Under the Stones

By Murray Pura

The 20s are roaring. Prohibition makes them roar even louder.

 

After a month in the wilds enforcing Prohibition, Marshal Merck (Wednesday) McIntyre returns to Winston, Idaho to find a striking woman named Jenny Roades waiting for him. She demands McIntyre put an end to the gang that is forcing her father to surrender the medicinal whiskey in his pharmacy. At the same time, Father Brynn of St. Rafael's has been ordered to deliver up his shipments of sacramental wine to the same gang or see his church put to the torch.

 

McIntyre knows this gang well. He has tangled with them before. Their calling card is the Jack of Diamonds. But the problem of dealing with the gang becomes far greater when Jenny's father is gunned down and she heads out to seek revenge. McIntyre and his posse can either ride with her or stay behind. But for Jenny Roades, a private detective badge in her pocket and a Colt pistol on her hip, there is no stopping until justice is done.

 

"I'm not turning back. Everyone else can do as they please. I'm not done till that killer is my prisoner or under the stones."

• Language: English
• Publisher: MillerWords, LLC
• Release date: Oct 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223214212

Murray Pura

I'm born Canadian, live in the blue Canadian Rockies, sound Canadian when I talk (sort of) ... but I'm really an international guy who has traveled the world by train and boat and plane and thumb ... and I've lived in Scotland, the Middle East, Italy, Ireland, California and, most recently, New Mexico. I write in every fiction genre imaginable because I'm brimming over with stories and I want to get them out there to share with others ... romance, Amish, western, fantasy, action-adventure, historical, suspense ... I write non-fiction too, normally history, biography and spirituality. I've won awards for my novels ZO and THE WHITE BIRDS OF MORNING and have celebrated penning bestselling releases like THE WINGS OF MORNING, THE ROSE OF LANCASTER COUNTY, A ROAD CALLED LOVE and ASHTON PARK. My latest publications include BEAUTIFUL SKIN (spring 2017), ALL MY BEAUTIFUL TOMORROWS (summer 2017), GETTYSBURG (Christmas 2018), RIDE THE SKY (spring 2019), A SUN DRENCHED ELSEWHERE (fall 2019), GRACE RIDER (fall 2019) and ABIGAIL’S CHRISTMAS MIRACLE (Christmas 2019). My novels ZO, RIDE THE SKY and ABIGAIL’s CHRISTMAS MIRACLE are available as audiobooks as well. Please browse my extensive list of titles, pick out a few, write a review and drop me a line. Thanks and cheers!

Book preview

Dedicated to Ivy Goodwin

good friend, cousin & lover of stories

Prohibition will work great injury to the cause of temperance. It is a species of intemperance within itself, for it goes beyond the bounds of reason in that it attempts to control a man’s appetite by legislation, and makes a crime out of things that are not crimes. A prohibition law strikes a blow at the very principles upon which our government was founded.

Abraham Lincoln

1842

I’ve got the Prohibition Blues

I’ve got the Prohibition Blues

Now when I take a drink that sky juice at the sink

Just makes me cry and sigh

For dear old Rock and Rye

I’ve got the Prohibition Blues

I’ve got the Prohibition Blues

In memory of beer I’ll shed a tear, a bitter tear

All ’round the town I toddle

I’m a molly coddle

I’ve got the Prohibition Blues, for my booze

words and music by Carl Zerse

1919

Prohibition only drives drunkenness behind doors and into dark places and does not cure it or even diminish it.

Mark Twain

1867

JUNE 1920

IDAHO

THIRTY YEARS AFTER STATEHOOD

1

The gun barrel was pointing at his right eye.

It should have bothered Merck more than it did.

The black fly that was gnawing on him, which he could not slap, was his real problem.

But the man with the 1886 Winchester was not looking at him.

He hadn’t spotted Merck to begin with. All he was reacting to was a sound. A branch crack from a careless footstep by the marshal. The man had no idea what he was looking for. He suddenly shifted his eyes to a doe picking her way carefully through the forest a stone’s throw away.

The Winchester barrel swung towards the mule deer. Unknowing, the man turned his back on the marshal. Once he did, Merck moved. Using his Browning Automatic Rifle like a pool cue, he snapped the barrel into the side of the man’s head. The doe sprang forward. The man dropped to the ground. Somehow, he managed to hold onto his Winchester.

He lay cold in the dirt and grass. Merck relieved him of the 1886, ejected all its cartridges into his palm, took note they were of the .45-70 caliber, and pocketed them. Then he leaned the big Winchester against a spruce trunk. He checked the man for other weapons. There were none. He looked into the cabin and the still that were just behind him. There was no one else at home. Merck had already watched from a distance and made sure of that. He sat on a boulder and waited for the man to regain consciousness.

He would have a goose egg. It couldn’t be helped. Merck had been in the woods most of June and this was the fourth still he’d found that hadn’t been there in April. Two were run by single men, one by a married couple, another by two older women in their sixties – Megs and Bobs. Their hair had been short as field stubble and gray as iron, their fists and fingers gnarled. But their eyes had been clear and they’d not been unhandsome. They’d taken a shot at him. Both had taken a shot.

His new derby had a new hole. He’d convinced the ladies as quickly as possible, while their rifles were still aimed at him, that he was not a rival bootlegger. His badge helped, but not entirely. Megs and Bobs, dressed in red flannel shirts and brown canvas pants too large for them, never lowered their Springfield 1903s the whole time he spoke with them. Which was not long. Merck had not wanted to risk absorbing two more shots. Now he took no chances with anyone at any still.

The man on the ground was clean shaven. His black hair thick and poorly cut. He’d probably been his own barber, used a knife or dull scissors, and had not enjoyed the advantage of a mirror. He was husky, maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine, his pants and shirt both sewn out of canvas, the shirt a faded blue, the pants a muddy gray. He smelled like beer, and yeast, and it made Merck smile. He remembered how common that scent used to be.

When the man’s eyes blinked open he saw someone sitting nearby in a charcoal-colored three-piece suit, derby hat, and string tie, one leg folded over the other. A grim-looking modern rifle was laid across his lap. There was also a blued .38 revolver tucked under his belt, just visible beneath his suit jacket. He sported a red beard and moustache, untrimmed, and peered back at the man with eyes that were a vivid and unnatural green. The color was considerably brighter than the leaves around him.

Merck saw the man was conscious and briefly drew aside the lapel of his suit jacket to reveal the silver badge engraved U.S. Marshal. I’m Marshal Mercredi McIntyre. Merck for short. Northern Idaho is my jurisdiction. It falls to the U.S. Marshals to enforce Prohibition and that’s why I’m here at your humble abode.

The man sat up, cussing and rubbing his head. I’ve heard of you. Mercredi is French for a day of the week, ain’t it? Wednesday?

That’s right.

Did you have to whack me?

I did. I dislike the idea of having the large bullets from an 1886 in my body. What have you heard about me?

That you go easy on bootleggers. That you’re not a fan of Prohibition.

What is your name, sir? 

Thaddeus Bryce.

Well, Mr. Bryce, on one count you are right, on the other wrong. I do not go easy on bootleggers. I do not go easy on those who are making illicit liquor, barrel over bottle, and killing others they consider their rivals. I shoot them. It’s true I’m not a fan of Prohibition. Neither were Abraham Lincoln or Mark Twain. But it’s 1920 and we must live with it as best we can. Now, listen to me, for these are my rules. You can distil booze for your own consumption. That is the law. You can distil a small amount for your neighbors and close friends. That is my law. I won’t permit you to run a big operation here, or ship alcohol, or sign up with mobsters. That latter point is particularly critical for you to heed, Mr. Bryce. We had a gang war in May hereabouts and a number of people were shot dead. Those big-time bootleggers took offense when stills would not join in with them and make them rich. Do not, on your life, link arms with any of these people. Keep your head low and refuse to make a name for yourself. Should you grow notorious for producing great quantities of beer or whiskey, mobsters will show up on your doorstep and demand their cut. They will also demand that you work for them. If you don’t, they will rub you out. If they find you are working for the competition, and won’t switch allegiances, they will rub you out. Having heard this, do you wish to continue to brew your own booze?

I have to, marshal. I swear to heaven, I need it.

Many feel the same. I have a large jurisdiction. All the marshals do. I can’t be everywhere at the drop of a hat – I’m in Winston. But I will do my best to protect you from the gangs by getting to them first. I’ll either make arrests or gun them down. Do you understand these things I’ve been talking to you about?

Bryce sat up carefully. I guess I do.

Good. I won’t take up any more of your time. Merck brought a watch out of his vest pocket. It was attached to a silver chain. It’s just after nine. I have a day and a half ahead of me on the trail. Be careful out here in the woods, Mr. Thaddeus Bryce.

Where are your plans, marshal?

Oh, to go to and fro on the earth to and to ride up and down on it. Just like the devil. Merck jangled the cartridges in his pocket. Keep an eye on me. I will leave your ammunition at the base of a tall tree a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards on. Don’t come for it till I am out of sight. If I spot you running to collect the bullets, I will think you have mischief on your mind. I’ll be forced to defend myself.

Bryce laughed until a cough