Blaze! A Son of the Gun Read online

  “Sorry, son. Got to keep it official.”

  The onlookers were retiring to a saloon two doors down.

  Kate said, “Work’s done. Now it’s a tub of hot water and a long bath for me.”

  Snap Foster said, “I can appreciate that, you being a female and all. But first, how’s about a nip from the office bottle?”

  Neither Kate nor J.D. had any objection, and so they soon were seated in Snap’s office, sipping good whiskey.

  Sheriff Snap Foster, at age 53, was the oldest town tamer in the territory. His was not a profession known for the longevity of those who practiced it. Personal danger was inherent in the job, as was the law of diminishing returns. Snap had lost none of his edge despite the comfortable pot belly under his checkered shirt.

  When a community began to grow in the West, and a lawless element showed signs of rising to dominance, it was common for such newborn communities to hire themselves a gunman of character and integrity to stand up to the lawless element and “tame” them, one way or another, on the citizens’ behalf. In the cow towns up north that lawless element was often comprised of rustlers and good-natured cowboys letting off steam after a thousand-mile trail drive. Here in the Arizona Territory, trouble usually came in the form of drifters and organized desperado gangs like the Clanton Cowboys out of Tombstone: horse thieves and stagecoach robbers.

  J.D. and Kate traveled far and wide but whenever possible, they returned to Arizona. Southeast of Tucson, a half-day by rail and a day by stage when conditions were good, the desert days were damn hot and dry during May and June, but then the summer monsoon season kicked in and turned the desert an emerald green. The nights were pleasant and for much of the year the climate remained sunny and comfortable. And for a couple of freelance gunslingers, the lawless country along the border offered plenty of work.

  Years back, J.D. had worked a summer as Snap’s deputy when the older man was taming the tent town outside Fort Kearney, Nebraska. That had taken some doing, and some killing. Staving off trouble and riding the manhunter trails together had forged a bond between these men. Additionally, Snap was more than a little fond of Kate. The affection was mutual. A widower, Snap always welcomed the break in routine when they showed up.

  They sat around the office, jawing for awhile.

  Whiskey Bend had flourished, relatively speaking, thanks to its location which was nearly equidistant from the mines in Bisbee and Tombstone, and the rich grazing land where bigger-than-life ranchers like Texas John Slaughter were carving out cattle empires. The cavalry from Fort Huachuca was to the west. These factors, combined, had made Whiskey Bend into a sizeable town that had managed to acquire its own railroad spur line, a telegraph office and a bank.

  After the grueling past twenty-four hours, J.D. found himself enjoying these passing minutes of socializing. He lazed in his chair, letting Kate and Snap carry a conversation that covered everything from the weather to Geronimo’s recent jumping the reservation with a pack of marauding braves to the good luck Snap was having growing tomatoes in his garden.

  Kate was saying, “Snap, this ol’ town sure has gotten quiet since you took on keeping the peace.”

  Snap chuckled. “Reckon so. Not much to my duties anymore except for locking up the town drunk or keeping the young’uns from causing mischief. And of course there’s pigs that stray, and husbands too. And wives, and of course that always leads to me having to lock someone up 'til they cool off. Yeah, nothing like the old days. Care for another snort, either of you?”

  Kate said, “Not me, thanks. I’m a girl that can hold her whiskey long as I don’t drink too much of it.”

  Snap replaced the bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk, from whence it had come.

  Sensing a lull in their conversation, J.D. spoke of the one thing that would not quit nagging at his mind...

  “Say, Snap, we had us a run-in with some fellers out on the trail that I’ve been meaning to ask you about—”

  Chapter 8

  Kate sent J.D. a glance. She had not expected him to open a line of inquiry that could lead the conversation to Joe Bridge and a runaway daughter and ten thousand stolen dollars. But she said nothing.

  Snap said, “What fellers are we talking about?”

  J.D. said, “The one I’m curious about is an hombre calls himself Sly Burnett.”

  Snap’s brow corrugated into a frown. “I know plenty about Sly, none of which I’ve been able to prove. What sort of encounter?”

  Kate decided to insert herself into the conversation, to give J.D. a chance to think through whatever he was about to reveal. Something told her that this was not the time to confide in the law about Joe and Lori, no matter how much affection she felt for a fatherly sheriff.

  She said, “We’d just bagged the Ludlows. This fella Sly and his pards rode by, primed for bear. But who knows why, right, J.D.?”

  To her relief, J.D. nodded.

  “Had a couple of boys with him,” he told Snap. “Basil and Emil.”

  Snap arched an eyebrow.

  “Fancy. Nope, never heard of them two. But Sly Burnett, he’s segundo out on the Bar-S.” His frown deepened. “Whatever he’s up to has got to be something big for old man Stovall to send his second-in-command all the way over here. Damn. Times like this I wish I had me a deputy.”

  “Ever have any direct dealings with Stovall?”

  “No, I’m happy to say. Lord of the Range, they call him. I hear it takes two days to ride from one end of his spread to the other. Word is he bought out a Spanish Land Grant. Ain’t nobody going to question that, including the U.S. government.”

  “He pays off the big boys, eh?”

  “Some say so. I figure he’s just too big to buck. He’s the prime supplier of beef to the army in these parts.”

  Kate said, “Soldier boys like meat with their taters. Right there’s enough to pull rank in Washington.”

  Snap nodded. “And Stovall keeps the honest money circulating in these parts. Owns a saw mill in Contention and a saloon, a restaurant and a hotel in Tombstone.”

  “Big noise,” said J.D. “So what about Sly Burnett?”

  Snap drew the makings from his pocket and began to build a cigarette.

  “He’s a boy to be on your toes around next time you run into him. He’s fast and he’s mean. Been working for Mr. Stovall for a considerable time. Hear tell he’s killed eleven men, not counting Indians and Mexicans.”

  “Care to say what it is you know but can’t prove?”

  Snap struck a wood match. When it flared, he drew on the cigarette. He spoke through a haze of harsh smoke.

  “Maybe know ain’t precisely the right word, but I feel it, y’know what I’m saying? Call it a hunch.”

  J.D. scratched the back of his neck.

  “I rode with you long enough to trust your hunches.”

  Kate said, “We didn’t exactly size him up as a traveling salesman. So what have these bad boys been up to?

  “If I knew the answer to that,” said Snap, “I’d hand it straight over to the commander at Fort Huachuca. My jurisdiction ends at the Whiskey Bend town limit sign. But what have they been up to, you ask? Well, you know what it’s like out there. You don’t ride a trail after dark unless you’re ready to fend off everything from road agents to Indian hostiles. There’s always talk. Stovall maintains a small army and every one of those hombres is a professional gunslick. They’re the reason Geronimo and his bucks and the rustlers out of Tombstone all give Stovall’s Bar-S a wide berth. Stovall says that justifies their existence and the powers that be are inclined to agree with him.”

  “But your hunch is that Burnett and Stovall are up to no good with their crew of gunhands.”

  Snap nodded. “Stovall runs a legitimate and successful business, no doubt about that, between the cattle he sells to the army and the thousands of head his cowboys drive to the rail towns up north. But it ain’t a stretch to believe that outfit is the same band of nightriders that’s been terrorizing this t
erritory.”

  J.D. said, “Night riders, you say?”

  “They’ve even got the Clanton bunch scared of ’em. Rumor has it the Clantons had stolen horses they run up from Mexico that they were fixing to sell to the army. Had ’em in a box canyon the far side of Aqua Preita. Nightriders swooped in, killed the guards old man Clanton had posted and made off with the horses. Left three dead men and one bad shot up but he managed to tell the tale before he checked out. Been other reports of attacks. Looting. Rustling. Killing people. Raping women. Worse than Indians, or just as bad. When there’s been a survivor, they say the same thing. It was like a military attack, and always in the dead of night. Sly Burnett’s behind it. That’s my hunch.”

  J.D. said, “Speak of the devil.”

  Sly Burnett, Emil and Basil rode at a steady, lazy pace, three abreast down the dusty street. They did not acknowledge the Sheriff’s Office as they passed.

  Snap said, “I sure would like to know what’s so all-fired important that Sly and his boys are in my town.”

  Kate said, “You could always ask them?”

  Snap sighed. “They ain’t breaking no law by riding down the street. So, uh, they didn’t give either of you any clue as to what or who they’re after?”

  Kate held her breath.

  J.D. went back to scratching the back of his neck.

  The riders passed their line of vision.

  Snap finished his cigarette. He extinguished its remnants in a battered ashtray.

  “Well, I trust you two enough to let you play out whatever hand you’re holding.” Something else across the street caught his attention. “There’s what you’re waiting for. The kid who hangs around the telegraph office just ran into the bank across the street to deliver a telegram. If I was a betting man, I’d bet it’s the okay from the Tucson Pinkerton office for Mr. Ferris, he’s the banker, to free up the funds to pay your reward.”

  Kate stood.

  She said, “Payday.”

  Snap and J.D. got to their feet. Kate shared a heartfelt hug with the older man. Snap and J.D. traded handshakes.

  Snap said, “Watch your back. Banker Ferris, he’s a squirrelly little weasel. Goes with being a banker, I reckon. Don’t let him try any funny stuff. But it’s Sly Burnett I’m worried about. You two and him and his boys in Whiskey Bend on the same night…there’s going to be trouble.”

  Chapter 9

  Like most small towns in the West, Whiskey Bend was an array of residences and businesses set along dusty streets that turned to mud during the rainy season and otherwise were redolent with the aroma of fresh, sun-baked horse apples. Nonetheless, when a bank opened its doors, it symbolized the true arrival of civilization to a community. No more hoarding one’s loot with the prospect of having to stake your life fighting to keep it or suffering hideous torture at the hands of those who wished to know where you’d hidden it. Commerce was legitimized, and so investors of every sort cast predatory eyes on the potential profits to be made in a largely ungoverned land, their shenanigans covered by the big commercial interests in New York and San Francisco.

  The bank was in the dead center of town, along with the saloon, general store and Sheriff’s Office. This centralization was not only for the convenience of those coming to town from the outlying ranches and homesteads. The close proximity of the bank to the Sheriff’s Office was a considerable detriment to the very idea of bank robbing. There were far fewer bank robberies in the West than the Eastern newspapers and dime novelists would have folks believe. The only enterprise in town that was set discreetly apart from the others, back in the shade of some ancient cottonwoods, was the long, low adobe building where the whores worked.

  The Cattleman’s Bank was a formidable structure of solid brick and barred windows. Like most banks established in small Western towns, additional safeguards against robbery included a reinforced back wall to prevent anyone gaining entry and flanking structures built flush against either side of the bank. This left the front double doors as the only way in and out. With the bank positioned directly opposite and within full view of the Sheriff’s Office, bank management felt secure in assuring investors that every security precaution had been taken on their behalf.

  J.D. and Kate were invited by the polite young man in the cashier cage to wait in uncomfortable wooden chairs in the bank lobby until Mr. Ferris, presently conducting business in his office, would be available to accommodate them.

  A prospector ambled in and made a deposit. A young couple with a baby made a cash withdrawal. An elderly women wearing an oversized sun bonnet glared suspiciously at J.D. and Kate before conducting her transaction in conspiratorial whispers.

  J.D. said, “Ferris seems to be running a smooth operation.”

  Kate said, “I don’t like banks. I don’t like bankers.”

  A door on the far side of the cashier cage opened. Mr. Ferris appeared, ushering out a lean, stoop-shouldered fellow in the worn coveralls of a homesteader. They passed J.D. and Kate.

  Ferris was saying, “…and so I’m sure you will appreciate, my good fellow, that any extension of the grace period on your mortgage is quite out of my hands.”

  “That ain’t what I heard, Mr. Ferris.” The homesteader was despondent. “I was hoping if I appealed to you, man-to-man like, you’d understand and see your way clear to—”

  Ferris had one arm draped over the man’s slumped shoulders, patting him on the back, while his other hand eased open the street door and smoothly ushered the man out, the homesteader’s pleas and protests ground to dust beneath bright and empty chatter. Ferris closed the door after the man with an authoritativeness that rattled its glass.

  J.D. and Kate stood to face him.

  The banker was a narrow man in his thirties. A pinched face bespoke a miserly spirit. He was done up in traditional banker garb of frock coat and starched collar. Tufts of hair sprouted like dirty cotton balls here and there across his otherwise bald scalp.

  Ferris regarded them along the length of his nose. “Yes, and how may I help you?” His tone was adenoidal, prissy.

  The cashier piped up with, “They’re here to see you, Mr. Ferris. It’s about the Pinkerton reward. This is Mr. and Mrs. Blaze.”

  Kate stepped forward.

  “You just got a telegram. I hope you’re better at counting money than you are at following directions. Or are you just pretending to be stupid?”

  The banker drew back.

  “I say!”

  J.D. rested a placating hand on Kate’s arm. He spoke to Ferris.

  “Mister, you know who we are. We’re here for our money. The missus has had a trying couple of days. She’s out of sorts.”

  Kate nodded. “I spend all my time killing people. I don’t get to bathe. I get cranky.”

  The flustered banker waved them into his office.

  “Of course, of course. Forgive me. I too have had a trying day.”

  “Yeah, we heard. Real strenuous, foreclosing on hard luck sodbusters.”

  Ferris pretended not to hear her.

  His office was plush in comparison to its surroundings. A broad desk that must have been wagon-trained down from San Francisco fronted a high-backed black leather swivel chair. When he sat in it, Ferris was dwarfed by the high back of his chair. He appeared smaller, prissier.

  J.D. cleared his throat. “So. Since we’ve all had a trying day, let’s get this done fast as we can. The sheriff wired the Pinkerton office in Tucson, and we’ve been given to understand that they in turn wired you approving payment to us of the reward money on the Ludlows.”

  Ferris said, “Quite right. Not only have I been instructed to dispense the funds but,” he opened a desk drawer and, with a flourish, produced three tightly bound packets of currency, “Ta da! I had the funds drawn from the vault. Counted and ready.”

  J.D. reached for the cash.

  “Swell. Then we’ll just bid you a good day, Mr. Ferris, and be on our way.”

  Ferris’s slim hand moved fast as a striking
snake, coming to rest on the money.

  “Uh, er, not so fast, folks.” He indicated a pair of visitor chairs facing his desk. “Please, take a seat. Let’s discuss this.”

  Kate said, “Discuss what? Get your hand off our money. Ferris, you’re a big wheel in this town but the law’s on our side.”

  “That may well be, but the bank’s policy is on mine. Bank policy is that the bank retains a fifteen per cent handling fee on all such large cash transactions.”

  Ferris cast a superior glance in J.D.’s direction before letting it settle on Kate. He did not move his hand.

  J.D. sighed. The situation was about to be taken out of his rational hands. This was not the first time someone had tried to dodge payment or nick a cut of the action after a job was done. J.D. was not sure which he cottoned to less: having to deal with slicks like Ferris, or what happened when a slick pushed Kate too far.

  In one smooth and continuous motion, Kate stepped around the broad desk, unholstering her six-gun and shoving its barrel into the O of surprise that was Ferris’s mouth. The breaking of teeth could be clearly heard. His eyes were wide saucers of fear.

  Kate spoke in a flat, emotionless voice.

  “I don’t think you understand. I want to find a hotel room. I want my hot bath. And if I know my old man, J.D. wants his siesta. You’re not getting fifteen per cent of diddley-squat. So kindly remove your hand from our money or you will cease to exist.”

  Ferris removed his hand from the money.

  J.D. pocketed the greenbacks. Kate jerked the pistol barrel from Ferris’s pie hole and rejoined J.D. They started out of the office.

  Ferris spat out chips of teeth specked with blood. He eyed Kate with abject horror.

  “My God, that was frightening! Would you have killed me?”

  Kate paused at the door.

  “What do you think?”

  The banker swallowed hard. “Yes...I saw it in your eyes. You would have killed me...”

  “If we ever meet again,” said Kate, “keep that in mind. Nice doing business with you.”