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  BLAZE!

  A SON OF THE GUN

  Stephen Mertz

  Blaze! A Son of the Gun by Stephen Mertz

  Copyright 2016 by Stephen Mertz

  Cover Design by Livia Reasoner

  A Rough Edges Press Book

  www.roughedgespress.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For Michelle

  Chapter 1

  “This should be easy,” said J.D.

  “Like hell,” said Kate.

  J.D. Blaze was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. He wore a weathered, wide-brimmed hat, a lightweight shirt with a neckerchief, Levis, and well-worn boots.

  Kate was his wife. A few years younger than her husband, she possessed keen eyes set in a face of high cheekbones and full lips. Shoulder-length blonde hair was tied back beneath a flat-brimmed black hat.

  They were hunting bounty. They crouched side by side, each gripping their Winchester, peering over the lip of a dry wash at an old ranch house. Their horses were picketed several yards behind them in a stand of cottonwood trees that were no more than an inky blot in the gloom that still embraced the desert.

  Stars sparkled dully overhead. The sky was turning faintly gray in the east, while a half moon settled low in the western sky. Its silver glow limned the dark shape of the house, which would have appeared deserted except for the three unsaddled horses in the corral.

  It was a bucolic scene. The deserted ranch had been someone’s dream once upon a time. A nice layout, from what J.D. could see.

  There were signs of disrepair. The corral fence needed mending. Time and the elements had blown over a windmill. Weeds grew everywhere although some while ago someone had planted a rose bush next to the front door of the house. A barn door gaped open on one hinge.

  Any number of reasons could account for the original residents’ decision to vacate. This new frontier, the West, was like that. Yellow fever or any number of incurable illnesses could descend without warning, leaving people who had been healthy and vigorous that morning on their death bed that night. Or maybe ranching had just proven too tough. Or maybe, long ago, whoever had hoped to live their dream out here had been run off by someone else.

  They were squinting along their rifle barrels, scanning the ranch grounds. The first light of dawn and the last light of the setting moon created an eerie world of metallic shadow.

  J.D. said, “Y’know, hon, I’ve always thought about you and me maybe settling down someday on a little spread like this, all peaceful and quiet-like.”

  Kate said, “That’s sweet as hell, J.D. But why don’t we palaver when we’re done here, okay? Right now it’s time to kill or be killed.”

  “I’m just sayin’.”

  But he knew she was right, as usual.

  They had tracked down the Ludlow boys. Now they had to do something about it.

  The Ludlows, a savage trio of bloodthirsty owlhoots, had been plaguing the stage lines and the railroad throughout the territory, leaving a trail of bullet-riddled bodies and looted bank vaults and mail cars. They were out of Bloody Kansas. Too young to contribute anything more that mischief during the Civil War, their father and two uncles had ridden with Quantrill, the Confederate guerrilla band that raided peaceful Lawrence, Kansas where two hundred males between the ages of fourteen and ninety (“any man old enough to carry a rifle,” was the order) had been dragged from their homes and shot dead in front of their families in the center of town.

  The Ludlows’ pa and his brothers had died with Quantrill in a Union ambush, but outlawry and disregard for human life ran in the Ludlow blood. Lute, Tuck, and their younger brother, Fourteen (so named because, after giving birth and naming thirteen previous sons, Ma Ludlow had run out of names), were as elusive as they were dangerous, to the extent that the Pinkerton Detective Agency, retained by the stage and train lines, had thus far been unable to apprehend them. A reward of five hundred dollars apiece, Dead or Alive, was posted.

  Tracking down owlhoots for reward money was what J.D. and Kate did to earn a living when they weren’t hiring out their skills to those who could afford the best in the business. There were few stipulations for the jobs they took on, only that they worked together and they never rode the outlaw trail.

  A Pinkerton man had sought them out with a retainer in Tucson a month ago, supplying what few scant leads his agency had managed to acquire.

  J.D. happened to be as good at reading sign and tracking as he was with a gun, while Kate had a way of drawing information out of folks when they thought they were only engaged in polite conversation. Combining these skills had led them to this wash, spying on what J.D. hoped would be the last hideout of the Ludlows.

  As hideouts go, they had done all right for themselves. The ranch overlooked the surrounding terrain of Sonoran desert. The back of the house was flush against a steep rocky incline, so the outlaws could not flee out that way. But then, neither could anyone sneak up on them from that direction. Commanding the high ground would have provided the Ludlows with a clear enough view of J.D. and Kate had this been broad daylight. As it was, the house appeared dark...though that did not mean there wasn’t someone inside, watching.

  It was no coincidence that J.D. and Kate were closing in at this hour. The cold glare of moonlight had begun yielding to the softening, gradual thick gray light of dawn that defined the surrounding landscape and the house while cloaking them in shadow. Dawn was always the best time to catch the enemy unaware. A young J.D. had learned that in the War before heading west.

  Kate’s finger curled around her rifle’s trigger.

  “You ready to do this, husband?”

  J.D. sighted down his Winchester’s barrel at the front of the house.

  “Reckon so. Do you hail the house or do I?”

  Kate said, “Later for that. Let’s give ’em a wake-up call.”

  She squeezed off the first round of the fracas.

  Chapter 2

  Inside the ranch house, Tuck Ludlow was wrenched from sleep by the crack! of a rifle shot, the shattering glass of a broken window, and the shouts of surprise from his brothers. His first instinct was to grab iron and leap to his feet, fighting. Then a second rifle opened up from outside and another bullet missed him by inches. It would have drilled him had he been standing or even sitting.

  More bullets whistled into the house, seeking targets.

  Tuck scampered across the room to where the first light of day revealed his older brother, Lute, slapping his baby brother, Fourteen, upside the head with his pistol.

  Lute’s lean, cadaverous face was red with rage.

  “You worthless little shit stain! You was supposed to be keepin’ watch!”

  Fourteen, scrawny and whimpering, hugged the wall, more fearful of his big brother than he was of the incoming fire.

  “I’m sorry, Lute! I shoulda stayed awake but I couldn’t help myself! I’m sorry! Stop beating on me!”

  Lute slapped him one more time for good measure.

  “Aw, shut up, ya twerp. T’ain’t no use apologizing. The damage is done. They got us cornered good.”

  Fourteen rubbed his bloodied nose with a soiled shirt sleeve.

  “You’ll get us out of this, Lute. I know you will. Ma always said you was the smart one.”

  “I said shut up!”

  Lute cuffed Fourteen again, harder this time.

  Tuck came up beside them
and risked a look out the corner of what remained of the window.

  Dawn revealed the prairie that dropped way beyond the wash running through the property. Two figures aimed their rifles from the lip of the wash. Tuck jerked his head back. More bullets burned in.

  Lute snarled, “How many?”

  “Looks like only two of ’em.”

  Tuck and Lute drew their revolvers. They opened fire through the blown-out windows. Return fire from the wash forced them to duck back to where Fourteen cowered, sniveling.

  Lute shook his head in disgust.

  “You ain’t good for shit in a fight. I promised Ma on her deathbed that I’d keep an eye on you but she’s cold in the grave and you ain’t good for nothing, letting us get taken like this by surprise.”

  Tuck interceded. “Aw, let the kid be. Only way out for us is to blast our way out. Grab our horses and high-tail it.”

  Fourteen said, “Maybe we ought to surrender. Give ourselves up. They got us cornered!”

  Lute laughed. He fired another two shots out the window.

  “Boy, you’re the son of Beauregard Ludlow! We don’t give up. There’s only two of them and three of us!”

  Tuck fired two rounds out the window. The pistol reports sounded like thunderclaps inside the house.

  “That ain’t no law out there. If it was, there’d be more of ’em, like a posse. Them are bounty hunters. They’d rather take us dead than alive.”

  Fourteen look mournful.

  “What’re we gonna do!?”

  Lute said, “You’re gonna go out there with me and Tuck, fightin’ like a Ludlow. Now quit your damn snivelin’. Come on, boys. Let’s show ‘em what we’re made of!”

  Tuck said, “Don’t reckon we got a choice.”

  Lute flung open the front door of the house. He and Tuck stormed out with their guns blazing. Fourteen followed them, also firing his pistol in the direction of the dry wash. The brothers ceased firing momentarily to negotiate the tumble-down corral fence to reach their skittish, whinnying horses.

  Fourteen stumbled over the fence. He dropped his gun. He stooped over and started to retrieve it.

  A rifle shot cracked the morning air.

  The bullet drilled through one side of Fourteen’s head, exiting the other side, messily blowing away that side of his skull. His body flipped over, taking down a length of the fencing.

  Tuck and Lute had mounted their horses. They returned fire with their handguns.

  Lute spat on Fourteen’s corpse.

  “Fuckin’ dummy. We’re well rid of him.”

  Another rifle shot from the wash took Lute high in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. He hit the ground hard.

  The shooters fired from their position of concealment. Bullets whistled through the air.

  Tuck looked down at his brother.

  Lute, splayed out from his fall, unable to rise, reached out a hand bloodied from the wound that had lopped away a part of his shoulder.

  “Tuck...help me...”

  Tuck spat on him.

  “Fuck you, Lute. You got us into this fandango. I’m well rid of both you dummies.”

  Tuck applied knee pressure that wheeled his mount about. His horse liked to run and was more than willing to make tracks away from there and the bullets sizzling hot and close.

  When the racing gallop of his horse’s hooves drowned out everything else, Tuck risked a glance over his shoulder.

  Two figures rose from the gully, having ceased fire. He was beyond range of their Winchesters. Lute was an unmoving clump lying in the dust.

  Tuck’s heart raced as madly as the hooves of his horse. He alone had survived to live, laugh, love and fight another day!

  He was now the last of the Ludlows.

  They would never catch him.

  Chapter 3

  J.D. whirled toward his horse when it became apparent that Tuck Ludlow was beyond range of their Winchesters.

  “He’s mine!”

  He thumbed in a fresh load of shells, reloading the rifle on the run. He slung his rifle into its scabbard, swung into the saddle and reined the black stallion around.

  Kate said, “Be careful, babe. I’ll check on the two in the corral.”

  “Fourteen won’t need checking,” said J.D., “but be careful with Lute. He’s a sidewinder.”

  “He’ll be a dead sidewinder if he gives me trouble.”

  “Yeah, well, just be careful.”

  The stallion responded to another tug on the reins and the commanding click-click noise J.D. made with his tongue. They took off, kicking up dust.

  In the far distance, Tuck could be seen guiding his horse around one of the looming hills that stretched behind the ranch. He disappeared from sight.

  J.D. was already closing the distance.

  After years of traveling the West and working together, Kate was still crazy about her man. If he was at times slow to understand her feelings, there was no cruelty in him. He was strong, decent, and direct in thought and deed. He would not let Tuck Ludlow escape justice.

  That was good enough for her. Kate took hold of her horse’s reins. The roan gazed longingly after the stallion. Kate led the roan out of the wash, the horse showing no enthusiasm.

  She said, “I know. Boys have all the fun. But someone’s got to clean up the damn mess.”

  She reached the corral with the Winchester’s butt plate resting on her right hip, the rifle aimed low, and her right index finger remaining on its trigger. She did not spare a glance at the remains of Fourteen. The flies feasting on the pulped side of the kid’s head buzzed happily. She trained her eyes and her rifle on the sprawled, face-down clump of dusty clothing that was Lute. She hoped he was dead. She had to make sure.

  Lute’s faint, gurgling gasps for breath could only be heard when she stood directly over him.

  She released the horse’s reins and held the rifle in both hands. Without being gentle about it, she toed the man onto his side.

  He completed the roll to lie onto his back. Glazed eyes squinted up at her.

  “You cunt. You shot me.”

  She eyed the bloody ruin that was his upper left chest and shoulder.

  “If it makes a difference, my husband has bragging rights over taking you down. I popped your baby brother.”

  Lute sighed, a gurgle deep in his chest.

  “Reckon I can’t blame you for that.”

  “You boys should’ve just come out quiet with your hands up. You’d be on your way to a warm jail cell right about now.”

  “Like hell. On our way to the gallows is more like it.” Lute managed to prop himself up on one elbow with what appeared to be every ounce of his remaining strength. “Damn, bitch. You ain’t going to kill me, laying here all shot up, are ye?”

  The rifle remained sighted between his eyes.

  “Y’know, Lute, I’m asking myself the same question. And I’m ashamed to admit that no, I don’t have the heart to pump a round into your empty head, much as you deserve it.”

  Lute said, weakly, “That’s what I thought.”

  Then, with a speed that surprised her, Lute’s right arm became a blur. He snatched the Winchester right out of her hands! He chortled. An ugly sound. He didn’t have the strength to sit up so he started tracking the rifle around into a firing position. Being sprawled out flat on his back put him at some disadvantage.

  Kate leaned over and brained him with the barrel of her six-gun.

  Lute emitted the weary sigh of a tired man. His eyes rolled back in their sockets. He ceased movement.

  Kate holstered her pistol. She retrieved the rifle.

  “Tricky no good bastard.”

  His only response was a soft snoring. Tiny bubbles of saliva formed and burst at the corners of his mouth. The rising sun, low on the eastern horizon, cast fresh beams of daylight that made the raw hamburger of his wound sparkle.

  Kate turned to her horse. She carried basic first aid items in a small pouch in one of her saddle bags. Of all the times
for J.D.’s aim to falter! He was usually a stone deadeye. She sighed and reached into the saddle bag. She could hardly watch a man slowly bleed to death.

  The roan’s whinny saved her life.

  She pivoted, somehow knowing exactly what to expect.

  Sure enough, the crafty old snake had been playing possum! Lute’s hatred was enough for him to summon the strength to again prop himself on the elbow of his ruined shoulder. His cadaverous features snarled with triumph. He tracked up a derringer that must have been secreted in his boot.

  Kate fanned off a quick shot from her six-gun.

  The bullet caught Lute through his open mouth, coring through tender body tissue. The top of his head erupted like a volcano of brains, blood and gory skull fragments. The derringer slipped from his fingers. He again splayed flat upon his back, only this time Lute wasn’t playing possum.

  Kate holstered her gun. She swung into the saddle.

  It was better this way. She liked things to be tidy.

  She nuzzled the roan’s mane and spoke into its ear.

  “Thank you! You get an extra carrot after your oats today...after we find out what J.D.’s up to.”

  The sound of a rifle shot in the distance carried to her faintly but distinctly on the crisp morning air.

  The roan needed no urging. It took off at a gallop.

  Chapter 4

  When J.D. heard the gunfire from behind him, coming from the direction of the ranch, his first impulse was to draw rein and return full-speed.

  He rode on, not even pausing to glance back over his shoulder. He had to trust that Kate could handle herself. Right now, his only concern was coaxing as much speed out of the stallion as he possibly could.

  He had to catch Tuck Ludlow.

  J.D. had never ridden these trails. This part of the territory was new to him. He and Kate had tracked the brothers to the ranch house as the sun had been setting the night before. They had made cold camp in the dry wash, taking turns at keeping the house under surveillance until they made their move.