Vengeance at Sundown (Lucas Fume Western) - Softcover

Sweazy, Larry D.

3.73

22 ratings by Goodreads

9780425269329: Vengeance at Sundown (Lucas Fume Western)

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0425269329 ISBN 13: 9780425269329

Publisher: Berkley, 2014

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First in a new series!

Lucas Fume has had plenty of fights in his life: spying for the Confederate Army, standing up to the railroad company when they tried to take his land, then getting framed for the murder of his business partner—only to lose his land as well as the love of his life. But Lucas isn’t finished fighting yet...

With help from Ezekiel ‘Zeke’ Henry, a fellow inmate and former slave, Lucas manages to escape prison. Riding with Zeke to St. Louis, he soon discovers that his former partner is still alive, using a different name, and doing big business with the railroads—and he has Lucas’s lost love with him. On the run from the law and up against a rich and influential enemy, Lucas is about to take on the most dangerous fight of his life.

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About the Author:

Larry D. Sweazy is the Spur Award- and Will Rogers Medallion Award-winning author of the Josiah Wolfe, Texas Ranger series, including The Gila Wars, The Coyote Tracker, The Cougar's Prey, The Badger's Revenge, The Scorpion Trail, and The Rattlesnake Season. He is also the author of the modern-day thriller The Devil's Bones and short stories appearing in numerous fiction anthologies and literary publications.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PART I

Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON, FROM SELF-RELIANCE (ESSAYS: FIRST SERIES)

ONE

Lucas Fume drew back just in time, ducking a hard punch. The only weapons he had to defend himself with were his wits and his fists; everything else had been stolen from him longer ago than he wanted to admit. There was no time to ask his attacker about the offense made, or to reason his way out of it. Like so many times before, this attack had come out of nowhere.

Every second of every day in the Tennessee State Prison was a matter of life and death. There was no such thing as being safe. Not in prison, not locked away behind cold iron bars, or out in the open in the cavernous mess hall, where he had been standing minding his own business.

Fighting on an empty stomach was as natural as breathing to Lucas, and he was happy to oblige the attacker no matter the cause. He was accustomed to attempts on his life—at least this fighter had come straight on, instead of from behind like so many of the other failures. It did nothing but fuel his fire.

Lucas had been enraged since the first day he’d been dragged, kicking and screaming, inside the filthy prison, and that rage had only grown the longer he’d been forced to remain locked up for a crime that he most certainly did not commit.

Every man in prison claimed innocence, but in his case, it was the truth. He had been falsely accused of murder, railroaded by powers beyond his own reach, and tossed in a cell, with the key thrown away forever.

“Get ’im, Fume!” someone shouted from behind him.

“Kill the bastard,” another man yelled. “I never liked that surly son of a bitch in the first place.”

It only took Lucas a second to size up his opponent. He was tall as a ladder, bony as a sturgeon, and uglier than a pale white nag horse—but strong and light on his feet, that much was obvious. The attacker’s name was unknown to him, but his reputation as a troublemaker, a leader of sorts to a gang of his own ilk, had not gone unnoticed by Lucas in the days past. He had been wary of the man from the first sighting.

This fight was not for honor. Most likely, it was a show of power and nothing more. Lucas had a reputation as a hard fighter, a tough opponent to beat. A victory over him would be a feather in the stranger’s cap, garner him even more respect.

The pale man looked surprised at his missed punch. He spit at the floor in disgust, barely missing Lucas’s foot with his foulness, then turned up his lip for another round, and a surer aim. He cocked his fists upward as if the fight had been preordained at a set time and place.

Whispers of wagers started to make the rounds, passing from man to man. The bet-taker, a sheepish man dressed in tattered gray rags, and a known prevaricator, offered unknown currency to the victors.

The prizes ranged from extra food at evening meals to protection in the depths of the night, or whenever needed, from the legion of maniacal and, often, sadistic guards. There were a hundred different types of money in prison.

Lucas stepped back, nearly bumping into the wall of men that had suddenly surrounded the two pugilists like a living, breathing boxing ring.

Entertainment was not expected, it was demanded. The moment a line was crossed, a punch thrown, or curses exchanged inside the walls of the prison, the prospect of a fight brought sudden joy to the mundane drudgery of every day.

Chants rose to the roof like the opening chorus of a cathedral hymn; only there would be no salvation at the end of this fight, just an accession to the top of the ranks of toughness—if it came to that.

Lucas quickly gathered his thoughts and calculated his next move.

Big men had reach and power, but they were usually clumsy on their feet, slower than they thought they were. On the other hand, Lucas was of medium height, solidly built, and quick on his feet, like a good fighter should be. He’d spent his lonely hours in his cell keeping as fit as possible, by walking in circles, squatting repetitively, lifting himself up and down prone to the floor, passing the time as positively as he could, preparing for whatever the future threw at him. Given the gruel and poor diet he was forced to accept, some days the only protein he ate were the roaches floating belly-up in his soup. All things considered, he was in pretty good physical shape.

Lucas was confident in his skills and ability, as confident as he could be with the key to his freedom tossed to the wind, but he knew little of his opponent, his past or his training. Something had propelled the pale man to challenge him, and Lucas had no earthly idea what that something was outside of the organizer taking bets. It didn’t matter. The fight was started, and an end to it was a pleasure to face. Passing up a fight rarely occurred to Lucas, and losing a match of this type was rarer.

Lucas’s reaction to the realization of his perceived advantage against the pale man was instant.

Instinct drove him straight at his leering opponent, on the inside, ducking low, sliding straight up the man’s body like a squirrel skittering to the top of a tree. He landed a hard, perfectly placed blow to the man’s jaw before the attacker could even think about launching a follow-up to his original punch.

The echo of the hit reverberated throughout the hall like the loud smash of a cymbal in a marching band, announcing something more to come.

The pale man spit again. A pair of rotted teeth exploded outward from his mouth, quickly followed by a stream of warm blood.

Dead men smelled better, but Lucas wasn’t about to step away; he was in close enough to do some real damage and end the fight before it got out of hand. Be done with it, eat breakfast, and return to his cell alone, a victor left to his spoils, another notch on his belt, and a silent hope that he would have a day left alone to himself.

If it was a show of power the man wanted, then by God, that’s what he’d get. Lucas had no posse or gang to impress, just the population of the prison as a whole. The last thing he could afford to do was show any weakness at all. Predators of all types waited in the shadows.

Lucas followed up the first punch with a quick left jab to the man’s sternum, knocking the wind out of his fragile chest, sending him flailing backward into the crowd so deep that he nearly disappeared.

The chants transformed to cheers and more yells. It was a real fight now—gladiators surrounded by a bored and hungry crowd. The smell of blood was in the air, and the crowd continued to grow in size and volume. But all Lucas could hear was his own heartbeat. His focus was on the fight and nowhere else. Finish it, end it, beat the man to within an inch of his life, but leave him living as an example. No matter the right of self-defense, there was no just cause to see the pale man to his death—at least at the moment, under the current circumstances. Though he would kill him if he had to, there was no question about that.

The blood in Lucas’s own veins ran fast. He felt nothing in the heat of battle but hot adrenaline, a sweet drug he’d learned to crave a long time ago. His rage transformed into the desire to survive, to live—not to see another day, those far hopes had been vanquished—but to see the next minute, the next second, because that’s all there was. Dreams. Prosperity. Hope. Those words had ceased to exist in his mind, in his heart, from the first moment the cell door had locked behind him, and his prison nightmare had become an unending reality.

Lucas rushed in toward the man, but stopped just short of his reach. His opponent had produced a shiv, a thin piece of wood sharpened and honed over time, and out of the sight of the guards, to resemble a real knife. The crude weapon could be just as deadly as a knife forged of the finest metal if it was used properly and thrust into the right part of the body.

Sweat dripped down Lucas’s forehead and crossed his lips; the taste of his own saltiness was pungent, but it reminded him that he was still very much alive. His hair, solid black and shoulder-length, was soaked wet, like he had suddenly stepped out into a thunderous rainstorm. It felt heavy, like a helmet, but offered no protection, nor did his beard. It was thick and unkempt; formal mirrors and razors were unheard of here. He looked like a backwoodsman or a fellow countryman, fresh off the boat from Scotland. Pride in his appearance had been one of the first things to go.

The air inside the hall had suddenly turned hot, and the light dimmed, turned to a diffused gray. It was more like early evening instead of morning inside the fortified limestone walls of the prison.

Tension between the prisoners had been thick for the past few days, unsettled as if a storm was coming—except there was no horizon on which to see it looming. The prison’s windows were sparse, up high, glazed with the sooty grime of years of neglect.

Maybe this fight had been brewing longer than he knew, and Lucas had just not noticed, but he doubted that. He tried to constantly be aware of his surroundings. It was his training, his way, to notice everything, and everyone, to calculate his own survival, his own safety. It was rare that he would miss an event like this one. He was a planner, a plotter, a thinker—or he had been once upon a time. Maybe the time in prison had dulled his senses more than he thought. It was the only explanation for his current situation that made any sense at all.

The pale man stepped back out of the wall of men, his shoulders squared, a slightly dazed look in his eyes, the shiv held tightly at his waist.

“You think that weapon scares me?” Lucas said. “Looks like your little pecker is sticking out. Which ain’t too far, if you ask me. I’d be embarrassed to show it in public if I was you.”

The crowd laughed and hee-hawed.

The pale man glanced quickly at the knife, then back to Lucas. “Ain’t no pecker.”

Lucas thought about making his move then, but he waited. The man had shown he could be distracted, and that was all Lucas needed to know.

His attacker wiped bloody drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, ignored the laughs, and scowled. His face was as serious as an undertaker’s. “You’re a little pecker is what you are, Lucas Fume. Won’t be the first one I cut off, neither.”

“Oh, a competition? Do you dance, too?” Lucas swayed right and left, drawing a few more chuckles from the crowd. It was a show now. He needed as many fans as he could get if things turned out differently than he thought.

“I’ve kilt more’n one of you black-haired, black-eyed, heartless traitors, and I’ll be happy to do it again.” The pale man’s face was no longer white but blushed red from the base of his throat upward.

“Traitor is a serious thing to call a man.” Lucas’s tone grew stern. He gripped his fists tighter.

“Scores still need settling no matter what the words on paper say, no matter what the lyin’ politicians and lawyers say about the end of things. Any man who thinks the war is over is a fool. You wore the blue uniform and the gray. Which was you? I say you was a Federal all along.”

“I don’t have to defend my service to you. I wore whatever uniform, or getup, served the cause.”

“So was you a spy? Or a profiteer?”

“Call it what you want.”

“Some say you betrayed us at the second Bull Run, held back on what you knew. There’s blood on your hands, Fume. Maybe my own kin. I had people die in that battle.”

Lucas shrugged; he’d heard that charge before. “Those would be children’s tales to get you through the night.”

“Don’t disrespect me or my dead, or I’ll just string out your sufferin’ longer. The rebel flag still flies in the hearts of men stronger, and smarter, than you. Deeds still need answering for. Justice will be sought after the last breath of the oldest soldier has been taken. I am the deliverer of said justice. I am here for you, Lucas Fume.”

“So you are,” Lucas answered. There was an intentional hint of Scottish brogue on the tip of his last words, an exaggerated roll of the tongue offering a reflection of his father’s home country more than proof of being an immigrant himself, which he wasn’t; he had been born on American soil before the country split in two. “And so you are.”

He’d had to answer for his deeds in the war more than enough since the end of it. The past was the past, and it couldn’t be undone. Not that he would’ve changed any of his actions if he could have.

Without any further warning, Lucas dove toward the ground headfirst, tucked into a tight roll, and extended his right leg as he came up, shoving his boot, with full force, directly into the man’s groin.

The move shocked the pale man again, giving him no time to get out of the way. He buckled in pain and gasped loudly. The painful sound was like the desperate screech of a rat as its head slammed hard against a wall. The shiv fell to the floor, landing inches from Lucas’s hand.

“A man who fights with his feet ain’t no man at all,” someone shouted in protest.

Lucas ignored the slight. He was still alive. That’s all that mattered. This wasn’t entertainment; it was life or death. Gentlemen’s rules had gone out the window as soon as the pale man produced the weapon.

Lucas grabbed the shiv and jumped up, ready to end the fight. But something had happened when he had been on the ground and faced away, something so unexpected that it nearly took his breath away.

Instead of the pale man coming face-to-face with him, there stood in his place, ready to continue the fight, one of the biggest, angriest looking Negroes Lucas had ever seen—with a real knife in his hands.

TWO

The train sped into the night, barreling out of St. Louis for Kansas City with such fury that Joe Straut feared the wheels would jump the track. He could barely maintain his balance as he made his way from one railcar to the next. There was no explanation for the sudden departure at such a late hour. There never was. But this one felt different, especially coupled with the unexpected demand of his presence from the Boss.

The last passenger car was private, an example of new luxury, like the poorest of the poor could never imagine. The world had changed once the railroad in the West had opened up fast travel. The time from New York to San Francisco had been whittled down to a week or so, instead of the arduous months it once took, not so long ago. And in finer accommodations, too.

This railcar had smooth, rich mahogany wood lining the walls comfortably and covering the curved ceiling in perfect sheets, as if the trees had been made for just that purpose. It was like walking into an oversized, very expensive pipe. The car glistened with an expensive sheen, and the wood still smelled fresh cut.

The floor was covered with hand-made Oriental wool carpet, red and gold in odd, unidentifiable symmetric patterns that must have meant something to their creator, but not to Straut. The carpet, like a lot of the decorations that adorned the railcar, had been shipped fro...

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