WHERE THERE’S SMOKE . . .
Another half an hour went by, and Alonzo was just beginning to relax again when an acrid scent tingled his nose. Smoke. His first thought was that it must be Indians, but no, they wouldn’t give themselves away like that. It must be whites, then. Eager for the cover, since it might discourage his stalker if the killer was still back there, he brought his horse and the pack animal to a trot.
Pounding around yet another turn in the river, Alonzo abruptly had to draw rein.
Before him spread a wide clearing. In the middle a campfire burned, and beside it lay a man on his back, resting.
Alonzo thought that was strange. The man had to have heard him. Why hadn’t he sat up? Then he saw that the man’s shoulder was bandaged, and handcuffs were clamped to his wrists.
Before the significance could sink in, another man stepped out of the trees, holding a leveled Winchester. . . .
Also by David Robbins
Thunder Valley
Blood Feud
Ride to Valor
Town Tamers
Badlanders
SIGNET
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © David Robbins, 2015
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ISBN 978-0-698-18300-1
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To Judy, Joshua, and Shane
Contents
Also by David Robbins
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
1
The one-armed rider came out of the woods and drew rein on the crest of a hill overlooking a small farm. Placing his right hand on his saddle horn, he grinned. “It looks plumb ripe for pickin’, doesn’t it, Archibald?”
His horse, a bay, pricked its ears at the mention of its name.
“Let’s get to it, shall we?” the rider said eagerly. “I’m hungry enough to eat one of those cows.”
The rider wore a loose-fitting blue uniform. Patched at the elbows, and with a tear in the left pants leg, it gave the impression he’d worn the uniform a good many years. So did the gray in his hair and mustache. His sparkling blue eyes and complexion, though, hinted at youthful vigor and vim. The effect made it hard to guess his age. He could be anywhere from twenty to fifty.
Halfway down the hill the rider again drew rein. “I’m gettin’ careless. I forgot I washed up in that creek this mornin’.” Dismounting, he searched about for a patch of bare earth. Finding one, he scooped at the dirt with his fingernails, then rubbed a little on his cheeks, forehead, and neck to further disguise how young he truly was. “Don’t want to overdo it,” he said to the bay.
Climbing back on, the rider stared at his empty left sleeve. “It’s a darned nuisance but it never fails to work.”
He clucked to his mount and presently they reached a fenced pasture where half a dozen cows grazed or lay watching him with idle interest.
The farm wasn’t much, a house and a barn and a chicken coop, but the buildings were well tended, and that gave the rider hope. “They keep the place up,” he said. “That usually means hard workers, and hard workers usually have more than layabouts, don’t they?”
The sun had barely cleared the eastern horizon, and the farm was stirring to life. Clucks came from the chicken coop. Smoke curled from the chimney atop the house. A large wagon filled with manure, the team already hitched, stood between the barn and the coop.
The barn door was open, and as the rider approached, out of the barn strode a big-boned middle-aged man wearing bib overalls and a straw hat and carrying a pail. He drew up short, his eyes narrowing, his other hand curling into a fist.
“What do we have here?”
The rider smiled his friendliest smile and brought the bay to a stop. “How do, mister? I hope you don’t mind my bein’ on your property. I’m just passin’ through and was wonderin’ if I could maybe buy me a meal.”
The farmer studied him and the bay. “You’ve come a far piece.”
“Yes, sir,” the rider said politely. “All the way from Kansas City, in fact. I’m headin’ west to the mountains.”
“You’re off the beaten trail by a long shot.”
“I reckon I am, at that,” the rider admitted, and chuckled. “I figure I’ll find Denver eventually. Folks say it’s right big.”
“Denver, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I hear it’s boomin’, and I figure there’ll be work to be had, even for someone like me.”
The farmer glanced at the rider’s empty left sleeve, hanging limp at his side. “Lost that in the war, did you?”
“Yes, sir. And you’d be surprised at how many folks won’t hire a cripple.”
“That’s not very Christian.”
“No, sir, it’s not,” the rider said sadly.
“We don’t see many in uniform these days,” the farmer mentioned. “It’s been, what, a dozen years, or thereabouts.”
The rider touched his dusty shirt. “These are the only clothes I have.”
The farmer came closer. He looked at the rider’s waist and then at the saddle where a scabbard would be. “Why, you’re not armed.”
“No, sir,” the rider said. “I gave up guns when I mustered out. I had enough of them in the war.”
A hint of friendliness came into the farmer’s face, and he unclenched his fist. “That’s admirable. But it might not be wise. You’re headed into dangerous country. West of here there are hostiles. To say nothing of all the outlaws and hard cases.”
The rider shrugged. “I’ve put my life in the hands of the Almighty. What will be, will be.”
“What’s your name, anyhow?�
��
The rider happened to notice a pump over by the farmhouse. “Waterton,” he said. “Jules Waterton.”
“Well, Mr. Waterton—”
“Corporal Waterton, if you don’t mind,” the rider said. “I’m not in the army anymore, but I still like to be called that.”
“Corporal Waterton,” the farmer amended, and hefted the pail. “I just got done milkin’, and the missus and me are about to sit down to breakfast. How would you like to join us? I’m sure Martha won’t mind.”
“I don’t want to be any bother,” the rider said. “And I can pay.”
“The meal is free,” the farmer said. “It’s the least we can do, given what you lost in the war.”
“I never ask to be treated special,” the rider said. “I can make my own way.”
The farmer smiled. “I’m sure you can, Corporal. I admire that. But let us treat you anyhow. I’m Sam, by the way. Sam Carson.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Carson conducted the rider to the pump and told him to help himself while he went in to break the news to his wife.
“I’m very grateful, sir.” The rider dismounted, putting on a show of moving stiffly to add to the illusion that he was old. The moment the front door closed on the farmer, the rider chuckled. “This uniform does the trick every time, Archibald.” He worked the pump handle until water spurted, then cupped his right hand and raised it to his lips.
It wasn’t two minutes that the door opened and out came Sam and Martha Carson. She was what some would call pleasingly plump, with a face that made the rider think of the cows in the pasture. Her dress was homespun, and she wore a white apron.
The rider doffed his hat and gave a little bow.
“How do you do, ma’am?”
“Corporal Waterton, is it?” the woman said.
The rider nodded. “I’m awful sorry to bother you. I told Sam, there, that I’m willin’ to pay for breakfast but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Neither will I,” Martha said. “Come on in and I’ll set another place. We don’t often get visitors.”
“We’re a bit far out,” Sam said.
“You have a nice farm,” the rider said. “It shows a lot of hard work went into it. My pa used to say that hard work is good for the soul.”
“Your pa sounds like he knew what he was about,” Martha said.
“He did,” the rider said, and grew sorrowful. “He died while I was off fightin’ to free the slaves. I never got to attend his funeral.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Martha commiserated, and beckoned. “Come. Join us. I have bacon on the stove and don’t want to burn it.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am.”
A long parlor brought them to an immaculate kitchen. The floor was clean enough to eat off of, gleaming utensils hung on the walls, and in a frying pan, long strips of bacon sizzled.
The rider inhaled and happily grinned. “Smells just like home when I was a boy.”
“We always wanted children,” Martha said. Taking a fork, she speared a bacon strip and turned the strip over. “But it wasn’t meant to be.”
“I would have liked a son,” Sam said. He indicated a chair. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
The rider eagerly complied. Two plates and silverware had already been set out, and shortly Martha brought over a plate for him.
“Here you go. It’s about ready.”
“My belly is rumblin’ like a starved bear’s,” the rider said.
Sam sat the head of the table and made a tepee of his hands. “It’s none of my business, but what do you plan to do with your life? Ten to twelve years is a long time to wander where the wind takes you, and I have the notion that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”
“You have me pegged,” the rider said, and chuckled. “I’ve been livin’ hand to mouth for so long, I don’t know any other way.”
Martha took cups and saucers from a cupboard, placed them in front of her husband and their guest, and went to the stove for the coffeepot. “Tell me a little about your travels, if you don’t mind. I haven’t done much traveling, and I do so love to hear about other places.”
“Martha, don’t bother the man,” Sam said.
“That’s all right,” the rider said. “It’ll be my way of thankin’ your missus for her generosity.” So saying, he launched into an account of how, after he was discharged, he drifted through a number of Eastern and Southern states, taking jobs where he could get them, and finally decided to try his luck west of the Mississippi River. “It’s all folks talk about. ‘Go West, young man,’ that newspaper fella said. Well, I’m not so young anymore, but I reckoned it was high time I took his advice.”
“You certainly look younger than your years,” Martha said.
“Even with the gray in my hair?”
Martha nodded. “It’s your face. As smooth as a baby’s bottom, my mother would say. It doesn’t go with that hair.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” the rider said with an odd grin.
Sam Carson coughed. “Enough of that. Is the food ready, or what?”
“Oh.” Martha got up and hustled about, and soon a heaping bowl of scrambled eggs and a long plate of bacon, and a stack of toast joined the butter dish and the sugar bowl in the center of the table. “Dig in,” she encouraged them.
The rider took her urging to heart. He filled his plate to overflowing and ate as if ravenous. The farmer and his wife looked on and shared smiles.
Only when he’d wiped the last bits of egg from his plate with the last bit of crust in his hand did the rider sit back, pat his stomach, and say, “That was right fine, ma’am. Sam is right lucky to have such a good cook for his helpmate.”
“Oh, pshaw,” Martha said, and blushed.
“I have to be careful,” Sam said, and patted his own belly, “or I’ll end up like our sow out in the barn.”
“Speakin’ of which,” the rider said. “I don’t suppose I could rest in there a while? Out of the sun? I could use a nap after a fine feed like this, and my horse is a bit tuckered.” He quickly added, “It wouldn’t be for more than an hour or two, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Nap as long as you like,” Martha said.
Sam pushed his chair back. “I have manure to spread and a shutter to fix, so I’ll be busy. You rest up and head out when you please.”
The rider gave them a kindly look. “You’re the salt of the earth, the both of you. I wish you all the best, your whole lives long.”
“Why, aren’t you a dear?” Martha said.
Stretching, the rider smothered a yawn, and stood. “See how tired I am? A pile of straw would be like a featherbed right about now.” He thanked them, shook Sam’s hand, and made his way out the front. Taking hold of the bay’s reins, he led his animal into the barn. No sooner were they out of sight than he stepped to his saddlebags. Taking out a coiled gun belt with a Colt in the holster, he palmed the six-shooter, replaced the belt in his saddlebag, and tucked the Colt under his belt. Pulling his shirt out to hide the revolver, he said to Archibald, “Just in case.”
The ladder to the hayloft posed no great difficulty. He lay on his back and rubbed his left shoulder. It wasn’t long before he heard heavy footsteps.
“Jules? Are you in here?”
“Up in the loft,” the rider replied in a sleepy voice. “If that’s all right.”
“You sleep away,” Sam Carson said. “Sorry I disturbed you.”
When the farmer’s footfalls faded, the rider descended. Peeking out, he saw Carson about to climb on the manure spreader. A flick of the reins, and the farmer headed for his fields.
“Couldn’t ask for better,” the rider happily declared. Turning, he ran the length of the middle aisle to the rear door. The latch rasped when he pressed it. Squinting in the bright sunligh
t, he sidled to the corner. Forty feet of open space separated the barn from the house. “Can’t be helped,” he said, and took off like a shot, racing to the back of the house. Ducking under the kitchen window, he removed his hat and peered in.
Humming as she worked, Martha Carson was busy washing and drying the dishes.
Quickly, the rider sprinted to the front. He’d paid particular attention and knew that the front door wouldn’t squeak when it was opened. And he wasn’t wearing spurs, so his bounds to the stairs were as silent as an Apache’s. Swiftly climbing, he glided to the bedroom. The bed was made up, the flowered quilt smooth as glass. A chest of drawers gleamed with polish. He tried the drawers first. There were the usual clothes, undergarments and socks, shirts and blouses. In the top left were a folding knife, a tobacco pouch and pipe, and other manly things. In the top right there were a necklace and several rings. He was tempted but left them be.
Rubbing his chin, he turned to the bed. “It’s nearly always the bed,” he whispered to himself, and hunkering, he shoved his hand under the mattress and groped about, moving from top to bottom. Nothing. Hurrying around to the other side, he repeated his groping. Suddenly he froze, and smiled.
Some people kept their money in pokes, some in tin boxes, a few in jars. This time it was a leather pouch. He flipped it open, saw mostly coins, double-eagles and the like, and a few bills.
Clutching the pouch to his chest so it wouldn’t jingle and give him away, he hurried to the stairs and was about to go down when he realized the humming had grown louder.
Martha was coming down the hall.
Backpedaling, the rider retreated into the shadows. He could see the top of her head, and hoped she would go on by.
Instead, she started up the stairs.
2
When Federal Deputy Marshal Jacob Stone rode into Hebron, Nebraska, he wasn’t expecting trouble. Hebron was a small farming community, its residents as peaceful and law-abiding as Quakers. Hebron didn’t even have a saloon. So when he wearily drew rein at the hitch rail in front of the general store, the last thing he expected was for the owner to come hurrying out with half his face swollen and black-and-blue.
Guns on the Prairie Page 1