Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels

by Stephen Mertz

  "See?" said J.D. afterwards, when he could catch his breath again. "Who needs a luxury lodge suite when we've got the luxury of each other?"

  "Maybe," Kate allowed. Then, her eyes twinkling in the flicker of campfire light, she added impishly, "But what if I need a little more convincing before the night is over?"

  "I'll do my best," J.D. replied with exaggerated seriousness. "But you know how that ol' rascal down there has a mind of his own...I don't know if I can hold him back from doing just a little more convincing."

  Chapter 16

  "Am I the only one feeling a cold spot between my shoulder blades, like somebody has a gun muzzle pressed there?" Kate asked, somewhat casually, as she and J.D. steered their horses down the main street of Silver Dog.

  "No, there's enough of that feeling to go around," J.D. assured her. "I just wish it was a gun barrel jammed in my back—that'd mean some sumbitch was standing close enough to where I'd at least have the chance of grabbing hold of him. This way, the only chance is that any window or doorway might suddenly have a bullet sizzling out of it."

  "Then remind me again, why are we putting on this brash display right out in the open?"

  "Because I'm sick and tired of playing cat-and-mouse with that damned Hiram," said J.D. "I mean to flush him out. The quicker the better, so we can go ahead and get done with him once and for all."

  Kate said, "You realize, of course, that even though his trail led here, Hiram may have only swung this way in order to stock up on supplies. Possibly stay the night. He could already be on the move again."

  "Anything's possible," J.D. allowed. "But he can't afford to keep running forever, not if it means coming up short on the job he was sent to do and reporting back empty-handed as far as having dealt with Belle. The way she described those Ballard brothers, they wouldn't react kindly to failure like that, and Hiram ought to know it better than anybody...No, I think it's way more likely ol' Hiram came here looking to hire himself some new gunnies to back his play. And then it'd just be a matter of time before he heads back to Elk City with his aim set on Belle again. What we need to do is stop him short, right here in Silver Dog."

  Kate pursed her lips. "Okay. Sounds like you've chewed the matter mighty fine."

  "Yeah," J.D. sighed, one side of his mouth lifting in a lop-sided grin. "I had plenty of time to give it a good thinking-over while I lay nice and quiet and peaceful in my bedroll last night."

  "Uh-huh," Kate replied, keeping her lush lips pursed and adding a mildly arched brow to her expression. "I had a nice restful night, too, in that fresh, clean mountain air. For a while, though, some kind of little twig or something kept poking at me before I was finally able to roll out of the way and get good and comfortable."

  They plodded on silently for a ways after that, each displaying smug, satisfied smiles over the tension-breaking banter and the teasing digs they'd gotten in on one another.

  At two hours short of noon, Silver Dog was every bit as busy and boisterous as you would expect for a rugged mining camp. Actually, its size and sprawl was enough for it to be considered a full-fledged town. But most of its inhabitants probably weren't interested in that distinction. A mayor, a town council, a constable...those type of civic embellishments hardly fit the concerns of the rough-and-tumble crowd who only cared that they had a place—no matter what you called it—to buy goods and services that included the availability of plenty of whiskey and fleshly delights.

  And, judging from the numerous gaudy establishments mixed in with the other businesses lining the main drag, none of that appeared in short supply.

  At the far end of the street from where they'd ridden in, J.D. and Kate found a livery stable that looked both sizable and well kept. A flat wooden sign nailed high between two posts read simply: LIVERY. And below that, in smaller letters: Hank Brimbel, prop.

  As soon as J.D. and Kate reined up before the sign, a slat thin woman wearing a shapeless felt hat, a flannel shirt, and baggy bib overalls tucked into high, thick-soled work boots emerged from the open double doors of the low-peaked barn. She had a three-tined pitchfork in her right hand and, in her left, clenched a big blue hanky that she was using to mop sweat on the sides of her neck. The wild profusion of gray-streaked, damp-tipped reddish curls that tumbled free from the confines of the hat framed a narrow, plain-featured face and a toothy, friendly smile.

  "Mornin', folks. You just arrivin' in town?" she asked.

  J.D. nodded. "That we are."

  "Welcome to you, then. My name's Hank Brimbel. That's 'Hank' as in short for Henrietta, by the way. But the Hank on the sign there, that ain't me. That was for my husband. His name was Henry but everybody called him Hank, too. We was Hank and Hank." The woman emitted a kind of honking laugh. "Folks really got a kick out of that."

  "I bet they did," J.D. muttered.

  "What about your husband?" Kate asked. "Did he...?"

  "Yeah, the old fool up and died on me," Hank said. "Worked himself to death. Left all this—and the work that goes with it, mind you—to me. Some might see it as he wanted me to work myself to death, too. But I don't buy that. He was too kind a soul for that. Besides, if that was his intent, it didn't work very well. He's been gone nigh two years now, and I'm still kicking."

  Kate smiled. "Indeed you are."

  "But enough of that. I tend to prattle on sometimes," Hank declared. "You folks plan on being with us for a spell? Or just a short stay?"

  "Remains to be seen," J.D. said somewhat tersely.

  "Most likely not for very long, though," Kate added in a friendlier tone. "But, either way, we're looking to have our horses tended to and put up for a while. If you've got room."

  "I got plenty of room, miss. My rates are fair, and so is my care." Hank flashed another wide smile. "I'm thinkin' about adding that to my sign one of these days—you know, like what they call an advertising slogan."

  "It's clever and catchy," Kate allowed. "You should go ahead and put it on there."

  "You got a lot of competition in town that you need to advertise against?" said J.D.

  "Not really. The Buford House, that big hotel 'bout halfway back down the street" —Hank gestured with the hand still clutching the big blue hanky— "they got a kind of corral set up out back where they board a few horses for some of their guests. But that's about it." She brought the hanky back to the side of face and patted at some more sweat. She momentarily patted away her smile, too. "Fact is, some folks don't cotton much to doin' business with a female."

  "The real fact," Kate said, scowling, "is that some folks are too rude and stupid to be let loose in public."

  Hank shrugged. "Luckily, there ain't too many of that kind around. I get by okay."

  "How about horses to sell?" J.D. said, changing the subject. "You got any nags on hand that are for sale?"

  "Reckon I do. But," Hank added, her smile returning, "since you put me in the role of a seller, guess I ought to object to callin' 'em 'nags'. What I got is strictly fine horseflesh."

  "I'm thinking we might want to add a pack horse when we ride on from here," J.D. explained. "What I'd want would be something good and sturdy but still capable of moving at a pretty good clip if need be."

  "I got a few I think would fit that description. Why don't you climb on down from those saddles. I'll lead your horses on back and start getting 'em stripped down while you look over the animals I got for sale."

  It was while they were following Hank through the livery barn that J.D. spotted what the ruse about possibly wanting to buy another horse was really meant to accomplish. In one of the side stalls, there was a black and white pinto gelding exactly like the one Hiram Woolsey had been riding the first time they'd encountered him up on the hogback ridge, when he and his two accomplices had been hoorahing the Braedon buggy. J.D. and Kate exchanged quick sidelong glances and Kate gave a barely perceptible tip of her chin to indicate she was seeing the same thing.

  It wasn't like there was only one pinto in all of the Rockies' front range, o
f course. But they weren't all that numerous, and the markings on this one fit damn near perfectly to J.D.'s memory of the animal he'd tipped Hiram off of.

  "Hold it a minute," J.D. said, halting Hank.

  When Hank looked back questioningly, J.D. jabbed a thumb to indicate the pinto. "This horse here," he said. "You been boarding him long?"

  Hank shook her head. "Uh-uh. He ain't one of the ones I got for sale."

  "I understand that. Thing is, he looks mighty familiar to me. About six months back, see, there was a fella who rode with us for a while. We ended up parting ways, for reasons that don't matter. But danged if this horse sure don't look like the one he was riding back then." J.D. glanced over at Kate. "Don't you agree?"

  "Yeah. Looks the same to me," Kate said.

  "Reckon it might be, then," Hank allowed.

  "Well, if it is, if our old riding pard is in town, we wouldn't mind looking him up and having a chin wag with him," J.D. explained. "His name is Woolsey, by the way. Tall, thin fella with dark hair and long sideburns."

  Hank looked thoughtful. For the first time, her appraisal of the Blazes—in particular the way they wore their guns and carried themselves, not to mention the fact that Kate happened to be a gun-packing, beautiful woman—was evident. She gave the impression, J.D. decided, of being someone who didn't miss much but at the same time was careful of showing just how much she took in.

  "Description sounds about right," Hank said after a pause. "Can't say about the name, though. He didn't leave one. Showed up late last evenin', was tuckered out and in a hurry to get himself situated somewhere for the night. Paid in advance to put up his horse for two nights and two days. Said he'd be back around if his time in town stretched out any longer."

  "And you ain't seen him since?"

  "Nope."

  "Don't suppose you happened to notice which way he headed after he left off his horse?"

  Hank shook her head. "I got busy with the animal. He just headed up the street. That time of night there was still a couple eatin' places open, plenty of saloons and the like where...well, if what they got to offer was what he was lookin' for."

  "If I know Woolsey," J.D. remarked, "one of the saloons'd be where he headed first...Anyway, if he should come around again before we run into him, tell him J.D. and Kate are in town looking for him. Will you do that?"

  "I will for a fact."

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, J.D. and Kate were seated at a checkered cloth-covered table near the rear wall of a narrow, high-ceilinged restaurant called Stroheim's. The interim, since leaving the livery stable, had been filled by taking a leisurely stroll up and down the boardwalks lining either side of Silver Dog's main street. The primary purpose for this was to get themselves seen, make their presence in town known, and—by the display of guns around their waists and the Winchester Yellowboy J.D. carried slung over one shoulder—leave a clear impression what their stock in trade was.

  In the course of the stroll, they had paused frequently to gaze at shop window displays, greeted other pedestrians with nods and friendly smiles, and slowed their steps to glance covertly through batwing doors into the smoky interiors of each saloon they passed. At one point they'd stopped at the mouth of an alley to watch two young black boys do acrobatic stunts and perform energetic dance routines to the talented banjo strumming of their legless father.

  "You ever catch me making noises like I'm feeling sorry for myself about something," J.D. muttered to Kate as they walked away, after dropping a generous donation into the hat that rested upside down on the ground beside the banjo player's stumps, "I want you to take the butt end of this rifle and clop me alongside the head just as hard as you can."

  During their walk, from one end of the street to the other, the delicious aromas wafting from Stroheim's had been beckoning J.D. Finally, with the noon hour nearly at hand, he could resist no longer and so had steered their course inside.

  "It beats me," Kate marveled, "how you can worry so much about eating at a time like this, when the turn of every corner holds the potential for somebody waiting to jump out and pump your belly full of lead instead of food."

  "A body needs nourishment all the same. If for no other reason than to keep up the strength for shooting back," J.D. replied. "It's as simple as that."

  "For you, maybe."

  "So you're not going to eat anything, then?"

  Kate looked aghast. "Are you kidding? You think I'm going to sit here and watch you stuff your face while being bombarded by all these wonderful smells and not have something for myself? A gal's got to keep her strength up too, you know."

  Their order was taken by a stout, rosy-cheeked woman with a thick German accent and iron gray hair worn in a severe bun. She returned first with tall steins of dark beer, followed shortly by platters of schnitzel and fresh-baked rye bread along with bowls of sauerkraut and hot German potato salad.

  Despite the fare proving every bit as excellent as its aroma had promised, both of the Blazes nevertheless exercised the discipline to keep from stuffing themselves too full. This was naturally more difficult for J.D. than Kate. But for anyone who made his or her living with a gun, it was nearly as important to avoid getting bogged down by a heavy meal as it was to keep from impairing one's reflexes with an excess of alcohol.

  As Kate and J.D. enjoyed their meal, the remainder of the restaurant filled to capacity with a hungry, boisterous lunch crowd. The eating establishment was clearly and deservedly very popular.

  From the vantage point of the rear table they had chosen for that very purpose, J.D. and Kate carefully scanned the faces of all who entered. None seemed to warrant closer scrutiny...None, that was, until the profusion of gray-streaked curls framing the unsmiling countenance of Hank Brimbel came into view. They watched as she threaded her way the length of the place and came to a halt in front of their table.

  "I see you found your way to the best vittles in town," she said above the din of conversation and the clank of plates and pans.

  J.D. nodded. "If there was any better, I'd surely be surprised to hear it...Would you like to join us? There's plenty of room at the table, we could grab an extra chair from somewhere."

  "No, but thanks for the invite all the same. I've got to get back to my business." Hank's eyes narrowed with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "You happen to run into the fella you was askin' about earlier—that former runnin' pard of yours?"

  "Not yet," Kate answered somewhat guardedly, trying to read Hank's tone and expression.

  "Didn't think so. But it so happens he's also lookin' for you two. In a way, you might even say he found you. Leastways, he knows where you're at...That's why I'm here. He sent me."

  "Sent you to do what?" J.D. wanted to know.

  "To tell you where you can find him. Where he's waitin' for you."

  J.D. set his jaw hard. "Where?"

  Hank leaned closer. "Far end of the street, to the north. Down in the flat near the creek. Where the burned-out shell of the old Buford House hotel stands—the original one that got wiped out by fire when the town was first starting up."

  "He give a name?" Kate said.

  "Said you'd know who he was."

  "He alone?"

  "Didn't see anybody else. But I don't know that I'd put a whole lot of stock in that."

  J.D. slid his chair back from the table. "You got any kind of law around here?"

  Hank shook her head. "Not really. Got what they call a Miners Council that tries to handle claim disputes and such. Half the time nobody pays attention to their rulings, though. Things usually come down to who shoots the fastest and surest and is the one still standing when the argufyin' is over."

  "Good. Just the way I like it," said J.D. "How about an undertaker? Town got one of them?"

  Hank nodded.

  "Good again. Somebody might want to suggest for him to get a pine box or two nailed together."

  Hank placed her hands flat on the table and leaned her face in closer to J.D. and
Kate. "Okay. It's clear what you're fixing to go do. Just like it was clear what you came here for, and that this ain't your first trip around the dance floor together. But hear me good: This hombre who sent me here...he's pure snake mean and dangerous. I could see it in his eyes and smell it oozing off of him."

  "What do you see when you look in our eyes?" Kate asked.

  "I see danger there, too...But what I'm afraid I don't see is the snake meanness you're gonna need to match."

  Chapter 17

  "You don't believe that Hiram is waiting for us alone, do you?" Kate asked.

  J.D. gave a single shake of his head. "Like Hank said, I wouldn't put a whole lot of stock in it. Not for a second. If Hiram didn't have somebody new hired to back him up, instead of inviting us to a face-to-face he'd be running like a cat slapped in the ass by a boot jack."

  "So we're walking into another ambush. A trap."

  "No, we're walking toward what Hiram means to be a trap. If we don't let ourselves get caught in it, it just might snap shut and backfire on him."

  They were once again walking down the main drag of Silver Dog, having reached the north end where the boardwalks and buildings tapered off and stopped. The street became a winding, deeply-rutted road that eventually disappeared over a long hill and meandered off to the outlying digs and whatever lay beyond. Twenty or so yards ahead and to their right, as if the rest of the town had purposely separated itself from the bad luck spot, they could see the charred timbers and mostly collapsed ruins of what Hank had identified as the original Buford House hotel. It lay downslope from the road, in the center of what had once been a broad clearing now choked with weeds and sapling growth. Farther down was a staggered line of ash, cottonwood, and fir trees that marked the path of the same nameless creek they had followed from the ambush campsite.

  J.D. stopped walking and gave the scene a final close scrutiny. "What I'm thinking," he said, "is that I'll angle down from here and walk out in the flat area between the ruins and the creek. If Hiram is going to stick with the pretense of a straight-up confrontation, that's a likely spot to start it off."