Blaze! Ride Hard, Shoot Fast

by Wayne D. Dundee

  There were three of them. Since it wasn't quite dawn yet, there was only limited light leaking into the shadow-cut stable. But someone had hung a lantern on one of the posts out alongside the aisle that ran between the stalls, throwing a circle of buttery yellow illumination that reached in to where they were working over Joshua. All three of his attackers wore hoods, with gaping eyeholes cut for them to see through and slashes where their mouths were so they could breathe and talk—although what they had to say consisted only of cussing him out as they worked.

  "Black bastard...Uppity nigger rubbing elbows and eating with white folks just because you're some kind of big shot rodeo star who thinks you got a chance to win this race...You shoulda been on your ungrateful knees lickin' the boots of your betters, not sittin' shoulder to shoulder with 'em and shovin' high class food into your goddamn ape face...You better put aside any notion of winnin' or even makin' a good showing in that race, hear? You even start comin' close to makin' a bunch of white men look bad, you won't live to cross the finish line. You understand me, you piece of black trash?"

  Each of the hooded men had a share in making the threats and each of them had a share in delivering the punches and kicks that accentuated the words. Joshua wasn't a big man, but he was wiry and strong. Yet the trio was made up of hard, tough men, too—if you could call it tough to employ three-to-one odds—and the way they'd caught him by surprise never really gave him a chance to fight back. A pair of hard punches to the stomach had driven all the air out of him almost immediately, making it impossible for him even to cuss them back.

  Joshua began to slide down the rough wooden boards he'd been rammed against, crumpling under the barrage of fists and heavy boots. He was vaguely aware of his horse, Bolt, crowded over to the opposite side of the stall and looking on, chuffing nervously as if to say he was sorry he didn't know what to do to help. But that was okay, Joshua told himself, he was just glad they weren't hurting his horse. The red haze of anger that had filled his vision in the beginning was fast turning dim and the pain of the blows as they landed seemed to be growing duller. Joshua sensed he was on the verge of losing consciousness …

  "That's enough, you yellow dog sonsabitches!"

  A new voice suddenly boomed out, and the implications carried by it gave Joshua a surge of hope and the renewed strength to keep from fading all the way out for at least a moment longer. It helped, too, that the punishment he was undergoing suddenly ceased as those delivering it were distracted by the commanding voice.

  Through slits of vision squeezed between lumps of rapid swelling that was closing around each eye, Joshua was able to make out a tall, broad-shouldered form loom up behind the men who were beating him. Facing away from the lantern on the aisle post, the man's face was lost in shadow. But there was no mistaking the shape of the long-handled, flat-nosed mucking shovel that he held cocked back over one thick shoulder. And as Joshua's attackers spun to face this new arrival, the shovel swung forward in a flat, hard, slashing arc. The impact rang solidly against meat and bone and one of the hooded men went sprawling.

  Again and again the shovel swung, making odd whistling sounds as it cut viciously through the air. And again and again it struck with solid impact, turning those it hit into a ducking, scrambling, whimpering pack of defeated assailants who retreated frantically to escape the stall and any more shovel strikes. It was over in a matter of moments, the only retaliation to come from the masked men being a final shout of "Remember what we said, nigger!" as they fled from the stable.

  Once they were gone, the shovel swinger set aside his weapon and sank to one knee beside where Joshua lay sprawled. "How bad they do ya?" he said in a distinct southern drawl.

  "Bad enough," Joshua responded thickly. "I don't – don't think anything's busted...But, man, they sure whaled on me."

  "Yeah, I could see that. Sorry I wasn't able to stop 'em sooner."

  Joshua was able to get a better look at his savior's face now and he saw the features of a thirtyish, rawboned man with thinning blond hair revealed from having his hat knocked off in the fracas. His pale blue eyes were set with genuine concern. "Sorry?" Joshua said. "Jeez, mister, you got nothing to be sorry for...I'm just glad you came along when you did."

  "Yeah, well there's more of a story on that," said the man. "I'll tell ya about it, but first let's get you situated a little better. Can you sit up?"

  "I think so...with a little help. Maybe you can prop me up on my bedroll over there?"

  When the task was done, the rawboned man straightened up and said, "You lay there and rest a minute. I'll go get some water and something to wash off at least part of that blood, see how bad else you might be hurt."

  "I don't know how to thank you, mis...You got a name?"

  "Nesbitt. Curly Nesbitt." The man reached up and ran a hand over the mostly bald crown of his head, grinning as he added, "The nickname stuck, even though the curls left quite a while ago."

  "Now I recognize...You're entered in the race, too. Right?"

  "That I am." The grin widened. "Probably ought to take a good look while you can, 'cause after we take off tomorrow you'll only be seein' me from the back side. But don't worry about that now, we got other things to take care of."

  Twenty or so minutes later, with the first light of dawn sending bars of illumination slicing through the windows and chinks of the surrounding stable, Joshua was feeling considerably better. Nesbitt had returned with a wooden bucket of fresh, cold water, a dipper for drinking or pouring, and a piece of flannel for dabbing cuts and wiping away blood. He'd also scrounged up a flask of whiskey from somewhere, which they took turns nipping from.

  "So that's why they looked me up and invited me to be part of it. They was certain I'd be more'n happy to be part of gettin' some licks in just because of your color," Nesbitt was explaining. "They'd heard from somewhere I used to ride with Quantrill, see—even though it was only for a short time early in the war and I transferred to the regular army long before the Lincoln raid and Bloody Bill Anderson and the rest turned any association with the name Quantrill into only one meaning in the minds of anybody who heard it...You might say it's been an anchor I've had to drag around with me, maybe not too different than the anchor of bein' a black man that you have to carry."

  "You might say that," allowed Joshua with a dubious half-grin.

  "Anyway," Nesbitt went on, "the only reason I didn't warn you ahead of time that they were cookin' up this notion to try and scare you off from makin' any kind of good showing in the race is that I lost track of you after the fancy dinner broke up. And when I found out you weren't registered at the hotel, I didn't know where else to look."

  "So you did the next best thing. You followed the men you figured were still gonna make a try for me."

  "That's about the size of it. But I didn't just 'figure' they were gonna make a try—I was sure of it. I don't know how they knew where to find you but, after spendin' the balance of the night workin' up what passed for courage with mean talk and whiskey, sure enough, they ended up comin' here. I lost 'em for a minute, wasn't sure which stall they went in. But then the lantern on the post gave me a pretty sure sign."

  Joshua shook his head. "I still can't believe you went to all that trouble for me, somebody you don't even know. Or why you didn't just go to the race officials or the law about those men?"

  "They technically ain't part of the race. So what could the race officials do?" Nesbitt argued. "As far as the law, they'd've seen those lowdowns as just a pack of drunks talkin' big...And you are a black fella, don't forget."

  Joshua grunted. "Like anybody'd let me."

  "So until those ruffians actually did something, I didn't see the law doin' much about anything I reported to 'em."

  "That still leaves you. What's your excuse for gettin' involved?"

  "I was pissed off, that's why—insulted those bastards would take my Quantrill background and automatically think I'd jump at the chance to join in on what they was cookin' up. I'm goddamned sic
k of people treatin' me that way!"

  "Calm down, big fella. You got me convinced. I believe you."

  Nesbitt scowled. "Well then, here's something else you ought to give some thought to believin'. When I said those jaspers wasn't no part of the race, I didn't necessarily mean they might not have some ties to somebody who is. You see, when they first came to me with what they had in mind, something gave me the feelin'—don't ask me what, exactly, but it was something in what one of 'em said or the way he said it—that there was somebody else puttin' 'em up to it."

  "Somebody paying them, you mean?"

  "Could be. If that's right, then you see what that leaves."

  Now it was Joshua's turn to scowl. "If there's somebody that worried about how I perform in the race, then they might try something more against me."

  "Uh-huh. And while I guess they don't see little ol' me as much of a threat when it comes to the race, now that I've stuck my nose into their business...well, they might be lookin' to chop it off just on general principles."

  "Comes to lookin'," said Joshua thoughtfully, "sounds to me like the two of us maybe ought to take up lookin' after each other until this whole thing is over."

  "Don't seem like a half bad idea." The big, rawboned southerner flashed another one of his grins. "And don't we make a fine pair to be strikin' up a partnership?"

  * * *

  On the other side of town, in a room on the second floor of a second rate hotel, two men were having a somewhat heated discussion. One of the men was a short, powerfully built individual clad in a checkered coat, an orange bowtie, and corduroy pants stuffed into high topped boots badly in need of brushing and polishing. A bowler hat seemed balanced precariously atop his bullet head as he paced back and forth, his boots clumping loudly on the bare floor. The second man was sitting quite still and relaxed on the edge of the bed. He was of average size and build, with furry sideburns and an unruly, uncombed thatch of hair that nearly matched the color of the other man's bowtie; apparel-wise, except for a corner of bed sheet pulled over his lap, the man on the bed was as bare as the floor over which the other was tromping.

  "Just look at you," the pacing man was saying as he flailed his arms in aggravation. "Scant hours away from race time and here I find you, like...like...this!"

  "What's wrong with 'this'?" the man on the bed wanted to know. "I'm alive and kickin', ain't I? I'm sober. I just need to pull on some clothes and stomp into my ridin' boots and I'm ready to go. Hell, the horse is gonna do most of the work. All I gotta do is crawl up in the saddle and hang on."

  "It looks to me like you've already spent too much time in the saddle—but the wrong goddamn kind!" With this, the man in the bowtie jabbed a thick finger to indicate the form stretched out on the back side of the bed, a form displaying an abundance of womanly curves, one half of a chocolate brown buttock left uncovered by the swirl of bed sheets covering the rest of her.

  "Oh, you're mistaken there, Burt. Badly mistaken." The man on the bed jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Ain't nothing wrong about that gal's saddle. Not a damn thing. In fact, I'd go so far as to say—"

  "Never mind! I don't need to hear the sordid details," insisted Burt Kanelly, the man in the bowtie and bowler.

  "Why, Burt. I think you might be a prude."

  "That shows how much you know, Dykstra. If you wanted a woman, I could have gotten a high class one delivered to your room back at the Goldenhouse. Does that make me sound like a prude?"

  Earl Dykstra grinned smugly. "No, it makes you sound like a pimp. But that don't mean I don't appreciate the offer."

  Kanelly's meaty hands balled into fists the size of cantaloupes. "For the time being, you cocky bastard, you may be the Syndicate's fair-haired boy—the ringer they're counting on to win this race—while all I am is the baby sitter they sent from Chicago to help smooth the way and make sure everything goes according to plan. If it don't, both of our asses will be on the line. So until the job is done, I got to put up with your horndog ways and your mouth. But only so far. You call me a pimp again, I'm afraid we might both find out that's a step too far."

  Dykstra held up both hands, palms out. "Jeez, Burt, take it easy. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean nothing by what I said."

  "Well I meant something by what I said. You'd best believe it."

  "Okay, okay. I said I was sorry, didn't I?" Dykstra sank his fingers in the unruly mop atop his head and scratched vigorously. "The main thing now is that we'd better make an appearance back at the big show and get me ready for the start of the race."

  "That's the general idea of why I came hunting for you."

  With no pretense of modesty, Dykstra flung away the corner of the sheet and began getting dressed. As he did so, he said, "Speaking of those women you mentioned who were available in and around the Goldenhouse—just so you understand where I'm coming from—the only problem with the ones I saw was that they were all the kind of lily white 'soiled doves' that don't particularly appeal to me. I like my women a little darker, a little earthier, if you get what I mean."

  "So what's that got to do with the price of tea in China?"

  "Didn't I hear somewhere the train that'll be keeping pace with the race, the one loaded with officials and reporters and such, will also have a car containing some of those, er, 'available' women?"

  "I guess I heard talk of such."

  Dykstra sighed. "I sure hope there's some darkies in the bunch. Havin' nothing but a parade of scrawny white gals to look forward to when it comes belly-warmin' time at night, after a hard day poundin' over rugged country...that sure don't inspire a fella."

  "You just concentrate on winning the race and not letting the Syndicate down. That ought to be inspiration enough."

  Dykstra sighed again. "You might not be a prude, Burt. But you know something else? You sure as hell ain't no romantic either."

  Chapter Five

  J.D. and Kate rose early. By prearrangement, breakfast was delivered to their room. As they ate, they took the time to once more review the documents provided by Jonathan and Edgar Grigg—a listing of all the entrants in the race, along with background information on each. In some cases, where it apparently was thought to be pertinent, there also were details on backers and/or known associates.

  As she examined one of the report sheets from the stack that had been made available to them, Kate spoke around a bite of buttered toast she'd just taken, saying, "Kinda handy having a couple newspaper men for clients and them having whole staffs of researchers and reporters to fix us up with all this information. Don't you think?"

  J.D. shrugged indifferently. "If words on pieces of paper is what it took to get the job done, I guess we'd be sittin' pretty. Hell, they wouldn't even need us. But they do. Because all these descriptions of who knows who and who did what and who might do something else, none of it really means spit until or unless somebody makes a bad move once this race gets underway. That's what will count, and that's when it will fall to us to spot whatever they try and then stop 'em from gettin' away with it."

  "That's us. And nobody does it better."

  "Damn betcha."

  "Still," Kate added, tapping the piece of paper before her, "you can't deny this kind of background stuff at least helps us narrow our focus. I mean, there's a few of these characters who definitely warrant keeping an eye on a lot tighter than some of the others."

  "True. Leastways based on what it says there about 'em. But the one thing you can count on when it comes to people is that you can never count on 'em doing what you expect. An hombre who's taken bad turns his whole life might suddenly find religion and start walkin' the straight and narrow; a trusted, quiet little pipsqueak who's never stepped out of line since he got off his ma's teat might out of the blue take a notion some evening, before closin' up, to clean out the vault of the bank where he works and never be heard from again." J.D. gave another shrug. "You never know."

  "I think you're getting cynical in your old age."

  "Could be, especially c
onsiderin' I was cynical in my young age."

  "Well, no matter what you think," Kate insisted, "I figure we can break down this list of riders into two groups: The ones who bear watching the closest, and those who are least likely to cause trouble."

  Bowing to the stubborn tone he knew all too well, J.D. said, "Okay. How do you see the breakdown of these groups?"

  "Well, for starters, we can eliminate you and Estelle Grigg from the suspect pool altogether. Agreed?"

  "Seems reasonable," J.D. said, just before slipping his fork under a big lump of scrambled eggs on his plate and then popping it in his mouth.

  "From there," Kate continued, "let's stick with the other riders who seem to have little or nothing about them that would suggest they might try to cheat to win. We've met them all by this point, at least through cursory introductions, so if you picked up on anything or have anything to add as I go through them, speak up."

  J.D. just kept chewing his mouthful of eggs and nodded, saying nothing.

  "Okay. Jeremiah Baker from Kentucky seems harmless enough. A southern gentleman of the old school, although he himself is fairly young. Struck me as painfully shy and quiet. Comes from money that goes way back and his family somehow managed to hang on to most of their holdings all through the war and continue to do well in the aftermath. Rides a big chestnut thoroughbred named Blueblood."

  "I don't like him on general principles," J.D. stated. "Hoity-toity rich brat who's never soiled his hands or done a lick of honest work on his own to earn all that's been plopped in his lap. When Edgar Grigg introduced me to him, his handshake was like grabbing a limp, dead mackerel...But I'll go along with putting him on the 'safe' list. He don't strike me as havin' the spine or the balls to be part of anything dirty and underhanded."