Buzzard's Bluff

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “You sound like you’re building that man up as more than human!” Dalton exploded. “Damn it, man! Anybody could walk up to him and put a bullet in him before he knew what they were about. I could do that!” He snorted in contempt. “Maybe that’s what it’s gonna boil down to.”

  Spade became afraid that Dalton was working himself up into doing something crazy. “I sure hope you ain’t thinkin’ about doin’ something like that, Sir. They’ve got a pretty good sheriff that tries to keep the peace. He might throw you in the jail.”

  Thoroughly steamed up by then, Dalton just stared at his befuddled foreman for a long moment before calmly stating, “In the event that actually happened, I would expect you and the men would break me out at once. Am I wrong about that?”

  Spade was not sure how to answer the question, unsure if Dalton could actually consider doing something that drastic. He could imagine the chaos an incident like that would create in the town, more than likely with the Rangers and the U.S. Marshals coming in to restore order. He decided it best for him, however, to give Dalton the answer he expected. “No, sir, you ain’t wrong about that. Every man we’ve got would be ready to come after you.”

  Dalton got up from his desk and stood gazing at his foreman as if making up his mind about something. Finally, he spoke. “Saddle my horse. I’m going into town.”

  “Yes, sir,” Spade said, and turned at once to leave the room. When he walked back through the kitchen, Estelle Dalton was no longer there, so he spoke to Maria. “He told me he’s gonna ride into town. He say anything to you about it?”

  “No, he don’t say nothing to me,” she replied.

  He was just naturally curious because Dalton went into town so seldom, and if he said anything to anybody, it would more often than not be to Maria. He couldn’t help being concerned after Dalton’s foolish talk about shooting Ben Savage. “Well, I expect he’ll be tellin’ you pretty soon. Do me a favor, will ya? Let me know if he says anything about shootin’ Ben Savage.”

  His request was more than enough to arouse her curiosity. “Sí, I tell you,” she said and walked with him to the door. About to ask why he wanted to know what Dalton might say, she was interrupted by the whistling of the teakettle on the stove. She went at once to fix the tea to take into Estelle’s room. Before the tea was ready, she heard Dalton yelling for her to come help him with his boots. She ran to his bedroom door, “I be right there,” she said, “I fix the señora’s tea now.”

  “Well, hurry up,” he told her, “she’s got all day to sit there and drink tea.”

  Spade had the black Morgan gelding saddled when Dalton finally walked out of the house and started walking toward the barn. Spade immediately took the horse’s reins and went to meet him. “You need anybody to ride in with you?” he asked.

  “No,” Dalton answered. “I just think it’s time I had a meeting with Wilson Bishop to see how my saloon is getting along. I need to go over the books to see for myself.” He climbed up into the saddle. “Maybe I’ll visit my competitor while I’m in town and see if they’ve enjoyed the recent peaceful time they’ve had.”

  “You figure on being back before supper?” Spade asked. He wanted to know when he should be concerned. Dalton said that he planned to return in plenty of time for supper. Spade was still watching him ride out of the yard when Buster Pate walked up to him.

  “He’s goin’ into town?” It was a question because a couple of times that week Dalton had ordered his horse to be saddled and he never went anywhere.

  “That’s what he said,” Spade answered. “Said he’s gonna go talk to Wilson Bishop.”

  “You notice the boss actin’ kinda funny lately?” Buster asked.

  “Funny, how?” Spade responded.

  “Like day before yesterday when you went with Elwood to drive that bunch of strays back up to the herd. I was forkin’ some new hay down in those two back stalls and he came walkin’ in, lookin’ for you, I reckon. Anyway, when he saw me, he acted like he didn’t know who I was. Then, when I asked him who he was lookin’ for, he couldn’t remember your name.” When Spade looked askance at that, Buster said, “I swear.”

  “I don’t know,” Spade responded. “I reckon he’s got a helluva lot on his mind right now and sometimes he can’t keep everything straight.” He shrugged and added, “He ain’t a young man no more, ya know.”

  * * *

  Spade was dead-on with his comments about Daniel Dalton. He did have a lot on his mind, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His loss of what he had felt was the upper hand in his competition with the Lost Coyote was a major setback in his mind. He sometimes suspected that Wilson Bishop might not be doing the job he expected of him, even to the extent that possibly Wilson might be skimming cash off the Golden Rail’s profits. That could explain the drop in income during the last several weeks. These were the thoughts swimming around inside Dalton’s head when he saw the buildings of Buzzard’s Bluff rise up from the horizon.

  Riding up past the hotel, he noticed very little activity on the street. There was no sign of anybody at the sheriff’s office, which sat diagonally across the street from the Golden Rail. He noted that between the two saloons in town, there were more horses tied up in front of the Golden Rail than there were at the Lost Coyote. That gave him some satisfaction, if only for the moment as he tied the Morgan at the rail. Upon seeing him come in the door, Mickey Dupree called out from behind the bar, loud enough for Wilson Bishop to hear, “Mr. Dalton, how you doin’? What can I get you, sir?” In a few seconds’ time, Charlene hurried out of the office, followed immediately by Wilson Bishop, who hurried to meet Dalton, while Charlene scurried over to a card game in progress.

  “Mr. Dalton,” Wilson welcomed him. “What brings you to town today? If I’d known you were gonna be here, I’da had Bonnie or Charlene get in the kitchen to cook you up some dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Dalton informed him. “I just thought I’d come in to see how our peaceful little town is makin’ out. Anything new going on that I should know about?”

  “No, sir, we’re gettin’ along about like usual. Set yourself down, and I’ll have Mickey bring out a bottle of that rye you favor.” Without waiting for Dalton’s response, he yelled, “Mickey, bring Mr. Dalton that special bottle you keep for him.” He pulled a chair back for Dalton at a side table, then sat down, himself. “Would you rather go in the office?”

  “No, this is fine,” Dalton said.

  “I thought you might wanna look at the books or somethin’,” Wilson said.

  “No, this is fine,” he repeated. “I’m sure the books aren’t gonna tell me if you’re skimming anything off the top, anyway.”

  “Ah, no, sir,” Wilson was quick to respond. “Ain’t nothin’ like that goin’ on here. You’ve been more than generous to me. I wouldn’t never cheat ya.”

  “That’s not on my mind right now,” Dalton said. “I want to know what that troublemaker has been doing. Is he still in tight with the sheriff?”

  “I swear, boss, I can’t say for sure. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of the man all week. Stump said he’s been outta town the whole week.”

  “Out of town?” Dalton reacted as a wild thought struck him. “You don’t suppose he’s gone for good from Buzzard’s Bluff, maybe? Maybe this whole business with Ben Savage was a lie in the first place. And that woman hired a gunman to come in and pull a few of my teeth. Now that he’s done his work, he’s gone to the next job for hire.”

  Wilson could see that Dalton was working himself up to the possibility that Savage was actually gone. He hated to contradict him, but he had to set him straight. “Well, sir, I reckon that coulda looked that way, but Stump said he talked to Ham Greeley, and Ham told him Savage was just outta town for a few days, and he’d be back.” He could see the instant disappointment wash across Dalton’s face and wished he could do something to encourage him. Of course, he thought as an idea struck him that he should have thought of before. Suddenly all smiles, he said,
“Boss, I’m gonna tell you somethin’ you might be interested in.”

  Dalton showed no excitement over what that might be, but Wilson continued. “See that card game over there on the other side of the room?” Dalton took a casual glance. “Pay a little closer attention to the feller facin’ us, wearing the black derby hat. “That’s Pitt Ramsey. You ever hear that name?”

  “No, can’t say as I have,” Dalton said. “Should I have?”

  “I expect if you ever lived up in Missouri or Kansas, you most likely would have,” Wilson replied. “I was in that dance hall in Kansas City, tendin’ bar the night he shot Billy Bob Tannehill and Billy Bob’s two brothers—three shots so quick they sounded like one. One of the brothers got off a shot that hit one of the gals that worked in the dance hall. I’ll never forget that night, and I ain’t never seen anybody that fast since, and I’ve seen Ed Hatcher. That was six months before you hired me to manage this place.”

  “How’d he happen to show up here in Buzzard’s Bluff?” Dalton asked. “Is he working for one of the small ranches?”

  “No, sir, Pitt don’t work for nobody, never has. He’s in business for himself. He showed up here in Buzzard’s Bluff ’cause things were gettin’ a little hot for him in Kansas. Seems he shot a feller down in a saloon in Dodge City, but he didn’t wait for him to turn around to face him. It was kinda like the time Bob Wills tried to shoot Savage in the back in the Lost Coyote, only this feller wasn’t lucky enough to turn around before Pitt got him.”

  “We’re a long way from Dodge City,” Dalton remarked. “How did he stumble on Buzzard’s Bluff?”

  “He didn’t stumble on us,” Wilson crowed. “He came here on purpose, on account he heard about the Golden Rail and he heard I was runnin’ it. He remembered me from that dance hall, and he figured he could hide out here. He’s rentin’ one of the rooms upstairs. I told him his identity was safe with me, and you’re the first person I’ve told.”

  “You say he’s in business for himself?” Dalton asked. “Are you telling me his gun’s for hire?”

  “That’s what I’m tellin’ you,” Wilson said, feeling highly pleased with himself and the opportunity he was offering. “And it looks to me like he’s the man to solve one very big problem we’ve got.”

  Dalton was at once excited, thinking it an act of providence that made him decide to come into town this morning. “How long has he been here?” he asked.

  “Day before yesterday,” Wilson answered.

  “Why the hell didn’t you send word to me?” Dalton demanded.

  “Uh . . .” Wilson stumbled. “I was fixin’ to today. I was gonna send Stump out to tell you, but I thought you’d want me to make sure Pitt was still in business before I did.”

  “I want to talk to him. Go over and tell him I want to talk some business with him, and I don’t have time to sit around and wait for his poker game to break up.”

  “Uh, yes sir,” Wilson responded. He was not sure Pitt would jump at Dalton’s command. “I’ll go over and tell him what you said.” He got up from the table, walked across the room, and stood by Pitt Ramsey’s shoulder.

  Ramsey turned at once, a scowl on his face. “Damn, Wilson, I thought you were one of those cows you’ve got workin’ here.”

  “I don’t wanna bother you while you’re playin’ cards, but my boss told me to give you a message.”

  “Your boss?” Ramsey responded. “I thought you owned this place.”

  “No, a lotta people think that, I reckon, but I’m just runnin’ the business for him. Daniel Dalton owns the saloon. That’s him settin’ at the table against the wall over there. This saloon ain’t all he owns. He owns the Double-D cattle ranch, and it’s the biggest ranch in this part of Texas.”

  Aware then that the game was waiting for him to call or raise, Ramsey threw his cards in. “I fold,” he said and turned back to Wilson. “All right,” he asked, “what’s the message?” Prepared to hear a complaint because of his reputation and possibly a request to find another saloon to hide in, he scowled up at Wilson, expectantly.

  “Mr. Dalton would like to discuss a business proposition with you,” Wilson said, almost in a whisper.

  Ramsey reacted with immediate interest. “Is he ready to talk right now?” Wilson said that he was. “Good ’cause I’m damn tired of throwin’ my money away in this game. I’m done, boys.” He raked what money he had left off the table and pushed his chair back. Then he followed Wilson across the room to Dalton’s table. “Wilson said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

  “That’s right,” Dalton replied. “Have a seat.” He paused while Wilson made a quick introduction, then said, “Wilson, why don’t you go get Mr. Ramsey a glass?” By the time Ramsey was settled in his chair, Wilson was back with his glass. When he set it on the table, and was about to sit down with them, Dalton looked up at him and remarked. “I expect it’s best if Mr. Ramsey and I be left alone to discuss this.”

  “Right,” Wilson said at once, already in a half-crouch, preparing to sit. “I was goin’ to suggest that.” He turned immediately and withdrew to the bar, where Mickey was already alert to an important meeting in progress. “I told ’em it was best they talk about it without me puttin’ my two cents’ worth in,” he told the bartender.

  “Wilson tells me you’re a man who specializes in jobs that require a lot of skill with a firearm,” Dalton opened the discussion bluntly.

  Ramsey took an appraising look at Dalton before answering. “Let’s just say I’ve found myself in life-or-death situations more than most men, and I’ve always come out on my feet.” He paused then, knowing Dalton was eyeing him intensely as well, hesitant to come right out and say what he wanted done. “Sometimes it’s best to eliminate a problem that happens to be in the way of your plans when you find out you can’t go around it. That’s what I specialize in, Mr. Dalton. I eliminate problems that get in the way of folks like you.”

  This was what Dalton wanted to hear, a professional by all standards, a man who was cold and businesslike without the brash boasts and claims like Ed Hatcher or Deacon Moss. “I’ll get right to the point, I’ve got a problem that’s standing in the way of what I plan for this town, and so far, nobody has been able to get the job done.” He poured them both another drink. “I could use a man like you, Mr. Ramsey. How’d you like to come work for me?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Dalton, I don’t work for nobody. I’m an independent contractor. You want a problem removed, I’m interested in talkin’ about it, but I don’t work no cows or mend no fences.” He sat back in his chair and smiled. “And I don’t work cheap.” He reached for the drink Dalton had just poured and tossed it back. “Thanks for the drink. That’s better stuff than what Wilson is pourin’ at the bar.” He made motions as if to get up but paused when Dalton spoke two words.

  “How much?” Dalton asked. “I wasn’t talking about hiring you as a ranch hand.”

  Ramsey settled back down in his chair. “That depends,” he said. “Who’s the target? Is it just one man, or will his death trigger a reaction from one or more others? Will he answer a challenge to face me in a fair fight? Or am I gonna have to ambush him?”

  “His name’s Ben Savage,” Dalton replied. “He’s the owner of the other saloon up the street, and he’s standing in my way.”

  Ramsey gave a small nod and smiled. He had heard some of the men in the saloon talking about the big jasper at the Lost Coyote. “I heard talk of him,” he said. “I heard he shot three men down who came after him one at a time. And I heard all three of those men worked for you.”

  “You heard right, Mr. Ramsey. All three were my men, and he caused two more of my men to have to run to escape arrest. That’s why it’s important now that Savage’s death is the result of a duel and not a shot in the back. I’ve talked to the sheriff and to Savage and his partner about the attacks. I told them I ordered my men to stay away from the Lost Coyote. And they know damn well my men don’t dare go against my orders. That’s why I want
to know just how good you think you are with that gun you’re wearing. Hell, I could hide behind a building, shoot him myself, and save my money.”

  “Then, why don’t you?” Ramsey asked.

  “Because everybody in town would know that I did it—or I had one of my men do it,” Dalton answered. “If you shot him, a stranger just passing through, with no connection to the Double-D, got the best of him in a fast-draw contest, they couldn’t lay it on my doorstep.”

  Ramsey snorted the start of a chuckle. “If I could get him to face me, then I wouldn’t have to get the hell outta town, either.” He snorted again, amused by the thought of hanging around Buzzard’s Bluff to enjoy the notoriety that always accompanied a duel in the street. Back to Dalton then, who was fidgeting nervously with his empty shot glass, he said, “It’s gonna cost you. It would be a helluva lot cheaper just to shoot somebody in the back for you. But if I’ve got to put on a show for the town while I gun this jasper down, it’ll cost you.”

  “How much?” Dalton asked again.

  “Four hundred dollars,” Ramsey replied, “and free rent for that room upstairs for as long as I’m in town.”

  “Done,” Dalton accepted at once and extended his hand. He would have gone eight. “When will you do it?”

  “As soon as I can find him and take a little time to see how he handles himself,” Ramsey said. “I reckon I’ll start hangin’ around the Lost Coyote for a spell, so I can work him up to wantin’ to meet me out in the street. That way, it won’t look like I came to town just to kill him.”

  “That’s good, that’s smart,” Dalton said. He was already congratulating himself for contracting the assassin.

  “I’m gonna need half of the money to start,” Ramsey informed him, “the rest when the job’s finished.