Message on the Wind Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  Teaser chapter

  The Waiting Game . . .

  Clint grabbed a straight-backed wooden chair from the hotel lobby, took it outside with him, and sat. They were going to have to come after him, or take the chance he would expose them. He wasn’t doing this for Joe Hickey. Hickey was going to get his neck stretched eventually . . .

  This was for whoever had sent him that message on the wind . . .

  He saw them now, walking down the street, carrying shotguns. Four scatterguns could do a lot of damage, and some of that would be accidental.

  He remained seated and calm as they approached. He hoped that steady nerves would be on his side.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  MESSAGE ON THE WIND

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / October 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14040-6

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  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  ONE

  The wind carries many things.

  The smells of bacon and coffee, to give away the location of a campfire.

  The sound of horses’ hooves, giving away the presence of approaching rider or riders.

  The sound of voices, giving away the contents of a conversation.

  The smell of fear.

  The Gunsmith had experienced all of these, but he was about to experience something brand-new . . .

  The wind was arid, far from a respite from the Arizona heat. It was strong, though, whipping up sand and debris, so Clint thought it wise to make camp and wait it out. If he could find some sort of shelter, it would save his eyes and the eyes of his Darley Arabian, Eclipse. Luckily, he found a rock formation that afforded them some shelter, although he still needed to cover both their heads with a blanket.

  He stood next to the horse for hours, sharing the blanket that was shielding not only their eyes but their hides from the biting sand. When the wind died down sufficiently, he was able to remove the blanket, unsaddle Eclipse, and then sit and rest his legs. Finally, the wind died down enough so that he could build a fire and make some coffee.

  As he sat and ate a meal of coffee and beef jerky, the wind became a breeze, the kind that whistled softly in his ears.

  As it started to get dark, he went about making their shelter comfortable for the night. He had nothing to feed Eclipse, but he gave him some water. Then he laid out his bedroll and fed the fire enough wood to keep it going. He rolled himself in his blanket, set his gun belt by his head, and went to sleep. It wasn’t late, but there was nothing else to do.

  He woke twice during the night, just as the fire was dying down. He stoked it both times, and went back to sleep. The next time he woke it was morning. The sun was shining, the breeze was still blowing, and something was on his face.

  He reached up quickly and grabbed it, worried it might be a scorpion or tarantula. As it turned out, it was a piece of paper. He crumpled it and, for some reason, shoved it into his pocket.

  He made a fresh pot of coffee, and once again made a meal of
beef jerky. He had a can of peaches left, but he was saving it. Coffee and jerky were usually his staples, though, enabling him to travel light.

  He watered Eclipse again, then saddled him and broke camp, kicking the fire to death and stowing his blanket and bedroll. He mounted up and rode out of the shelter. He hadn’t seen a signpost for some time, but he believed he was approaching a town. The path he was riding was not a road, but it was much traveled, nevertheless. That led him to believe it would lead him to a town. He’d ridden through Arizona before, but he was not familiar with this section of southern Arizona. If he were nearer the border of Mexico, he could have stopped in Tombstone, or even Bisbee. Farther northwest he could have headed to Tucson. And farther east he could have made his way to Yuma. But in this particular section of southern Arizona he wasn’t sure what town he was heading for.

  If he continued to ride south, he’d eventually end up in Mexico. But he hoped to come to a town before then.

  As he continued on, he reached into his pocket for the piece of paper that had blown onto his face that morning. Pulling it out, he uncrumpled it and smoothed it out. It appeared to be a piece torn from a newspaper, but there was something written on it. The handwriting was a scrawl, which could have been a child’s, or an adult’s under stress. He held it up to the sun in an attempt to read it. There seemed to be three words written in pencil. It said: Please help us.

  He turned the paper over and found that it had been torn from the top of a newspaper page. Therefore, the name of the newspaper was legible. It was called the Organ Pipe Register. However, the name of the state was missing. Organ Pipe . . . where? Clint thought.

  But also legible was the date: April 11 . . . two years ago!

  TWO

  Clint had heard stories about the early settlers, traveling by wagon train, who used to leave notes on the road for those coming after them. Some of the notes were for family, to tell them which way to come. Others were left for anyone coming after, strangers, warning them about what direction not to take. They were left hanging on tree branches, under rocks, and more often than not a wind would blow them away and they would never get to the ones they were intended for.

  Clint was holding a note that appeared to have been written two years ago. He had no way of knowing if it had ever reached its intended reader. Also, he didn’t know what state the town of Organ Pipe was in. Chances were it was Arizona; otherwise this note had been blown from one state to another, and maybe more.

  He folded the note and put it in his shirt pocket. When he got to the next town he’d ask about Organ Pipe. At the moment that was his goal: get to the next town.

  When he came within sight of the town an hour later, he realized that the word “town” just barely applied. He could count the buildings from where he was. Six. One of them was large enough to be a hotel. The others varied in size, and one appeared to be a livery stable. A hotel, a stable, and some food—that’s what he needed. And a cold beer.

  He rode down the hill and onto the road that led into town. It seemed to be the only street the town had.

  As he rode in, he didn’t see any people on the street. Some of the buildings had their doors open, including the large one. Nailed above the door was a crudely handwritten sign that said “HOTEL-SALOON-RESTAURANT.” A little bit of everything, Clint thought. Across the street a building one third the size of the hotel had another crudely written sign that said “SHERIFF-UNDERTAKER.” Now, that would be an unusual man.

  He reined in Eclipse in front of the big building and dismounted.

  “Be patient, big fella,” he said, patting the horse’s massive neck. “I’ll get you fed as soon as I can.”

  He stepped up onto the boardwalk and through the batwing doors. Three men turned and looked at him, including the bartender.

  “Welcome, stranger,” he said, smiling. “Stiff wind blow you our way?”

  “It sure did,” Clint said, approaching the bar. One of the other men was leaning on it, while the third man was sitting at a table alone with a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

  “Mind telling me where I am?” Clint asked.

  “Sure,” the bartender said. “This is Miller’s Crossing. It ain’t much, but it’s home to twenty-two of us. Get ya somethin’?”

  “A beer?”

  “Comin’ up.”

  In a second the bartender put a frothy mug in front of Clint.

  “ ’Fraid it ain’t cold, but it’s wet.”

  “I’ll settle for wet, right now,” Clint said. He took a couple of gulps, almost gagged, and put the glass down.

  “Yeah, I know,” the barman said. “Hard to take. That’s why most of the folks hereabouts drink whiskey.”

  “I need a room, a meal, and board for my horse. Can I get all that here in Miller’s Crossing?”

  “Sure can,” the man said. “We got all the comforts of home.”

  “Who do I see?”

  “Well, me for the meal and room, and Antoine down to the livery stable. You wanna take your horse down there? I’ll have the meal ready when you get back. You mind beans?”

  “Beans and what?”

  “Beans and beans right now,” the man said. “It’s all we got. Might find a hunk of bacon around that I can cut into it.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “I’m Benny,” the man said. “Benny the Bull, they call me, ’cause I’m so big.”

  Clint studied the man and found him to be about six-two, just slightly taller than he was.

  “Yeah, I know,” Benny said, “I ain’t so big, but I’m the biggest man in town. Anyway, tell Antoine I sent ya, and not to overcharge ya because you’re a stranger.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

  “When ya get back, I’ll give ya the best room in the house,” Benny called after him as he went out the door. “The Presidential Suite!”

  THREE

  When he got to the livery, Clint found that Antoine was a black man with a distinct New Orleans accent. He told the man Benny sent him, but that didn’t matter. As soon as he saw Eclipse, Antoine got a big grin on his face.

  “Dat’s some horse, Boss,” he said to Clint. “I gon’ take good care of this horse, me.”

  “How did you get from New Orleans to here, Antoine?” Clint asked.

  “Don’ ask, Boss,” Antoine said. “It ain’t a pretty story.”

  Clint was satisfied that the man would take good care of Eclipse, so he didn’t press him for his story. He paid him in advance for a day, then asked, “Have you ever heard of a town called Organ Pipe?”

  Antoine’s face changed, losing his smile.

  “Why you askin’ dat, Boss?” he asked.

  “Just a name I came across lately, and I’d never heard of it.”

  “Dat ain’t no place you wan’ go,” Antoine said. “I’d never go there, me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dat a bad place, Boss,” Antoine said.

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Don’ know, don’ wan’ know,” Antoine said, shaking his head.

  “Well, is it in Arizona?”

  “You ask somebody else, Boss,” Antoine said. “I take care of your horse.”

  “Okay, Antoine,” he said. “I’ll ask somebody else.”

  “You do dat, Boss.”

  Antoine walked Eclipse to the back of the stable as Clint left.

  When he got back to the saloon-hotel-restaurant, Benny the Bull had a steaming plate of beans waiting on the bar for him. As Clint got closer, he could smell the bacon. Apparently, Benny had found that hunk he’d been talking about.

  “Found that bacon,” Benny said. “Had a little green on it, but I sliced it off. The rest seemed okay.”

  “I’m hungry enough to try it.”

  “Ain’t got no fork, but I give ya a spoon.”

  “I’ll make do.”

  “Want a beer with that?”

  “How about a whiskey?” Clint didn’t usually drink whiskey, but
he didn’t think he could stomach another of Benny the Bull’s beers.

  “Comin’ up.”

  There were still only two other men in the saloon, and neither had said a word the whole time Clint was there.

  “I’ll bet you’re passin’ through,” Benny said.

  “That’d be a good bet.”

  “On the way to where?”

  Clint almost said “Nowhere” but instead he said, “Organ Pipe.”

  “Where?”

  “A town called Organ Pipe.”

  “I never heard of that,” Benny said. He looked over at the other two men. “Ever heard of a town called Organ Pipe?”

  The two men shook their heads and looked away. Clint had a feeling all three men were lying.

  “Guess I’ll have to ask somebody else where it is,” he said.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I just ran across the name recently, sounded interesting.”

  “Sounds odd to me,” Benny said, “but can’t say I’d be interested enough to go lookin’.”

  “I wander, anyway,” Clint said. “Just thought I’d try to find it. Think anyone else in town’s ever heard of it?”

  “Can’t say,” Benny said.

  “Maybe I’ll ask the sheriff,” Clint said. “Or the undertaker. Oh, wait, they’re the same guy. That’s kind of odd, ain’t it?”

  “Wait until you meet him,” Benny said. “Then you’ll find out what odd is.”

  Clint scooped some beans into his mouth.

  “I’ll go and see him when I finish eating,” he said. “Can I get a glass of water?”

  “Sure. Lukewarm okay?”

  “Lukewarm’s fine.”

  Benny went to get the water.