Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels

by Stephen Mertz

  Before continuing, Belle set the water aside and poured herself a splash of the brandy. "You see, Oliver planned on building a new house for just the two of us on some scenic high ground about a mile from the ranch headquarters here. After we'd moved, in the event of his death, the will modification stipulated that the new house and ten surrounding acres would be strictly mine."

  "That doesn't sound so unfair or unreasonable," Kate commented.

  "It was still enough to ruffle some feathers, even though the rest of what had been drawn up after Dorothy's passing stayed basically as it was." Belle held up a slim index finger. "Except for one added proviso—namely, that I would also receive ten percent of the profits earned from all ranch operations, payable to me quarterly."

  J.D. smiled crookedly. "Aha. Now we're talking money yanked directly out of the kiddies' pockets. And nothing brings the venom and true character out of a loving family more than when survivors start clawing to make sure nobody else gets a share of the will they think rightfully ought to be theirs."

  Kate scowled. "If everything would otherwise have been split evenly between the four kids—twenty-five percent four ways, in other words—then the modification allotting ten percent to Belle would only amount to each of them giving up two and a half percent. That's hardly a severe cut to anybody."

  "You're applying logic, with no room for emotion or plain old greed," J.D. pointed.

  "Greedy like spoiled little brats, the way it sounds to me," grumbled Kate.

  Belle drained the brandy she had poured. "At any rate, that's the way it stands...Or, rather, that's the way it stood, before Oliver got killed. I've little reason to expect his passing will suddenly reverse their opinions of me."

  "What about that? Oliver's killing, I mean—his shooting," said J.R. "Do you suspect one of his kids were upset enough over his changing of the will to be behind that?"

  "Oh, God," Belle groaned. "No, I can't bring myself to believe such a thing as that. No matter what else, each and every one of them loved their father. Besides, what would killing Oliver gain any of them? The will is already in place."

  J.D. made a sour face. "I've known plenty of people who supposedly loved somebody they ended up killing. Sometimes in plain awful ways. Heck, there was this old gal once—a mother and grandmother, she was, married and totally devoted from all outward appearances to the same fella for thirty-five years. One evening, nobody was ever sure why, while he was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for her to serve supper, she came up behind him with a heavy old iron skillet full of hot grease and—"

  "J.D.!" Kate cut him short. "I'm pretty sure you made your point. Further details, no matter how cheerful or entertaining, really aren't necessary."

  Belle looked relieved. Catching sight of that, J.D. shrugged off his disappointment over not being able to finish his story, and said, "Okay, if that's the way you feel about it."

  "It is," Kate assured him. Then, turning her focus to Belle, she said, "It seems to me that a more obvious line of questioning should be about those three riders who were hoorahing your buggy ride earlier today. They clearly were out to harm your husband or you. Or both. Any idea who they were? And could they be behind the shooting here this evening?"

  Belle made a groaning sound again. She reached for the brandy and poured some more. Lifting the glass to her mouth but not taking a drink, she said softly, "Yes...and yes."

  Chapter 6

  Further discussion of the mystery riders who had already shown dangerous intentions on at least one prior occasion, was delayed by the arrival of Nora and Chuck Braedon. Now that all members were present, family obligations—no matter how strained—warranted Belle's presence once again in the parlor. And since she made it clear she wasn't ready to talk about the riders in front of anyone else, Kate and J.D. had little choice but to put the matter on hold until they had another chance to be alone with her.

  Despite all the anxiety over hard feelings and volatile tempers, the meeting in the parlor was subdued, respectful, and productive as far as reaching necessary decisions about how to proceed in regard to funeral arrangements for the deceased patriarch. Nora's only contribution was to sob softly throughout, comforted by a misty-eyed, equally quiet Curtis. The two older sons, Clay and Chuck, stood stoically and spoke in low, measured tones. Belle held her own, commenting sparingly, occasionally dabbing away tears with the aid of a handkerchief provided her by the doctor.

  It was decided that the body, which had been shrouded and temporarily moved to a side room, would be taken by wagon that night to the undertaker in Elk City. In the morning, everyone would assemble again, in the town, and finalize remaining details with Reverend Melker, the Baptist minister who served the family's religious needs.

  When Belle stated she wished to accompany the body to town but not return to the house any more that night, no one objected. When Kate extended an invitation for her to stay over with them in their suite at the lodge, Belle did not hesitate to accept.

  J.D. recognized the practical side to this, inasmuch as it would provide the privacy for them to finish where they'd left off, but he couldn't decide if that was the only reason Kate made the offer or if there was more. The love of his life could be headstrong and hot-tempered and certainly quick to display jealousy. But, J.D. reminded himself, she could also be very compassionate. In any case, having Belle spend the night with them didn't seem like a bad idea.

  With that agreed to and assurances from the sheriff that he and his deputy would accompany Belle to town and make sure she got to the Big Thompson Lodge okay, the Blazes saw fit to take their leave. While their presence had been tolerated, other than the initial reaction from Clay when they first showed up, it was nevertheless a time best left to family and those closest to the deceased. Even Belle likely would appreciate some reflective moments to herself, plus she would need the chance to pack an overnight bag and otherwise prepare while the wagon and body were being readied for the trip. J.D. and Kate had some things to hash over, just between themselves, as well.

  It felt good to get out of the crowded house and back into the fresh mountain air. The night was crisp and cool, silver-shot with illumination from the moon and stars, and the scent of high country pine filled their nostrils as they rode at an easy gait away from the ranch headquarters.

  "One thing is for sure," J.D. commented. "Whatever else it looks like we're getting ourselves involved in, the biggest danger might turn out to be the risk of starving to death."

  "How do you figure that?" Kate asked.

  "Look at the record. Our picnic lunch earlier today got interrupted by the runaway buggy. Now the big, fancy dinner we were figuring on tonight clearly ain't gonna happen thanks to a murderous ambush...Can't you see the pattern? If I don't eat pretty soon, I may be too weak to lift my six-gun in case any shootin' trouble pops up."

  Kate rolled her eyes. "Lord. The way you carry on...If you're lucky, maybe we'll get attacked by a mountain lion or something on the trail, while you still have the strength to draw your gun and shoot it. Then we can stop to cook the beast over a campfire, eat it, and you'll be nourished enough to make it the rest of the way to town."

  "Right about now," J.D. replied, "that don't sound half bad."

  They rode for a ways in silence. Until Kate said, "What you said back there a minute ago—about what we're getting ourselves involved in. Is it a done deal, then? Are we going to stay involved?"

  J.D. frowned. "I thought we'd pretty much decided that when we came in response to Belle's note. As I recall, you said something to the effect that we didn't go to all the trouble of saving the Braedons like we did only to have them go ahead and come to harm anyway."

  "I know what I said. Trouble is, they got harmed regardless. Oliver shot to death, Belle possibly still in danger. I don't like that worth a damn."

  "Me neither," J.D. agreed. "I mean, it's not like we signed on to protect them or anything. But all the same..."

  "Still, we need to remember that our help and inv
olvement may not be welcomed by everybody," Kate pointed out.

  "Ain't hardly like we haven't mixed in plenty of other situations where we weren't welcomed by all sides. Hell, it's kinda what we do," J.D. reminded her.

  "But usually get paid for."

  "True," J.D. conceded. "But we both know we don't take jobs that are just about the money...In this case, there's only one thing that matters to me: Considering the past between Belle and me, are you sure you want to stick with this, protecting her and all, and trying to help get to the bottom of who killed Oliver and why?"

  Kate didn't answer right away. She slowed her horse.

  "I'll tell you right now," J.D. added, "I'm inclined to want to try and help her. Maybe for old time's sake, maybe just because I see her as somebody in a tight who ain't got many friends around she can count on. But if you ain't fully comfortable with it, if it'll put a strain between you and me, then there's no way—"

  "Save the rest," Kate stopped him, "or I'll start to think thou doest protest too much."

  J.D. look bewildered. "Say again?"

  "Never mind. Just accept that you've made your point. I, too, am inclined to want to help your former floozy of a girlfriend."

  "Not a real enthusiastic way of putting it."

  "Well, it's the best you're going to get. Much as I wasn't prepared to like her, I've got to admit I've come around some. It's plenty clear she doesn't have many people pulling for her, and you know what a sucker I am for an underdog. What's more, in the face of it all, she's showing guts. And I like that in anybody." Kate turned her head and nailed J.D. with a narrow-eyed glare. "But if it turns out she's got guts enough to try and rekindle some sputtering old flame between the two of you...then I'll shoot her myself."

  Chapter 7

  The first shot ripped apart the night and, in the same instant, the slug whapped! against a corral post three inches from the side of J.D.'s face. Chips of whitewash and wood slivers spat against his cheek. Acting with lightning-fast reflexes, J.D. pitched himself back and down, twisting to sweep his left arm behind him in a motion that sent Kate also sprawling.

  Together, they hit the straw-strewn ground of the shadowy aisle running between rows of tidy horse stalls. Kate immediately rolled one way, J.D. the other. Before they stopped rolling, their hands had blurred to the holsters at their waists and came up with drawn Colts.

  By then, more shots were sizzling through the horse barn of the Big Thompson Lodge. Additional rounds smacked into posts and rails, others gouged low into the dirt. All were concentrated with deadly purpose, peppering the immediate area where J.D. and Kate had hit the deck.

  But the intended targets knew better than to stay where they'd last been seen. Alternately rolling, crawling, and scrambling on hands and knees—between horses' legs and sometimes through deposits of manure, no matter how tidy those stalls looked from the outside—the Blaze team spread out quickly, aiming to keep from showing themselves again until they were better positioned. Had the ambushers been smarter, they might have held their fire momentarily in order to try and track their quarry's movement by sound. But they were too eager for that. Pouring on more lead seemed to be their entire strategy.

  J.D. scooted in behind a pile of gunnysacks packed with oats. He removed his hat and peered cautiously out through a gap between two of the sacks, Colt raised and ready as he made a quick appraisal of his and Kate's situation.

  The shots kept coming, but they were nowhere close to where he now was. The horses in the stalls were getting more and more agitated, snorting nervously, kicking against their confines, a few emitting shrill sounds of alarm.

  The barn was a long rectangular structure with a corral outside on the back end and a set of wide double doors at the front, facing out toward the main part of the lodge. The double doors were propped open in deference to the clear summer night. The lane that led up to the lodge was lined with low-burning lanterns mounted on poles. Illumination from these, combined with more pouring down from the nighttime sky, shone for a ways into the barn. Beyond that limited reach of light, however, everything else quickly melted into a crazy-quilt pattern of gray blotches, deepening shadows, and stark blackness.

  J.D. wished he could call out to Kate—one, to make sure she was okay; two, to gain some sense of where she'd scrambled to. But that would only give away his position and, if she were reckless enough to reply (for which she was too smart), hers as well.

  The other thought that raced through J.D.'s mind was speculation on why Kate hadn't returned fire yet. It meant either she wasn't able to, or that she was waiting for him to make the first move. The latter was more or less standard procedure developed from past similar situations...Although it wasn't like Kate to hold patiently for very long.

  So okay. If it was up to him to open the ball for their side, then J.D. was damn sure up to the task.

  There were three shooters firing on them. Not that it necessarily mattered, but it seemed logical to figure it was the same three from this morning. One of them—the one who'd fired first, by J.D.'s reckoning—was positioned just outside the double doors at the front, off to the right and behind a large wooden rain barrel. A second one was near the rear of the barn, lost in a wall of blackness except for his recurring muzzle flashes. The third was up in a narrow loft that hung cantilevered out over the side of the building opposite from J.D.—the side Kate had scrambled toward. Assuming she'd stayed over there, that meant the third shooter was somewhere above her. The good news was that he couldn't shoot down on her, but neither did she have any better angle for firing up at him.

  The flip side to that was the fact J.D. did have a decent angle on the loft shooter—and vice versa. The trick would be for J.D. to make it count if he opened up on the ambushing buzzard, with only a muzzle flash at an upward angle to aim for. His return fire from that vantage point, if he didn't score an immediate hit, would put him at a real disadvantage because having the cover of merely being behind something wouldn't do him a hell of a lot of good with bullets coming at him from above.

  But J.D. hadn't lasted doing gun work for this long without possessing the nerve to take a chance and also having learned a trick or three along the way.

  He got himself set, extending his gun hand out at arm's length in the direction of the shooter behind the rain barrel. But his real concentration, via peripheral vision, was on the shooter in the loft. As soon as the latter fired off another round at where J.D. wasn't, the gunfighter triggered two quick shots at the rain barrel, revealing where he'd made it to instead. An instant after the Colt did its double buck in his fist, he pitched himself to the opposite end of the gunnysack pile from where his hand had been when he fired. This put him a full five feet away from the muzzle flashes the high ambusher would now be swinging his aim toward.

  When the first bullet sizzled down, blasting open one of the oat sacks, J.D. was ready. He fanned three rapid-fire shots at a spot six inches above where he'd seen flame licking out of a gun barrel. One or more of the slugs hit true. J.D. heard his target emit a strangled cry and then a murky shape came hurtling out and down through the alternating bands of lighter-darker shadows until it crashed heavily to the ground.

  That was one ambusher taken care of. But it still left two others, very much alive and now re-focused with heightened intensity on what J.D. had revealed to be his new location. As he hunkered low behind the oat sacks, thumbing fresh loads into his Colt, a flurry of shots hammered his cover. Puffs of dust spurted up like miniature geysers and streams of oats started pouring out, rattling softly, released through the bullet holes.

  It was at this point—exactly as J.D. had been expecting and counting on—that Kate joined the party.

  J.D. heard the familiar report of her Colt, issuing a set of rapid-fire blasts almost identical to the series he'd unloaded on the loft shooter. Before J.D. had time to look around, he heard the pained yelp from the rear of the barn, followed quickly by the thump of another body hitting the dirt. The shooting from back there stop
ped...permanently, J.D. was confident.

  The shooting from behind the rain barrel stopped, too. With the odds suddenly turned against him, the ambusher out there was clearly having some serious thoughts about continuing what he and his comrades had started.

  Into the lull, J.D. called to Kate. "How you doing over there, love of my life?"

  "Fine, now," she replied. "I thought you were never going to cut loose on that jasper I could hear clumping around above me. I was starting to worry you might be hurt."

  "Nah, I was just funnin' with this sorry lot, letting 'em think they might have a chance against us," J.D. told her.

  "I had the one at the rear spotted by his muzzle flash for a lot longer than he deserved to keep living. My trigger finger was getting mighty itchy."

  "Well, it stands at one apiece. How about the one who's left? You want to draw straws for him, or should we just go ahead and blast the hell out of him together?"

  Kate chuckled. "Maybe we should let him choose."

  "How about it, you bushwhackin' sonofabitch?" J.D. called out. "You mean to finish making a fight of this? Or you gonna yellow-out and end it with your guns thrown down?"

  There was no answer. The only sound was the soft rattle of the oats still pouring out through the bullet holes in the gunnysacks.

  Chapter 8

  "And that was it? You just let him get away?" Sheriff Amos Walburton's heavy scowl hadn't left his face for the past half hour. It was hard to tell, however, if it was from disappointment, anger, or suspicion.

  "We didn't let him get away," J.D. argued. "He took off on us while we were talking...sort of comparing notes, you might say...right after we'd cut down the other two. If you look out there, past that barrel he was hiding behind, you'll see it's all uncut soft grass. We had no way of hearing his footfalls to let us know he'd lit out, otherwise we would have given chase. Off in some trees we found the tied horses that must've belonged to the pair we shot, but the third ambusher was long gone."