Message on the Wind

Table of Contents

 

 

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.

Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

 

The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

 

Today's longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

 

An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill's Raiders.

 

Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

 

The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

 

J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he's the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

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.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-14040-6

 

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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!

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.