Blaze! Ride Hard, Shoot Fast

by Wayne D. Dundee

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "Not sure what there is to say. Two men died tonight. One of 'em I shot, the other one I didn't. The one I shot ain't botherin' me...the one I didn't...he ain't wantin' to leave my thoughts so easy."

  "It was a nasty way to check out, no denying that. But never forget that he had a hand in bringing it on himself. You realize that, right?"

  "What I keep tellin' myself. But that don't stop the sound of his screams or the stink of him burnin'...or the feel of parts of him splatterin' against me after the train hit...from playin' over and over inside my head."

  "What can I do to help?" Kate asked intently.

  "Just what you already are...Stay close, give me a little time to get on past it."

  "I'll be right here."

  * * *

  A quarter mile removed from the siding encampment and the parked race train, two men were conferring in the dense shadows of a tall sycamore tree. One of the men was pacing anxiously back and forth, occasionally striding out to where the overhang of branches were sparse enough to allow a mottled splash of moon- and starlight to reveal a brief glimpse of his features, particularly the bright coloring of the carefully knotted string tie that he wore. The other man remained still, leaning in a far more relaxed manner against the tree trunk as his hands went through the well-practiced motions, even in the darkness, of rolling a cigarette.

  "This business tonight sure doesn't help our cause. Not a damned bit," the pacing man was saying. "Now everybody's attention and suspicions will be on full alert, watching for every little thing that might appear out of place."

  "Or," the other man offered, "it could be that now—since a piece of underhandedness with especially nasty results has been revealed for all to see—everybody will relax a bit and think the worst is over. Because that's what they'll want to believe."

  "That might be a nice fantasy. But I don't buy it for a minute."

  "You worry too damn much, you know that?"

  The pacing man wheeled about. "Somebody has to. Worry makes for caution and prevents the kind of carelessness like you showed earlier today when you got all chummy with me in the club car."

  "I struck up a conversation, for Chrissakes. That's what people do in club cars on trains all across the country. What was the harm?"

  "If there's no harm in us being seen talking together, then why are we having this meeting clear out here in the middle of the night?"

  "This is your way of doing things, not mine. Because, like I already said, you worry too damn much." The man struck a match and held it to the freshly rolled cigarette he'd hung from a corner of his mouth. The flare of the match illuminated the hard facial features of Brewster Colfax and caused the white tips of his whiskers to take on a momentary iridescence.

  The pacing man stepped close enough to also get caught in the match flare and Edgar Grigg's anxious expression was etched as deep as the urgency in his voice. "Is it wise to strike that match so openly?"

  "Jesus Christ, Grigg, you're giving me the heebie-jeebies just being around you," growled Colfax. "Calm the hell down! If somebody is paying close enough attention to us to be seeing this match strike, then our goose is already cooked."

  "That's exactly what I want to stay on guard against—not getting our goose cooked!"

  "Well, going around acting as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs ain't gonna help a goddamn bit. So knock it off."

  "Maybe," said Edgar, his tone stiffening, "you need to be reminded who is working for who in this relationship."

  Colfax laughed dryly. "At this stage of things, mister, we're both in it up to our asses. So don't try to come on all high and mighty with me. And, since you want to talk about who's working for who, if you and your brother hadn't brought in those nosy Blazes and sicced them to sniffing into everybody's business then we'd have a hell of a lot less to worry about."

  "My brother had that set in motion before I could do anything to stop it," Edgar said tightly. "But, by going along with it, I am at least privy to hearing in advance about any scent they go seriously sniffing after. So I can handle the Blazes. It's the unexpected surprises, like what happened tonight, that concern me."

  "Look. Everything is set. We got the right people in the right places. We just need to wait for the right time. Until then, you need to quit having so many concerns and start having some faith. Trust me, this is gonna work out smooth as the silk in your fancy tie."

  Edgar twisted his mouth ruefully. "If it doesn't, my silk tie days will soon be far behind me...unless I am suddenly buried in one."

  Chapter Twelve

  The race resumed for the second day with the report of the starter gun at seven AM sharp. The horses sprang away and El Numa once again pulled quickly to the lead. The others fell in close behind, settling into more or less the same positions they'd held at the close of the previous day. It became quickly evident, however, that at least one thing would be different about today's race—it was going to be run at a notably slower pace.

  All riders were aware that the terrain they'd be crossing in the coming hours was going to be considerably more challenging than that which they'd encountered yesterday. First they would be skirting the southern reaches of the rugged, rocky Pine Ridge region; beyond that would come the stark, rolling, seemingly endless expanse of the Nebraska Sandhills. Adding to the toll that the land would take, it was also quickly apparent that the day's temperature was going to be considerably hotter than before. And they would be entering the barren, punishing Sandhills right about when the heat and the shimmering ball of the sun, uninterrupted in a cloudless cobalt sky, both reached their peak.

  In the middle of the pack, J.D. was glad to be swept up once more by the sense of competition. Even if his horse—quite apart from the limitations he was holding it to—wasn't meant to fare well. He still enjoyed the surge of the powerful animal under him, the hot wind blowing against his face, the sting of the sweat in his eyes and the grit of the dust in his teeth.

  All of this gave him things to focus on other than the troubling details from last night.

  What was more, if yesterday was a rather tenuous "feeling out" phase, then today would mark the start of the real tests—rider against rider, horse against horse; the key factors (except for whatever role an unexpected turn of luck, either good or bad, might play) that would determine the outcome.

  Mentally, J.D. had made some adjustments as far as where his fellow riders fit on the list he and Kate had made up of who seemed most likely or unlikely to attempt anything underhanded out here on the course itself to try and affect the final outcome of the race. Based on the way Curly Nesbitt had conducted himself in regard to the cattle car shooting and fire, J.D. now added him to the Unlikely category, joining himself, Estelle Grigg, Joshua Hope, and the Englishman, Charles Flood. The latter came across as remote, almost aloof at times, usually keeping separate from the others. This could be viewed as a bit suspicious, but otherwise he was always soft-spoken and nothing short of painfully courteous in his exchanges and mannerisms, leaving little or no reason to think him anything short of a gentleman who played by the rules but preferred his own company.

  Omar Nassir probably belonged on the Unlikely list, too, rather than just "iffy". Despite J.D.'s initial misgivings about the man and his strange dress and customs, neither he nor any of those attending him had shown cause for mistrust. The knee-jerk bias he'd first spouted, J.D. had to admit, now seemed wholly unfounded. Plus there was the simple fact that the skill with which Nassir rode, not to mention the magnificence of his fine Arabian stallion, sure as hell ought to be enough to inspire winning confidence without any thought for needing to cheat.

  As for Jeremiah Baker—who was actually placed on the Unlikely list in the beginning, due to his meekness and his Southern gentlemanly ways—his standing certainly needed to be re-considered now in the wake of the actions taken by admitted employees of his. There was no proof, however, that the men who'd attacked Joshua Hope and
then Curly Nesbitt did so at the behest of Baker—plus there was the presence of Harlan Hudson to factor in. J.D.' s gut feeling remained that Hudson was the real culprit behind the orders those men were operating under and that Baker may not have been involved at all. But until something more came to light, possibly as a result of what the railroad detectives could come up with, Baker had to be considered "iffy" at best. The good news about it, though, was the fact that he and Hudson had so many eyes watching them now, due to the suspicion drawn to them by the actions of their employees, it would be damn near impossible for them to get away with any more shenanigans now.

  That left Earl Dykstra and Pete Blaylock as the two candidates most likely to be behind any further attempt to influence the race. Dykstra with his highly suspicious personal background and known ties to the Chicago crime syndicate. Blaylock with his well-known outlaw background—not to mention the way he was drawing added attention from J.D. with his taunting "stink eye" glare. The overtness of the latter seemed almost too deliberate to take seriously...but that sure as hell didn't mean J.D. was ready to just shrug it off.

  * * *

  Traveling with the race train, Kate spent much of the new day dealing with reporters looking to sensationalize the details of last night's shootout. Beyond that, several of them were clearly also wanting to further embellish the exploits of the Blazes themselves.

  At first, Kate had been reluctant to comment at all. But then, after reflecting a bit, she changed her mind. First of all, she decided, news about the race—even the kind involving bloody violence—would be good publicity; hell, it made for the kind of stuff the reading public seemed to lap up more eagerly than anything else. Secondly, talking about the roles she and J.D. had played in what happened basically amounted to free advertising that might bring future work their way.

  And then there were other motives on her part. Chatting so openly with the press also gave Kate the chance to covertly try and draw some information out of them. Specifically, she was looking for something more on the backgrounds of Harlan Hudson and Brewster Colfax, the white-whiskered man she had seen talking to both Edgar Grigg and Burt Kanelly. As far as that went, she let it be known she'd take anything additional she could get on Kanelly and the Chicago-backed rider Earl Dykstra as well.

  It was mid-morning by the time the siding encampment was struck and the train was re-loaded and rolling again. It was another seventy-five miles to the next scheduled overnight stop, north of the North Platte River and just short of the town of Ogallala. Once reached, a new encampment would be set up on the siding there and preparations would be made to welcome and log in the arrivals of the riders showing up as they completed the long, grueling second phase of the race.

  Kate had little contact with either of the Grigg brothers during the course of that day. Whenever she encountered one of them, he was striding one direction or the other through whichever car it was where they met, the Grigg in question (they were seldom together) always on the way to a meeting or appointment of some kind. In each of these encounters, Jonathan looked harried, somewhat exhausted; Edgar appeared very somber, as if deep in thought or unusually worried about something.

  When they arrived at the site of the second overnight encampment, Kate once again spoke up for one of the large tents erected near the end of the line and then saw to it that hers and J.D.'s necessary personal effects were brought to it. After that, there wasn't a lot to do except keep alert with her eyes and ears and anticipate J.D. and the others riding in. As she waited, it occurred to Kate that—except for the situation with Estelle and Jonathan Grigg, where it was sort of turned around to him waiting for her—none of the other men had wives or girlfriends (well, except for the soiled doves from the bordello car and their cluster of "service" tents) waiting for them. The sadness of this struck an uncharacteristically sentimental chord in Kate, especially when she dwelled on the thought of how, until not so very long ago, both she and J.D. had been going through the motions of their lives and reaching the end of each day with nobody of any consequence ever waiting for them, either.

  * * *

  As dusk settled, Kate was on her way toward the mess tent, meaning to prepare a plate of food and fetch another bucket of beer and ice for J.D.'s return. She hadn't gone far, however, before she found her path blocked by none other than Brewster Colfax.

  "Evening, missy," drawled Colfax. "Where you headed for in such a big hurry?"

  Kate regarded him, making no attempt to hide the fact she was not impressed with what she was looking at. She glanced past Colfax, noting that nobody else in the camp was nearby and those closest were occupied with other matters, paying no attention. Not that any of this mattered one way or another. She was a big girl who'd been looking out for herself a good long while now, and doing pretty fair at it. But it was always a good idea to size up the layout of a situation.

  Responding to Colfax's question, Kate said, "My name's not 'Missy'. And where I'm headed is hardly any of your business."

  Colfax chuckled, emitting a waft of alcohol although he didn't appear intoxicated to any significant degree. "Ah. Playing the feisty part right to the hilt, eh?"

  "It's not an act. It comes natural to me."

  "Yeah, I bet it does. But that 'none of your business' part doesn't seem to fit quite so good. You might preach it, but you don't believe in practicing it, do you?"

  "You're not making any sense. I'll thank you to get out of my way, I've got things to take care of."

  Kate started around Colfax but he shifted his stance so that he was in front of her again, cutting her off. "You seemed to have plenty of time earlier today when it came to me," the white-whiskered man said. "Asking around, sniffing around about Brewster Colfax. So here I am. At your disposal, you might say. You want to know about me, why not get straight from the source?"

  "Let's say I found out all I needed to know," Kate told him. And then, quicker than an eye blink, her Colt was in her fist. She held it at waist level, aimed at a steady angle up toward the center of his chest. "More than enough," she added, "to write your epitaph if you don't haul your stinking carcass out of my way."

  Colfax didn't move right away. The expression on his face went flat. Not scared, not angry, not anything. Then, slowly, he took a step back and pivoted on one heel so that Kate's way was clear. "Where I come from," he said, "we don't let our womenfolk play with guns. We let men do men's work. And we keep our noses out of other people's business."

  "That's real interesting to hear," said Kate.

  Colfax's tone stayed as flat as his expression. "You keep poking that pretty little nose of yours into my affairs, I may have to make my meaning more than just interesting."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The riders came galloping into the overnight stop at considerably more staggered intervals than the previous night.

  Nassir on El Numa once again logged in with the shortest time, then Charles Flood on M'Lord less than a minute behind. After that, scattered over the next eight minutes, the order was: Joshua Hope on Bolt, Jeremiah Baker on Blueblood, Estelle Grigg on Midnight Shadow, Earl Dykstra on Eightball, J.D. on Charger, Curly Nesbitt on Rebel Rouser, and Pete Blaylock on Dakota Sue. The latter clearly displayed a measure of surliness at coming in last. Otherwise, the sweaty, dusty, exhausted riders and mounts alike only showed signs of being grateful for the chance to rest and replenish.

  Yet already weighing on the minds of all—as well as on those of knowledgeable onlookers—had to be thoughts of the upcoming day. Considering how its entirety would be again spent covering grueling Sandhills terrain, it would be the real breakdown day, the stretch that would disperse the riders even more widely...to the point where some of them would be left with little or no prospect of ever making up the time on the leaders or placing in the money.

  * * *

  As soon as she got J.D. into their tent, Kate's earlier sentimental feelings about how lucky they were to have each other to count on returned in a rush and she pushed him immediatel
y down on the cot. With no words spoken, a barrage of hungry kisses and caresses and urgent tugging to remove clothing made it clear what was about to happen next.

  Kate eventually caught her breath long enough, as she pushed her bared breasts demandingly into J.D.'s accommodating mouth and lapping tongue, to say, "I'm sorry that you're hot and sweaty and tired, but I can't wait. I need this bad, baby!"

  "Who said anything about waitin'?" J.D. managed to murmur around the mouthful of sweet, succulent flesh.

  After jerking his trousers down around his knees, Kate pressed her palms against J.D.'s muscular chest, momentarily bracing herself, and swung one leg over so that she was straddling him. "You just relax and leave it all to me," she purred as she settled her moist, molten honeypot down onto his upward thrusting manhood. "Now it's time for me to do some hard riding!"

  "You ride away, darlin'," J.D. said through clenched teeth. "But don't expect me to relax too dang much."

  Their bodies picked up a steady, mutual rhythm, the practiced movement of two lovers well-tuned to each other. Gradually, the rocking motion of Kate's velvety hips began to pick up speed as J.D.'s thrusts deepened, frantically keeping pace. Their flushed skin glowed with fresh sweat and their breathing heightened until it might have matched the chugging of the not-too-distant locomotive when it was running full out.

  Kate threw her head back and arced her back, continuing to grind down with her hips. With her breasts pulled from his mouth and tongue, J.D. reached up and cupped them roughly, feeling the pebble-hard nipples stab hot and sharp into his palms.

  "Yes! Oh, sweet Jesus, yes!" Kate hissed.

  As her whole body began to shudder on the brink of a climax, J.D. felt his loins spasm toward that same peak of pleasure and then erupt in a boiling hot release that resulted in the pair of them coming together.

  Afterwards, Kate rolled off and stretched out beside J.D. on the narrow cot, their heated, still-flush bodies pressed tight together. "Oh, damn," she muttered suddenly. "I forgot to yodel."