Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8) Read online

  Quarternight saw their eyes in the shadows, acknowledged their silent homage. He made his way to the bar, crowded with cowboys celebrating the end of the months on the trail, everyone talked at the same time. He came to a stop behind a cowboy quaffing a mug of beer. The cowboy felt something sharp dig into his shoulder, turned, saw an iron hook.

  “Out of my way,” Quarternight growled.

  “Just squeeze in, pardner. Bar’s crowded as Hell.”

  The cowboy moved to the side, making available a few inches of space, but Quarternight didn’t budge. Quarternight gazed into the cowboy’s eyes, and the cowboy wouldn’t risk his life over a length of wood. He pulled away. Quarternight leaned his ample belly against the bar. “Whiskey.”

  The bartender saw the hook, stopped what he was doing. Wiping his hands on his apron, he walked toward Quarternight, placed a glass before him, poured whiskey.

  “Ever heard of the Triangle Spur?” Quarternight asked.

  “Not yet, but if I do, I’ll let you know, Mr. Quarternight.”

  A few heads turned around. The name was well known. Quarternight was aware of the attention, walked to a table against the wall. Men playing poker dropped their cards and stepped away. Quarternight sat and faced the door.

  The card players found another table, saloon settled down. Men poured whiskey down their throats, but the atmosphere had changed. Frank Quarternight drank whiskey as news of his presence spread through Abilene.

  ~*~

  The cowboys and vaqueros from the Triangle Spur sat around the campfire, eating steak and beans. They’d been dreaming of tomorrow ever since they left San Antone. Whiskey and whores in big feather beds, with chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and big mirrors everywhere. They could taste whiskey on their tongues, and good restaurant-cooked food.

  Cassandra sat among them, a cigarette hanging from her lips. Twenty-seven hundred longhorns times twenty-two dollars a head was nearly sixty-thousand dollars. She owed nearly twenty-thousand, and the rest was hers.

  “Boss lady,” Slipchuck said, small eyes glittering in the firelight. “Back there in Texas, you said you was a-gonna give us a big party if we got to Abilene, and you’d pay fer all the whiskey we could drink. That go fer Sundust too?”

  “Wherever I sell the herd, you boys get your party.”

  His face broke into a toothless grin. “With all the whiskey we kin drink?”

  “You can drink till you’re passed out on the floor.”

  Stone washed his hands in the common basin, dried himself with the common towel. Ephraim, the Negro cook, sat nearby. Their eyes met, but neither said anything. A state of war existed between them, but no one else knew.

  Ephraim had been one of Stone’s father’s slaves, and hated him with deep passion. They’d nearly killed each other in a series of private fist and knife fights in San Antone and up the trail, with no decisive winner. Stone was glad the drive was over, so he wouldn’t have to deal with Ephraim anymore.

  He filled his tin plate with meat, beans, and biscuits, then sat beside Cassandra. Don Emilio Maldonado leaned against his saddle nearby. “I feel sad,” he said. “We have been compañeros for so long, sharing work, fighting, even the pleasure of La Señora’s companionship. How will we live, without La Señora’s beautiful face every morning?”

  “Find some other La Señora,” she said.

  “But there is only one La Señora.”

  She looked at Stone, always distant, preoccupied. Sometimes he mumbled military commands in his sleep. Do I really love him?

  ~*~

  Frank Quarternight walked into the Lone Star Saloon. Cowboys stared at him in fear and fascination. Everyone got out of his way. “Whiskey.”

  The bartender poured the glass. Quarternight leaned against the bar. It was the usual filthy frontier whoop and holler. His eyes roved the whores, he’d get one after he shot John Stone. Business before pleasure.

  John Stone had shot Frank’s brother, Dave Quarternight, one of the fastest guns in South Texas, and Frank had to even the score. It’d be a tough fight, every split second would count. Frank didn’t know for sure if he was faster than his brother. Frank had beaten Dave at target practice, and Dave had beat Frank. They were more or less even.

  He and his brother had been orphans, parents massacred by Kiowas. A tight bond existed between them, and that damned John Stone shot it to pieces. He didn’t know what John Stone looked like, but had a general description. Quarternight hunted men before, only a matter of time.

  The Lone Star became silent. Quarternight turned to the door. Tom Smith, Marshal of Abilene, walked toward him, and Quarternight knew it was time for the lecture. Smith wore no visible gun, preferring to subdue troublemakers with his fists, but a Colt was concealed in a leather-lined side pocket, in case of emergency.

  Marshal Smith came to a halt in front of Quarternight. “I’ll have to ask for your gun.”

  “Ain’t gittin’ it.”

  “I run a safe town. You don’t give me that gun of your own free will, I’ll take it by force.”

  Smith moved to get in close, so he could use his fists. Quarternight whipped out his Smith & Wesson. “Hold it right there, Marshal.”

  “It’s against the law to carry a gun in Abilene.”

  “Tell that to the other men, not me.”

  “You don’t give me that gun, I’ll place you under arrest.”

  “Make a deal with you, Marshal. You got my word I won’t use this gun within town limits, unless somebody draws first.”

  Smith had been looking for a way out of his predicament, now he had it. “Never heard of Frank Quarternight going back on his word,” he said. “Plannin’ to stay in Abilene long?”

  “Leavin’ tomorrow mornin’.”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  “We got nothin’ to say to each other, lawman.”

  ~*~

  It was night in the cow camp, and embers of the fire glowed red in the pit. The cowboys unrolled their blankets and smoked their last cigarettes of the day. Everyone was tantalized by Sundust, and were already there in their imaginations, drinking whiskey, fondling whores. Stone met Cassandra on the far side of the chuck wagon.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” he asked.

  Her golden hair shone in the light of the moon. “I was wondering about us. You haven’t said anything, so I thought I’d ask.”

  “I think we should get married in Sundust,” he replied, “then go back to Texas, rebuild your ranch, put together another herd.”

  She stared at him for a few moments. “Johnny, do you mean it?”

  “Wouldn’t’ve said it, if I didn’t mean it.”

  “Do you think you’re over Marie?”

  He hesitated, and she saw the doubt in his eyes. Marie was Stone’s former great love, the bane of her existence.

  Stone looked into her eyes. “You’re a wonderful woman, Cassandra. Everything a man could want.”

  “Do you love me the way you loved Marie?”

  “More,” he replied, because it was expected of him, but deep in his heart he knew he was a liar.

  She hugged him, and Slipchuck’s head appeared around the edge of the chuck wagon. “Wa’al look what we got here!”

  Moose Roykins, former Canadian lumberjack, came behind Slipchuck. “They’re at it again.”

  The rest of the crew gathered near Slipchuck and Roykins. Stone and Cassandra separated.

  “Shall I tell them, or will you?” Cassandra said.

  Stone faced the cowboys and vaqueros. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just come out and say it. Cassandra and I are getting married in Sundust, and you’re invited to the wedding.”

  The men’d been expecting this since Stone and Cassandra began sneaking away together back in Texas. “Kiss the bride!” roared Luke Duvall.

  “She’s not the bride yet,” said Stone, “but that won’t stop me.”

  He touched his lips to hers, felt her breasts against his shirt. She was strong and f
irm, a fine woman. It was time he settled down, and he couldn’t do better than Cassandra Whiteside. Love and the promise of new life felt wonderful in his arms, as a nighthawk flew across the face of the moon.

  ~*~

  The kid wore a floppy-wide brimmed hat too big for him, and a gun strapped to his waist. His clothes were rags, he had holes in his boots. No one paid attention to him. Another crazy cowpoke.

  His eyes fell on Quarternight, and the Texas gunfighter saw him coming. The kid was so young he still had pimples on his cheeks. “Frank Quarternight?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Hear you’re hot shit with a gun.”

  Quarternight didn’t reply. He thought of the kid shooting cans and bottles on the prairie, preparing for his debut.

  “You might be a hot gunslinger,” the kid said, “but I bet you don’t deserve it no more. You look like just another old drunk to me.”

  “Boy,” Quarternight said, “you don’t want to fuck with me.”

  “I’ll draw on you right now, if’n I want to.”

  “Wouldn’t make that mistake, I was you.”

  “I think you’re afraid to fight a man who ain’t dead on his feet like you.”

  “Don’t call me afraid, boy.”

  “Don’t call me boy, you old drunk.”

  “Marshal was in here a while back,” Quarternight said, “and I gave him my word I wouldn’t shoot no damn fools within town limits, so how’d you like to meet me on the prairie in about an hour?”

  The kid turned a shade paler, and he said, “West of town, just beyond the sign—see you in an hour.”

  “Git outta my face,” Quarternight replied, “so’s I can finish my whiskey in peace.”

  Quarternight turned his back, raised the glass to his lips. The kid walked out of the bar, spurs jangling. Quarternight drained his glass and pushed it forward. The bartender uncorked a new bottle.

  “Know his name?” the gunfighter asked.

  “I’ll ask around for you, Mr. Quarternight.”

  Quarternight sipped the whiskey. Maybe the kid was the next Jesse James, but the odds were against it. Tomorrow the sun would set on his grave.

  ~*~

  Cassandra and Stone lay awake beneath their blankets, staring at the starry heavens. Cowboys and vaqueros slept nearby, and the embers were cold in the fire pit.

  Cassandra wished she could have John Stone all to herself. She loved him; he’d awakened feelings she didn’t know she had. They could make a life together, but Marie still held him in her grasp after all these years and miles.

  Cassandra often thought of her phantom rival. She’d seen Marie’s daguerreotype, but a picture only shows the outer person. What did she have that made Stone follow her across mountains, rivers, deserts, tractless wastes of prairie, for five years? John Stone was a good man. They had problems, but they’d work them out. Maybe he’d forget Marie after a few kids.

  Cassandra’s hip touched John Stone, and he felt warmth radiate through him. He’d been thinking about Marie too. Five years of futile pointless meandering search were enough. He didn’t want to end up a toothless old drunk in the Last Chance Saloon.

  Cassandra was sensible, bright, a hard worker. She wasn’t afraid to use a gun. She’d stand by her man. He couldn’t go wrong.

  Yet he couldn’t forget Marie. He’d loved her since he was six. They’d shared everything. Where was she? Why didn’t she wait for him after the war ended? Was she dead? Had she gone insane?

  He’d arrived home after Appomattox, found her gone. Some said she went West with a Union officer. He’d hunted her ever since, asking the same questions, but no answers. Drifting aimlessly turned him into a drunkard. If he didn’t settle down, he’d end up in a gutter. Cassandra was a good woman. He couldn’t give her up for a fading memory.

  Stone felt her beside him, and couldn’t resist such a delicacy. He rolled over, their lips touched, they pressed against each other. His fingers sought the buttons on her shirt.

  “Don’t wake up the others,” she whispered.

  ~*~

  Men stood in bunches, smoking cigarettes, drinking whiskey out of bottles. The sign said:

  WELCOME TO ABILENE

  CATTLE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD

  The lights of Abilene sparkled in the distance. Bets were running ten to one in favor of Quarternight. The young man checked and rechecked his gun. He practiced a few fast draws at imaginary opponents. His name was Shelby, and he rode drag for the Circle B.

  Quarternight approached on the road, boot heels crunching gravel. They watched the famous gunfighter walk to the far end of the dueling ground, where the moon shone over his shoulder.

  “Whenever you’re ready, boy,” Quarternight said, the legs of his baggy pants spread apart.

  “I told you ter stop callin’ me boy.”

  “Only one way you can make me do that, boy.”

  “Let’s git it on, old man.”

  Quarternight lowered his right hand to a position above his gun. He had chubby jowls, and his belly hung over his belt. Shelby, young and slim, was poised like a cat to strike.

  A terrible shriek rent the night. A young woman struggled to break through a cordon of men.

  “Don’t let him kill Billy!”

  “Hush now!” said one of the men sternly. “This ain’t no place for a woman!”

  She was a skinny wraith who thought she was grown. Her teeth were bared, lightning in her eyes. “Please stop them, sir! He can’t kill a boy!”

  Quarternight looked at Shelby. “You still got time. Nobody’ll think the less of you if you walked away. I killed more men than you got years. I got no beef with you.”

  “I don’t walk away,” Shelby said, feeling rattlesnake energy radiating from the plains. If he killed Quarternight, he’d be famous. Never ride the drag again.

  The young woman tried to break loose from the men. “Stop them!”

  “Ready when you are,” said Shelby to Quarternight.

  Quarternight measured distances. He was a professional, nothing haphazard. Tensing for the final spring, he said, “You’re the one who wants this fight, so make yer move, boy.”

  The young woman shrieked, the kid’s hand dropped to his gun. Quarternight pulled his trigger, his Smith & Wesson fired, and a split second later Shelby’s gun went off. A bullet struck the ground near Quarternight’s toe. The young woman sounded like a banshee gone insane. Shelby had an expression of surprise on his face. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, his eyes glazed over. He staggered, and the gun fell out of his hand. He turned to Quarternight, whispered something unintelligible, then his legs gave out. He went crashing to the ground.

  Quarternight holstered his gun. His hand didn’t have the speed of ten years ago, or even five years ago. If Shelby had been a hair faster …

  Quarternight looked at the young man on the ground. Maybe, on another night, Shelby would’ve been faster, and Quarternight dead meat on the ground. Quarternight knew he was losing his edge gradually as he got older. One of these days, in some godforsaken town, Death would be waiting.

  They turned the girl loose. She ran, face streaked with tears, toward the body of her lover, fell on top of him, pressed her cheek against his bloody face, called his name pathetically, her body wracked with sobs. Quarternight headed toward his horse. A victory celebration was waiting for him, and maybe a whore. He climbed into his saddle and rode toward the famous saloons of Abilene, their lights flickering like beacons in the star-spangled night.

  Chapter Two

  A red sliver of dawn lay on the horizon. Cassandra and her men devoured beef and biscuits washed down with thick black coffee. Sundust lay straight ahead, but one problem remained. What would they do with the former segundo?

  He’d been segundo before Don Emilio, his name was Braswell. Something terrible had happened to him in Texas. His face was purple and his mind was destroyed.

  Cassandra shuddered when she thought about it. He’d been the nastiest co
wboy in the bunch, argued and fought with everyone, and even had threatened Cassandra. One morning they found him dead in his blankets, no apparent cause. They buried him, rode away, heard his cries, dug him up. Now he communicated in grunts, followed orders, but had no will of his own. Everyone thought Ephraim had something to do with it, because Braswell had been especially abusive toward him, but no one had any proof. Were the people of Sundust ready for the former segundo?

  She washed her tin plate in the bucket. The men broke camp for the last time on the trail. Tomorrow night they’d be in Sundust, except for the ones on night duty. She walked toward Don Emilio.

  “You’re in charge until I return,” she said. “Move the herd as close to town as you can. Send one of your men in to tell us where you are, understand?”

  He wore his sombrero, and a shock of black hair hung over his forehead. “Señora, please do not marry John Stone. He is a good man, but not for you. I should not speak, but my heart pushes me forward. You deserve someone who loves you more than he.”

  “I forbid you to mention the subject of marriage to me again.” She turned abruptly, walked toward her horse. Don Emilio watched the sway of her hips. She was his golden goddess, and he’d lost her. Somebody slapped his shoulder. Don Emilio looked up and saw John Stone.

  “Don’t take it so hard. You know how women are. There’s no figuring them out.”

  “You don’t love her, and you know it.”

  “You and I’ve been around for a long distance, amigo. Love is where you find it. There are many flowers on the prairie, and if you don’t get one, there are always a hundred more.”

  “Not for me,” Don Emilio said bitterly.

  “You think you love Cassandra, but you’d leave her just as you’ve left all the others.”

  “You are a gringo. You could not possibly understand.”

  “Life is a game of cards, and you play the hand you’re dealt. I’m getting married, amigo. Can’t you wish me well?”

  “Good luck,” Don Emilio said without conviction.

  They shook hands. Don Emilio gazed longingly at Cassandra atop her palomino mare. Stone climbed onto his horse, and Don Emilio walked toward the remuda. The Triangle Spur prepared for the final push to the railhead in Sundust, end of the long hard drive.