"If these fellas even had them," J.D. added.
"If."
"I'm flat out of ideas," he said. "And worn-out, too."
"You want to bed down here?" Kate asked, sounding appalled.
"No, ma'am. I thought we'd ride another mile or two and camp out in the open."
"Another mile or two which way?"
"Well, Salt Lake City's north," J.D. replied. "The nearest place where we can cable Hiram Koch, except for Provo."
"No more Provo," Kate agreed. "What should we tell him?"
J.D. shrugged. "What can we tell him, but the truth? We never saw the documents and don't know where to find them. If these boys had them, they've gone off to parts unknown."
"Meaning we don't get paid."
"I reckon not."
"Damn it! That's disappointing."
"Yes, it is."
"How will you make it up to me?"
"I'll do my best to think of something," J.D. said.
Chapter 15
J.D. and Kate rode into Salt Lake City shortly after 8 a.m., hungry and tired despite a fair night's sleep under the stars. They found a hotel first, the Beehive, then stabled their horses, got directions to the Western Union office, and dispatched a telegram to Hiram Koch at the address they had for him, in Reno. Back at the hotel, they went for breakfast at its restaurant, a fragrant place called Lorelie's, with seating for a hundred, give or take.
J.D. ordered the works: fried eggs, biscuits and sausage gravy, ham and grits, with coffee. Kate, being a bit more delicate, settled for eggs and hash, with buttered toast. They'd nearly finished when two men entered the restaurant and made a beeline for their table.
One of them was Hiram Koch; the other was a stranger, dressed expensively, complete with walking stick and derby hat tucked underneath his arm.
"You must have set a record, getting over here from Reno," Kate told Koch.
"Not so impressive, I'm afraid," Koch said. "I came directly here from Reno, two days back. An emissary from the stage line got your wire this morning and alerted me. May we join you?"
"Who's 'we'?" J.D. inquired.
"Forgive my lapse in manners," Koch replied. "Mr. and Mrs. Blaze, meet Brodie Spendlove."
J.D. felt Kate watching him, while he watched Spendlove take a seat. "Spendlove," he said. "That rings a bell."
"Indeed, it should," Koch said. "You may have things to talk about, but I'll complete my business first and leave you to it."
"As to that," Kate said, "we don't have what you bargained for."
"In fact, you've done your job," Koch said. "The bandits are accounted for—six by your hands, from what I understand—and I now understand the motive for the robbery, thanks in large part to Mr. Spendlove, here."
"That's more than we can say," J.D. replied.
Koch took an envelope from somewhere underneath his suit jacket and placed it on the breakfast table. "As agreed," he said. "One thousand for identifying those responsible, another three thousand for those you put to rest, at five hundred per head, and two hundred—"
"For peace of mind," Kate said. She took the envelope and said, "We thank you."
"And you're welcome," Koch said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a train to catch."
"Not traveling by stage?" J.D. inquired.
Tipping his hat, Koch said, "I can't abide the rattletraps," then left them seated at the table with Spendlove.
"Alone at last," the stranger said.
"Is this where we get warned to leave the state and keep our mouths shut, or..."
"Good heavens, no. You've earned my heartfelt thanks," Spendlove replied. "I thought you might have questions."
"Will you answer them?" Kate asked.
"Within the limits of my power and my personal responsibility."
"I only have one question," J.D. said. "What was this all about?"
"The documents, of course."
Kate pinned him with her russet stare and asked, "What documents?"
"Ah, well...that's where my duty must require me to be vague."
"Duty to whom?"
"My state, its government, my church, and to the Father of us all."
"That's quite a cast of characters," said J.D.
"Yes, indeed."
"So, you can't tell us anything?"
Spendlove considered that, then said, "Will you accept a hypothetical?"
"Depends," Kate said.
"Imagine, if you will, a set of letters—falsified and forged, of course—that cast severe doubt on the reputation of an institution that's revered by countless thousands."
"Like a church, for instance?" Kate asked.
"If you like. Further suppose these letters, libelous and vile, suggested that a leading figure in that institution, widely known for acts of charity and heroism, was responsible for a horrific crime."
"Such as?"
"Is that germane?"
"Could be," J.D. replied.
"All right. Let's say a massacre," Spendlove replied.
"Oh, Lord," Kate said.
"It's Mountain Meadows," J.D. challenged, watching Spendlove's smile turn upside-down.
Every schoolchild knew the story. Back in 1857, with the Civil War already brewing up in Kansas and Missouri, an emigrant party from Arkansas crossed southern Utah, en route to California. It was the Baker-Fancher wagon train, around one hundred forty souls in all. While camped, they were attacked by members of the Utah Territorial Militia, backed by Paiute raiders working with the Mormon troops. One hundred twenty members of the party had been slaughtered and hastily buried in rough, shallow graves. Seventeen survivors, all children below the age of seven, had been kidnapped and adopted into local Mormon families. Since then, there had been rumors of indictments coming, but the crime remained officially unsolved.
"Again, I'm speaking hypothetically, but if that were the case—"
"Somebody's pointing fingers at the church's leadership," Kate said. "Your president's always denied involvement in it."
"A denial I accept as true," said Spendlove. "The purported letters—forgeries, I say again—might be regarded as a crude attempt at blackmail."
"Or the kind of evidence that hangs folks," J.D. said.
"The purported author of the letters is, alas, deceased," Spendlove replied. "He cannot be subpoenaed or examined under oath. Without verification, letters forged over his signature are worthless in a court of law."
"There's other courts, though," Kate observed. "The newspapers, for instance. Word of mouth."
"Indeed. Which makes examination of the letters by an expert panel critical."
"What kind of experts?" J.D. asked.
"Graphologists," Spendlove replied, then translated. "Handwriting analysts, familiar with the late, purported author's penmanship. Historians, of course, who've catalogued his movements and assure us that his knowledge of the incident in question would be minimal, at best."
"Convenient," J.D. said, "the so-called author being dead and gone."
"In fact, I wish he were alive," said Spendlove. "He could settle this with a denial and be done with it."
"But as it stands..."
"The forger of these letters, also, is among the recently departed," Spendlove said. "As is the vendor who received them and presumed to sell them on."
"Norval Jolley," said Kate.
"None other. And his widow, while cooperative to a point, as Mr. Koch discovered, still denies all knowledge of the documents themselves."
"Too bad the letters haven't turned up," J.D. said.
"Ah, but they have," Spendlove informed him. "I received them just last night, from an associate who has been searching for them, not unlike yourselves."
"One of the Danites," Kate put in, not asking him.
"While not entirely mythical," Spendlove replied, "that brotherhood has long since been dissolved. They are defunct. Extinct."
"Some of them, anyway, since last night," J.D. said.
"I understand you may have met prete
nders to the title, Mr. Blaze. But I'm empowered to assure you that the Danites are no more. They have retired and been eradicated. They will never ride again, on any errand, be it vengeance or some wholly unrelated matter."
"Doesn't help the families of those aboard that coach in White Pine County," Kate remarked.
"My understanding is that settlements shall be arranged, anonymously. And while money, obviously, can't mend broken hearts, it sometimes makes the future brighter. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Depends on how much money," J.D. said.
"I'm not conversant with the details," Spendlove said, "nor would I be inclined to share them, if I were. I have a price for you, however."
"Us?" Kate said.
"As an incentive toward forbearance. Understanding."
"Silence," J.D. added.
"That's implicit," Spendlove said.
Kate asked, "What kind of an incentive?"
"I believe ten thousand dollars should be adequate."
"My memory's already getting hazy," J.D. said.
"What memory?" Kate asked.
Another envelope, this one considerably fatter, slid across the breakfast table. Kate reached out and stashed it with the one from Hiram Koch, as Brodie Spendlove rose to leave.
"It's been a pleasure meeting both of you," he said. "In case our paths don't cross in future—"
"I don't see that happening," Kate said.
"In that case, happy travels and a long life to you both."
When he was gone, J.D. told Kate, "I feel like I've been bought and sold."
"Look on the bright side, babe," she said. "You don't come cheap."
BLAZE!
ZOMBIES OVER YONDER
STEPHEN MERTZ
Prologue
Kate Blaze was running for her life.
There was no sign of J.D. anywhere!
Her slapping footfalls and the rasp of her tortured breathing were the loudest sounds in the desert night. Her lungs ached. Her heart pounded against her ribcage from the extended exertion. Tracking time was only a memory. She could recall no beginning to this mad dash to escape. There was no end in sight. She could only keep running.
Then she heard the weird sounds of her pursuers' feet, shuffling across the ground. Not far behind her...and closing!
How could this be?
No matter how far and fast she ran, she could not outrun that inexorable shuffling. They did not run after her but kept coming on no matter how fast she ran.
A jumble of rocks came into view.
Kate flung a look over her shoulder. She heard them but she could not see them. Could they see her? She dodged behind the rocks. She crouched down on her butt. She felt like a little girl playing hide and seek with her brothers. Except now she held a six-gun in each hand, ready to throw lead. She would blast the living hell out of—
The strange shuffling sound merged with a semi-human sort of grunting and groaning babble becoming louder by the second.
Closing in from every side.
Coming for her!
Then they appeared. Various shapes and sizes and races of what had once been human beings. Now the grotesque walking dead in various stage of decomposition. Reaching for her. Groping.
She could not contain the scream that burst from her but was swallowed by the blam!-blam!-blam! of gunfire when she stared pulling the trigger.
Blindly.
Point blank at the advancing horde.
This did not stop them. They lurched and staggered when bullets struck them, nothing more. With ghoulish determination, they reached for her.
Kate thought, Screw this! I've gotta get out of here!
She darted on her hands and knees through a gap in their ranks before any of them could respond. She resumed running.
Where the hell was J.D.? She sure could use that husband of hers right about now. She was crazy about J.D. but if she got out of this alive and found out he'd been passing time on a barstool somewhere, sweet talking some honky-tonk angel, well, there would be hell to pay.
"J.D.!"
She called his name at the top of her voice. She heard the rising panic in the cry but she could not help herself. They were more than just husband and wife. They were partners. They had taken hostile fire together. He was someone she could count on. Or so she thought.
"J.D., where are you? I need you!"
She heard the steady shuffle of her pursuers. They were closing. She had to keep moving. Had to keep running.
Before she knew it, she was in town. The little ramshackle community slept in the early morning darkness. The buildings were limned in silver moonlight, still and silent.
Then she heard the creak of batwing doors swinging open. The clump of boot heels on the boardwalk fronting the saloon. There was no mistaking the shadowy figure that emerged.
"J.D.!"
Her joy sped up her running feet, taking her closer and closer to her husband. Relief coursed through her as the shuffling--even more of them than before!—and the grunting and moaning seemed to be almost upon her. Her pursuers crowded the street in her wake. Unceasing. Relentless.
But now she was safe!
J.D. stepped off the boardwalk. He started in her direction.
Something was wrong!
It was J.D., all right, but he advanced toward her with the same herky-jerky movement as her pursuers. The flesh was falling from his face. Nose rotted away. Dirt stuck to him. A dank, earthy odor. One eyelid gone. His lurching figure reached for her with both hands.
"Kate, come to me..."
A voice from the grave! My God! He was one of them!
Her own scream woke her up.
The coldness went away. That first foggy realization came to her. She was dreaming. The dream went away.
It was night. The sky an endless panorama of stars sparkling like diamonds against black velvet. A cool night, yet comforting warmth enveloped her.
She lay in her husband's arms in the bedrolls they'd placed together on the bank of the San Pedro. The horses had been staked for the night in tall grass. The river gurgled pleasantly, a silver ribbon under a three-quarter moon.
J.D. was not one of the walking dead. No one was pursuing her. She was in her husband's arms. Never had the heat of his maleness been more appreciated. And given the physical intimacy they so often shared, that was saying something!
She and J.D. Blaze traveled the west, hiring out as gunfighters. The two fastest guns in the west, bound by a love that burned. They took on jobs that ranged from body guard assignments to providing security for the transport of valuable items to bounty hunting.
They were camped out in the Arizona Territory, a half day's ride from Whiskey Bend where an old friend of J.D.'s, the sheriff, had alerted J.D. via telegraph that a reward was being offered for the apprehension of a fugitive. They were on their way to Whiskey Bend in hopes of another profitable venture.
J.D.'s lips, close to her ear, whispered from behind.
"You were having a nightmare."
"Tell me about it."
As usual, they slept nude. Each with pistol and rifle within easy reach on their side of the bedroll. A breeze carried on it the scent of mesquite, rustling leaves in an old cottonwood. From not too far away, a coyote yelped its lament.
Kate's mind knew she had been dreaming. Her abdominal muscles, however, remained tightly knotted with a vague, lingering premonition...
Being in J.D.'s arms always felt good. Her favorite sensation to wake up to. What could a crazy dream mean? The walking dead pursuing her. What nonsense! The hell with dreams! She preferred the very real sensation of her husband's shaft as it began to grow warm and hard against her backside.
J.D. whispered in her ear, "I happen to have a secret method for helping women forget their nightmares."
"Oh? Have you had a lot of practice in developing this secret method?"
"Some. Would you like a demonstration?"
She remained in his arms but rolled around so she faced him. The hardening shaft
brushed her front side. They'd been married for two years and every time still felt like the first time. Her hands clasped behind his neck. Their lips locked in a hot tongue kiss.
She whispered in his ear.
"What are you waiting for?"
Chapter 1
The train whistle awakened J.D.
His eyes snapped open. The steady back-and-forth of the train car had lulled his senses.
He was a dark-haired man, muscular, five-foot-ten with a rangy build, every inch of it muscle. He wore a faded calico shirt, Levi's and boots. From under the brim of a well-worn Stetson, his eyes observed the world with a habitual squint. His age could have been a half-dozen years either side of thirty. A Colt revolver rode holstered at his left hip.
Kate sat across from him.
"Ah, you're waking up. That's good. We're escorting a prisoner, J.D. We're not supposed to be catching up on our sleep."
Kate was a few years younger than J.D. Intelligent, sassy brown eyes and high cheekbones. Like her husband, she was dressed for the trail. She too wore a sidearm.
The first rays of morning sunlight streamed through the Pullman windows. The locomotive was chugging up a steep grade in the southeastern corner of the Arizona Territory, traversing a plain of mesquite and cactus ridged with hills and, beyond them, emerald green, timbered mountains.
J.D. said, "I wasn't sleeping. I was thinking."
"Thinking with your eyes closed? Come on, J.D."
Cy Boggs, seated at the window to J.D.'s right, smirked.
"The badass gunfighter, J.D. Blaze. A hen-pecked hubby. That's rich."
"This is family business," said Kate. "You shut up, Boggs, or I'll finish what J.D. started and rap up the other side of your damn head."
A raw purple welt ran across Boggs' face. His left eye was swollen shut. A rail-thin man, he wore the same trousers, striped dealer's shirt with gartered sleeves and gambler's narrow-brimmed hat that he'd been wearing last night when J.D. and Kate tracked him down in a Tombstone gambling den.
She added for J.D.'s benefit, "Do try to stay awake."
He tugged his ear lobe irritably. He loved this woman beyond measure despite (or maybe because of) the fact that she never missed a thing. Sometimes, such as in the heat of battle like last night in Tombstone, that was a good thing. Other times...
Blaze! Western Series: Six Adult Western Novels Page 49