Book Excerpt
Part One from The Tombstone Rose By Thriller Author J. Carson Black
1881
Chapter One
The town of Tombstone lay scattered across the olive, dun, and white alkali tapestry of high desert called Goose Flats. Surrounded by torturously compressed limestone hills that concealed untold wealth in silver, Tombstone made up part of the sprawling San Pedro River Valley, ringed by mountains and long blue vistas on all sides. To the southwest lay the Huachuca Mountains, sparkling in the dry spring air, their uppermost peaks lightly dusted with a mantilla of snow. Beyond them sloped the broad alluvial plain and rich grama grass that eventually furred the lower flanks of Mexico’s Sierra de Ojos, from whence Jake Cottrell had taken leave two days ago. As the frigid morning warmed under the new sun, Jake pulled up on a knoll just short of Tombstone and let his horse rest.
Not that the Grulla needed it. With all the clean-bred horses of his Seep Springs Ranch to choose from, when it came to hard use, Jake invariably rode the little Spanish horse. The steel-blue dun was tough and well-suited to this terrain―no question about that, with his hardy hooves and a hide to match―but the reason he wore so well had a simpler explanation: The Grulla didn’t push himself. He would stop when he was tired, whether Jake deemed it a good time to rest or not.
But now with the snow-laden air blowing off the mountains fresh in his nostrils, the Grulla fidgeted to be off. He shook his head, his thick, black forelock almost touching his nose, and let out a ringing neigh, telling the world it was great to be alive.
“Hold on,” soothed Jake in the quiet voice he always reserved for his horses. He squinted against the sun, trying to make out where the auction would be. From this perspective, the town looked unprepossessing and forlorn; board-and-batten structures weathered gray by the blistering sun and intermittent snows, poor adobe shacks, a few two-story brick buildings on Allen street, and a straggle of drab canvas tents, crowded onto muddy lots. The town reminded Jake of a gangly, uncouth adolescent growing erratically to adulthood.
A transient prospector named Ed Schieffelin had seen the promise in the barren hills when he’d ridden through them with the Fort Huachuca cavalry in 1877. Because Apaches still made depredations in the area, one of the army scouts had advised Schieffelin that all he’d find would be his tombstone. He found considerably more: two rich ore bodies, the Lucky Cuss and the Toughnut, that had made him rich overnight. The camp town had gone through several names and locations: Watervale, Hog-em, Gouge-eye, Goose Flats. But the name Tombstone was the one that had stuck.
The grass stirred restively as a breeze played lightly across the hill. Jake spotted a cluster of corrals on the northeast side of town, hidden from the road. He only hoped that what he heard was true and he hadn’t ridden all this way for nothing. He had not seen his father-in-law in a year, and he wanted to spend more time with him before returning to his own ranch.
The Grulla trumpeted again, his body shaking with the effort. Jake touched the horse with his heels, and the horse bounded forward. Jake let him have his head for a few moments before pulling him down to a walk. As fresh as he was, the little mount would still have to be plenty tougher in the next few hours.
Jake recognized Alejandro’s fighting bull immediately. The massive black animal had been hidden from public view by a lean-to, so that the curious would have to walk all the way around the makeshift corrals to see him clearly. Jake figured Alejandro’s herd was long gone, sheltered in some out-of-the-way canyon until they could be fattened, slaughtered, and sold by the men who had rustled them. But greed had gotten the better of the rustlers. The bull was a rare and potentially expensive commodity, and they had held on to it.
Jake skirted the town by keeping to the hills, ground-tying his horse in the lee of the hill closest to the corrals. No one was about, for it was early in a town that reveled until the wee hours.
He could retrieve the animal and be out of town with no one the wiser. All he had to do was persuade one ton of mean bull, with centuries of fearlessness bred into it, into going with him. But Jake had thought it all out ahead of time, and with Tom McLaury’s help, he was reasonably sure he could do it.
Tom showed up a half hour later with the cow and some help. Introductions were made: Fred Meeker from the Lazy R; Dwight Purdy; and a man whose oddly shaped birthmark had earned him his name, Strawberry. Jake cleared his throat and addressed the men. The object, he explained, was to get the bull to follow the cow to Jake’s ranch not far from here. From there, he himself would drive the bull with a herd to the Valdez rancho in Mexico. Whether they could hold him was open for debate; it would take all of their combined skill to keep the bull from a cow in heat.
“I’ll pay you now.” Jake handed the prepared envelopes around the circle. “Okay, boys, let’s go.”
Jake mounted, shook out his rope, and threw it. It settled around the bull’s horns.
One, two, three more ropes zinged through the morning air, all settling over the bull’s horns and neck.
Jake rode forward and slapped at the bull over the fence with his lariat. “Come on, get out of there!”
The animal bolted forward into a swinging trot, the rope tightened, and at that moment, Jake realized that he had underestimated the animal’s strength. The next instant, Jake and his horse skidded across the expanse of rocks and yucca plants between the bull and McLaury’s milk cow. Out of the corner of his eye, Jake could see the others fared no better. Even the big roan couldn’t hold his ground, but slid forward through the fountain of dust, the bull pulling him as easily as a horse might pull a child’s sled.
Jake saw Tom’s mouth drop open as the bull charged him.
“Tom! Ride for it!” Jake shouted, reining on the Grulla and leaning back in the saddle. McLaury wheeled his horse and started off at a brisk trot, pulling the reluctant cow after him.
After much scrambling, Jake’s horse finally gained purchase and sat back on its hindquarters. This, combined with Jake’s own weight and that of the other three horses and riders, slowed the bull, but didn’t stop him.
Then disaster struck. The bull suddenly zagged to the right, pulling Dwight’s rope sideways across Strawberry’s path, cutting into his horse’s chest. The horse reared in a panic and collided with Jake’s in a terrible fleshy thud, and Jake’s leg was momentarily crushed against the other horse’s sweating side. Dwight’s rope pulled them together like a bundle of mesquite. The Grulla stumbled to one knee with a grunt. Jake fell forward and the saddle horn slammed into his crotch. Everything went out of him at once, and he felt weak as a baby. Dwight, trying his best to stay mounted, sawed frantically at the rope with his Bowie knife. A horse squealed, and he heard another thud of colliding flesh. Somebody yelled.
Through eyes misted over with maddening pain. Jake saw the bull, all four ropes trailing behind him, mount the cow. Fred’s horse ran past him, empty stirrups flapping. Strawberry’s horse was bucking and sunfishing, and the man was hanging on for dear life. Tom had dropped the cow’s rope and was sitting on his horse at a discreet distance.
Dwight stood up, unhurt, and walked to his horse. The roan shivered, snorted, and backed away. Fred Meeker got to his feet and slapped his hat against his thigh, looking for his bay.
Suddenly Jake and Tom were laughing to beat the band, even though the laughing hurt. Jake winced as the pain in his crotch subsided to a dull ache, watched the two animals couple, and wondered if he’d ever again be able to do likewise. “Well, Tom, looks like you’re going to have a fighting bull.”
“Yeah,” Tom muttered ruefully. “If I get a heifer, I’m sure not going to try and milk her. What are you going to do now?”
Jake looked toward town. Unbelievably, no one had come out to see what the commotion was about.
“You aren’t going to get that bull as far as your ranch, let alone to the Rio Plata,” Tom said. “The only way you’ll ever get him all the way to the Mexican border is if you run a whole herd with him. One milk cow won’t do it.”
“I’ll get a herd then,” Jake said.
As Jake considered what to do next, the hired hands, well-paid for their bruises, rode off one by one. Fred Meeker was the last to go. He looked at the bull and shook his head. “First time I ever couldn’t hold a beef,” he said sadly.
Tom and Jake had no trouble herding the bull back into the corral, having had the foresight to put the cow in first, but in a comedy of errors, they could not get her out again. The bull stood between the cow and her rightful owner, pawing the ground and blowing fiercely. Tom decided he was no bullfighter and said he’d come back for her later.
“I’ll buy them both at the auction,” Jake said.
“Fine couple of rustlers we are,” Tom said as he reined his horse around toward home. “Come to steal one beef and end up givin’ the other away.”
Jake had plenty of time to kill. He kept clear of the saloons, choosing instead to eat a big breakfast at Nellie Cashman’s Russ House. He was feeling better now, although his strength had been sapped by the blow to his private parts.
As he emerged onto the boardwalk, Jake saw the crowd at the end of Fourth Street. He started in that direction, still angry at himself for having to pay good money for that bull.
He moved to the edge of the crowd, the raw wind bringing tears to his eyes. Only marginally interested in the horses being led before the auctioneer, Jake let his gaze wander. He was the only one who heard the little shout―a woman’s voice―that came from down the street.
A young woman was flattened up against the wall of the Can Can Restaurant, her slender figure twisted in disgust. Two unsavory types, obviously stinking drunk, were harassing her.
At the moment Jake started running in their direction, the auctioneer announced that he had a special treat for the people of Tombstone.
The girl’s hand whipped out and punched one of the men, and her bonnet fell off. Jake saw the tumble of dark red hair fall down her back, just as he heard the first bid for Alejandro’s bull.
Two more running steps and Jake was in range. His fist crashed into the first drunk’s face, dropping him in his tracks. The other one reached for his gun belt. Jake’s pistol barrel came out and down to hit the man’s head with a dull thud.
The auctioneer’s voice drifted across the street. “Now come on, folks. This is a fine Spanish bull. Why, you could make a fortune if you sold him in Mexico.”
“And just how would we get him down there?” shouted a heckler. The crowd laughed.
Jake turned his attention back to the drunks. “You want more, you just ask,” he said.
The two men, disoriented and bleeding, got up and started to walk unsteadily away. One of them glared balefully at the young woman, clamping his fingers to his shoulder as if he had been stabbed. Certainly her punch hadn’t done that much damage.
The girl leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. Something needle-sharp glinted in her fingers: a hat pin, about four inches long and tipped with blood. Just looking at it caused a shiver to run down Jake’s spine. “Are you all right?”
Her slim body straightened, and she seemed to compose herself. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said in a refined English accent.
“Well, good.” Jake glanced toward the auction just in time to see the hammer fall.
“Sold, to Wyatt Earp. And how you get him home is your problem!” The crowd cheered.
The girl started to tuck up her tresses, reinserting the hat pin into her bonnet. Something about the unhurried effort made Jake angry.
He let his frustration pour out in a vindictive tirade. “What are you doing walking around Tombstone by yourself? Don’t you know how dangerous it is?”
She looked at him, obviously puzzled by his anger. Her hair spilled back down.
“Where do you think you are? A lady’s picnic?”
She raised her chin. “It’s really none of your business where I think I am,” she replied coolly.
For a moment, Jake was speechless. Not his business? When he’d lost his chance at his father-in-law’s bull? He had ridden seventy miles for nothing. “Thanks to you, I missed out on a very important transaction!” He motioned to the crowd.
“No one asked you to rescue me.”
“No one―? Of all the ungrateful . . .” He trailed off, unable to continue. Not only had she caused him a great deal of trouble, but she didn’t have the sense to see that he had saved her from humiliation and worse at the hands of two pawing drunks.
The girl clapped her bonnet back on her head. It looked incongruous on top of the cascades of her fallen hair that glistened in the sun like hand-rubbed mahogany shot through with deep, velvety red. For a moment Jake, found himself staring at the thick locks; he had always appreciated natural beauty. When she turned to walk away, his anger asserted itself. He grabbed her wrist, amazed at its frailty, like the bones of a bird.
She spun around at his touch. “Are you like them?” she challenged, glancing in the direction in which the drunks had disappeared.
He stared at her incredulously, but did not let go of her wrist.
She stared right back, her brown eyes the color of clear creek water. Something lurked just below the surface like sharp stones, coldly defiant. Looking at her was to be thrown into the cold stream of her eyes, drenched by her icy disdain.
She certainly was a self-possessed little bundle. Jake found himself admiring her unflappability. And she’d had the guts to use that hat pin, where a squeamish woman wouldn’t.
“No, I’m not like them,” he heard himself saying. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have interfered.” He couldn’t stop looking at her. There was something about her features: the white oval face, the pointed chin, her striking dark brows and large eyes. She reminded him a little of Ana―perhaps it was the proud lift to her chin or her delicate, high cheekbones. Certainly there the resemblance ended, because Ana had been Mexican—
His mind closed down like a fist on the desolation Ana’s memory caused, and his hand involuntarily tightened on her wrist. “Next time,” he said too roughly, “you can fight them off yourself.”
“May I go now?” She glanced at the white-knuckled hand prisoning her wrist.
Jake let go as if her touch burned him, then bowed mockingly. “Be my guest.”
She turned and walked up the street, the heels of her kid shoes rapping smartly on the boardwalk.
Jake tracked Wyatt Earp down at the Oriental Saloon. Earp smiled guardedly as he shook Jake’s hand. “Heard you were down in Mexico. Seen any rustlers on the way up here?”
“Just Tom McLaury.”
“Hell, he hasn’t been rustling cattle. Too busy stuffing ballot boxes.” Wyatt’s expression turned hard. Although good-looking, the tall midwesterner had an austere, almost puritanical air about him. He was, Jake reflected, too driven in his ambitions to have a sense of humor.
“I see you bought that Spanish bull,” Jake said. “What do you want him for?”
Wyatt shrugged. “No special reason. Just looked to me like he might turn out to be valuable.”
“I’d like to buy him from you.”
Wyatt set his drink down on the bar. His smile grew wider, and this time it reached his eyes. “You still have that sorrel horse?”
“I don’t race him anymore.”
“You ran him down in Mexico in September, I heard.”
“He’s still fit, but I’m going to retire him. I’m planning on making him my foundation sire.”
“Why don’t you race him one more time? Dick Naylor against Old Scratch. If you win, you get the bull. If I win, I get your stallion. We can run ‘em at the Watervale track next Saturday.”
“I can’t run that horse anymore. I’m just asking to buy the bull outright.”
Wyatt’s eyes were bright blue and as hard as cut glass. “I don’t think so. I aim to take up bullfighting.”
Jake laughed shortly. “You don’t care much for living, then, do you?”
“Jake, I heard that bull came from the Rio Plata, so I know you want it bad. I’ve been trying to get you to race me for a year now. Here’s my chance.” Earp tried to sound jovial.
Jake stared out the window at the horses hitched to the rail. “I’ll race you,” he said slowly. “If I lose, I give you your pick of the colts from Old Scratch’s first season at stud. You lose, I’ll buy the bull from you at a reasonable price.”
Wyatt clapped Jake on the back. “How about that? I finally get to see that wonder horse of yours run. It’s worth it for that.”
“I’m not racing Old Scratch.”
Wyatt glared at him. “You trying to pull in a ringer? Which horse you want to race?”
Jake motioned to the window where the little mustang stood, hip shot, his chin resting on the hitching rail as if it were the only thing holding him up. “Him.”
“Who?”
“That Grulla there.”
Wyatt followed Jake’s gaze and laughed. “You serious? That little runt couldn’t beat a thoroughbred.”
“He can if they run more than one race.”
“What do you mean? My horse can run a mile! The more distance he covers, the better.”
Jake continued as if he didn’t hear him. “We can run them in the quarter mile. That’s three heats.”
“What if one of us doesn’t win a heat?” Wyatt was obviously afraid Jake’s Grulla couldn’t even qualify at the Watervale track. “I don’t want to race my horse for nothing,” “We could do it this way. Make it a match race, just my pony and your thoroughbred. Best two out of three.”
Wyatt may have sensed a trap, but his pride got the better of him. “You’re on,” he said. They shook on it.
As Jake rode home toward Seep Springs, he wondered if he had done the right thing. Dick Naylor was fast and would like the distance; he was sure to win the first sprint. But Jake also knew that the Grulla had more than one sprint in him. Most likely, the thoroughbred did not.
Anger surged through him. He should have found a way to steal the bull back. Or challenged the man who tried to sell what didn’t belong to him. But he had missed his chance, thanks to a girl barely out of the school room who probably could have defended herself without any help from him.
Abruptly, he found himself seeing her in his mind’s eye; those eyes that made him feel as if he had been dipped in the Arctic Ocean,
I should have let her handle those drunks herself, he thought. Those poor souls wouldn’t have known what hit them.
