Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8) Read online

“Must’ve been quite an adventure,” he said, “coming up the trail with a crew of cowboys. Not many women do it. Do you own your herd free and clear?”

  “Yes, and I’m looking for a reputable cattle dealer. Can you recommend someone?”

  A grotesquely misshapen creature entered the room, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and two cups. It was a woman four feet tall, with a massive hunch askew on her back. Two holes were her nose, and her lips were twisted into a smile and snarl.

  She served the tea and backed out of the room. Reverend Blasingame spooned sugar into his tea. “Name’s Emma,” he explained. “A beggar when I met her, not a very good one. Close to death, in point of fact, but I knew Christ wouldn’t turn his back on her. She’s been with me ever since, and maybe she disturbs some people, but that’s all right with me. You were saying before you wanted to know the name of a reputable cattle broker? Well, let me tell you, you’re smart to be cautious. More swindlers and thieves in Sundust than you could shake a stick at. Never saw such a sinkhole of depravity in all my days, but it gives me strength to know there are young women like you who revere the Lord. In my opinion, the most honorable and dependable cattle broker in Sundust is Dexter Collingswood, churchgoer, model citizen, town alderman, father, husband, I could go on and on. His office is on State Street, next to the bank. I’d recommend you see him immediately.”

  “There’s one more thing I’d like to ask, Reverend Blasingame. I’m planning to get married while I’m in Sundust. Could we have the service here?”

  “No reason why you shouldn’t. Who’s the lucky gentleman?”

  “My trail boss.”

  “Known him long?”

  “About three months.”

  “How long’s your husband been dead.”

  She cleared her throat. “About three months.”

  He made a gentle smile. “I’d be happy to marry you. Have to speak with the groom first, make sure he intends to lead a solid Christian life, and raise his children in a God-fearing home.”

  “My husband-to-be isn’t a regular churchgoer,” she told him, “but he’s a decent man. I don’t think the Lord would turn him away.”

  Little Emma hurried into the room and whispered something into Reverend Blasingame’s ear. Reverend Blasingame cleared his throat. “A poor unfortunate woman is dying of an incurable disease, and I must visit her now. Will you excuse me, Mrs. Whiteside?” He clasped her hand warmly. “Mr. Collingswood’s office is next to the bank.”

  Reverend Blasingame watched her go from the shadows in the corridor, stroking his pink chin with his fingers. She was a rich young blossom, and perhaps he could become her pastor. With a sardonic chuckle, he made his way to his office, sat at his desk, opened a drawer. He poured liquid from a brown bottle into the glass, then filled it with water. The small brown bottle was labeled ‘Tincture of Laudanum,’ a derivative of opium. He drained the glass, returned it to the drawer, slammed it shut.

  There was a knock on the door. Tod Buckalew entered the office, his right hand bandaged. “Dad …?” he said.

  Reverend Blasingame raised his finger to his lips. He didn’t want anybody to know they were father and son. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Got shot.” Buckalew dropped heavily onto the sofa. “My gunhand too.”

  “Somebody beat you to the draw?” Reverend Blasingame asked with disbelief.

  “Came at me out of nowhere before I was set. It was a fluke.”

  “Be set every moment, my boy. I’m surprised at you. Who did this?”

  “John Stone. Trail boss for the Triangle Spur. Big ugly son of a bitch.”

  Reverend Blasingame touched his finger to his chin and looked pensive for a few moments. “Big spread?”

  “Three thousand head, I’d say. Wouldn’t pay.”

  “You’ve got to kill this John Stone, otherwise no one else’ll pay the tariff either. Practice with your left hand. God didn’t give you the gift just in one hand.”

  “Why’d God let me get shot?”

  Reverend Blasingame’s eyes gleamed beneath bushy lashes as he leaned toward his son. “Because of your sins, my boy. Have you ever turned your back on the poor? Do you indulge in dirty practices? I know you go to the cribs.”

  Buckalew was embarrassed, looked at his bandaged paw.

  “You can’t do anything without me knowing,” Blasingame said. “You’d be surprised at how fast a man will betray his brother, never mind a total stranger.” He smiled, placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I can understand how you become lonely sometimes. I’m sure God will forgive you. But understand, not even God can help you when you let another man get the drop on you. Lie low for a few days, practice with your left hand.” Reverend Blasingame kissed his son. “Come back when you’re well, and I’ll have something for you to do, all right?”

  ~*~

  It was a small clapboard shack on the edge of town, and the sign on the door said:

  Captain Lewton Rooney

  District Representative

  Boston Beef Shippers

  Lew Rooney had commanded Troop F in the old Hampton Brigade, but Stone knew him even before that. They’d been classmates at West Point, lived across the hall from each other in the dormitory.

  Stone raised his hand, held it in midair. What if Rooney were busy? Stone stepped to the side and glanced through the curtains. A man behind a desk faced another seated on a chair. Both noticed Stone, he jumped back. There was a shot, the pane of glass broke, and Stone yanked his Colt.

  The door flew open, two men carrying guns rushed outside. One had a pug nose and freckles, wore a suit, looked Irish. Stone’s Colt nearly fell out of his hand.

  The other man was elderly, dressed like a cowboy. “What in tarnation’s goin’ on here?”

  Nobody spoke. Stone and the freckled man stared at each other for a few moments.

  “I don’t believe it,” Stone said.

  Lewton Rooney turned to the third man. “I’m afraid something important has come up, Mr. Bennington. Can you come back later, say tomorrow, around noon?”

  “We’re in the middle of a deal, Rooney. This ain’t time to stop.”

  Rooney raised a forefinger. “On the contrary, it might be the very best time to take stock, so we understand what we’re doing. You’ve got two thousand head of fine steers there, Mr. Bennington, and you’ve brought them a long way. A deal like this is nothing to rush into.”

  Bennington’s brow furrowed with thought. “Maybe you’re right. Tomorrow morning toward noon?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Bennington walked away. Stone and Rooney stared at each other, and the years rolled back. Each saw a young West Point cadet, sword buckled to his side.

  “How long’s it been?” Rooney asked.

  “Since we were mustered out, I reckon.”

  There was silence for a few seconds as they looked each other up and down. “Still wearing your old campaign hat, I see,” Rooney said. “Mine fell to pieces long ago.”

  Stone took off his hat and looked at it. It was stained and worn, but still held its shape. “Long as it gives good service, I won’t throw it away.”

  “Good for a free drink every now and then, I suppose.”

  “Less often than you might think.”

  “We ought to have one right now.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me.”

  Stone followed Rooney into the house. Hanging on the wall was Rooney’s commission as a second lieutenant in the Army of the Confederacy. A framed photograph of Bobby Lee was nailed nearby. Rooney had gained weight, premature lines engraved his cheeks. He wore a cravat and clean white shirt, his suit draped perfectly over his body as he poured two glasses full of whiskey.

  “To all good soldiers,” Rooney said, raising his glass.

  They drank, sat opposite each other. Stone looked at the Confederate flag hanging on the far wall, Confederate cavalry sword mounted over the bookcase.

  “Still fighting the war?” S
tone asked.

  Rooney was embarrassed. “Doesn’t hurt business when I point out I wore gray, like most cowboys in Texas. A man’s got to get along.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Rooney refilled the glasses. “You look like you just hit town.”

  “I’m trail boss for the Triangle Spur, believe it or not.”

  “Sold your herd yet?”

  “Nope.”

  Rooney winked. “I’d appreciate your business, as we say.”

  “I’ll tell the boss lady.”

  “My prices are competitive. I aim to please. Have another drink?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  They’d fought together, drunk together, chased girls together, and lent each other money. They’d been through good times and bad times. If you’ve ever fought beside a man, there’s a special bond. But somehow it wasn’t the same.

  Rooney cleared his throat. “Guess you think I’ve sold out.”

  “Don’t think that at all.”

  “Captain Lewton Rooney working for the Yankee invader, just another whore.”

  “We’re all whores one way or the other, and there’s no more Yankee invader. You said you’re not fighting the war anymore. Neither am I. If somebody from Boston offered me a good job, I’d take it.”

  “You mean that?”

  “I truly do.”

  “Let’s have another drink.”

  Rooney poured two more glasses. They looked at each other down the years. Each saw a young lieutenant riding into battle with yellow sash flying, cannons firing, air full of Yankee bullets.

  “Them were the days,” Rooney said. “How could anybody dream it’d come to this? I’m a commission man, and you’re a ... cowboy?”

  “I’ve held every rotten job you can imagine, and they tried to hang me in one little town. I’ll tell you a funny thing: yesterday I was thinking about you. I remembered the commencement parade when we were juniors. You ever think of it?”

  “From time to time. We all thought we’d be great men someday, what a joke. The war took the best out of me, I’m afraid.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m not the man I used to be.”

  “You got your own house, don’t look like you’re starving, got whiskey, and nobody’s shooting at you. Count your blessings, my friend. Could be a lot worse.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’ve just come up the trail with the Triangle Spur. If you’re bored, I suggest you try it sometime. We were hit by Osage, Comanches, and a gang of rustlers. It wasn’t Gettysburg, but close as you’d want to get.”

  “Sounds better’n being a commission man.”

  “I don’t see you tied to that desk. You can walk out of this room right now. You want to be a cowboy, be a cowboy. Look at me. I’ve never been in better physical condition.”

  Stone rolled up his shirt and showed a bulging tanned bicep muscle. Rooney pulled back his sleeve, and it was flab like the belly of a fish.

  “Make you a proposition,” Stone said. “You come to Texas with me, and you can work for the Triangle Spur. Thirty dollars a month, and your chuck. It’s not nearly what you’re getting now, but you’d be outdoors on the hurricane deck of a horse, and you wouldn’t have to tell folks: ‘I’d appreciate your business.’ We’ve got a good crew, a good cook, although he’s slightly bonkers, and we don’t take guff from anybody.” He pulled his gun. “This is the only thing that matters in Texas.”

  Rooney saw a dark rangy cowboy with a beard and a look in his eye that said watch out. Rooney lowered his eyes to his own tailor-made suit, the perfect crease on each pant leg, the proper amount of white cuff showing. John Stone was a wild man, and he’d become a commission man.

  “I’ve got a good life here,” Rooney said. “Things keep going the way they have, I’ll have my own brokerage, and that can make a man rich.”

  “A man wants to work in an office all day, it’s okay with me. Do you remember, back at the Point, sometimes at night we’d slip away, go to a tavern?”

  “We sure got pissed.”

  Stone leaned forward, a wild glint in his eyes. “Let’s do it again, right now, you and me, just like the old days. Drink until our pockets are empty, and if anybody starts anything, too bad for them. Maybe we can even see some dancing girls.”

  “I know just the place.”

  They drained their glasses, put on their hats, moved swiftly toward the door.

  Chapter Three

  Reverend Blasingame walked down the main street of Sundust, carrying his Bible. “Good evening, Mrs. Riley,” he said, touching his cane to his flat-brimmed black hat. Another three months, I’ll have your farm.

  The good pastor saw a forlorn girl of sixteen on a corner. “Heard your mother’s doing poorly?”

  “Doctor says she don’t have long to live, Reverend.”

  “I’ll visit her later, and we’ll pray together. Need money?”

  “Bank’s got us by the throat. We’re borrowed to the hilt.”

  Reverend Blasingame handed her some coins, and several pedestrians saw the transaction. How typical of the kindly old holy man, always giving of himself. The young girl stared at the money in her palm.

  “The Lord will bless you for this, Reverend.”

  “He already has, with your lovely smile.”

  She blushed, and he continued on his way. Her family had a fine stretch of bottomland, and when the old lady croaked, it would become another of Reverend Blasingame’s secret holdings.

  Across the street on the second floor above the Sagebrush Saloon was the Lipscomb County Farmers Association, Reverend Blasingame’s main enemies. They wanted Sundust to be the hub of an agricultural area, not the den of wickedness for wild, inebriated Texas cowboys, but there wasn’t enough money in farming to suit Reverend Blasingame. One good gambling saloon running full tilt could earn more in a night than the average farm earned in a year. All the farms in the area were in trouble, and that’s why Reverend Blasingame was able to buy them for next to nothing.

  A group of sporting ladies approached. Reverend Blasingame maintained his saintly composure, though once he’d frolicked with them in the rectory.

  “Evening, Reverend,” the girls said, smiling flirtatiously.

  Reverend Blasingame tipped his hat. “May the Lord bless and keep you, ladies.”

  They passed, pretty in their tawdry way, but Cassandra Whiteside was a woman of quality and great beauty. A whore sells herself to the highest bidder, but a woman like Cassandra Whiteside had to be broken like a wild mustang.

  He came to a sign:

  DEXTER COLLINGSWOOD

  Cattle Broker

  Highest Prices Paid

  Reverend Blasingame opened the door. A clerk sat behind a desk, scratching pen against paper.

  “I want to see Mr. Collingswood, if he’s available,” Reverend Blasingame said.

  The clerk opened the door. Reverend Blasingame entered the office. Behind the desk sat a man with a large, sharp-featured face, piercing eyes, a wart on his nose. “Surprised to see you here, Reverend. Thought you didn’t want it known we’re hooked together.”

  “I speak with everybody in this town from the lowest beggar to the most distinguished business leaders. If Christ could consort with tax collectors, can I not have a word with one of our foremost cattle brokers?”

  Collingswood smiled, but it looked like a grimace. “Have a seat, Reverend. Get you something to drink?”

  “Coffee, if you please.” Reverend Blasingame laid his Bible on his lap. “A woman will be coming to see you shortly, name of Cassandra Whiteside. She’s a widow with a herd of three thousand mixed longhorns. Get it at the best price, but don’t give her the money. I’ll handle that end, understand?”

  “What’s so special about this one?”

  “Do as I say, and bear in mind that I want this deal. Lose it, and I’ll lose you.”

  It was dark in the office. Shadows etched deep lines on Reverend Blasingame’s face, and
his eyes glowed red-hot coals. Collingswood knew of the reverend’s hired guns, led by kill-crazy Buckalew. “What if another broker highballs me?”

  “Highball him back. What we lose on the apples, we make up on the potatoes. Just get her name on the contract, there’ll be a bonus for you. I don’t think you’ll have any competition. I recommended you to her, and she’ll do as I say.”

  Collingswood smiled, one brow raised. “A fine God-fearing woman, eh, Reverend?”

  Reverend Blasingame winked. “The best kind.”

  ~*~

  Buckalew rode across a flat plain, beneath the cloudless sky. He drooped in his saddle, worst day of his life. Gunhand bandaged and stiff with pain. Any two-bit kid could kill him. Hide like an animal.

  He came to the lee of a hill, climbed down from his horse, pulled the saddle off. He hobbled the horse, unrolled his blanket. No fire, unless he wanted arrows and tomahawks for breakfast. He opened his saddlebags, took out a slab of roast beef.

  He cut a slice and placed it in his mouth. Dry, no mashed potatoes or gravy. If it hadn’t been for John Stone, he’d be in Sundust living like a king.

  His daddy wouldn’t acknowledge him in public, but took care of him fine on the side. Daddy was a great man. Buckalew felt he’d let him down.

  He finished his meal, nothing to do except sleep. He sprawled on the ground, resting his head on his saddle. In the distance a prairie dog shrieked, caught suddenly in the talons of a hawk. He wished he could have someone with him, but trusted nobody except his father.

  His momma never told him who his daddy was, till she was on her deathbed. Then she let the secret out of the bag, said ask him for help.

  Buckalew found Blasingame in Denver. At first the preacher pretended not to know what Buckalew was talking about, but grew more interested when he learned Buckalew was a fast gun. Since then they’d got along perfectly. He led the gang that enforced his father’s deals, lived high off the hog. The only requirement was keep his mouth shut about who his daddy was.

  His daddy was the only one who understood him. He’d disappointed him today, but would shine in his eyes again, after he shot John Stone.

  I’ll just wing him at first, then shoot pieces off’n him, watch him die.