Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels

by Stephen Mertz

  Reaching the perimeter of the small natural clearing where the campsite was set up, the men spread a dozen yards apart and closed in like the points of a pincer. Scanning the scene, still from concealment, it appeared the camp was abandoned. The fire had died down to a pile of smoldering ashes and charred chunks of wood still issuing a skyward-crawling trail of smoke. What looked like the wadded up blanket from a bedroll and a few cooking utensils lay bunched together on the far edge of the clearing, but there was no sign of current human activity.

  J.D. felt a clutch in his stomach that he first took for frustration at coming up empty. But then, as he continued to hold and study for an extra measure, he decided it was more a feeling of uneasiness about something. Before he could signal Ruckner to stay put for a minute longer, the old wrangler rose up out of the bushes and strode out into the clearing, cursing loudly.

  "What kind of damned fool rides off and leaves his fire burning? It ain't all that dry yet, being only early summer, but it still would take just a single spark to set—"

  The gunshots blasting out of the underbrush on the back side of the clearing cut short his words and the slugs punching into him sent Ruckner jerking and twisting sharply under the impacts. He pitched onto his right side, hitting the ground hard, crying out in pain and surprise as he went down.

  While Ruckner was still falling, J.D.'s Colt leaped into his fist and he instantly began returning fire, aiming at the cloud of gunsmoke marking where the shots had come from. His teeth clenched, bared in an angry grimace, J.D. fanned the Colt's hammer and sent six rapid-fire rounds sizzling across the breadth of the clearing.

  The second the last chamber emptied, J.D. shifted from his own position—ducking low to the left, hitting and rolling smoothly, coming up closer to where Ruckner had fallen. Even while his body was still in motion, his hands flew to the urgent, swift, well practiced activity of immediately reloading his gun. It seemed almost impossible to think he hadn't scored some kind of hit with his volley of return fire, but there was no way to be certain. Plus, there was the remote possibility that Hiram Woolsey—if that's who it was over there—might not be alone. He might have already hired some replacements for the two comrades he'd lost the previous night.

  As he was snapping shut the Colt's loading gate, J.D. got at least a partial answer in the form of three more shots sailing across the camp and shredding the underbrush back near where he'd initially been. To J.D.'s trained ear, the shots sounded like they matched the first two that had taken down Sam, meaning they came from the same gun. The good news about that was that it indicated only one shooter; the bad news was that it indicated J.D. hadn't scored a serious enough hit to put the gunman out of commission. J.D. swore under his breath. On the assumption it was Hiram he was dealing with—and J.D.'s gut instinct insisted that had to be the case—the Frisco thug was one lucky S.O.B.

  Just for the hell of it and just to give the ol' Hiram something more to think about, J.D. snapped off a couple loosely aimed shots and then shifted his position again. He was closer to where Ruckner lay now. He couldn't get a good look at the old wrangler through the thick brush he was forced to remain behind, but he thought he could hear the wounded man breathing raggedly. J.D. knew he couldn't allow this cat-and-mouse shootout to drag on for very long or Sam's chances of staying alive would slip drastically. What was more, if the ambusher was ruthless enough and noticed his victim still breathing, he might spend a couple additional slugs to finish the job.

  "When are you gonna be ready to start acting like a man, you ambushing coward?" J.D. called out. "Is that the only way they know how to do things in the big, bad city of San Francisco—sneak attacks and back shootings?...How about the two of us step out there in the open and settle this the rest of the way, face to face? Just to show there's no hard feelings, I promise to haul your carcass on down to Elk City and see to it you get a decent burial...after I blast what passes for guts out of you and send your black soul to burn in Hell!"

  J.D. waited.

  But there was no reply. Only silence...except for the ragged, gargling intakes and exhalations of breath coming from Ruckner's still form.

  J.D. began moving once more, sticking to the concealment of the underbrush, this time edging silently and steadily around the perimeter of the camp clearing. If he couldn't shame Hiram into showing himself, he'd have to try and force him out, flush him like a jackrabbit.

  He'd only circled about half the way to where he estimated Hiram to be when J.D. heard the slap and snap of somebody moving hurriedly and carelessly through the brush. It sounded like his quarry was making a run for it. But J.D. had to stay cautious; it might only be some kind of trick. He continued edging along, listening intently. Then, from somewhere in the distance, he heard the snort and whinny of a horse followed quickly by the sound of retreating hoofbeats.

  J.D. cursed. With a sinking feeling, he knew the elusive damned Hiram Woolsey had given him the slip yet again.

  Chapter 13

  "You know," said Doc Beedle, wiping his hands on a bloodstained towel as he emerged from the treatment room at the rear of his office, where he had been tending to Sam Ruckner behind the closed door, "the undertaker, Corradine, made me an interesting offer this morning. He wanted to bet me to see which of us would tally the most customers during the time you two are in town."

  With the latter, his weary, seen-it-all eyes settled on J.D. and Kate, who'd been seated in the outer office waiting area but had risen to their feet when the doctor appeared. "Naturally," the doc went on, "I turned him down, thinking he had me at a distinct disadvantage. With this latest development, however, maybe I should reconsider. If we take into account those who are merely in the vicinity of your...er, activities, then perhaps I'd have a chance at beating that old ghoul after all."

  J.D. met Beedle's gaze with a scowl. "So, in your long-winded way, are you saying Ruckner is going to pull through okay?"

  "Yes, he is."

  "Thank God!" breathed Belle Braedon, who stood with Kate and J.D.

  "He'll never have full use of his left arm again," Beedle added. "The bones in his shoulder are busted to hell and gone, nothing I could do but stop the bleeding, clean out as many fragments as possible, and then brace his arm so the knitting can start. Once it sets, I expect his hand and arm below the elbow will function okay. But, above the elbow, it'll basically be locked in place. After that, how he handles this limitation mentally will be the thing to watch."

  "I thought he was shot twice," said Kate.

  Beedle nodded. "The other slug hit under his arm. Went in at the outer edge of his armpit, exited at an angle out through his pectoral muscle. I cleaned it good, left it to mend itself. It'll be stiff and sore as the dickens for a while, but should have no lasting effect."

  Also present in the outer office area, standing by quietly, were Sheriff Walburton and his deputy, Walt Early.

  Walburton stepped forward, cleared his throat. "Now that you got assurance Ruckner is going to make it okay, what are your intentions, Blaze? You figure to go after the one who did it?"

  "We figure to go after him," Kate answered.

  "And that's for damn sure," J.D. confirmed.

  "You realize, of course, there are legally appointed individuals for that kind of thing, and laws to be followed to see that justice gets meted out properly."

  "You saying you intend to go after that bushwhackin' bastard yourself?" J.D. wanted to know. "If so, you ought to already be on the trail."

  "Maybe he means he wants to deputize us," Kate suggested.

  The sheriff went tight around the mouth. "I don't appreciate being made sport of, ma'am."

  "Then don't leave yourself open for it," Kate told him.

  "So what's your point?" J.D. prodded the lawman. "You don't mean to try and stand in our way, do you?"

  As if with regret, Walburton shook his head. "I got no legal basis for that. You're free to come and go as you please. But if you keep shooting people and stirring up trouble in my territor
y...Well, you may force my hand."

  "What do you expect them to do?" Belle demanded stridently. "Wait around for another ambush attempt. And another after that—until they're the ones riddled with bullets?"

  Walburton held up his hands, palms out. "Calm down, Mrs. Braedon."

  "I won't calm down! How can I be calm with people getting shot and dying all around me?" Sparks danced in Belle's eyes. "What's more, if that remark about 'stirring up trouble' was meant to include me and the issues that arose this morning between myself and Oliver's children, you can go to hell. And if you or anybody else thinks I'm going to allow myself to be pushed around by that pack of spoiled brats just because they were born with the name Braedon—a name that only carries any significance due to the hard work and sacrifice of their father—then you've all got another think coming!"

  What Belle was referring to was an incident that had occurred while J.D. was away from town for the extended amount of time it took to go explore the suspicious smoke, get bushwhacked, then tend to Sam as best he could at the scene before building a travois to transport the wounded man slowly, carefully down off the rugged high ground and eventually on into town.

  While all of that was taking place, Clay and his siblings had shown up to meet with Belle and the preacher to make final arrangements for Oliver Braedon. That went okay and was over quickly. But Clay and the others weren't done. They had some further business that involved a lawyer they brought with them.

  The shyster presented Belle with papers that comprised a hardline threat to block the revised will Oliver had drawn up providing for Belle to have the new house, the ten acres of land, and the percentage of earnings from all Bar OB business. Boiled down, what the legal mumbo jumbo contained in the paperwork amounted to was a claim that the revised will was "predicated" on the new house having been built and occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Braedon for a period of time before the occurrence of Oliver's demise. Inasmuch as none of this had happened yet—the building of the new house not even begun, as a matter of fact—it was the shyster's contention that the new will was not yet in effect and therefore the will as it stood prior to said revisions should be the binding document.

  Of course Belle had the right to hire her own lawyer and contest this interpretation through lengthy court proceedings. Or, it was subtly suggested, perhaps a monetary settlement could be agreed to that would save everybody concerned a lot of time and trouble and public airing of grievances.

  This piece of nastiness had just been laid out and both Belle and Kate—who'd been on hand throughout (yet, to J.D.'s amazement, hadn't once drawn her gun and threatened to shoot anybody)—were freshly seething when J.D. rode in dragging Ruckner behind.

  The legal shenanigans were put on hold, naturally, in view of the news of yet another ambush and the dire condition in which Ruckner was delivered. It was only in the doctor's waiting room, while the medic was intently at work behind the closed door, that J.D. was brought up to speed about what Clay and the others had sprung. By then, the whole bunch had left town and headed back to Bar OB ranch headquarters, not even bothering to check on the status of the old wrangler who'd been there with their father at the start of the spread.

  "Really, Mrs. Braedon. Let's be fair," Sheriff Walburton said now, in response to Belle's angry outburst. "I had no hand in the family dispute that arose earlier. And I assure you I have no side in the matter. My only role is to encourage everybody to keep a cool head and make sure individual behavior stays within the limits of the law."

  Belle's nose crinkled up like she'd caught a bad smell. "Oh sure. Now tell me how that buddy-buddy Wednesday night poker game you sit in on every week with Clay and Chuck and their pipsqueak of a lawyer won't make any difference on the way you look at things. Just like the fact your deputy has been sniffing around Nora Braedon like a dog in heat for the past six months won't have any influence his outlook...

  "In case you haven't figured it out by now, Sheriff, I'm not some shy, oh-gosh little farm wife. I know when the chips are stacked against me and I know when the house has its thumb on the roulette wheel. But none of that will stop me from digging in and making a fight of it, even if all I ever accomplish is breaking off that thumb and ramming it up somebody's—"

  "Belle!" J.D. cut her off. He aimed a disarming grin. "You'd better calm down before you blow a gasket. And, in the process, you might want to work on remembering that you're a lady."

  "I think she was doing just fine," Kate remarked. "That 'lady' stuff is overrated, if you ask me."

  The sheriff, face red-mottled, cleared his throat again. "Seems like a good time to remember what I said a minute ago about everybody keeping a cool head. To help that along for right now, probably the best thing is for me and Walt to take our leave."

  J.D. nodded. "No argument. But here's something else to remember: With Kate and me gone on the trail of the bushwhacker who shot Sam, Belle will be left alone here in town. I guess you already know she's making arrangements for her own suite at the lodge, since it's been made clear she is no longer welcome out at the ranch. Given all the tension in the air and the question of whether or not Oliver Braedon's killer might be somebody other than this jasper we're going after, I think some concern for her safety is warranted. I want your assurance you'll see to that while we're away."

  "I can take care of myself, J.D.," Belle insisted.

  J.D. ignored her. His eyes stayed on Walburton. "I'll hold you personally responsible if any harm comes to her."

  Deputy Early took a step forward, with his hackles up. "That sounded dangerously like a threat, mister."

  J.D. snorted dismissively. "Call it a threat, call it a promise, call it whatever you want, sonny. Just remember it. Do that, there'll be no need for me to follow up on what I said."

  Walburton put a hand on his deputy's shoulder, turned him toward the door, pushed him firmly in that direction. Neither looking back nor saying anything further, the two lawmen left.

  "Not that I'd be up for gunplay or anything like that," Doc Beedle said after they'd gone out the door, "but, if it will help ease anyone's mind, I can make it a point to look in on Mrs. Braedon now and again. From what I overheard, I don't hold at all with the high-handed tactics being employed by Oliver's children. Not at all."

  "You needn't go to the extra bother, Doc. I'll be fine. Really," Belle told him.

  "Or," Beedle said, his wispy white eyebrows raising, "there may be another alternative. When my patient in the next room comes out from under the anesthetic and is ready to be moved, he'll need somewhere to stay. If I know hickory tough Sam Ruckner like I think I do, even weakened from blood loss and with only one arm, he could still mount considerable resistance in the face of any trouble. What if he came to stay with you, Mrs. Braedon, while your other guardians are away? It might cause a few tongues to wag, but the two of you could look after one another and I'd have all the more reason to drop in from time to time to check on the both of you."

  Belle's eyes gleamed and her mouth curved upward in an impish grin. "What a splendid idea! When I get back to my suite, I'll arrange for an extra bed to be set up. And if Sam staying in my quarters scandalizes some of the old biddies in this town, well, getting the dust shaken off their bustles would probably do them some good."

  J.D. and Kate exchanged glances.

  "Sounds like a plan," said Kate.

  J.D. spread his hands. "Works for me."

  Chapter 14

  It was the middle of the afternoon by the time J.D. and Kate left Elk City. They rode straight and hard for the abandoned campsite where Ruckner had been shot.

  "Because Sam was bleeding so bad and needed all my attention," J.D. related once they arrived at the clearing and had dismounted for a follow-up examination of the scene, "I couldn't afford much looking around at the time. While I was hacking down some saplings and twigs for the travois, though, I took a quick peek over there, where the shooting came from. Direction I heard the horse take out of, too."

  He and Kate walked o
ver to where J.D. had gestured. "The ground drops off, as you can see, and it looks like there's a little creek down there. My guess is that Hiram—since I'm convinced it's him we're talking about—was down there watering his horse, probably filling his canteen, getting ready to head out. That's likely why he hadn't yet killed his fire all the way and still had the blanket and part of his mess kit to pick up. I figure he was coming back up the slope to finish striking the camp when he spotted Sam entering the clearing, cussing about the still-smoldering fire...A minute later, Hiram would've been the one here in the middle of the clearing and we could have gotten the drop on him."

  "If wishes were fishes..." Kate muttered, peering down the slope, through the trees and rocks, to where a narrow, twisting stream glittered in the dappled light.

  "Yeah. Ain't that the truth." J.D. sighed. "Well, let's go ahead and lead our horses on down. Nothing more to see here. If we're gonna pick up that skunk's trail, down there's where we'll find it."

  As they turned back to where they'd ground-reined their mounts, the sounds of somebody else approaching the clearing reached them. It clearly wasn't anyone attempting stealth, so there seemed to be no reason for alarm. Nevertheless, strictly out of habit, the Blazes spread wider apart from one another as they slipped the keeper thongs off the hammers of their pistols and then let their hands hang loose and ready near the grips of the weapons.

  The sounds drew closer until three horsemen emerged from the brush at nearly the same point J.D. and Kate had entered the clearing only a few minutes ago. The impression given was that the three had followed a similar path of ascent to reach this spot.

  The middle rider was Chuck Braedon. The other two were nondescript wranglers J.D. couldn't remember having seen before.