Crossroads (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 8)

by Logan Winters

  Then she was gone, whirling her horse away, erect in the saddle, the breeze toying with her reddish hair. ‘I heard that!’ a peevish voice said from behind K. John.

  K. John craned his neck painfully to see a young, slender man with dark curly hair.

  ‘I think maybe you’re feeling up to riding right now,’ the young man said.

  ‘Not really,’ K. John had to answer truthfully.

  ‘I think you are. Take the dun and get out of here. My name’s Eric Styles. You might want to remember that name. I’m ramrod on this ranch now, and Barbara is my woman. I mean to keep her.’

  ‘You’re telling the wrong person,’ K. John said, looking up at Styles. ‘Tell that to Barbara!’

  Warily, K. John rose, not because Eric Styles had frightened him off, but because he did need to get back to Crossroads if he were going to help Flower. And he knew that Warren Tremaine would be getting anxious, perhaps anxious enough to do something foolish, especially now that K. John had seemingly disappeared. K. John’s fear of the old man rushing into the Double O with a gun to rescue his daughter as he had told Barbara was quite real. Tremaine would only end up getting himself killed, leaving Flower an orphan.

  The first thing to do was to find Tremaine and speak calmly with him now that the farmer was rested and presumably over his first wave of anger.

  K. John walked stiffly toward the horse barn. He still hurt everywhere. The knot Hammond had put on his head back at the Oxhead still ached. Oh, well, he told himself, he had ridden many a mile feeling worse than he did now. That was true, but there had been no choice then and he had been younger.

  Saddling the patient dun pony was by far the worst of it. His ribs protested violently with each movement. Hammond, who was responsible for all of it, had sworn to kill K. John the next time they met. Now K. John took a similar oath. There would be no choice about it. When a man has vowed to shoot you on sight in front of witnesses, you had to be ready and willing to return the favor.

  The day was no cooler than the previous ones had been. Hot, dusty as K. John hit the trail toward Crossroads, which could be easily followed due to the many horse tracks leading that way. He still had no firm idea of what he meant to do. It seemed important to talk to Flower before making another move. At the breakfast table, Barbara had walked by on her way out and slipped K. John a once-folded piece of paper on which was written ‘Room 5’.

  Now all he needed was some way to secretly ascend to the second floor of the Double O and get to that room. It was one of those ideas that seemed simple in conception, but was blunted by reality. As he rode, K. John toyed with a dozen ideas—diversions, stealth, bluff—as he rode, but found none of them workable. All right, then, he would just have to tough it out—he meant to see Flower, and that was that.

  He wondered about the intent of the man riding behind him. He had spotted him earlier, and now was certain as he continued up the road. Someone was trailing him, perhaps intent on keeping K. John and his meddlesome ways from ever reaching Crossroads.

  Chapter Seven

  K. John could see the buildings of the town when he was a mile away. The land here was nearly flat in every direction you cared to look. Maybe that was the reason the man shadowing him had fallen off his trail. There was no way to disguise the tracker’s movements in this country.

  K. John stabled up the dun horse, leaving the borrowed saddle there. Then, with his hat tugged low against the desert sun, he made his hobbling way toward the hotel. If he were honest, there were moments when thoughts of simply riding out of Crossroads flickered through his mind. K. John would never make a good martyr, but thoughts of Flower kept him trudging along through the heat of the day.

  He found Warren Tremaine sitting in his hotel room, the window half-open. He was not yet dressed. Sitting on the edge of his mussed bed, he somehow reminded K. John of a scrawny frog. There was a half-empty quart bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him and a glass in his hand. He glanced up morosely as K. John rapped on the door frame and entered the room.

  Examining K. John with his froglike eyes, Flower’s father said, ‘I see you’ve been in a fight. Did you get Flower out of there?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ K. John answered, seating himself heavily in a chair. ‘I haven’t been able to find her. Now I think I know where she is.’

  Tremaine nodded and poured some more whiskey into his glass. ‘Things are moving kind of slowly, wouldn’t you say?’ he asked K. John. His pursed lips moved in and out soundlessly. Then he took a sip of liquor and asked K. John, ‘Do you have a taste for this stuff?’

  ‘Not much. I’ve never found it be useful for anything except as something to throw your money away on.’

  ‘I used to drink.’ Tremaine watched the amber liquid in his glass as he slowly swirled it around. ‘Maybe Flower told you?’

  ‘She told me.’

  ‘That was because I lost her mother. This,’ he said, holding the glass up, ‘is because I’m losing my daughter.’

  ‘You’re not, you know,’ K. John replied. ‘Just be patient. We’ll get her out of there and you can take her home.’

  ‘Patient?’ repeated the old man, still staring down at his whiskey glass. ‘Patience is something that experience whittles away.’

  ‘But you ... ’

  Warren Tremaine’s eyes flashed. He made a gesture that seemed he was going to hurl his drink away in frustration, but the glass did not leave his hand. Instead, he reached toward one of his boots, fumbling with it. ‘Hand me my rifle, son,’ he said, his words slurred. ‘I’ll show you something better than patience.’

  ‘That’s the worst possible way of handling matters,’ K. John told him, seriously. ‘You want Flower back; she needs you back—alive.’

  ‘I can handle that Clyde Willit and any of his boys.’ Tremaine scowled, draining his glass. It was now the whiskey that was doing the talking. K. John Landis waited until Tremaine had slapped his glass down on the bedside table and wiped his mouth with his wrist. Then K. John rose and, standing before Tremaine, told the older man, ‘I’ll take care of Flower’s troubles from now on.’

  ‘That sounds as if you mean more than getting her out of the Double O,’ Tremaine said in a voice that was growing increasingly indistinct.

  K. John pulled himself up short mentally. The way he had phrased that sounded like he had meant something else. Had he? ‘I’ll take care of things,’ he promised.

  Tremaine looked as if he were ready to pass out. Just because you’re younger ... ’ he muttered.

  And a lot more sober, K. John thought. Before he had reached the door again, he glanced back to see Tremaine sprawled on the bed, one boot on, one off.

  K. John thought about taking Warren Tremaine’s Winchester with him, but left it. The aggrieved father could always find another gun if he was determined.

  Still moving gingerly, K. John went out into the hall and started toward the stairs. Going down these to the lobby, he passed a man with a familiar face. He started slightly at the glimpse he had of the man named Bean, Hammond’s sidekick—the one who had argued against killing K. John—but neither of them spoke. Both continued on their way, but K. John knew that his reappearance in Crossroads had now been noted.

  Well, it couldn’t have been kept secret for long; not with what he had planned, which was to return to the Double O. He knew full well that trouble awaited him there, but it was where Flower was hidden—imprisoned?—waiting, hoping for help that could only arrive in the form of K. John.

  Feeling not much better physically and a lot less confident than before, if that was possible, K. John started toward the Double O. He couldn’t really blame Tremaine for wanting to walk in and start blasting away. Emerson Masters would likely have felt the same way about Justine if he were around. K. John didn’t have that sudden flush of red-hot rage that a father must feel when one of his cubs is threatened, but instead carried a slowly simmering dark fire. He would have his revenge, but first he must make sure that Flower was safe
. And Justine, for he knew that Flower would not leave without rescuing the Masters girl.

  That made everything so damned complicated.

  K. John returned to the alleyways, believing them to be safer than approaching the Double O directly. His pistol, however, was always kept near to hand and his eyes were alert to every shadow and movement. He had not forgotten—could not afford to forget—Hammond’s vow to kill him on sight, and this was the sort of frontier town where the law was only something you carried on your hip.

  Easing past a cross-alley after first looking carefully around, K. John found himself within sight of his goal. The back door to the Double O was open, and nearby stood something extraordinary. Around the corner, not ten paces from the saloon door, stood a blonde woman in a long, silken, white dress. Her hair was artfully arranged, her eyes bright. The man holding her was smiling, his manner intent.

  K. John had to pause to collect himself. He could not believe what he was seeing. The woman was Justine Masters, and the man was—had to be—Clyde Willit. K. John had never seen the saloon-owner before, but the tall man in the neatly tailored gray town suit had to be him. Who else could it be holding Justine in his arms mere steps from the saloon door?

  If it was Clyde Willit—and K. John had no doubt that this was the owner of the Double O Saloon—he was younger than K. John had expected. Straight, broad-shouldered, Willit wore a thin mustache beneath a longish nose. K. John started that way without a real plan in his head. Five paces on he was concealed by the corner of the building. He could hear low murmuring from the couple standing just out of his view. Apparently, they were enthralled with each other—or, in Willit’s case—pretending to be.

  K. John didn’t waste any more time trying to figure it out. He stepped on to the sagging wooden porch and walked through the kitchen, which was warm with steam. The place smelled of frying steaks and boiled potatoes, which was probably all that they served and all the saloon patrons would care to eat.

  There were three men in the kitchen, but none of them stopped him or said a word as he crossed the room to the inner doorway: they had their own business to take care of.

  The saloon, beyond the door, was midday raucous. The roulette table had not yet been opened for gambling, but a few desultory card games were taking place, and a lot of drinking, shoulder-slapping and boisterous laughter. K. John saw no one he knew in the crowded room.

  Taking a deep breath, K. John carried on directly to the stairs leading to the second-floor rooms. A man K. John hadn’t seen previously was sitting on a chair on guard at the foot of the stairs. He looked infinitely bored, his eyes half-shut. Perhaps he was suffering from a hangover, K. John speculated.

  K. John walked directly toward the seated man. ‘Mr. Willit says for me to get the woman’s stuff.’

  Even to K. John’s ears the excuse sounded lame and unlikely, but the guard only nodded at him, yawned and gestured with his arm toward the staircase. So was Willit actually planning on taking Justine someplace else? She had been dressed as if for a wedding. With his heart pounding wildly, K. John started swiftly up the stairs, half-expecting the guard to yell out, for Willit himself to appear and demand to know what he was doing. The saloon remained silent, however, except for the constant shouts and gibes of the drinking men. These sounds fell away as K. John mounted to the second floor and turned down the bare hallway. Someone long ago had inexpertly painted the room numbers in white on the doors. K. John moved directly to Room 5, glancing over his shoulder for any sign of interference.

  He knocked lightly on the door, getting no response. Was Flower even inside? Had she been moved since Barbara saw her last? Worse, was she lying in there trussed and gagged, unable to move or speak? K. John lifted his hand to knock again, but the door opened just then and an uncertain Flower stood there in her jeans and trail shirt, hesitantly looking up at him, her dark-green eyes sparkling.

  ‘It’s about time,’ she said, with the faintest of smiles.

  ‘Yes, I guess it is,’ K. John responded as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Are you taking me out of here?’ Flower asked.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m taking you out and delivering you to your father—he’s in town, you know.’

  ‘Clyde Willit told me,’ Flower said, her voice carrying that bitterness she seemed to reserve only for the saloon-keeper.

  ‘You know about Willit refusing him, then?’

  ‘Yes. Clyde told me that he would let Father stew awhile and then, under certain conditions, release me from my contract.’

  ‘What conditions?’ K. John asked.

  ‘What would you guess? A piece of our land and any profits we might make off it.’

  ‘That would put Warren in a real predicament,’ K. John said.

  ‘Would it? You know my father? Have you met and talked to him?’

  ‘I have, and believe me he would do anything to get you home, even if it meant losing most of what he has worked for.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Flower asked. She had turned away to look out the window, her arms folded.

  ‘At the hotel—I saw him a little while ago.’

  ‘Why isn’t he here? Is he drunk, K. John? Passed out maybe?’

  When she turned back towards him there was a hint of fury on her lips, a sneer. Well, the way Flower saw things she had been sold into bondage for three long months by her own father, a man who had never even once troubled to come and visit her.

  ‘Quit being childish!’ K. John ordered, a little more firmly than he had intended. ‘He wanted to come—with his Winchester. I convinced him that was the wrong way to do things. It would have been twice as hard for two men to sneak in here. He’s heartbroken. After his last meeting with Willit, he thought he had the right to get drunk.’

  Flower didn’t reply. She moved a few steps nearer to K. John and recovered her smile. ‘All right! You’re here—what do we do now?’

  ‘We get out of here. If you know a way?’

  ‘What about Justine? She’s the reason behind this, if you remember?’ Flower said calmly.

  ‘Oh, I remember, but there’s no way to get her out now—she’s already out.’

  Briefly, K. John told Flower what he had witnessed outside with Justine dressed up in what for all the world appeared to be a wedding dress.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, then—and fast!’ Flower said, with urgency.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ K. John grabbed her arm as she started toward the door. ‘You can’t think that she’s really going to marry Clyde Willit.’

  ‘Of course she is. Everyone marries him. This is the third time in the last two years that I know of.’

  ‘But why ... ?’

  ‘The past unfortunate widows have all had wealthy fathers.’

  ‘You mean he wants Oxhead.’

  ‘Of course,’ Flower said, pulling insistently away.

  ‘I see—at least, I think I do. But when Emerson Masters gets back from Albuquerque—’

  ‘What makes you think he’ll be coming back?’ Flower demanded rather sharply. The girl obviously knew more than she had shared with him before. He would have liked to have gone into it, but Flower was right: this was not the time for jawing, but for moving.

  ‘How do we get out of here?’ K. John asked in a near-whisper as Flower placed her hand on the brass doorknob. ‘Do we try to run some kind of a bluff?’

  ‘There’s a ladder nailed up against the outside wall in case of fire. We can go through Gloria’s room and get to it. But, K. John,’ Flower told him, ‘you’ll have to keep your eyes closed.’

  ‘Climb down an outside ladder with my eyes closed?’ K. John asked in disbelief. It made no sense to him, but then little had lately. Flower slipped out of her room and he followed. A dozen steps along the empty corridor they came to another room—Room 4—and Flower paused only long enough to whisper to K. John:

  ‘Eyes closed!’

  K. John nodded mutely, still not understanding. They entered a ro
om much like Flower’s but this was more cluttered with doo-dahs and female clothes thrown willy-nilly about the place. Flower glanced at him and K. John closed his eyes, but not before seeing the reason for her caution. The girl named Gloria was sprawled across her unkempt bed with only a sheet to cover her. Maybe Flower had feared Gloria would not even have that much incidental modesty.

  K. John, eyes now firmly shut, felt Flower take his hand and tug him toward the window. She went out first, her little boots finding the rungs of the old, splintered fire-ladder easily. Perhaps she had tested this escape route before.

  K. John fumbled with sill and ladder as he swung out into the open air and descended behind Flower.

  To meet the man with the gun at the bottom of the ladder.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I don’t have to ask you to hoist your hands, do I?’

  It was Charlie, the stony-faced bartender, who stood there; in his hands, a short-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun—the tool he used to maintain order in the saloon, when necessary.

  ‘Take it easy, Charlie!’ K. John replied, his hands raised.

  Just what are you up to?’ Charlie asked. ‘First Barbara, now Flower. Do you mean to empty the nest of all the little birds?’

  ‘If I could,’ K. John answered, without thinking. The bartender’s face grew even grimmer.

  ‘Charlie!’ Flower interrupted, stepping in front of K. John. ‘You have to understand. You know my time was up. Now we’ve got to try to stop Willit—he’s going to get married again.’

  ‘The new girl?’ Charlie asked, with a little softening of his features.

  ‘Yes. Her name is Justine Masters,’ Flower told him.

  ‘Masters?’ Charlie’s face grew thoughtful. ‘Like in Emerson Masters?’

  ‘Exactly like that—she’s his only daughter,’ Flower said.

  Charlie whistled softly. ‘The boss has hooked himself a big one this time.’

  ‘He has.’ Flower put her hand on his arm. ‘Charlie, we’ve got to try to stop this. Justine won’t be left alive long after her wedding day, and you know it.’