Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8) Read online

  A hand dropped on Stone’s shoulder. He looked up and saw the smiling toothless face of Slipchuck. Next to Slipchuck stood stern Don Emilio, and behind them were three of the most dangerous vaqueros from the Triangle Spur.

  Don Emilio bowed to Cassandra and cleared his throat. “Señora, we have moved the herd to a stream a few hours from here. All is well, I am happy to say.”

  “Who’d you leave in charge?”

  “Duvall.”

  Either Don Emilio or Stone should be with the herd, but they played by their own rules. “Return to the herd, Don Emilio. Take these men with you.”

  The vaqueros mumbled angrily, they wanted to stay and get drunk. Slipchuck was so distressed he spat on the floor.

  “The herd hasn’t been sold yet,” Cassandra explained, “and I don’t have much money. I can’t pay you a penny till somebody buys the cattle.”

  Rooney leaned forward, light from the lantern dancing across his features. “Be happy to buy every man from the Triangle Spur a drink.”

  Slipchuck and the vaqueros cheered. The waitress bought glasses and a bottle. Ventilation was so poor, Cassandra nearly choked from the stench. Don Emilio sat beside her.

  “I trust you have been well, Señora?”

  She looked at her segundo, a former rancher himself, the vaqueros had been his top hands. “You don’t need to worry about me, Don Emilio. I can take care of myself.”

  “Many desperadoes in these places.” He looked at Stone sprawled in his chair. “I do not think the trail boss would be much help if there was trouble.”

  Stone whipped out his gun and pointed it at Don Emilio’s nose so fast it made Don Emilio blink. “Don’t ever count me out, amigo.”

  “La Señora is depending on you, and you can barely keep your eyes open.”

  “I’ve never let the boss lady down, and I never will.”

  Don Emilio turned to Cassandra. “Is this the man you are going to marry? Look at him. He is a disgrace.”

  Cassandra couldn’t disagree. Her rough and ready trail boss was slumped in his chair as if he didn’t have an ounce of strength left in his body.

  The vaqueros fell into a tug of war over the bottle, and Don Emilio shouted in Spanish. They stopped fighting immediately. Don Emilio took the bottle in his hand. “There is a lady present,” he said. “Next man who misbehaves will die.”

  He placed the bottle in the center of the table, and no one made a move. Slipchuck cleared his throat, reached long bony fingers toward the bottle. He poured himself a drink, then politely passed the bottle to Manolo, one of Don Emilio’s most lethal vaqueros. “Graçias,” said Manolo with a polite smile.

  The bottle passed from man to man, and Cassandra couldn’t leave now. The men would think she didn’t want to sit with them; they were extremely sensitive beneath their tough hides. If she didn’t keep them in line, there was no end to the mischief they could do.

  “Anybody know what these whores charge?” Slipchuck asked, eyeing a dark-haired dove who appeared part squaw.

  There they go again, Cassandra thought. Their favorite subject.

  Don Emilio cleared his throat. Slipchuck realized he’d said the wrong thing.

  “Find out myself, soon’s I git paid,” he muttered, raising his glass.

  Stone looked at Don Emilio. “You’re not drinking, ami-go?”

  “Do you see whiskey in my hand, borrachín?”

  “Since when did you stop drinking?”

  “A long time.”

  “Can’t be that long. Last time I saw you in San Antone, you could barely stand.”

  “How could you see, since you were passed out underneath the table?”

  “You’re not fooling anybody, amigo. You’re not drinking because you know La Señora doesn’t like it. If she did like it, you’d drink by the barrel. You’re in love with La Señora, and you’d do anything she says, like a trained dog. But get one thing through your head: I’m marrying this woman, and you’re wasting your time.”

  “She will be unhappy for the rest of her life,” Don Emilio said.

  “You’re as big a drunkard as I am, but you’re holding off to impress La Señora.”

  “Are you saying I am a liar?”

  “Don’t have to say it,’cause you just did.”

  Both men rose from their chairs.

  “That’s enough!” Cassandra shouted.

  Their hands froze in midair and they glared at each other over the top of the table.

  “Sit down and behave yourselves!”

  They dropped to their chairs and continued scowling.

  “If La Señora were not here,” Don Emilio said, “you would be in Hell now.”

  “Anytime,” Stone said in a deadly tone of voice.

  “Men are beasts,” Cassandra replied. The entire crew had been fighting among themselves all the way up the trail.

  Don Emilio replied, “He called me a liar. I will kill him.”

  “He’s pretending not to be a drunkard,” Stone said, “so you can be his next conquest. Don Emilio falls in love all the time, you see. Today he’ll kiss your hand, tomorrow he’ll kiss some other woman’s hand. He knows I’m telling the truth, that’s what makes him mad.”

  Don Emilio said sincerely, “Señora, I admit I have not lived the life of a priest. I have been with many women, but I was only searching for the one love of my life. Now I have found you. It would not bother me so much if John Stone were a smart man, like a doctor or lawyer, or he owned a big ranch. I would even surrender you to a bald-headed professor who wears glasses on his nose, because a professor at least knows something, but it hurts me to know you would prefer a worthless no-good borrachín to me. He will ruin your life— mark my words.”

  ~*~

  Reverend Blasingame sat behind his desk, eating apple pie. Food stimulated his mind, and he schemed grand designs. A great metropolis would rise out of the plains, and he would control it from the finest cathedral in the world.

  Dirt farmers were flies in the ointment. They fenced off open range to keep out herds from Texas. They’d flushed many a cattle town down the drain, and he couldn’t let that happen to Sundust. He wasn’t getting any younger, and it was time to reap the rewards for years of dedication to the Holy One.

  The door opened, Runge walked in. Slim as a snake, with a short blond beard, he said, “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Have a seat.”

  Runge’s eyes danced excitedly, and he looked like a trapped rat. He sat on a chair and didn’t know what to do with his legs.

  “I believe you were there when Buckalew was shot in the hand,” Reverend Blasingame said. “He’ll be out of action for a while, so I’m placing you in charge of the boys. There’s something I want you to do. Some cowboys are in town from the Triangle Spur. Take the boys and beat the shit out of them. You should probably shoot one, to make the point. Understand?”

  Runge looked as though he were going to jump out of his skin. “What point?”

  “They should get out of Sundust, and never come back. You do a good job, you could end up in charge permanently. We don’t know how long Buckalew will be out of action.” Reverend Blasingame tapped the back of his hand against Runge’s shirt. “Think you’re as fast as Buckalew?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You wouldn’t be afraid of him?”

  “I ain’t afraid of nobody.”

  “Good for you. Gather up the boys and do what I told you.”

  “Might take a while to round ’em up. Reckon most of ’em’s at the carnival.”

  “Carnivals are sinkholes of depravity,” Reverend Blasingame said. “Hootchy-kootchy dancers and flimflam men. I tell you, watch out for carnivals. The Devil’s Playground, I call them.”

  A nervous smile came over Runge’s face. “You just told me to kill somebody, but you think carnivals are bad?”

  “I do the work of the Lord. Pray upon it, and we’ll discuss the matter further next time we meet.”

  Blasingame ate
apple pie. Success was made of many tiny steps, and next was Cassandra Whiteside. “She won’t be so high and mighty when her cowboys are scared out of town,” he muttered. “I’ll end up with her herd, for which I’ll pay exactly nothing, and she’ll be eating out of my hand.”

  Chapter Four

  Frank Quarternight slumped in his saddle as his horse trod the endless rolling plains. Stars twinkled above, a crescent moon hung near the horizon. The night was filled with the buzz and chatter of insects, and a bird shrieked.

  Quarternight slept, awoke, and slept again. He’d been dozing since departing Abilene, slipping in and out of dark and bloody dreams about Shelby and his girl.

  No one had ever loved him the way that scraggly bitch loved Shelby, he wondered what it felt like. Sure would give a man confidence, and maybe it’s what pushed Shelby into dangerous territory.

  The only women Quarternight slept with were whores. Maybe it was his belly, but he’d seen men with bellies bigger than his, and beautiful wives too. They knew something, he hadn’t a glimmer of what it was. Maybe women were afraid of him. Thank God for whores.

  Reverend Blasingame walked past the saloon district, crossed the tracks. He came to the side of town where decent people lived.

  “Lovely night, isn’t it?” he asked, tipping his hat. Screwed him out of the Bar Z. “Good evening, Mrs. Applewhite. Good to see you up and around again.” Got her farm in my desk drawer. “God be with you, Mrs. Blakely.” High and mighty now, but when I get my hands on her boardinghouse, she’ll do anything I say.

  He saw something dark lying near the base of a cottonwood tree. “Oh, my Lord,” he said. “It’s a bird.” He lifted the quivering feathered creature tenderly as a crowd gathered. “I believe its wing has broken. The poor little thing.”

  He held the bird for them to see, an expression of deep solicitude on his face. One wing was out of whack, and dried blood matted its feathers.

  “Maybe Dr. Wimberly can do something,” Reverend Blasingame said, holding the bird like a precious crystal treasure. He ran on his little legs down the street, accompanied by the others. They arrived at Dr. Wimberly’s door, knocked loudly. It was opened by the doctor with dark, bushy eyebrows.

  Reverend Blasingame thrust the bird toward him. Dr. Wimberly led them into his office. Somebody moved the lantern closer. Reverend Blasingame felt the bird’s heart beating. “Now, now,” he said, stroking the bird’s head with his finger.

  Dr. Wimberly examined the bird as Reverend Blasingame wrung his hands in anguish. The bird was terrified of the heavy-footed giants crowded around and nearly died of a heart attack.

  “Only a little break,” Dr. Wimberly said. “Should be fine in a couple of weeks, unless something inside is broken, but I don’t think so.” He filled a basin with water and washed the bird’s wound.

  “Guess you don’t need me any longer,” Reverend Blasingame said. “I’ll take care of the bill.”

  “No bill for you, Reverend. Let’s say it’s a little something I did for the Lord.”

  “God bless you, brother.”

  Reverend Blasingame walked out of the doctor’s office, and there was silence for a few moments.

  “People can say what they want about Reverend Blasingame,” Mrs. Hudspeth said, “but they don’t know him the way we do. Did you ever, in your life, see such love and consideration for a poor helpless creature? Now there’s a man who lives the Christian life!”

  “He sure knows his Scripture,” asserted Mrs. Applewhite, whose farm was in Reverend Blasingame’s desk drawer.

  He paused by the door, listening to their remarks. Then he silently walked away, his face wreathed with a beatific smile.

  He circled around and came to the back door of a small cottage near the edge of town. He knocked three times on the door.

  It was opened by Abigail Thornton, the town’s schoolmarm. “You look like the cat that ate the mouse,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Ran into some people—my assistance was required. Miss me?”

  She was a gangly woman with saucer eyes, snaggled teeth, early forties, and she led him through the kitchen, down a hallway, up the stairs.

  They’d didn’t light the lamp in the bedroom, because Abigail didn’t want her neighbors to guess she might be there with Reverend Blasingame. The lamp in her parlor was aglow instead, so neighbors would think they were studying Scripture together. They undressed in the darkness, bony schoolmarm and porky parson, then crawled beneath the covers. The room filled with pants and sighs, the cat came in to look. Reverend Real Estate was buried between the schoolmarm’s legs, she chewed an old rag to muffle her screams of joy.

  ~*~

  John Stone’s head lay on the table, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. Every other man at the table was drunk except for Don Emilio, who sat erectly in his chair, his eyes burning into Cassandra. The Blue Devil Saloon had become even more crowded and raucous than before.

  She hadn’t intended to stay so late, but she’d never been in a saloon before; it had all the fascination of a zoo. At the bar stood a man whose clothing would be appropriate on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, while lying on the bar rail beside him was the most filthy, dismal drunken cowboy imaginable.

  The whores horrified her. She worried about ending up like them someday. All she had was the herd, and she’d need a man who could help her, not drag her down. Her eyes fell on John Stone, unconscious on the other side of the table.

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” said Rooney, one arm thrown over the back of his chair, gazing at her through half-closed eyes. “Johnny’s been in bad spots. I could tell you stories, raise the hair on your head. Can you imagine what it’s like to walk over a battlefield after the shooting’s ended, and you can’t put your foot down anywhere except on a dead man, or part of a dead man?”

  Cassandra saw a landscape covered with soldiers, some in blue, others gray, entwined forever in the cold embrace of death.

  “Johnny lost his best friends,” Rooney continued, “and never got over it. He was nearly killed himself. You can’t judge him as you judge other men. Some veterans are better at covering it up than others, but Johnny’s honest, he doesn’t hold anything back.”

  Cassandra was touched by Rooney’s remarks. She placed her hand on his. “You’re a good friend.”

  “He was a helluva soldier, let me tell you. His men would follow him anywhere. Very few of them survived the war, and Johnny feels responsible.”

  Don Emilio said, “Señor, no one here is judging John Stone as a man. We have seen his courage many times, and do not doubt his skill as an army officer. But La Señora is planning to marry him, and that is a horse of a different breed. Does she want a husband who is like this all the time? We are sorry so many of his friends have died in the war, but that is no reason to marry him.” He looked imploringly at Cassandra. “I am a drinking man myself. I love to get drunk—I admit it. But I am not drinking now. My love for you is stronger than my love for drink. Evidently our friend here does not feel the same way.”

  Could she deal with Stone drunk on a regular basis? Nothing more disgusting than a drunk, and some of them were dangerous when angry.

  “Amazing, the resemblance,” Rooney said to her. “You and Marie could be twins. She was quite a beauty, just like you.”

  “How did she behave? Was she smart?”

  “I’d say clever rather than smart. Very good manners. Perfect lady.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “We were all in love with her, but she only cared for Johnny.”

  “I think he’s still in love with her. Why do you suppose she left without leaving a note or message for him?”

  Rooney looked at Stone to make sure he was asleep. “Sherman’s Army passed through the county where she lived. The courthouse was burned to the ground. Records were destroyed. Many civilians were killed, and I think she was one of them.”

  ~*~

  Runge entered the Blue Devil Saloon, followed by Reve
rend Real Estate’s personal army of street brawlers and gunfighters. They’d been gathered from the back alleys and robbers’ roosts of the frontier, and would rather punch a man in the mouth than plow a row of corn or brand a steer.

  They broke through cordons of drunken cowboys, made their way to the bar. Runge placed one foot on the rail.

  “Triangle Spur here?” he asked the bartender.

  “Over there.” The bartender pointed a bottle at the table where Cassandra and her men sat.

  Runge didn’t expect a blond woman in cowboy’s clothes, but orders were orders. He wanted to impress the old man with his ability to get the job done.

  “Wipe ’em out,” he said.

  Sometimes they had to shoot people, other times burned property, this was the part they liked best: kicking ass. Runge hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and walked toward the Triangle Spur.

  “We want this table,” he said.

  All heads resting on the surface began to rise. Stone blinked his eyes and tried to clear the cobwebs out of his brain. Runge signaled to his men, and they charged.

  The Triangle Spur cowboys arose from the table, and Runge’s men collided with them. A cowboy in a green shirt threw a punch at Stone’s head, and Stone managed to block it, countering with a punch to the jaw. The table was knocked over, Cassandra pressed her back against the wall, hand resting lightly on her gun. She’d thought Stone and the others were dead to the world, but suddenly they’d become lions.

  The cowboy in the green shirt tried to knock Stone out with one solid blow, but Stone leaned to the side, slipped it, and hammered him in the pit of his stomach. Green shirt expelled air, and Stone hooked him to the face. The man stood his ground and whacked Stone in the mouth, but Stone threw an uppercut that caught him on the tip of his chin.

  Green shirt went stumbling backward, and Stone followed him. Out of the tumult, a man in a fringed buckskin charged Stone, knife in hand, blade up. Stone reached to his boot and pulled out his Apache knife. The man in the buckskin jacket said, “I’m a-gonna shove that thing up yer ass.”