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

  “I’m really very sorry about the trouble I caused you,” she said.

  He gazed heavy-lidded at thick curtains of snow. “The world’ll take you down a peg before long, but I hope you don’t get me killed first.”

  ~*~

  The riders saw the faint light straight ahead through the roaring blizzard. It faded, came back, and faded again. “Henley Forge,” hollered Boettcher.

  The unexpected storm slowed their progress to a crawl. Caleb worried about his ranch and wife in Shoshoni country. That daughter of mine’ll he the death of us all. The light in the window grew brighter. “Boettcher, make sure somebody watches the back door and the windows.”

  The ramrod hoped the big man was there. He dismounted and issued orders in a voice swallowed up by the storm. Four cowboys with shotguns ran toward the back door. Caleb walked toward the front, Boettcher at his side. The fragrance of whiskey, beans, sweat, and smoke rose to his nostrils. Behind the bar, Keneally washed a whiskey glass. “Help you, gentlemen?”

  “Was a young girl in here with a big feller about this tall?” Caleb held his hand at Stone’s approximate height.

  The bartender looked at the stagecoach driver, who turned to the salesman. Caleb caught their strange reactions. “Where are they?”

  “Gone,” said the bartender. “Left about three hours ago. John Stone, right?”

  “That’s his name, and the girl’s my daughter. John Stone stole her away. See any bruises on her?”

  “I’d say she had the situation well in hand. Nobody forces that little filly to do nothin’ she don’t want. John Stone killed a man here.”

  Caleb’s ears perked up. “What about?”

  “Your daughter.” The bartender paused, waiting for the newcomers to order a few drinks, but no one made a move in that direction, so he related the story of John Stone and the cowboy named Taylor, embellishing the details, polishing the corners.

  “A gunfighter?” Caleb asked. He sat at a table and stared gloomily into space. He worried about his daughter with a gunfighter, and his wife protected by a few cowboys and the cook. Tell me what to do, Lord?

  No answer came from on high. Caleb removed his hat and scratched his thinning dome. Can’t throw away everything I worked for all my life just to chase my damn-fool daughter across the Rockies. Caleb wanted to forget her, but his heart ached with longing. She was ornery as a mule and mischievous as a kitten, but he loved her, the beautiful expression of his tormented guilty life.

  “Bartender, feed my men and me! Boettcher, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Boettcher pushed his ten-gallon hat back on his head, turned a chair around, and straddled it like a horse. His eyes were bloodshot from the storm, a stubble of beard grew on his jowls.

  “We’re goin’ back,” Caleb said. “Can’t keep on in this storm.”

  “Gonna let a man steal yer daughter?”

  “She’s a-goin’ of her own free will. Can’t give up everything I worked for because of my daughter.”

  “I understand yer troubles,” Boettcher replied. “But you could send one good man after ’em, a galoot what knows how to track, got good judgment, ain’t afraid. Hell, every town’s got somebody who’s supposed to be good with a gun. You couldn’t put all the fastest guns alive in this building, there’s so many of ’em. I ain’t scared just because he shot some drunk. Might take a few weeks, or maybe a few months, but I’ll find yer daughter.”

  Caleb knitted his bushy brows together. “What’s she to you?”

  Boettcher lost his composure for a moment, and with trembling hands rolled a cigarette. After the first puff, he knew what to say. “It’s no secret how I feel about Leticia. I think John Stone gave her Spanish fly. You can’t trust a gun-fighter. If I bring her back, could I ask fer her hand in marriage?”

  “She’s promised to Bill Quigley.”

  “Your daughter needs a real man. Maybe that’s why she run off with John Stone.”

  “Maybe she should have some say in who she marries,” Caleb said. “I damn sure can’t control her. Sometimes I feel sorry fer John Stone.” Caleb laughed ruefully. “She’s a real pistol, that one.”

  Boettcher gazed into his boss’s eyes. “Wouldn’t think it’s funny if somebody stole my daughter.”

  The bartender served steak and fried potatoes to the hungry cowboys, while travelers retreated to outbuildings for their night of sleep. The stagecoach driver and salesmen remained in the general store, and wouldn’t stop drinking till all the whiskey was gone or they passed out on the floor.

  Common sense told Boettcher to return to the ranch and get to work, but his twisted obsessed mind wouldn’t let Leticia Pierce go. “You don’t let me track yer daughter, I’ll find her without yer help. Start lookin’ fer another ramrod.”

  “What’ll you do if John Stone catches you snoopin’?”

  “He don’t know who I am. I’ll take care of him.”

  “That’s what the Shoshonis thought, and he killed ’em.”

  “I ain’t no dumb injun.”

  Keneally smiled at the unexpected business. “How’re we doin’?”

  “Have a seat, barkeep.”

  Caleb’s tone of voice indicated no alternatives. Keneally dropped to a chair, glanced back and forth nervously between the rancher and his brawny ramrod. “What can I do fer ye?”

  “You say my daughter looked healthy?”

  “I wouldn’t worry none about her, especially since she’s a-travelin’ with John Stone. If’n you seen him, you’d know what I’m a-taikin’ about. They calls him the fastest gun alive.”

  “Thought you said the man he shot was drunk,” Boettcher retorted.

  “John Stone had a few swallers too. He would’ve drunk more, but the little lady put her foot down. Talked to him like he was a boy. But after he shot his man, she sure became respectful.”

  “She was afraid he might shoot her too,” Boettcher said, then turned to Caleb. “How can you let him get away with it?”

  “You bring her back, a hundred-dollar bonus. But I can’t make her marry somebody she don’t want.”

  “A deal.” Boettcher rose, pulled his hat low over his eyes, stuffed his gloves in a side pocket of his red and black plaid mackinaw.

  “Ain’t you gonna git some sleep?” asked Caleb.

  “Don’t need none.”

  The cowboys watched him stomp toward the door, spurs jangling. He slammed the door behind him and disappeared into the howling blizzard.

  “Goddamn fool,” uttered the bartender. “John Stone’ll shoot his big ears off.”

  ~*~

  Leticia raised her head from the blanket, feet and legs covered with white fluffiness. She withdrew her hand from the warmth and touched snow. A cold shock ran up her arm. She placed snow against her forehead, it snapped her awake.

  John Stone lay beside her like a huge white caterpillar. Last night she slept in a feather bed with her rag doll, now she lay on the ground near the fastest gun alive.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked sleepily.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ll get used to sleeping on the ground. After a while you might come to prefer it. I sure as hell do. Better for your back.”

  Muggs raised his head and peered into the night. Then he rested his chin on his paws and closed his eyes. Nearby, Warpaint dozed next to Lulu. Leticia cuddled her blankets, wishing they were John Stone.

  ~*~

  The blizzard grew thicker and fiercer as the night progressed. Boettcher’s gray gelding disappeared in the roiling blackness, and Boettcher felt suspended in the air by a mysterious force. Collar turned up, hat pulled low over his eyes, he dozed in the saddle as the gelding moved through drifting white powder.

  Boettcher didn’t consider stopping for the night. He’d been alone in bad weather before, anxious to get somewhere. You just kept plowing on. Let the other fellow take the rest.

  Boettcher rode with outlaw gangs, committed crimes, did a stretch in Yuma, then decided to
work as a cowboy, rising through the ranks. His next objective was Leticia Pierce, heiress to the most prosperous ranch in the territory. Often he lay in bed at night and fantasized about Leticia. But she always kept her distance. A few times he felt like ripping her clothes off, but then remembered the rock pile at Yuma and returned to his senses.

  The gelding, cold and tired, couldn’t get through a snowdrift. Finally he gave up, lowered his head, drank some snow. Boettcher opened his eyes. “What’re we stoppin’ fer?” Wind whistled past his ears and snow crystals shattered against his ten-gallon hat. He jabbed his spurs into the gelding, which shook his head from side to side.

  Boettcher climbed down from his saddle. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the snowdrift. He grabbed the gelding’s reins. “Come on, you son of a bitch!”

  He tried to force the horse into the snowdrift, but it couldn’t pass through. Boettcher reared back his fist and punched him in the mouth. The horse whinnied and raised his front hooves into the air, to stomp Boettcher into slush, but Boettcher drew his Colt and fired into the air.

  The sudden violent explosion frightened the horse. Gently lowering his hooves, afraid to look at Boettcher, he bemoaned his unhappy lot.

  “Move out—goddamn you!” Boettcher hollered, kicking the horse in the haunch.

  The horse took a deep breath and walked into the wide pile of snow. But he didn’t get far. It was too much, and another snowdrift lay behind the first.

  “You lazy son of a bitch!” Boettcher booted him in the hindquarters again, and the horse wanted to kick him to oblivion, but made another effort to penetrate the snowdrift.

  Boettcher took a step backward. If I drive him too hard, and he dies, then where’ll I be? He patted the horse’s mane. “Sorry I lost my temper, old boy. We’ll make camp here.”

  He led the horse into the wooded area to the right of the road, removed saddle, blanket, and bridle, hobbled him, and unrolled the blankets. Munching a biscuit, he listened to wind howling through the trees. It’ll slow down Stone and Leticia too. I’ll catch them and give John Stone something to remember me by.

  Boettcher met many gunfighters during his outlaw years, and most had overblown reputations. Some old-timers said Randy LaFollette was nothing special. Stand up to them galoots, half of ’em’ll head fer the door. He ate snow to slake his thirst, then crawled into his blankets and pulled them over his head. Soon he was covered with snow.

  Chapter Five

  It snowed next morning, making progress impossible. Stone didn’t think a fire could be seen through a heavy storm in the daylight, so he gathered dry branches and lit them. Leticia sat by the flames and watched Stone fry bacon, the sweet fragrance floating among snow flurries. He passed her a cup of coffee, then poked a branch into the frying pan, turned over the bacon strips, while a pot of beans bubbled on hot coals. Leticia felt strangely contented, far from the sanctimonious speeches and sermons of her father.

  “Do you think they’ve given up?” she asked.

  He shrugged, then scooped three biscuits out of the pan, covered a plate with beans, threw half the bacon on top, and passed the plate to Leticia, who remembered the gunfight at the general store. John Stone showed no fear, his aura of deadly malevolence palpable in the air, an efficient killer like a hawk or wildcat.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  He glanced up from his plate. “What’s wrong?”

  “If I had to shoot somebody to save my life, but was afraid, what would you tell me?”

  “Pull the trigger and don’t even think about it.”

  ~*~

  Next afternoon Caleb and his men returned home. Agatha met him at the door, and he kissed her forehead. “We couldn’t find her, but know where she’s headed.” He told her what transpired at Henley Forge. “Boettcher’s on their trail. He’ll catch her.”

  Agatha wrung her hands. “But she’s only a child.”

  “She left of her own free will.”

  Agatha felt sick. What’d I do wrong? A pot of stew simmered on the stove, in anticipation of Caleb’s return. He sat at the table, and Agatha served him.

  “Far as I’m concerned,” he said, “I don’t have a daughter anymore.”

  “Don’t say that, Caleb. She can’t help it.”

  “It’s them books she used to read.”

  Agatha slumped in her chair, defeated by her daughter’s perilous future. Women without money often became prostitutes. “She’s a defenseless baby.”

  “She made her decision, she’ll have to live with it. I tried to teach her what’s right, and you spoiled her rotten, always making excuses, let her do anything she wants. I told you once, I told you a hundred times, a good strappin’ would’ve done that little ‘un a world of good.”

  You spoiled her more than I ever did, Agatha thought, but didn’t dare say it. Without Caleb, she might have become a prostitute too. A thousand resentments and regrets seethed in her heart as she worried about her daughter.

  ~*~

  The snow finally stopped. Stone and Leticia hit the trail, and the horses fought their way through snowdrifts most of the day. Leticia found it unnerving that Stone spoke so little. “What’s the next town?”

  “Have no idea.”

  She tried to draw him into conversation. “What’s Texas like?”

  “If you want to help, keep your eyes open for strange shapes and movements. No telling what’s out here.”

  “We haven’t seen any tracks except from animals.”

  “Injuns don’t leave tracks, and when they attack, it’s fast. The sooner we spot them, the better off we’ll be.”

  She probed the winter forest with her eyes as rays of sunlight slanted past the boughs. A tribe of Shoshonis could be hiding in the snow, and she’d never know. It frightened her to think how vulnerable they were.

  Clouds dissipated, the sun grew warm, snow melted, and it became easier to pass through the drifts. At sundown they made camp next to a stream. John Stone pulled a ball of twine out of his voluminous saddlebags.

  “Be back in a little while. Don’t light any fires.”

  She wanted to tell him she was afraid to be alone, but he was gone, and the forest became silent. Fearfully she looked around. Muggs sat at her feet and growled deep in his throat. She patted his head. “You’ll tell me if any injuns come, won’t you, Muggs?”

  He peered through the brush, his nose open for strange smells, ears listening for hostile footfalls. Leticia drew her gun and spun the chambers. The weather grew colder as the sun dropped toward the western mountains. Leticia felt a chill as she snuggled in her coat. A half hour later Stone returned with a dead rabbit.

  “Time for supper.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to light fires at night.”

  “We’ll eat it raw.”

  “Raw!”

  He hung the rabbit by its rear feet, skinned it, then cut the flesh into small squares and passed one to her.

  “No thank you,” she said.

  “You’d better keep up your strength.”

  She lost her appetite totally as Muggs happily gnawed rabbit guts. Stone popped a chunk of rabbit steak into his mouth. “First time I ever ate it, made me sick. But after a while you get used to it.”

  “I’ll never get used to it, and fortunately I won’t have to. I don’t intend to spend my life traveling. When do you think we’ll find the next town?”

  “A few more days.”

  Muggs growled, and Stone grabbed his rifle. He peered in the direction of Muggs’s stare.

  “What’s wrong?” Leticia asked.

  “Get down.”

  She grabbed her gun, dropped to her stomach, and brought the barrel up, her heart suddenly pounding. Stone jacked the lever of his Henry and aimed straight ahead. Something moved in the foliage, and then a Shoshoni warrior appeared, holding both hands empty in the air. “How!”

  Stone wondered whether to open fire. More injuns appeared behind their leader, and none wore war paint. Would�
��ve pounced silently, if they wanted a fight. But it might be a trick.

  “How!” they said again, waving their hands in a friendly manner, advancing closer.

  Stone rose to his feet and forced a smile. “Keep your iron close,” he said to Leticia, “and don’t let them get away with anything.”

  Leticia stood beside him and watched with horror as the injuns gathered around the remains of the dead rabbit. The one who’d greeted Stone mimicked smoking a cigarette. Stone tossed his bag of tobacco. The injun eagerly accepted it, his friends gazed hopefully at Stone.

  “Go ahead, all of you. Have a smoke on me.”

  The injuns sat cross-legged on the ground. The one who’d spoken took out an ornately carved wooden pipe. He stuffed it with tobacco, then lit a match and puffed. A smile came over his face. “Very good,” he said. “My name Hiding Bear.”

  “John Stone.”

  The injuns muttered to themselves in their language. They believed all white men were named John, and here was confirmation. They passed the pipe from one to another, and finally it came to Leticia. She didn’t know whether to accept or not, but Stone took it from the injun’s hand.

  The Shoshonis were in their twenties and thirties, not children like at the water hole. Knives and pistols were stuffed into their belts, war ponies carried rifles in buckskin sheathes. Stone wondered who they killed to get their weapons.

  “Make a fire?” asked Hiding Bear.

  Stone smiled. “Didn’t want to attract trouble.”

  “You have a hole in your hat. I will fix it.”

  Hiding Bear returned to his war pony and fished a small piece of leather from his saddlebags. Then he sat beside Stone and sewed it over the bullet hole. “This keep the rain out,” he said. “Head stay warm.”

  The other Shoshonis moved through the underbrush, snapped off dry lower branches, arranged the wood on the ground. One of them lit a match. Stone broke out the coffeepot. An injun retrieved a big chunk of venison from his saddlebags. He rigged up a spit and proceeded to roast. Another injun contributed thick hard pancakes. Hiding Bear handed Stone the patched hat, and Stone pulled it onto his head.