Bloody Sunday (A John Stone Western--Book 11) Page 4

  Sometimes Agatha thought her daughter mad. One of Leticia’s teachers said she was a genius. Agatha doubted Leticia believed in God, and that led to the most frightening consideration of all. Her own little girl in bed with a man?

  Once she found a book under Leticia’s pillow. Demented artists, depraved noblemen, and diseased prostitutes drinking and breeding in Paris, by Balzac. Agatha had read parts of the book out of curiosity. Actually, if the truth be told, she read every word, some passages several times. Caleb regularly railed for hours against novels, which he considered a violation of the prohibition against graven images.

  Novels set Leticia’s impressionable mind aflame, Agatha concluded. Caleb was right all along. Agatha asked God to forgive her daughter, damned to hell at the age of seventeen for reading Balzac.

  ~*~

  Horses trotted over the mountain trail, hoofbeats like kettledrums. Caleb sat astride his white gelding and felt part of a massive potent force for justice and righteousness. His mouth set in a grim line, he hoped they’d run into the culprits soon.

  His worst fear was he’d never see Leticia again, or she’d be dead, or wife of an injun buck. The thought of her in the blankets with an injun was almost too much to bear. He ground his teeth angrily.

  He tried to think of what he’d done wrong. I say my prayers every morning. Give my tithe to the church. Lead a life of Christian love to the extent a man can, considering injuns, outlaws, and flimflam men.

  Luke rode beside his father, envied his sister, and hoped they wouldn’t catch her. But if John Stone harms a hair on her head, I’ll kill him. At the head of the posse, Boettcher bounced up and down in his saddle, cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth. The next town was Henley Forge, and he wondered if there were shortcuts.

  Whenever Leticia had called, Boettcher jumped. Her domination of him undermined his authority with the men, and he swore a hundred times never to be friendly with her again, but then she’d flash a smile, and a few minutes later he’d be in the corral, giving her riding lessons, watching her cute butt working against the ornate hand worked leather saddle her father had given her.

  She sucked knowledge out of his brain, sent him on errands, used him in a million ways. He prayed someday she’d appreciate his selfless devotion, but never, not once, did she give a smidgeon of warmth and love, although he’d practically begged for it. Once he’d feigned illness, and she’d called her mother. She’d never lift a finger for him on her own.

  He loved her though she broke his heart a thousand times with mindless remarks. She didn’t even say good-bye. He thought of John Stone making love to her virginal innocence. If I ever get my hands on John Stone, I’ll kill him.

  ~*~

  Rolling plains and jumbled hills stretched between tall, snow-capped mountains. Two riders moved south as wind cut into their cheeks. Deep dark clouds swept toward them from the north, and in the distance, a whirl of smoke rose to the sky.

  “Henley Forge,” Leticia said. “They’ve got a general store, and I can buy some things I need.”

  “Pass it by,” he replied. “Somebody might recognize us.”

  “We haven’t broken any laws.”

  “A pretty girl like you in a lonely out-of-the-way general store, no telling what might happen. I’m sure they serve whiskey.”

  “I’ve been to general stores before. You worry too much.”

  She turned away from him and dug her heels into Lulu’s ribs. The mare increased her pace, leaving Stone behind. He pulled his reins to angle Warpaint in a southerly direction.

  She turned in her saddle. “Where do you think you’re going?” He didn’t reply as he rode away from her. She turned Lulu around. “I believe I hurt your feelings,” she said, coming after him. “I’m sorry.”

  “When we began this ride, I told you I was boss, and what I said went. If you don’t want to do it that way, goodbye.”

  “I’m not permitted to disagree? My opinions and thoughts don’t matter?”

  “Correct.”

  ‘That’s not very fair. I need another blanket. Do you want me to freeze?”

  Raising her chin haughtily, she turned Lulu toward the general store. Stone watched her back, and wondered if he was being too hard. Muggs whined in disapproval of his behavior. Warpaint craned his neck and glared reproachfully at Stone, who sighed in defeat as he steered toward the general store. They rode down the incline toward smoke belching into the sky. Leticia slowed Lulu so Stone could catch up.

  “Glad to see you’ve come to your senses.”

  “Get all the blankets you want,” he replied, “but if I say get on your horse and ride like hell, do it. You don’t know what kind of people go to these places.”

  “You worry too much.”

  She had an answer for everything. He recalled the words of an old cowpoke. If you get into an argument with a woman, the onliest thing to do is grab yer hat and run. But the Shoshonis would rip her apart. Maybe I should tie her down and deliver her to her father.

  Roofs sagged, walls leaned, wagon wheels minus spokes lay on the ground. A stagecoach was parked in front of a sign: HENLEY FORGE GENERAL STORE SALOON

  Stone loosened the cinch under Warpaint, and Leticia threw her reins over the rail. ‘Tell me the truth,” she said. “Are you wanted?”

  “Just cautious.”

  “Too much caution can be a vice, just like anything else carried to extremes.”

  He followed her toward the front door, and Muggs marched at his side, growling and grumbling at odors of alcoholic beverages seeping through rough-hewn log walls chinked with mud. “Stay here and guard the horses,” Stone ordered Muggs.

  Muggs snorted and shook his head in disagreement, but Stone paid no attention. The faithful dog returned to Warpaint and Lulu, who held a nuzzling conversation at the hitching rail. Stone opened the door, and Leticia strolled into a dingy room with inadequate light. All eyes were drawn to the gun tucked into her belt. She placed her elbow on the bar.

  Stone accompanied her, his twin Colts slung low on crisscrossed gunbelts, holsters tied to his legs. Behind the bar was Jonathan Keneally, proprietor, mid-fifties, salt and pepper hair and beard, black leather vest, cigar sticking out his mouth.

  “Help you, sir?”

  “The lady wants a blanket.”

  The assembly of stagecoach travelers studied Stone curiously. Some were from the East, on the frontier for the first time, but a few were old veterans of mountains, prairies, and saloons.

  “Looks like a gunfighter,” said a traveling salesman from New York.

  “That’s what I was a-thinkin’ too,” replied the stagecoach driver. “Wonder what his name is.”

  Keneally lay out a gray wool Indian blanket decorated with red woven buffalo. Leticia fingered the thick material. “You wouldn’t have a man’s pair of pants that might fit me.

  Keneally raised his eyebrows. “You want to wear man’s pants?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Keneally looked to Stone for moral support.

  “Give her what she wants,” Stone told him.

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Now just a moment, sir. I’m spending my own money, and I don’t need anybody’s permission to buy a pair of pants.”

  A chair scraped the floor at the far end of the room, and a slim young cowboy named Taylor, wearing one low-slung gun, emerged from the shadows, wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes. “Havin’ trouble, little lady?”

  She ignored him, but Stone didn’t take his eyes off the cowboy’s hand. Taylor strolled among the tables and chairs, and approached the bar on the other side of Leticia. Keneally carried a pair of green gabardine pants and a black leather belt to the counter. “They’ll be a little long, so tuck ’em in yer boots.”

  She held them in front of her. “Perfect.”

  “Whiskey,” Stone uttered.

  The bartender reached for the bottle, and Leticia turned toward Stone. “You don’t intend to get drunk, do you?”


  “Mind your business.”

  Taylor chortled. “Any woman ever talked to me that way, I’d knock her on her ass.”

  Leticia looked at Stone and aimed her thumb at the stranger. “That’s what happens to men who drink too much.”

  “Bartender,” Stone said in a deadly tone. “I believe I asked for a whiskey.”

  “Yessir.” The man in the apron filled a glass and pushed it forward. Stone reached for it, and her dovelike hand fell on his.

  “I think we’d better talk this over,” she said.

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  “If you get drunk, you’ll endanger both our lives.”

  “If you don’t take your hand off me, I’ll throw you out the window.”

  Taylor laughed. “Guess we can see who wears the pants in this family.”

  Travelers on the other side of the room smiled at the limp joke. Stone’s ears burned as if someone held a match under them. He wanted to dunk Leticia in the nearest well. In one quick sure motion, he tossed the contents of the glass down his throat.

  It burned all the way to his stomach, and one good snort called for another. He pushed the glass forward. The bartender refilled the glass, and Stone knocked it back as Leticia watched with disapproval and dismay. “Hope you don’t intend to do this for the rest of the day.”

  “Stop nagging.”

  The travelers lost interest in the common domestic squabble. “A man gets what he deserves,” the old stagecoach driver observed wryly. “Give me a filly that’s already broke in. I ain’t got the time to play with ’em, know what I mean?”

  The salesman examined Stone carefully. “Is that a Confederate cavalry hat he’s wearing? When I was in Frisco, heard somethin’ about a gunfighter who wore a Confederate cavalry hat.”

  The stagecoach driver snapped his fingers. “Somebody told me about that galoot too, when I was in Frisco. They say he shot somebody on the Barbary Coast.”

  Stone heard the familiar hellhole pop out of the darkness. “Pay for your pants,” he said to Leticia. “We’re leaving.”

  “What’s yer hurry?” Taylor asked Stone.

  Leticia reached into the pocket of her coat for money. Taylor walked around her and headed toward Stone. “Don’t like it when a man ignores me.”

  Stone looked him in the eye, and the general store fell silent. Leticia sensed dangerous masculine tension. “Now, now,” she said, smiling nervously at Stone. “Let’s be nice to each other. Jesus said we must turn the other cheek. I think we should be on our way.”

  Stone didn’t take his eyes off Taylor’s hand. “Get on your horse,” he said to Leticia.

  Hair rose on the back of her neck as she headed for the door. Taylor’s call used hand landed on her arm. “What’s yer hurry, missy? Let’s have a drink.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came.

  “Take your hand off her,” Stone said.

  Taylor turned toward him. “Maybe she’s got you whupped, pardner, but not me.” He tugged Leticia’s arm, but she swung her free fist and clobbered him on the cheek. The force of her blow didn’t faze him. “I like a bitch who fights a little.”

  “I said take your hands off her!”

  Everyone stared at the ex-cavalry officer. He spread his legs and held his hands above his gun grips. A light went on in the memory of the stagecoach driver. “I believe that’s John Stone!”

  Silence came to the saloon, and Stone held his gaze steady on Taylor, who removed his hand from Leticia’s blouse. “Didn’t realize it was you, Mr. Stone.”

  “Who the hell’s John Stone?” asked a befuddled eastern accent.

  The stagecoach driver leaned back in his chair and took a long puff from his cigar. “John Stone’s the man what shot Randy LaFollette.”

  “Who’s Randy LaFollette?”

  “They say he was the fastest gun alive.”

  The bartender raised his bottle. “On the house, Mr. Stone.”

  The glass filled with amber fluid gleamed invitingly in the light of the lamp. Stone carried it to his mouth, leaned back, and drained it dry. “Thanks for your hospitality.”

  He headed for the door, carrying Leticia’s blanket. She followed him outside, sun hidden behind thick oatmeal clouds, and a few crystals of snow flitted on the wind.

  “Are you sober enough to travel?” she asked. “You’ve just drunk a substantial quantity of whiskey.”

  “Perfectly fine.” He aimed his boot at a stirrup, but missed by three inches. The door to the general store opened behind him, and Taylor stood in the backlight. “I think you’re a lyin’ sack of shit! You ain’t John Stone!”

  Stone turned and faced the cowboy. The door to the saloon opened again, and stagecoach passengers poured outside, followed by the driver, the salesman, and Keneally, who approached the troublesome cowboy. “Let me buy you a drink, friend. You don’t have a chance against John Stone.”

  “That ain’t John Stone. He’s just a coward pretendin’ to be somebody he ain’t.”

  The stagecoach driver cleared his throat. “I’d go easy on this, I was you, cowboy. If that ain’t John Stone, it’s his brother.”

  “I’ll spit in his fucking face.” Taylor glowered at Stone. “Whatever yer name is, you’d better get the hell out of here, but yer woman stays behind.”

  The voice of the bartender came to Taylor’s ears. “Walk away from it, son. Ain’t worth the trouble.”

  “I ain’t the breed that walks away.” Taylor took his gun-fighting stance and looked at Stone. “You want to go first, or should I?”

  “Up to you,” Stone replied.

  Taylor noticed Leticia looking at him, and felt proud. He didn’t believe the real John Stone would let a woman treat him that way, so he took a deep breath, his hand dropped suddenly to his gun, and he yanked hard. Meanwhile, Stone’s Colts had already leapt into his waiting hands. He aimed and fired before Taylor could raise his barrel. Lead slugs ripped into the hapless cowboy, hurling him backward, his legs became lifeless laundry, and he toppled to the ground.

  A cloud of acrid smoke filled the air. Leticia’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. John Stone stood still as a statue, both guns pointed straight ahead, ready for the next fool. But no one moved a muscle. Taylor gasped, blood burbled from his mouth. Stone walked toward his horse, holstered one gun, held the other ready as he pulled himself into the saddle. He and Leticia rode away from the general store, and a few snowflakes whirled in the wind, as behind them a crowd gathered around the fallen cowboy.

  “Guess you’re the John Stone they were talking about,” Leticia said.

  The word would spread that he’d killed another man. A legend grew around his name, he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

  “Never saw anybody get shot before,” she admitted. “Sure you’re not wanted for murder someplace?”

  “You’re my witness on that one. Self-defense, wasn’t it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  A cold wind ran across her cheek, and she viewed him in a strange new way. They rode into a valley of pine and fir extending up the sides of steep mountains, craggy peaks obscured by the advancing storm. It grew darker, snowflakes became thicker in the increasing wind. Leticia pulled her hat tighter and fastened the chinstrap.

  “Looks like the first storm of the year,” Stone said. “We’d better find someplace to hole up before it gets dark. Follow me.” He steered Warpaint off the trail.

  “Where are you going?”

  He shot her an angry look.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Forgot.”

  Their horses’ hooves sank into hundreds of years of pine needles, as giant trees stood silent and stately. A large crystal of snow shattered like a magic world on Lulu’s mane, but didn’t melt, the temperature below freezing. Wind cut Leticia’s skirt and stung her knees, but that’s what the pants were for. It grew darker, she could barely see. But Stone seemed to know where he was going. So different from he
r father’s cowboys.

  “We can dismount here,” Stone said. “The mountain’ll protect us from the worst of the storm.”

  “Can we have a fire?”

  “Not unless you want to tell your father where we are.”

  “Thought I could heat up a can of beans.”

  “Try ’em cold.”

  “Nobody’ll see the fire through this storm.” She wanted to criticize his caution, but kept her mouth shut. Lulu snickered as Leticia pulled the saddle off and set it up on a smooth spot at the side of a hill. Then she realized she was alone. Stone had wandered off, and she couldn’t even hear him.

  “Where are you?” she asked apprehensively.

  “Keep your voice down. Here’s a better spot over here.”

  She carried the saddle toward him, and a protective ledge extruded from the mountain like a deformed dragon’s tooth. “What a beautiful place!” She positioned her saddle for a pillow. “How’d you find it?”

  “Looked.”

  He removed Warpaint’s bridle, fed him a few handfuls of grain, hobbled him beneath snow-laden branches. Leticia unrolled her blankets in the dark, washed her hands and face in the snow, ate a few handfuls. Stone brushed Warpaint’s coat, then Lulu’s.

  ‘”I’ll do that,” said a voice beside him.

  She took the brush from his hand and worked Lulu’s coat in long strokes. Stone fixed his bed, then leaned his rifle across his saddle as a lobo howled mournfully through the storm.

  They ate cold beans in silence, and she thought about the shooting at the general store. He’d drawn so fast, she didn’t even see his hands. He’s a famous gunfighter, and I treated him like an idiot.

  The snowstorm howled through the forest, and a tree crashed to the ground. Leticia felt the raw fury of nature in her bones. It excited and frightened her, like John Stone.

  She unrolled her blankets and crawled underneath them. He sat with his back to the mountain and smoked a cigarette. Whirlpools of snowflakes hid him for a few moments, then he came back.