Barbary Coast (A Searcher Western Book 12)

by Len Levinson

  I've got to stop, said a little voice inside her head, but she was too far gone. You can’t let him do this to you, the voice cried desperately, making it all the more exhilarating. This wasn’t a gentleman like her husband, or the weasel Frankie Bendigo. John Stone was a raging stampeding bull. Amanda lost herself in the grand crescendo.

  Nothing, not even Little Phil Sheridan and the entire Union Cavalry Corps, could stop him now. Her femininity enveloped him, sent thrills of ecstasy into the farthest reaches of his body. The volcano exploded, spewing molten lava into the heavens. A bright flash of light illuminated the room, as sighs melded with the creak of the bed. Gradually the sounds decreased, and movement came to an end. They lay conjoined, dazed by their exertions, breathing heavily. He pulled the blanket over them and cuddled against her.

  She tried to clear her mind. I should never let it go that far. How could I give myself to him? She thought of Randy and felt a twinge of pain. Frankie Bendigo meant nothing, but this was serious infidelity. She wondered who she was, that she could give love to a man who killed her husband.

  She remembered the main street of Lodestone. My husband shot in the prime of life by John Stone. She reached beneath the pillow. Her fingers closed around the silver dagger. Now we'll even the score, Slowly, carefully, she drew the dagger into the open.

  He lay with his cheek against her breast. To hell with Phyllis Redpath, I’ll worry about Marie tomorrow. He touched his tongue to her nipple. Where are my guns? He summoned strength to retrieve them, when something caught a glimmer of moonlight

  He grabbed her hand, about to plunge the knife into his back. She struggled against his strength, but he was too much for her. He pinned her hands to the pillow and stared at the silver dagger. She tried to kill me!

  She felt his great weight on top of her, viselike hands holding her down. Her struggle achieved nothing. Finally she went limp on the pillow, eyes glaring hatred at him.

  ‘What’d I ever do to you?’ he asked gently.

  ‘My husband was Randy LaFollette,’ she whispered.

  Silence for several seconds. His ardor vanished in the cold light of reality. She lured me here to kill me. He pried the dagger from her fingers and threw it into the fireplace. Sparks sputtered into the air. He climbed out of bed, found his guns, lit the lamp.

  She lay naked, face streaked with tears. He dressed as she sobbed softly on the bed. Stone covered her with a sheet and blanket. ‘Didn’t mean to shoot your husband,’ he said, dropping his old Confederate cavalry hat onto his head. ‘Sorry.’

  I gave him my deepest love, and he killed Randy. The pain in her heart grew more intense. He bent over the bed and touched his lips to her forehead. She snarled and ripped her fingernails across his cheek. He moved toward the door and was gone.

  She heard his footsteps disappear down the hallway. Grab the gun and shoot him in the back. She saw herself in bed, loving her husband’s killer with every fiber of her being. He made her scream for joy, and now, in that special odd part of her mind, wished he’d return and do it again.

  The lamp flickered. She put on her robe and sat at the table. Grief-stricken, confused, she absentmindedly raised a glass of wine and drank it down. Tears streaked her cheeks, wails of misery reverberated off the walls. How could I give myself to him?

  She loathed herself. I betrayed Randy. John Stone knows how to please a woman, damn his eyes. An empty and full glass sat on the table. Her eyes widened with horror. My God! Something twisted her guts. She glanced at her ruby ring. Her head swam with the realization of what she’d done. She gasped. Ten minutes of agony followed by The End, process irreversible.

  Her forehead was covered with sweat. She sank into the chair, in deep shock. I'm an idiot! Waves of nausea assailed her. Her heart beat irregularly. She remembered the Smith & Wesson in her purse, yanked it out desperately, rolled the cylinders, five loads in place. She sat on the bed, trying to understand the riddle of the schoolmaster’s daughter who married the gunfighter and died of self-administered poison in a San Francisco hotel room.

  Deadly poison worked through her anatomy. She felt fires in her veins, her stomach a bag of rotten clams. Bitter acid filled her throat. A sharp knife-like sensation struck her innards. She keeled over, gagging. Sweat dripped from her forehead. She held the Smith & Wesson against her temple and drew back the hammer.

  A gunshot rent the stillness of the bleak San Francisco night.

  ~*~

  Stone couldn’t remember being in worst mental condition, even during the final days of the war. Never before had a woman tried to kill him. And she almost got away with it. What an actress. I thought she enjoyed it, but just another bushwhack.

  Live like a soldier, and die like a soldier. Forget about crazy goddamned women. Across the street was Sullivan’s Saloon. Stone walked inside and examined the patrons for hostile movements. Above the bar, a painting of Marie on her leopard-skin couch.

  He stared slack-jawed at her sudden appearance. She smiled from the depths of the Amazon jungle. You will always be the one I really love. A miner stepped back to make way. The bartender poured a drink. ‘On the house, sir.’

  A few men measured him carefully. Was he a fluke or the real thing? Stone felt like a star shining in the dark dingy room. A whore gave him the eye. ‘How’s the night treating you so far, Mr. Stone?’

  ‘Worst I ever saw. ‘

  She ran her finger across his scarred cheek. ‘How’d you like to go upstairs and lie down fer a spell?’

  ‘Like to be alone, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘There’s a table over there.’

  A small square for two against the back wall. Stone meandered toward it. Serious gamblers shuffled cants and tossed chips, while others examined the fastest gun alive. He looked like wreckage, hat crooked on his head, shirt not fully buttoned, cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth.

  A young man with pimpled face and eyeglasses stood at the bar, watching intently as Stone’s head fell into his chest. Then, slowly, the lad lowered his hand to his gun.

  A growl came from the floorboards. Everyone looked at drooling fangs and eyes glittering like diamonds. The lad tucked his hand into his pocket. Nobody dared disturb the slumber of the fastest gun alive.

  ~*~

  John Stone dreamed of the last night he’d seen Marie. In gray uniform worn and patched, cavalry hat stained around the hatband, gaunt from low rations and hard riding, hollow- eyed from too many battles with too little sleep, he rode to her plantation for their first meeting in over a year.

  The grounds were overgrown with weeds and strange gnarled bushes. The mansion building had broken windows, leaky roof, paint peeling, a nightmare getting worse. Stone measured the destruction of the South in the Higgins home that night. He found his fiancée in the garden.

  Gone was the bright flush of youth, dancing mischievous eyes, flirtatious manner. The war hung heavily on her heart, her mother ill and father half insane with worry, the identical situation to Stone’s home. They walked among vines like spider webs, hardly knew what to say to each other. Their world no longer existed. Hard times lay ahead. Yankees clamored for the destruction of the southern civilian population.

  Stone thought of deserting, so he could help at home, but a West Pointer doesn’t leave his unit. He’d fight to the death under the banner of Wade Hampton.

  ‘If the Yankees threaten this area, we’ll move to Columbia,’ she said. ‘General Lee will never abandon Columbia.’

  Stone stirred in his chair. The Confederate Army did abandon Columbia. The city was burned, many atrocities committed against civilians, and poor Marie in the middle of it. Stone gazed at her reclining above the bar. Who’d guess the young West Pointer and his fiancée would end up in a Frisco saloon?

  Muggs growled beside him. A husky man in a suit approached. ‘Mr. Cullen wants to have a drink with you.’

  At a corner booth, wearing a suit with a derby hat, surrounded by henchmen, sat the leader of the Sydney Ducks. Cur
iosity, or perhaps madness, brought Stone to his feet. He walked across the floor. At the edge of Cullen’s table, he stopped.

  Cullen wore a gold ring in his left earlobe, nose round and pugged, thick lips, wide-spaced teeth. He held out his hand. ‘So you’re the man who shot Frankie Bendigo. Pleased to meet you. Let me buy you a drink.’

  Henchmen cleared the table. Stone and Cullen sat alone. The boss of the Sydney Ducks poured whiskey into two glasses. ‘To your health.’

  Stone tossed the whiskey down. Cullen watched with curiosity and mild amusement. ‘Must be ten men here who’d give anything to shoot the fastest gun alive.’

  ‘They’d be doing me a favor.’

  ‘You want to die? My men are skilled in that trade. You won’t know what hit you.’ Cullen snapped his fingers. ‘Like that.’

  Stone tried to understand what drew Phyllis Redpath to this man. All the appeal of a grizzly bear.

  ‘I know what you’re flunkin’,’ Cullen said. ‘She told me all about the keyhole.’

  Stone sat straighter on his seat.

  ‘I won’t have you killed,’ the gang leader continued. ‘What would be the point? But don’t try anything yourself, because guns are pointed at you right now. Please keep your hands where we can see them. Wouldn’t want to shoot you by mistake.’

  Stone let his tangled feelings pour out. ‘She’s an accomplished musician, a fabulous beauty, and a perfect lady. What the hell does she see in you?

  ‘Don’t pay so much attention to the surface. Me and her’s the same deep down. Some women like a little rough treatment. Adds spice to what otherwise might be boring.’

  ‘Never bored me.’

  ‘Our dear Miss Redpath has other tastes. She gives me money, and I take it. Why not? She’s got it to burn. Her last name is Redpath, but her aunt was a Dunbar. Who do you think introduced Josiah to Marie? It was all in the family. Then you showed up with your sad eyes and silly questions. Forgot your dear sweetheart awfully quick when you saw Phyllis.’

  ‘You know where Marie went?’

  ‘She was a sly little article, let me tell you.’

  ‘You met her?’

  ‘She didn’t want to be manhandled, and I never pressed the issue. Live and let live, says I. She’d prefer a fine poor fellow like you to the King of the Barbary Coast.’

  Stone hauled both Colts with stunning speed and pointed them at Cullen’s head. Everyone, especially Cullen, was taken by surprise. The saloon fell silent at the astonishing sight of two guns pointed at the leader of the notorious Sydney Ducks.

  Cullen gazed venomously at the guns. ‘What’ll you prove?’

  ‘Keep your hands off decent women.’

  ‘Phyllis Redpath begs to crawl into my bed, and loves every inch of it. She told you herself, didn’t she? She’ll be my slave, long as I kick her ass.’

  Stone wanted to shoot him. He held his guns leveled at Cullen’s chest and tried to feel moral ground underneath him, but none was there.

  ‘You should see yourself,’ Cullen said derisively. ‘You want to kill me, for what? The honor of a woman who threw you out? It’s not my fault she didn’t love you. Why take it out on me?’

  Stone dropped his guns into their holsters. Who am I to tell people who to sleep with, or how to live? Without another glance at Cullen, Stone headed for the door. Muggs followed him outside. The ex-cavalry officer tried to remember the location of a stable. I’ve got to get out of here, otherwise III kill somebody. He turned toward a group of men on the sidewalk. ‘Where can I buy a horse?’

  ‘Ferguson’s, on Allan Street.’

  Stone craved the sweet smell of grass and leaves. Hole up in a cave, go to the monastery in the clouds, or become a Sioux Indian. The main thing is depart this city. He didn’t want to think of Phyllis Redpath, Randy LaFollette’s wife, Marie, or anybody else. Objective; the open range. Get there fast as you can.

  He saw the sign on the opposite side of the street for the Westerly Saloon.

  That's where Louellen works, and an obligation is an obligation. A group of well-dressed gentlemen made room at the bar. The fellow with the apron placed a glass of whiskey in front of him. ‘On the house.’

  ‘Louellen around?’

  ‘Upstairs with a customer.’

  A hand fell on Stone’s shoulder. He spun around and went for his guns. Before him stood Algeron Shadbume, renowned saloon artist, sketchbook under his arm, an expression of terror on his face. Stone spun the guns, dropped them into their holsters.

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ Algeron said. ‘You’ve inspired me to paint a new masterpiece. It’s called ‘Shootout on Kearney Street.’ Will you pose?’

  ‘I’m on my way out of town, but first I have to see Louellen.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Have no idea.’

  ‘Join me at my table. We’ll discuss destinations and origins. I have a bottle of whiskey, and it’s half full.’

  Stone followed him across the crowded gambling hall. An elderly man arose before him. ‘I’d like to say I shook your hand.’

  Stone grasped the leathery old paw, then continued behind the painter. They came to a table against the far wall. Algeron sat with his pad and sketched the features of Stone’s face. ‘Your portrait has been selling well. I knew there was gold in that scarred old face of yours. Have you found out anything about Marie?’

  ‘She left with a rich man named Josiah Dunbar. Nobody knows where they went. Did you know Dunbar?’

  ‘An eccentric. Like somebody’s dear old auntie. But very rich. If Marie’s with him, she’ll always have a roof over her head.’

  ‘Until he throws her out.’

  ‘Any of us can be thrown out at any time, even I. The world is a jungle full of ravenous beasts. I may never hang in a museum, but at least die people see my work.’ He pointed above the bar to the painting of Marie.

  ‘If you ever see her again, tell her I’m alive, and I’ll always love her, no matter what.’

  Algeron glanced toward the stairs. Louellen descended arm in arm with an elderly gentleman who wore a black cutaway coat and gray chin whiskers. ‘May I talk with you?’ Stone asked Louellen.

  ‘Come to my room,’ she replied. ‘Been hoping you’d stop by again. Got something you might want to see.’

  He followed her to the second-floor whorehouse. Her room was medium-sized, mirrors on the ceiling over the bed. She sat at her dressing table, opened a drawer, pulled out an envelope,

  ‘Did you read about Derek Canfield’s death in the newspapers?’ she asked. ‘I was the unnamed witness who found his body. After Marie left, Derek spent most of his time with me. You see, he encouraged Marie to run off with Dunbar, who’d save her from financial difficulties. It all worked out according to plan. Marie begged everyone not to say anything, and that’s why certain information was withheld from you.’

  ‘Where’d they go?’

  ‘They didn’t tell anybody.’

  Marie’s handwriting, he’d recognize it anywhere, hastily scrawled words:

  Dear Derek,

  By the time you receive this note, I’ll be en route. I don’t want anyone to know where I am. It’s best that way.

  You’ve been a good friend. If you hadn’t arrived at Fort Hays, don’t know what would’ve happened to me. Someday I hope to repay you.

  Sorry I wasn’t more amusing. I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again, but I’ll try. New surroundings and no worries should do wonders.

  My best wishes to you. Please take care of your health. Don’t drink and smoke so much. And please think of me once in a while, as I’ll think of you. We’ll always be together in our hearts.

  Love always,

  Marie

  Stone handed back the letter. ‘Are you sure she never gave any hint where she was going?’

  ‘She spoke of New York, London, Rome, Houston, Denver, Tokyo, every place you could imagine. I think she wanted to confuse us, so we’d have no idea where she’d end
up.’

  ‘What was she afraid of?’

  ‘Derek never could figure it out. I imagine she met a few dangerous men along the way. All women do, especially the pretty ones.’

  ‘How’d you like to leave this whorehouse?’

  ‘You can barely take care of yourself, never mind me.’

  ‘At the Bedford Arms, there’s a gentleman named Tobias Moffitt. Leave a note with his secretary, tell him you know me. He’s looking for a companion, and he’ll take good care of you.’ The ex-Confederate officer from South Carolina kissed the forehead of the ex-belle from Baton Rouge. ‘Good luck, princess.’

  Muggs waited on the sidewalk, wagging his tail.

  ‘Let’s find that stable,’ Stone said.

  They walked down the street, searching for a horse. Stone had the crazy idea of stealing one, but a journey is doomed if it begins wrong. I want to go clean like a newborn child.

  Three figures staggered toward him, holding on to each other’s shoulders. ‘I’ll be damned,’ said the one in the center. ‘It’s the fastest gun alive.’ Benjamin Tilford, the celebrated Shakespearean actor, supported on either side by two equally intoxicated friends. ‘Which way you headed?’

  ‘Nearest stable.’

  ‘Just passed one down the street. Leaving town?’

  ‘Soon as I can.’

  ‘Where you headed?’

  ‘Damned if I know’

  ‘Sometimes it’s best that way.’ He shook Stone’s hand. ‘Ail the world’s a stage, and we’re merely players. Nobody, not even the fastest gun alive, escapes the final curtain.’ With a mad hoot the famous actor was carried away by his friends.

  Stone arrived at the stable. A toothless old man carrying a pitchfork met him amid the stalls.

  ‘Want to buy a horse, saddle, blanket, bridle, the whole works.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re plannin’ a trip. You’ll need a fine animal. Right this way.’ He led Stone past swishing horses’ tails and the powerful fragrance of manure. The stable manager raised his lantern. ‘I can see you’re a cowboy, so I won’t try to cheat you. Hell, you prob’ly know horses better’n me. You was in the Confederate cavalry?’