Bloody Sunday (A John Stone Western--Book 11) Read online

  Muggs barked happily and leapt forward. He ran twenty paces, then froze suddenly in his tracks. Warpaint’s ears went into the air, and Stone pulled back the reins. Faint popping sounds reverberated off distant mountains. A gunfight?

  ~*~

  Caleb Pierce was certain he’d die that afternoon. Shoshonis had him outnumbered, and he couldn’t hold them off. In the distance, the warriors prepared for their final rush.

  Caleb was accompanied by his son, Luke, and Amos, a hired hand from his ranch. They’d been looking for stray cattle, stopped for a drink at the water hole, and got bushwhacked. He should’ve known better, but the injuns came out of nowhere.

  The water hole was three feet wide at the bottom of a crater fifty yards in diameter. Caleb, Luke, and Amos lay on their bellies at the edge of the crater, holding rifles ready to fire. Their horses watched the proceedings balefully. They might be injun war ponies before the sun went down.

  Caleb took out his weathered leather-bound Bible. Luke and Amos gathered around, sweaty, thin-lipped, ready to die. Caleb read: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.” Caleb intoned the words of the Twenty-third Psalm as Shoshoni warriors chanted death songs in the distance.

  ~*~

  Stone studied white men and Shoshonis through the lens of his spyglass, and wondered if four rifles could hold off a war party armed with bows, arrows, lances, and hatchets.

  Water sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight, Stone felt a deep primordial force pulling him onward. If I don’t get a drink of that water pretty soon, I’ll die. He staggered to the bottom of the hogback, where Warpaint and Moe were hobbled. “Once we get moving,” he told his animals, “don’t stop for anything. If I don’t make it, it was good to know you.”

  He patted Warpaint’s head, and Warpaint nodded, reasonably certain Stone would be killed before the sun sank much lower in the sky. Muggs wagged his tail, excited by danger. Stone climbed onto Warpaint, who girded his muscles for the final dash to the water hole.

  Stone rode around the bottom of the hogback, but was too thirsty to be scared. Water dominated his thoughts, and he couldn’t even swallow anymore. Finally he came into the open, and straight ahead was water. The Shoshonis milled around on the plain, singing war songs, preparing to charge. No point wasting time, Stone thought. He said a brief prayer, grabbed a handful of reins, yanked a Colt, and spurred Warpaint.

  Warpaint already did a hitch with Comanches, and they damn near ran him into the ground. Whatever effort was required to avoid capture, Warpaint would make it. He leapt toward the water hole, kicking up clods of prairie, and Stone leaned forward, making a small low target. Moe galloped alongside, carrying his cargo of pots, beans, and flour, straining against the wind. And ahead, point man for the charge, Muggs raced through the grass, tasting the cool clear water on his tongue.

  The injuns saw the lone rider with two sturdy horses and rifle stock gleaming in the sun. No one had to give an order, they pulled their ponies’ heads toward the booty and kicked their animals’ ribs hard. With yips and yells, the Shoshonis charged John Stone.

  All were in their early teens, and wanted rifles and six-guns. The only way to acquire them was murder, and that was fine with them. They shrieked battle cries, shaking their lances, whirling tomahawks over their heads, each anxious to kill Stone first, and strip him of everything he owned.

  They galloped closer, on a collision course with Stone, who knew the ultimate effort was required. He sucked up everything he had, stuffed the reins into his mouth, yanked his other Colt, and cocked both hammers, as Warpaint raced over the matted grass, his long dusky mane undulating in the wind. Muggs saw the injuns coming fast, and launched himself into the air like an artillery projectile. A young Shoshoni warrior saw a dark furry mass streaking toward him, then Muggs buried his teeth into his shoulder. The injun screamed, his horse reared back, Muggs and his quarry fell to the ground. The Shoshoni tried to rise, but Muggs ripped out his windpipe. He lapped up blood as other war ponies leapt over him, heading for John Stone.

  Sunlight glinted off tomahawk blades and the iron points of lances as Stone opened fire with both guns. The lead injun, face painted fantastically, stopped lead with his chest, and the impact blew him off the back of his war pony. Hooves kicked him into the air, his first and last war party, his only prize sudden death.

  Stone fired his guns, striking another warrior in the face with hot lead. Dead before he could scream, the injun toppled into clouds of dust and performed a macabre somersault. Two other Shoshoni warriors in tandem headed straight for Stone, who cut loose a barrage of hot lead. The warriors leaned at increasingly grotesque angles, and dropped to the grass. Stone broke through the onrushing line, slamming the last Shoshoni in the face with the barrel of his Colt. “We’re almost there, boy!” he hollered into Warpaint’s ear.

  Suddenly the world turned upside down, as Moe, struck by a lance in the lungs, lost consciousness. He tumbled to the ground, attached to Stone’s saddle with a length of rope. Stone managed to hang on, whip out his Apache knife, and slice the strands. Warpaint broke free, and headed for the water hole once more. An injun charged Stone and plunged his lance toward Stone’s heart, but the ex-cavalry officer batted the lance out of the way with a swing of his arm, and fired at the center of the injun’s chest. The bullet landed on target, the Shoshoni jolted in his saddle. Muggs perceived the heads of white men defending precious water straight ahead. He heard the rumble of Warpaint’s footsteps behind him, glanced over his shoulder, saw Stone leaning low over Warpaint’s mane, the remaining injuns behind them disorganized and confused.

  Muggs scurried down the incline past the defenders and dived head first into the sparkling liquid. Warpaint landed on the incline, nearly pitching Stone out of the saddle. Caleb and his son watched in astonishment as the chestnut stallion came to a stop at the edge of the water.

  Stone climbed down from the saddle, staggered toward the hole, collapsed, sank his head beneath the surface.

  “Don’t overdo it,” cautioned Caleb. “We still got injuns to fight.”

  Stone took four big gulps, each more delicious than the last. He wanted to gulp the water hole dry, but didn’t need a stomach ache. Rising from the water, he looked at the chin-whiskered man of forty-odd standing before him. Caleb introduced himself, his son, Luke, and Amos. “That was some bit of ridin’ you just done. Showed up in the nick of time. We’ll hold ’em now.”

  Caleb appeared ready to launch a major policy statement on injun fighting, but Luke shouted: “Here they come!”

  The remaining Shoshoni s charged, lances tucked under their arms, shrieking wildly. Stone rushed to the edge of the water hole, lay on his stomach, brought his rifle into position, and lined up his sights on the lead Shoshoni, a boy with plunder in his heart.

  Stone waited patiently for him to come closer. Can four men with rifles hold twenty-odd Shoshonis with lances, hatchets, bows and arrows? An interesting military problem for the ex-cavalry officer, but he didn’t have time to think about it. The unshod hooves of war ponies echoed across the flats, and the voices of adolescence could be heard, urging each other onward.

  “Let us pray to the Lord,” Caleb said, lowering his eyes.

  Stone preferred to line up the sights of his rifle on the lead Shoshoni. If we can’t stop them in the first few volleys, they’ll he all over us. He squeezed the trigger as the Shoshoni danced in his sights. It’s a good day for you to die, my friend.

  The trigger traveled the final distance, the hammer tripped. Stone heard the explosion of the cartridge as the rifle butt kicked his shoulder. The lead Shoshoni went slack on his war pony’s bare back, a red blotch forming on his chest. He sagged to the side and fell off the pony as his cohorts raced onward into the teeth of a rifle barrage. If they could get past the next few feet, they’d be in lance and tomahawk range.

  Another volley of rifle shots echoed acros
s the basin, and more Shoshonis dropped to the ground. The fierce boyish faces of warriors still alive came up fast. Stone arose, dug his feet into the dirt, and swung his rifle butt at the lance streaking toward his heart. He banged it to the side, then leapt into the air, tackled the Shoshoni, tore him out of his saddle, and they fell to the ground.

  A horse and rider vaulted over them as Stone and the Shoshoni tumbled down the slope toward the water hole. The Shoshoni yanked his tomahawk from his belt and swung at Stone’s head. Stone grabbed the Shoshoni’s wrist, brought his own Apache knife up quickly, and the Shoshoni tried to hold it back with his hand, but didn’t have the strength. The blade of Stone’s knife pierced the Shoshoni’s stomach, and Stone ripped to the side.

  More Shoshonis swarmed toward him, war hatchets flashing in the sunlight. He slapped the grips of both Colts, raised them to firing position, pulled the triggers. Gunfire echoed across the water hole as Shoshonis spun through the air, whirling ribbons of blood. A Shoshoni knelt over prostrate and unconscious Caleb Pierce, holding his hair with one hand, readying his knife to peel it away. The injun heard Stone running toward him, then a roar filled his ears as he dropped away to the happy hunting ground.

  Stone jumped over the Shoshoni’s bullet-ridden body and landed in front of two Shoshonis screaming battle cries, their eyes fixed greedily on his matched Colts. Stone pulled both triggers, the Colts made their terrifying statements, two Shoshonis lost their footing and fell to the ground. A shout caused Stone to spin around as a Shoshoni with a tomahawk leapt toward him. Stone triggered again, click said the gun in his left hand, but his right gun fired. A red dot appeared on the injun’s breastbone, and he blinked, trying to understand, as his legs gave out.

  A shot rang behind Stone, and an injun staggered, dropping his tomahawk, about to crown Stone when Luke Pierce shot him. But Stone didn’t have time to say thank you. Two more injuns rushed toward him, armed with tomahawks. He took aim with his right Colt, pulled the trigger: click.

  Stone stuffed both empty guns into their holsters and yanked knives from his boots. One blade up in each hand, he waited for the Shoshonis to come closer. The warrior on the left swung his tomahawk at Stone’s head, but Stone stepped to the side and ripped the blade of his Apache knife across his ribs. The Shoshoni howled, and Stone jabbed his Sioux knife into the arm of the other injun, who winged his tomahawk toward Stone’s skull. The knife ripped through muscle, the tomahawk attack aborted, and Stone rammed the Apache knife to the hilt in the warrior’s gut. The Shoshoni sank to the ground, and Stone dropped to one knee behind him to reload Colts.

  But the fighting was over, and bodies of Shoshonis littered the area surrounding the water hole. Five warriors rode defeated and humiliated toward the mountains. Amos, the hired hand, lay face down beside the water hole. Caleb and Luke rolled him onto his back, and the young man appeared asleep. Caleb had a big bruise on his head where he’d been clubbed by the shank of a spear. He reached for his Bible.

  “I shall lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, who made Heaven and Earth.”

  He intoned the hopeful sentiments of the psalm, while Stone found his rifle near the edge of the slope. He retrieved a box of cartridges from his saddlebags and loaded the magazine. A Shoshoni with a bullet through his gut lay bleeding in the water hole. Stone pulled him out, knelt, and drank. Muggs walked toward him, and Stone scratched the faithful dog’s ears. “You did a good job.” Then he turned toward Warpaint. “Couldn’t’ve made it without you.”

  They scanned the basin. No sign of Shoshones. Stone joined Caleb and Luke at the side of Amos.

  “Infidels,” Caleb said bitterly. “The scourge of the devil.”

  “Don’t think we should stay long,” Stone replied. “Where’s the nearest fort?”

  “West of here.”

  Stone filled his canteens beside the body of a dead Shoshoni warrior. When I was his age, I hunted rabbits. A cool breeze touched his cheek as he strapped canteens to his saddle. Caleb and Luke tied Amos head down over his saddle. Stone smoked a cigarette and thought how easy it is to die, but there must be a nook or cranny someplace where a man could have peace.

  “Where were you headed?” Caleb asked.

  “Texas.”

  “If you’re lookin’ fer a job, I can always use another good man, ‘specially one who knows how to use a gun.” He glanced at Stone’s Confederate cavalry hat. “Soldiers’re what we need out here.”

  Stone had to take a job sooner or later, but didn’t like quick decisions. “Let me think it over.”

  “You’ll have supper with us tonight. The least we can do.”

  They came to Moe’s dead body. Warpaint lowered his head and nicked his traveling companion’s lifeless ear. Stone couldn’t load all the supplies on Warpaint, so he just retrieved his frying pan, a cut of bacon, a few cans of beans, and the lard tin he used as a coffeepot.

  He climbed into the saddle and they moved out, leaving a dead horse and Shoshoni youths who gave their lives to become men. High in the sky, buzzards called each other to the feast. Caleb turned sideways to examine the man he’d seen fighting like a wildman at the water hole. John Stone rode out of nowhere, took command, looked like the prophet Jeremiah. “Are you a God-fearing man?” Caleb asked.

  “Not in the mood for a sermon, if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t like ’em much myself. Newfangled preachers have all the latest theories, but no experience. That’s the thing that matters, experience. God ever spoken with you, Captain Stone?”

  “Said I didn’t want a sermon.”

  ‘Twenty years ago, I was a drunkard, gambler, saloon fighter. I lived in the streets like a lost wretch, but then one night Jesus appeared to me as I lay in the gutter. I know what you’re thinkin’—I’m a crazy old coot. But it happened sure as I’m talkin’ to you, and I turned from my wicked ways. Jesus saved me, as He’ll save you.”

  Can’t take much more of this, Stone thought, but don’t want

  Chapter Three

  The setting sun sent beams of red and orange over a vast plain grazed by Texas longhorns. “A hardy breed,” Caleb expostulated to his prospective dinner guest, “but not enough meat on their bones. We’re a-lookin’ fer a new strain, experimentin’, you might say. I ain’t a-sayin’ God didn’t do his work right the first time around, but there’s always room for improvement.”

  Stone rode Warpaint into the barn, pulled off the saddle, draped it over a rail. He found a brush in his saddlebags. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a few moments with my horse.”

  “Meet you in the big house,” said Caleb. “Washbasin in back. Agatha don’t like to be kept waitin’ onc’t she puts vittles on the table.”

  Stone brushed down Warpaint, picked out burrs with his fingers, spoke soothingly. Ranch hands entered the barn, removed saddles from Caleb’s and Luke’s horses, while Muggs ran off with a pack of half-wild mongrels like himself. Stone filled the bin with grain and carried water to the trough. “You were a good soldier today.” Stone stroked Warpaint’s mane.

  Lights gleamed through windows of the main house, smoke rose from the chimney, dissipated by the cool breeze. Stone washed his face and hands in the basin, examined himself in the mirror, saw a bearded mountain man. Somebody’s liable to hang me for an outlaw if I don’t get rid of this hair soon.

  ~*~

  On the second floor of the white house, behind a white curtain, Leticia Pierce gazed at the stranger in her backyard. She heard her father tell her mother about him, and became curious.

  She was seventeen, slim-waisted, with intelligent brown eyes and black hair to her shoulders. Scheduled to marry a man selected by her father, she was resigned to an unhappy nuptial arrangement. Unless there was some way to escape.

  The stranger was a big fellow, well-muscled, but it was difficult to see his face. Probably won’t like me anyway. She looked at herself in the mirror, thought herself hideous, although her skin was sat
in, lips a rosebud. She heard the door open downstairs. The sound of the stranger’s voice reverberated through the house.

  “Mrs. Pierce?”

  A hefty woman in a white apron stirred a pot on the stove. “You must be Mr. Stone. Let me thank you for saving my husband and son.”

  “It was the other way around, actually. They saved me.”

  “What a gallant gentleman you are, but I suppose God saved all of you, if the truth be told. But forgive me. Caleb said you don’t like sermons. Neither do I, actually. Too many preachers are full of themselves, instead of God.”

  A young woman appeared in the doorway, fidgeting with the buttons of her dress. Sometimes, in unexpected remote areas, a man ran into the most incredibly beautiful specimens of females.

  “May I present my daughter, Leticia.”

  She gazed into his eyes. “How do you do.”

  “Nice meeting you.”

  Silence came to the kitchen. Leticia curtsied. “’scuse me.” She sped to her room.

  Mrs. Pierce cleared her throat. “She’s at that age. Be fine once she has a house of her own to take care of. Too much time on her hands. Can I get you something?”

  Stone wanted whiskey, but knew better than to ask in a religious home. She led him to the living room, where a fire blazed in the furnace. “Dinner will be served in a few minutes. Make yourself at home.”

  He reconnoitered the room, furniture solid, house sturdy, with servants and hired hands, the Pierces weren’t poor. He became aware of a presence behind him. Turning, he saw Leticia in the doorway. “Sorry if I was rude before,” she said in an offhand way. “We don’t often get strangers here, particularly ones with long beards. Why don’t you shave it off?”

  “Can you lend me a pair of scissors.”