Reckless Guns (A Searcher Western Book 8)

by Len Levinson

  “Something fishy’s going on,” Rooney said. “Collingswood bid prices that are unbelievable. I led him on to see how far he’d go. Wonder what’s so special about your herd?”

  “They’re in first-class condition,” Cassandra replied, “but that’s not unusual, is it?” She looked at Stone. His healthy tan had become sickly green. He appeared lumbering and stupid. In less than twenty-four hours he’d gone completely down the drain.

  “Why would anybody overpay for cattle?” Cassandra asked.

  “I’ve heard rumors about people who’ve been screwed by the bank, which Blasingame owns,” Rooney said.

  Cassandra thought of the kindly old clergyman who’d invited her for tea. “I find that hard to believe. He seemed like such a decent man.”

  “He’s never done anything to me,” Rooney said, “but the stories keep making the rounds. There’s the Sully woman, for instance. Her husband died, the bank took her farm. At first she said Reverend Blasingame cheated her, but then clammed up. It’s my guess somebody told her to stop talking about Reverend Blasingame.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Not far from here, but what makes you think she’ll tell the truth? The woman is scared. There’s a bunch of local hardcases who more or less do what they want around here. Sometimes people get beat up. Other times they get shot. Their leader is named Tod Buckalew, and he’s the fastest gun in town.”

  Stone and Cassandra looked at each other.

  “He and some other men tried to hold us up for a Texas Fever Tariff day before yesterday,” Stone said. “Claimed to be a special marshal.”

  “Sounds like Buckalew and the boys,” Rooney replied. “People say they work for Reverend Real Estate, and the dear old pastor is behind most of the shenanigans in this town, but others love him. I’d watch my step if I were you.”

  Stone said to Cassandra, “Why don’t you make the deal with Rooney?”

  “If Collingswood’ll pay two and a half dollars more a head—do you realize how much that is? We’re talking over six thousand dollars in gold. I’m not turning that down. If Collingswood’s willing to pay, I’m taking it.”

  “He’ll never pay,” Rooney said. “The price is far too much for the market.”

  “Gunplay?” Stone asked.

  “All I can tell you is nobody in Kansas pays that much for mixed longhorns. And he’s willing to pay it sight unseen. It doesn’t add up.”

  “I’d like to talk with that Sully woman,” Cassandra said.

  A war whoop erupted from the vicinity of the bat wing doors. It was Slipchuck, just released from jail. He pulled up a chair between Rooney and Cassandra. “I knowed I’d find the bunch of yez in a saloon. Where’s me whiskey?”

  Stone looked at him calmly. “Forget the whiskey, get on your horse, ride back to the herd, and tell Don Emilio to send half his men here immediately, and I want his best guns; we might have trouble.”

  ~*~

  Reverend Real Estate sat at his desk, eating warm muffins with butter. A napkin was tucked into his clerical collar, and his lips shone with spittle and melted butter. A pen was in his hand, he was writing Sunday’s sermon. Little Emma appeared in the doorway. “You called, sir?”

  “More butter, and another pot of hot coffee.”

  Reverend Real Estate felt pleased and even ebullient. The town was growing, his power and wealth increased every day, and Cassandra Whiteside would suck his toes, before he was finished with her. He buttered another roll and stuffed it into his mouth. If a minister wanted to survive in a small community, he had to preach a good sermon. You can’t bore them with abstract theological points that nobody cares about. A minister has to put on a good show.

  Emma returned with a bowl of fresh butter and a pot of coffee. “Mr. Runge wants to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  Reverend Blasingame slathered another bun with butter, and bit off half. Runge entered the room, his face covered with bruises.

  “What happened to you?” Blasingame asked.

  “That gang from the Triangle Spur,” Runge said sullenly. “Took us by surprise.”

  “You mean you didn’t chase them out of town?”

  “Still here.”

  Reverend Blasingame scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I came back last night, but the hunch said you was out.”

  “I was not out. The little darling sometimes becomes confused. Did the Triangle Spur outnumber you?”

  “Hard to say. Turned into an all-out saloon war.”

  “I thought that’s what you fellows liked. Maybe you should’ve had more men. Go to the ranch and round them up. This time don’t start anything in a saloon. Wait till they’re in the open, and then shoot them up. Take care of this job for me, you’ll get a hundred-dollar bonus this month. On your way out, tell Emma I want to see her.”

  Runge left the office, and Reverend Real Estate finished the rest of his bun. His good mood had been shattered. He’d thought the Triangle Spur cowboys would be run out of town by now.

  Emma entered the room. “You want to see me?”

  “Come closer, would you, dear?”

  Emma approached, a shy smile on her distorted face. She expected a pat on the head for doing something right, but instead he grabbed her ear. “I told you don’t let anybody know I was out last night!”

  “I didn’t … I didn’t ….”

  “Runge said you did.” He slapped her face soundly. “You ever disobey me again, it’ll be the streets. And you know what’ll happen to you there!” She sniveled and cowered before him as he squeezed her matchstick arms. “I’m letting you off easy this time, but next time you won’t be so lucky! Now get out of here and make yourself useful!”

  He pushed, and she fell to the rug. He turned toward the plate of muffins. They were cold. “Heat these up and bring them back,” he said. “And hurry up. You’re not on a vacation.”

  ~*~

  It was an old unpainted shack near the cattle pens, and the air smelled of manure. A clothesline was stretched between a pole and the shack, and a variety of garments and bedclothes hung upon it. Cassandra knocked on the door.

  It was opened by a woman who looked as though she was in her fifties, but probably was thirty-five. Her clothes were soaked and she had a wilted countenance.

  “Help you?” she asked, pulling a strand of hair away from her face.

  “Mrs. Sully?”

  “You got laundry to do?”

  Cassandra held out dirty trail clothes. “May we come in?”

  “What fer?”

  “Want to talk with you.”

  “Talk here.”

  “It’s about Reverend Blasingame.”

  Mrs. Sully hesitated, then led them into a small, hot, steamy room. A tub of water, clothes, and suds seethed on the stove, and another tub sat on a table, a washboard sticking out of it. Mrs. Sully stood beside the washboard, where she’d been scrubbing. “What you want to know?”

  “I own a herd of cattle, and I’m planning to sell it to a man who works for Reverend Blasingame. You’ve had dealings with the reverend, and I wanted to know what you think of him.”

  Mrs. Sully’s lips trembled. “Reverend Blasingame is a wonderful man, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  “I heard he took advantage of you.”

  “You heard wrong.”

  Stone looked out the window. “Nobody’s around. You can tell us.”

  Mrs. Sully examined Cassandra’s face. “You look like a nice girl,” she whispered. “Stay away from Blasingame, ’cause he’s a crook. He ruined me, made me do things even the devil would be ashamed of.”

  ~*~

  Reverend Blasingame chewed his last morsel of muffin and wondered what else to eat. He was still working on his sermon, and later in the day, when the text was in place, he’d practice in front of the mirror.

  Little Emma entered the office quietly on tiny pigeon-toed feet, eyes red from crying. “Mr. Collingsw
ood, sir.”

  “Do we have any pie?”

  “Apple pie.”

  “I’m tired of apples.”

  “Cake?”

  “Yes, and more coffee. Let Mr. Collingswood in.”

  She backed out of the room. Reverend Blasingame dropped his sermon into a drawer. Collingswood entered the office, his face distorted by excitement.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Blasingame asked.

  Collingswood described his dealings with Cassandra. “That damned Lew Rooney kept jacking up the price, and now we’re stuck with twenty-four-fifty a head. We’re supposed to sign the contract in an hour, and hand over the gold. We can’t pay that much money for mixed longhorns. What the hell you get me into?”

  “Hmmm.” Reverend Real Estate considered the matter calmly, certain he could solve any problem. He didn’t want to back out of the deal, Cassandra Whiteside was a special prize. If Rooney and John Stone were eliminated, she and her herd would be in his back pocket. “When you sign the contract, tell them the bank is out of gold. You’ll pay up when the next shipment arrives.”

  “You’re going to close the bank?” Collingswood asked incredulously.

  “Telegraph office too. Only for a day or so. We need time until the boys do their job.”

  “I’m not so sure this is worth the trouble.”

  “You’ll change your mind, once we get Cassandra Whiteside where we want her.”

  ~*~

  Cassandra returned to Collingswood’s office, but the clerk said he wasn’t back yet. She sat with Stone and Rooney in the waiting room, beneath a large framed picture of General Grant.

  Stone gazed at the picture and reflected on the man who’d won the war for the Union. Grant had been a drunkard and failure before the war, barely able to support his family. At the age of thirty-five he’d sold firewood on street corners, loaded it onto your wagon at no additional cost. Yet that wreckage of a man had gone on to defeat Bobby Lee, the most brilliant fighting general America had ever produced. It seemed a violation of the laws of nature. Were it not for General Grant, John Stone would be living in luxury on the old plantation, Marie would be his wife, he’d have kids, live happily ever after.

  Collingswood entered the office, removed his hat. “A hitch has developed, I’m afraid. The bank had so much business the past few days, it’s out of gold. A shipment will arrive on the train tomorrow, but we can sign the contract now and get it out of the way. I won’t take possession of the herd until the money is paid, of course.”

  “No point signing the contract, if we haven’t got the money,” Cassandra replied. “Maybe we should move on to Abilene.”

  “Abilene’s in the same fix we are,” Collingswood lied. “Lots of cattle coming through there too. I was you, I’d wait till the money arrived tomorrow.”

  As soon as Cassandra left his office, Collingswood ran out the back door and sped across town, heading toward the Mount Zion Church of God.

  “I need to see the reverend right away,” he said, standing in the rectory doorway, “and don’t tell me he’s busy, because he’s never too busy to see me.”

  Little Emma scurried away, and Collingswood wondered how she breathed through that tangled throat and convoluted chest. He paced back and forth in the parlor, and above the fireplace was a painting of Jesus throwing the moneylenders out of the temple.

  Little Emma reappeared out of the darkness. “He’ll see you in his office, sir.”

  Collingswood walked down a dark narrow corridor; he always felt creepy in Blasingame’s rectory. The pastor sat at his desk, eating a roast beef sandwich. “Now what?”

  “She refused to sign the contract, said she might go to Abilene. I think maybe we should give this one up. Too much trouble.”

  Reverend Real Estate shook his head slowly. “You don’t believe in me.”

  “It has nothing to do with believing you. We’re getting deeper into a mess.”

  “You must think of the prize. When we get Cassandra Whiteside’s herd, your commission will be over five thousand dollars. And let’s not forget the party we’ll have with Mrs. Whiteside after it’s all over. Don’t give up now, Collingswood. The fun is soon to begin.”

  Collingswood left the office, and Reverend Blasingame opened a drawer in his desk, took out his tincture of laudanum. He wondered why Cassandra hadn’t signed the contract. Was she getting suspicious?

  Reverend Blasingame felt mild trepidation, but recognized it as his own lack of conviction. Maybe a little nap, to renew his strength. He poured himself an extra large drink of laudanum, then lay on the sofa, closed his eyes, thought of Cassandra Whiteside. The woman needs a good horsewhipping, and I’m just the man to give it to her.

  ~*~

  Cassandra entered the train station. The telegraph operator sat with his feet on his desk, reading the Sundust Clarion. The telegraph key before him was silent.

  Women came and went in the telegraph station, but not like this. She looked like an Amazon and packed a gun. The telegraph operator arose from his chair. “Ma’am?”

  “I’d like to send a message to Abilene.”

  “Can’t do it. Injuns must’ve cut the wires.”

  “When’ll it be fixed?”

  “Tomorrow, I reckon.”

  Outside, the air was full of cinders from the smokestack of a railroad engine, and it made a horrible racket. Cattle moved onto cars for the last journey of their lives. The air was filled with the stink of excrement and fear.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Cassandra said. “Do you think we should push on to Abilene?”

  Stone was about to reply: Damn right, but thought of his friend, who’d appreciate the business. “If the train brings gold tomorrow, there’s no need to leave Sundust.”

  “This isn’t the first time the telegraph broke,” Rooney said. “If Collingswood doesn’t buy your herd for the price offered, I’ll buy it for market price, so either way it’s sold. Why go through the trouble of moving your herd to Abilene?”

  ~*~

  Reverend Blasingame lay in fitful sleep upon his sofa, his clerical collar loosened. He dreamed of stabbing his sword into his old friend Jimmy, blood running out of Jimmy’s eyes.

  He awoke with a start, his stomach ached, he felt the gorge rising in his throat. Jumping up, he pushed his palm against his mouth, then ran in his stocking feet down the hall to the kitchen, gurgling and drooling. It felt as though he were going to die.

  He charged into the kitchen, saw Emma mopping the floor, and the mop was nearly twice as tall as she. She stepped back in terror as Reverend Real Estate dropped to his knees in front of the mop bucket, bent his head, and retched semi digested buns, butter, and coffee into the dirty water.

  He thought his stomach, intestines, and spleen would come up too. His squat, chubby body was racked by paroxysms of regurgitation, tears rolled from his eyes, his innards felt broken loose from their moorings.

  He grasped the pail frantically, it slid on the floor. His knees were soaking wet, as was his shirt. He glanced to the side and saw Little Emma covering her deformed mouth with her hand, laughing at him.

  “You little bitch!” he shouted, lunging for her, but the floor was slippery and he lost his footing. He fell onto the mop bucket, and it tipped over. A wave of filthy water rolled across the kitchen floor, and Reverend Real Estate lay belly down in the middle of it, gritting his teeth. The language of the gutter spewed from the mouth of Sundust’s beloved pastor.

  ~*~

  John Stone stood with a towel wrapped around his waist, shaving his beard. He’d just taken a bath, the tub of dirty water next to the kitchen stove. His true face came into view beneath the thick beard he’d worn since San Antone.

  The door opened, and Cassandra entered. “I bought the biggest size they had,” she said, dropping new men’s range clothing onto the table.

  He scraped away his last remnant of beard, washed his face in the basin, dried it with a towel. “How do I look?”

  She w
as surprised by his appearance, because she’d never seen him clean-shaven before. He was quite handsome in a scarred, rugged, beat-up way.

  He donned new black pants, a green and blue checked shirt, black socks, then sat on a chair and pulled on his boots. She watched from the window, sun aureoling around her golden hair. Gone was the filthy drunkard of last night. This man could turn a lady’s head. He stood, strapped on his gunbelts, and tied the holsters to his legs. “Feel like a new man,” he said.

  He walked toward her, a strange gleam in his eyes.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  He kissed her, she was taken by surprise, arms flailing helplessly, off balance. He smelled like soap, carried her up the stairs two at a time. “I’ve always wanted to get you on a bed,” he said.

  She wanted to tell him they shouldn’t, because they were having so many problems, but she’d wanted him on a bed too. He lowered her to the sheet, unbuttoned her shirt, his lips touched her throat. The feather mattress was soft and bouncy as he rolled on top of her. She decided the problems could wait till later.

  ~*~

  Buckalew looked at the row of cans in front of him. The neckband on his hat was soaked with perspiration, his right hand stung, his left was poised over the holster.

  He imagined John Stone standing in his floppy leather leggins, tall son of a bitch. It was showdown in Sundust, both in the middle of the street, everyone watching, especially the women. Probably be night, lanterns shining in the saloons.

  His hand flicked to his gun. It was clear of his holster in a split second. The shot fired, its sound echoed across the grassy wastes. A smile broke out on Buckalew’s face as the can flew into the air and kissed the sun.

  ~*~

  Don Emilio wore a scowl, and his vaqueros were afraid to talk as they drank coffee beside the chuck wagon. Don Emilio had been thinking about Cassandra ever since leaving Sundust.

  She was there with John Stone, his arch rival, instead of with him. Don Emilio tried hard to make her love him, but every effort failed. He’d almost won her last night, but the hootchy-kootchy show got in the way. Only a woman with a sick mind would see such an outrageous spectacle.