Blaze! Ride Hard, Shoot Fast

by Wayne D. Dundee

  "The next one I see as belonging on the Safe List, as you call it, is cut sort of from the same cloth—only an overseas version."

  "That would be the Limey."

  "One way of putting it, I guess. His name is Charles Flood and, yes, he's from Merry Old England. He doesn't carry any sort of royal title himself, although his horse is named M'Lord. And he's backed by Lord Stanford Danbery, a personal friend of Buffalo Bill Cody but one who strongly disagrees with the notion that any American horse from the mustang bloodline can compete with an English thoroughbred."

  "Another one of the thoroughbred boys," J.D. muttered. "Their kind can't seem to get it through their thick heads and accept the fact that we Americans—the people right down through their dogs, cats, chickens, and horses—get our strength from being a mixed pack of mongrels. The Limeys, especially, make it a point to conveniently forget that it was exactly that kind of mongrel pack who kicked the asses of their mighty red-coated army, not so very long ago, and started calling ourselves Americans to begin with."

  "Calm down, George Washington. We're just running a horse race here, not fighting the Revolutionary War all over again."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know. And I agree that this Flood character and his Lord Fancypants backer are probably too full of nobility and fair play and all that crap—a big part of what got their asses whupped in that little skirmish we just covered, by the way—to pose much of a threat when it comes to cheating."

  "Good. That's one more we can trim down." Kate picked up her next sheet of paper. "Now we come to a fella way at the other end of the spectrum from the thoroughbred boys...Joshua Hope. Former slave, joined the Union blue and fought with the 54th Massachusetts at Fort Wagner, drifted out West after the war, mostly up through the Dakotas and Montana where he worked as a cowpuncher but really earned something of a name for himself as a horseman and rodeo rider."

  J.D. nodded. "I've heard of him before. From all reports, like you say, a helluva hand with horses and a top name on the rodeo circuit. An endurance race is something different from rodeo ridin', I guess, but I'd still rank him and Bolt, that big Palomino stud of his, as top contenders in this shindig."

  "So that's three on what we're calling our Safe List—five, counting you and Mrs. Grigg. Of the remaining four, there are a couple who look like flat-out skunks and then a couple I'd have to call shady, but maybe a little on the iffy side."

  "I don't like 'iffy'. I like it when the assholes we have to deal with are clear cut assholes, and that's all there is to it."

  "Well, in this case it's not that simple. At least not the way I see it."

  "All right. Who's the first one you're callin' iffy?"

  "How about this Omar Nassir? It's not so much that—"

  "He's the A-rab. Right?"

  "From some place called Qotaristan. I guess that's in Arabia."

  "Close enough. I don't trust him."

  "Based on what?"

  "Based on the fact he's an A-rab. He ought to go back where he came from, ridin' a camel over the sand dunes or climbin' pyramids or whatever, instead of stickin' his nose in an American horse race."

  "They have a lot of truly fine horses in Arabia, not just camels," Kate pointed out. "The Al Khams bloodline of Arabian horses are among the most famous in the world. And that's what this Nassir is riding, one named El Numa. His backer is an emir—that's some kind of king or hotshot leader over in that part of the world—named Hali Rousaffi. He's another friend of Lord Danbery, that's how he heard about this race. And, when he did, he immediately set to work getting his man entered on a mount of Al Khams lineage."

  "The more I hear, the less I trust or like this Omar and that turban-wearin' pack of hombres he's got hangin' around him all the time."

  "They're bodyguards and handlers sent by the emir. We're probably being unfair by not trusting them based mainly on their dress and customs that are strange to us. But the fact that we do know so little about them is what bothers me. With no other mark against him, though, is why I'm calling Nassir iffy."

  J.D. frowned. "Call him what you want. I plan on keepin' a close eye on him all the same."

  "Then you'll no doubt feel the same about the next one—Curly Nesbitt. Riding a big Appaloosa named Rebel Rouser."

  "I remember reading about him. He was one of Quantrill's boys, wasn't he?"

  "For a time, early in the war. Later he served under Jeb Stuart. With distinction. After the war he started working cattle drives, pushing herds up from Texas. Made several trips by the look of it. Got in a couple gun scrapes along the way, but nothing that put him crossways of the law."

  "Still, when you hear about anybody who was a follower of Quantrill it sorta leaves a bad taste in your mouth."

  "I understand. But with nothing since to hold against him, I still consider him as iffy." Kate held up a hand, palm out, before J.D. could respond. "I know, I know. You'll be keeping an eye on him all the same. By the time we get to these last two—the ones I consider the hardest cases in the lot—you'll be suffering eye strain."

  "Easier keepin' an eye on hard cases." J.D. smiled thinly. "They tend to stand out plainer."

  "That's true enough for Pete Blaylock. I don't know how hard he is, but he sure stands out as a crook who's dabbled in every kind of crime from pick-pocketing to robbing stage coaches. Served a prison hitch for that last. Hasn't been out all that long. No reason to believe he saw the light of salvation while he was behind bars. He's riding a dun called Dakota Sue that he claims he won in a poker game."

  "See? I like assholes who are too lazy or stupid to pretend to be anything but an asshole. If there was a card game involved in him gettin' that horse, you can bet the deck was rigged."

  "I sure wouldn't bet against that likelihood."

  "So who does that leave? Who's number nine?"

  "A charmer by the name of Earl Dykstra. A Chicago lad who supposedly has been working for the past several years in a slaughterhouse at the big stockyards there. All of a sudden he reveals that he happens to be a pretty good horseman and wants the chance to prove it by traveling West with his big stud Eightball and entering our endurance race."

  "Gotta admire a man with a dream."

  "His story stinks on ice. Even though nobody has been able to dig up any provable dirt, he's got Ringer written all over him. The Chicago Syndicate has got to be behind him and, if they're putting money on the line, you know damn well they're going to take steps to make sure they don't lose."

  "So we've got a winner in the Most Likely Asshole contest."

  "Be my pick," Kate agreed. "Thing for us to remember, though, is that doesn't guarantee some of the others won't also still have their own angle to try and play..."

  Chapter Six

  Amidst yet another showing of great hoopla—marching bands, fireworks, and a cheering throng of onlookers that appeared to include practically every citizen of Cheyenne plus others from all over the territory—the big race finally got underway. A renowned opera singer from New York who was in town for an appearance at a local theater belted out a stirring version of the National Anthem, timing it perfectly to allow for an explosion of applause just before the starting gun went off and an even louder, longer surge of raucous cheering burst from the crowd.

  From the viewing platform at the rear of one of the railroad cars that would be running parallel with the racers, Kate Blaze watched longingly until the last glimpse of J.D. was swallowed by the dust cloud that boiled up in the wake of the riders. She found it curious to suddenly feel so alone in the midst of so many people.

  Jonathan Grigg edged up beside her on the platform. "I don't know if it shows as openly, but I dare say that the way I feel inside closely matches the expression on your face," he told her, leaning close to be heard above the surrounding din.

  Kate glanced up at him. She smiled. "It shows, if one knows what to look for. You aren't looking forward to these daily separations from your wife any more than I am from my husband. Are you?"

  "Most defi
nitely not." Grigg sighed. "I keep telling myself that we've taken every precaution and there's minimal reason to worry, but that only works up to a point."

  "J.D.'s out there, too, don't forget," Kate reminded him. "He'll keep watch over Estelle."

  "Yes, never doubt that I take considerable reassurance in that. But, still, the mere fact we felt it wise to hire you and J.D. serves to remind me of the recognition that things could go wrong."

  Kate eyed him a little tighter. It struck her how closely J.D. had managed to capture Grigg's appearance for their encounter with the horse nappers simply by donning the false beard and derby hat. Their features truly were strikingly similar, although Grigg's facial structure was a bit more delicate and his aqua eyes definitely lacked the intensity to be found in the penetrating blue of J.D.'s gaze. Nobody could nail you with his eyes like J.D. "If I may ask," Kate said, "why did you allow Estelle to do this then? I mean, if it worries you so much?"

  Grigg smiled. "You met Estelle. In case you didn't notice—and I mean this in a strictly complimentary way—I think you and her have many similarities. So, tell me, do you only do what J.D. allows you to do?"

  "I'd like to think that we..." Kate let the words trail off. Her smile took on a wry twist. "Okay. Touché on that one."

  "Estelle's high-spiritedness is a large part of what attracted me to her. I wouldn't change that for anything. And I suspect the same is equally true when it comes to J.D. and you."

  "In our case, we make a living off of being high spirited and good with our guns. But I see your point."

  Grigg's gaze drifted in the direction of where the riders had faded from sight and his tone turned somewhat wistful as he said, "Another factor as far as Estelle's participation in this race, although we haven't spoken of it openly to anyone, not even my brother, is our plan to start a family in the coming year. We've decided it's something we both want and are ready for. So I guess you could say that Estelle sees this occasion as sort of her last big fling at high-spiritedness."

  Kate wasn't sure how to respond to that so she shifted the subject slightly and said, "What do you feel her chances of winning are?"

  "Estelle is an excellent horsewoman. However," said Grigg, "she is also a realist. As am I. We recognize she's going up against some of the best riders in the West, the world. She naturally will give it all she's got. But finishing anywhere in the top four, in the money—and not for money's sake, mind you—I think would be very satisfying for her."

  "Well I for one will be pulling for her. All the way. You be sure and tell her that for me, in case I don't get the chance myself."

  "I surely will." Grigg looked around as the crowd of onlookers began dispersing and those who had business with the special string of cars that had been dubbed "the race train" started gathering in closer. "You'd better get inside and get yourself a good seat before things start filling up ahead of the train's departure. I expect it to be quite jammed, especially for this first leg of the race. You'll have to excuse me for the time being, I have to go find my brother. But, unless you've already got other plans, perhaps the three of us can get together for lunch later on in the dining car?"

  Kate told him that would be fine. He promised to get word to her on the time once he had made reservations.

  As Grigg disappeared in search of his brother, Kate reflected that he seemed like a decent and likable sort, albeit a bit stiff if she was any judge; especially for someone as allegedly "high spirited" as he described his wife to be. No one would ever discern that disparity between her and J.D., she found herself thinking—one was as spirited as the other. Right from the beginning they had taken each other to new heights and the only danger, aside from the kind they regularly faced with their guns, was that they might one day soar too close to the sun together and end up going down in a blaze, like the name they shared.

  "Shit," Kate muttered under breath. "The big lug has only been gone a handful of minutes and I miss him already."

  * * *

  Omar Nassir, the Arabian rider on the powerful gray stallion El Numa, took the lead right from the starting gun and proceeded to set a fast, steady pace over the beginning miles of the contest. The rest of the riders fell in close behind, settling into a loose pack with each maintaining a respectable position and no one showing signs of fighting for a particular spot or attempting a big surge to try and take the lead. All seemed content with the current spacing at this stage of things.

  It was anticipated that this first day would be run at a fast clip, one meant to give both riders and mounts a good "shaking out" yet not prove overly taxing. Everyone was fresh and full of excitement, the late spring day was sunny without being unduly warm, and the terrain was relatively flat. It would also be a tightly focused feeling out period for all involved, an up-close appraisal of the competition—features regarding one another they had only heard about or gotten superficial glimpses of before this.

  The horse selected for J.D. was a sturdy chestnut gelding called Charger, a runner with heart, he could quickly tell, though not a serious challenger to the top animals it was going up against. It rankled J.D.'s naturally competitive nature to accept the limitations handed him as far as having any chance to make a strong showing in the event but, at the same time, he knew full well that his purpose here was for a whole different cause. In that context, he took his spot slightly back from the middle of the pack and began his own perusal—quite different from the skill appraisals the others were making—of those around him.

  Chapter Seven

  Royce Jenner marched into Hoke's Café with long, purposeful strides. A quick sweep of his eyes revealed that most of the early breakfast crowd had thinned out, which was probably for the better. But given the mood he was in, it didn't much matter one way or the other.

  Jenner was a tall, square-shouldered man with snapping dark eyes under a shaggy ledge of brows and a way of moving that made people think of a tightly compressed spring ready to bust loose at any moment. Around his waist he wore a wide black sash with a cartridge belt buckled over it. But rather than in a holster attached to the belt, he packed a long-barreled Schofield revolver tucked into the sash, butt forward on the left side for a cross draw with his right hand.

  After his gaze had swept the room, Jenner's eyes narrowed slightly and came to focus on a table at the rear where three men sat. As he moved toward the table, his glare became fixed on one of its occupants in particular, a lanky individual with butter yellow hair and an Adam's apple so prominent it bobbed up and down in his long neck like a boiled egg he couldn't quite get swallowed down.

  As Jenner approached the table, the yellow-haired man looked up. One corner of his mouth quirked into a half smile and he started to voice a greeting. But before he got anything out, Jenner cut him off.

  "Need a word with you, Frane," Jenner said tersely. He tipped his head to indicate the café's back door. "Out back. Now." Without waiting to see whether or not the yellow-haired man complied—as if somehow knowing that he would—Jenner veered past the table and headed for the rear exit.

  Behind the café, a plank walkway led to a lopsided outhouse, the weathered planks reaching across a span of sandy ground stubbled with sparse shoots of grass. To one side there was a high wooden fence showing about as much wear as the planks on the ground; on the other side stood a long, two-story building that housed a general store in front, storage area in the back, and living quarters above. Emerging from the eatery, Jenner found himself caught between the pleasant aromas wafting out of the kitchen behind him and the not so pleasant stink coming from the apparently overfull outhouse up ahead. The stink assailing his nostrils didn't improve his mood any.

  As anticipated, Eliot Frane came out of the cafe practically on Jenner's heels...straight into the backhanded blow that Jenner swung with his gloved right fist. The impact produced a sound not unlike the crack of a whip. Frane pitched to one side, staggering, nearly going to his knees. Before he could fall, however, Jenner grabbed a double handful of his shirtfro
nt and jerked him upright. Then Jenner swung his victim around in a hundred-eighty degree whirl and shoved him hard in the direction of the outhouse. Frane, who had never really gotten his balance following the sucker punch, lost it completely after the shove. He took three or four galloping, off-balance steps before finally flopping face down onto the planks with a loud grunt of escaping breath.

  "You stupid sonofabitch," Jenner snarled, walking to the man he'd just thrown to the ground and then coming to a halt, looming over him with feet planted wide and both fists balled menacingly. "I ought to knock your goddamn teeth down your throat!"

  Frane rolled onto an elbow and one hip—not the one where he wore a Colt .45 in a tie-down holster—and glared up at his assailant. "What's up your craw, Royce?" he wanted to know, passing the back of his free hand across his chin where a trickle of blood was running down from the split in his bottom lip. "What the hell's wrong with you, anyway?"

  "You are what's wrong with me!" Jenner said hotly.

  "What the hell did I do? The day's barely started."

  "Not today, you smartass. Last night. You deny you got in an argument over a card game and pulled a gun on some local?"

  "I pulled my gun, yeah," Frane admitted. "But I didn't shoot the four-flushin' bastard. I should have, though—he was cheatin' and he was doin' it sloppier than if he'd had six thumbs. It was downright insultin' to think I was too dumb to notice."

  "What was dumb," Jenner said through clenched teeth, "was you reachin' for that hogleg you think you're such hot shit with. You think you wavin' that thing around didn't attract attention to yourself and the rest of us here in town with you? It was the first thing I heard folks yammerin' about as soon as I came down from my hotel room this morning."

  Frane scowled. "Christ, Royce, this is Ogallala. The Gomorrah of the Plains. They have gun fights over card games around here practically every day of the week and twice on Sunday. What's the big deal? Like I told you, I didn't even shoot the cheatin' little pipsqueak."