollars a head in Texas, but twenty-two in Abilene. If she could make it all the way to that great cattle mecca, she’d be out of debt, with enough capital for a new venture, but if anything went wrong she could end up a prostitute in the Last Chance Saloon. The frontier was hell on horses and women, and Cassandra had been learning the hard way. She’d been well off before the war, with servants and party dresses, but now had to think and plan like a man.

  The problem was she didn’t know cattle, and had to rely on her ramrod, Duke Truscott, an irascible old cowpoke with a hide like an armadillo, who treated her like an idiot. The cowboys laughed behind her back and made fun of her. They cast suggestive glances in her direction. She was alone with fourteen men in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes worried they’d rip off her shirt and jeans.

  She felt half aroused and half terrified. They were a rough assortment of hard-drinking American cowboys and Mexican vaqueros, some natural gentlemen, others brutes like Braswell, the segundo. Ahead were several hundred mil
es of obstacles and serious danger, but the worst part was loneliness.

  Prior to leaving the ranch, she’d become somewhat friendly with John Stone, but there was no time for chitchat on the trail. He worked the herd, while she rode the buckboard. At night he stayed with the cowboys around the campfire, avoiding her. He’d been acting peculiarly since the first moment they’d met at the Triangle Spur Ranch.

  She knew what his problem was: he’d told her everything about Marie. But telling hadn’t been enough, he was spooked by her. As for her, she needed somebody to talk with. She couldn’t make it all the way to Abilene without human contact.

  She finished her meal, and went outside to wash her tin plate. A bucket of water sat on the ground near a buckboard wheel, and she dipped the plate in. She heard approaching hoofbeats, and out of the night rode Ray Slipchuck, the former stagecoach driver, atop his lineback dun, returning from the herd. A wiry man in his sixties, with numerous missing teeth, he touched a finger to the brim of his battered hat as he approached.

  “How’s the herd, Mr. Slipchuck?” she asked.

  “I’d say they was ’bout a-ready fer a stampede, ma’am.”

  She forced her voice toward calm. “I think you’d better relay that information to Mr. Truscott right away.”

  Slipchuck leaned on his saddle horn and grinned. “He knows all about it, ma’am. By the way, I seen a little stream back there. If’n you wanted to take a bath, I’d be happy to watch out fer you, case there’s Comanche around.”

  If he guarded her, who’d guard him? “No thank you, Mr. Slipchuck. I’m too tired to go anywhere right now. Do you think you could ask Mr. Stone to come to my tent, please?”

  Slipchuck rode toward the campfire, and Cassandra returned to her tent, already having second thoughts about asking Stone to visit her. The words had left her mouth before she knew what happened, but loneliness forced the issue.

  She sat on her cot and fidgeted nervously. A bath would be nice, but she was afraid to take off her clothes in the open, with the men around, and stand naked before them in the moonlight.

  But her main problem was what to do if creditors showed up. There’d probably be gunplay, because her men were hotheaded—they’d fought for her back at the ranch. They were good men deep down, sometimes so deep you couldn’t see it, but unfortunately they were also low-class drunkards and louts, and she wouldn’t put anything past them.

  She heard approaching footsteps, and then Stone said, “Cassandra?”

  “Who else did you think was in this tent?” she asked. “Of course it’s me.”

  He entered the tent and saw her sitting on the cot, her long shapely legs crossed, and he thought it amazing that she looked so much like Marie. They were almost twins, and he wanted to kiss her, but she was the wrong person. He waited for her to tell him what to do, because she was boss lady, and he rode the drag.

  “Have a seat, John,” she said.

  He dropped onto a camp chair. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “That’s your business, but do you think we could have a conversation? I’m so bored I could scream.”

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Do you think the buckboard runs by itself? Of course I’m tired, but I need someone to speak with for a few minutes, some intellectual stimulation and good Christian fellowship. That won’t be such a chore, will it?”

  Stone wanted not only to talk with her, but spend the night with her as well, and at the same time felt the mad urge to run out of the tent, because she reminded him of Marie. “If I spend time with you, the men’ll get suspicious. They’ll think I’m spying on them and reporting to you, and pretty soon one’ll put a bullet in my back. I enjoy your company very much, Cassandra, but if you want to talk with somebody, you should talk to Truscott.”

  “Truscott hates me. He thinks I don’t know anything, and I certainly don’t know much about cattle, but by God I’ll learn.”

  “He’s scared to death of you, because the only women he ever sees are in whorehouses. If you want to talk, why don’t you come to the campfire? We’re just sitting around, and you might as well join us. It’s going to be a long trip.”

  “Those cowboys don’t want me around.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. They’re crazy about you.”

  She hugged her arms. “I’m afraid of them sometimes.”

  “They’d never do anything to you, except for the segundo. Don’t ever be alone with the segundo.”

  “The man’s obviously a rapist and murderer,” she said with a grim smile. “I should’ve fired him long ago.”

  “He’s the worst we’ve got, no doubt about that. But the others aren’t so bad, and some’re quite interesting. C’mon— it’s time to get friendlier with your cowboys.”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the tent, she digging the heels of her cowboys boots into the ground, trying to break loose from his grip, but he was too strong, and moved her easily into the night. The cowboys at the fire turned to look at them, and she realized she’d better stop struggling. He turned her loose, she smoothed her hair and made sure her shirt was buttoned.

  She walked beside Stone to the fire, and all the cowboys examined her with the eyes of whorehouse connoisseurs. A few licked their lips absentmindedly, wild-eyed range riders with scraggly beards and dirty clothes, who made way as she and Stone approached the fire.

  Stone cleared his throat. “Mrs. Whiteside thought she’d like to sit with you boys for a while.”

  The cowboys appeared uneasy, and nobody said anything. Cassandra sat on the ground, but a wooden crate appeared out of the night, in the hands of Luke Duvall, who was wanted for murder in Georgia and who wore a rope scar around his neck.

  “Ma’am,” he muttered nervously.

  ‘Thank you,” she replied.

  Stone dropped to the ground beside her. A fidgety silence pervaded the campfire. She assumed they’d been talking, but now had stopped, disturbed by her presence.

  “Just go on with what you were doing,” she said. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  The silence wouldn’t go away. Somebody threw a log on the fire, and orange diamonds burst into the air. Cassandra realized she was intruding into their lives. She shouldn’t’ve let John Stone talk her into coming here.

  She glanced surreptitiously at the cowboys, and they were all staring into the fire, paying no attention to her. They were in the daze of exhaustion, after fighting the herd all day, and soon would curl up on the ground in their blankets, beneath the open sky.

  She decided to relax with them, and didn’t feel lonely anymore. Letting her mind wander, the fire flickered and flashed, and deep in the white-hot embers she perceived the face of her ex-husband, Gideon Whiteside. He’d been evil incarnate, yet she’d loved and trusted him, given him everything. He’d seemed a gentleman, and her cowboys uneducated ruffians, yet he’d tried to kill her, and they saved her.

  She heard cattle lowing in the distance, and could feel their colossal primordial potential for destruction. She turned to Truscott and said, “Mr. Slipchuck told me he thought the herd might stampede tonight. Do you think we should take precautions?”

  Truscott was in his mid-forties, with deep-lined weather-beaten features and a droopy graying mustache. “Like what?”

  “Ah ... I don’t know. Surely there must be something you can do.”

  “Such as?”

  “If they stampede, how’ll you stop them?”

  “If they stampede, they cain’t be stopped. All we can do is try to mill ’em till they run theirselves out.”

  Truscott threw his cigarette butt into the fire. Cassandra felt two eyes burning into her, and turned to the segundo staring at her. He had close-spaced eyes, and shot her a lewd wink, turning up one corner of his blubbery lips. She wondered what sheriff was looking for him.

  The segundo’s hand caressed the head of his mongrel dog, a mangy, bony cur with a filthy white and black coat and one black eye. The segundo and his dog were inseparable, a
nd slept together every night.

  She turned away, and this time her eyes fell on Don Emilio Maldonado, the Mexican rancher who’d joined the drive the day before it left, along with his vaqueros. They’d had a scrape with the law in the brush country near the Nueces, and a bloody bandage was visible on his forehead beneath his wide sombrero. Most of his men were shot up too, but Mexican vaqueros were the best cowboys in the world, and Cassandra would hire the Devil if he could help her get the herd to Abilene.

  Don Emilio gazed at her unflinchingly, and the expression in his eyes said he wanted her. Cassandra turned away, and this time her eyes fell on lean Calvin Blakemore, who had a thick black beard and wore an old Yankee forage cap; he’d been a sergeant in the Yankee army, and now was learning the cowboy trade. He too had depravity in his eyes, and an expression that left no doubts about his dishonorable intentions, but unlike the segundo, he tried to be a gentleman.

  She shifted her focus to Ephraim the cook, and he too was looking at her, but showed not the faintest trace of interest, because he knew the white cowboys would hang him if he did.

  She slapped a bug on her arm, and her eyes fell on John Stone’s profile. His hat was low over his eyes, flames danced on his face, and a cigarette dangled out the corner of his mouth. He’d commanded a troop of Confederate cavalry in the bloodiest battles the world had ever seen, but now had become moody, withdrawn, and a drunk like the rest of them.

  Truscott cleared his throat, and when his voice came, it sounded as though it were traveling over five miles of bad road. “I’m turnin’ in,” he said. “Breakfast at four-thirty, trail at five.”

  The men stood, burped, and farted. John Stone moved sluggishly toward his blanket, and Cassandra realized she’d have to walk back to her tent alone. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and turned from the fire.

  She washed her face and hands in the basin, then entered her tent. It was pitch-black, and she lit the lamp. Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw sunburned cheeks and ratty hair, a different person from the former belle of the ball, but at least she was trying to save what was left of her inheritance, instead of whining and crying.