Buzzard's Bluff

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “I didn’t deal no card off the bottom,” Tuck said. “You’re seein’ things.”

  “All right, if you say so,” Ramsey said. “Maybe I am seein’ things.” The game continued, although now the atmosphere was somewhat more chilled. With nothing more said about it, the deal went around to Tuck again. By that time the chill had warmed a little until Ramsey commented, “There you go again.” He flipped the last card over that Tuck dealt to him. “Three of diamonds,” he said. “That card was on the bottom of the deck.”

  “Mister, you’ve got eye problems,” Tuck said. “I don’t deal off the bottom. I ain’t slick enough to deal off the bottom.”

  “He’s right,” Ham said. “He ain’t slick enough to deal off the bottom.”

  “Well, he damn sure did that time,” Ramsey charged, “and it’s the second time he’s done it. I wasn’t gonna say any more about it as long as he didn’t try to get away with it again. But I don’t like gettin’ skinned by a cheat, especially one that ain’t no better at it than he is.”

  Flabbergasted by the first charge, Tuck was at a full boil by this time. “I don’t know what in the hell you’ve been chewin’ on, but it musta been locoweed. I ain’t never cheated nobody in a card game. Anybody around here can tell you that.”

  “I make my livin’ playin’ cards,” Ramsey said. “And I can spot a cheat a mile away, especially one as bad at it as you are.”

  “I don’t know what kinda game you’re playin’,” Tuck charged, “but you’re a damn liar.”

  “You best watch your mouth, old man, or I’m gonna fix it for you.” He pushed his chair back a little to give himself more room.

  Both Ham and Jim tried to calm Ramsey down to no avail. The argument became loud enough until finally Ben realized what was going on. He at once hurried over to the table when it looked like Tuck was about to square off with the stranger, Pete Wood. “Hey, settle down, settle down. What’s the trouble over here?”

  “This banshee is callin’ me a cheat,” Tuck blurted. “Said I was dealin’ off the bottom.”

  “That’s because he was,” Ramsey said. “I saw him both times.”

  Ben looked directly at the stranger and said, “No, he wasn’t cheatin’.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Ramsey demanded.

  “Tuck doesn’t cheat,” Ben said. “That’s how I know.” There was a silent standoff for a long second while each man measured the other. “You didn’t see him cheat.”

  “So, now you’re callin’ me a liar?” Ramsey demanded.

  Aware at last as to what was actually going on, a wry smile broke out on Ben’s face when he answered. “That’s right, Pitt, I’m callin’ you a liar.”

  It was so subtle that Ramsey didn’t catch it until a moment later. A smile matching Ben’s appeared on his face then. “Well, Ben Savage, what are we gonna do about it? I don’t stand for no man callin’ me a liar.”

  “I’ll tell you what we can do about it, Mr. Ramsey,” Ben said. “We can escort your ass out of here and you can go back to the Golden Rail and tell Daniel Dalton your little plan didn’t work. On second thought, I’ve got a better idea. I think we’ll just march you down to the jailhouse. I believe Sheriff Bragg has got paper on you for a murder in Dodge City, Kansas.”

  Ramsey was startled for a moment when he realized Ben knew who he was, but he recovered quickly. “You talk like a crazy man. My name’s Pete Wood, and I ain’t ever been in Dodge City. I won’t stand for a man talkin’ to me like that, so I’m callin’ you out. You’re wearin’ a gun. I wanna see if you know how to use it.” He started to get up out of his chair and was halfway up when Ben’s right hand against his chin snapped his head around and he fell back into the chair. While he was still stunned, Ben quickly relieved him of the Colt he was wearing. He grabbed a handful of his shirt then and pulled him out of the chair and walked his would-be assassin toward the front door. Ramsey stumbled and staggered as Ben forced him to walk, holding him up in the process. Tuck ran after him with Ramsey’s derby and plopped it on the confused man’s head.

  “He ain’t gonna make it,” Tuck predicted when Ramsey’s legs began to buckle. “We gonna have to tote him. You hit him too hard.”

  “Take his feet,” Ben said and Tuck got between Ramsey’s feet and picked his boots off the floor. They carried him out the door then. “Right on down to the jail,” Ben directed, and they hauled him down the middle of the street.

  “Ben, what the hell?” Mack Bragg exclaimed when he opened the door to discover Tuck and Ben carrying an apparently woozy prisoner.

  “Evenin’, Mack,” Ben announced. “We’re bringin’ you one Mr. Pitt Ramsey. I believe you’ve got paper on him.”

  “I do,” Bragg said. “Drop him in that chair there, and I’ll relieve him of that gun belt. Then we’ll put him in a cell.”

  They dropped his limp body in a chair in front of Bragg’s desk, unaware that he was not as helpless as he would have them believe. The sheriff unbuckled his gun belt and pulled it off him, then took the pistol Ben handed him and put it back in the holster. When Bragg rolled the belt and put it on his desk, Ramsey saw his chance. Suddenly coming to life, he jerked his pistol out of the holster and aimed it at Ben, who was opening the door to the cell room.

  “Ben!” Tuck yelled. In the same instant, Ben drew and fired as he spun around. Ramsey dropped his pistol and stared down at the ugly black hole in his white shirt. He glanced up briefly at Ben in disbelief before he dropped to the floor.

  Standing frozen in shock, Bragg could only stare at the body now lying on the floor while Tuck helplessly mumbled, “I swear,” over and over. In a sudden fit of anger, Ben reached down and grabbed the corpse by the shoulders, pulled it to its feet, and dropped it across his shoulder, then walked out the door with it. It was enough to break Tuck and Bragg out of their trance. “Ben!” Tuck yelled. “Where you goin’?” He ran out the door after him.

  Ben marched straight to the Golden Rail, diagonally across the street. With Tuck and Bragg following, he stormed into the busy saloon and stood there looking for Wilson Bishop. When he spotted him, he was gratified to see Daniel Dalton sitting at a table with him. He walked through a gang of customers who parted to make him a path. When he got to Dalton’s table, he heaved his grisly burden off to land in the middle of it, sending dishes and glasses crashing on the floor. “I believe this belongs to you,” he said to Dalton, turned and walked back out.

  As he neared the door, one of the men standing there reached for his .44. “I wouldn’t if I was you,” Mack Bragg warned him, his weapon already in hand. He backed out the door after Ben and Tuck.

  Outside, they could still hear the sounds of the chaos created by Ben’s delivery of Dalton’s gunman. Not quite cooled down as yet, Ben asked Bragg, “You need anything from me?”

  “No,” Bragg answered, “not officially, I reckon. I was a witness to the shooting. It was sure as hell self-defense.” With no thoughts of going back in to take charge of the incident, he said, “I think I’ll go back to the Coyote with you. I need a drink.”

  “That makes all three of us,” Tuck said.

  Inside the Golden Rail, there was another development, one that no one in that saloon saw coming. With Wilson yelling for Mickey and Stump to remove the body lying across the table, no one noticed the sudden confusion that overwhelmed Daniel Dalton. It was not until Ramsey’s corpse was pulled off the table that Wilson realized that Dalton was acting strange. When he asked Dalton if he was all right, Dalton seemed to have trouble talking, and one side of his face looked as if it was sagging. Alarmed then, Wilson asked him if he was feeling all right. Dalton tried to answer but could not get the words out. “Stump!” Wilson yelled. “Help me. Something’s wrong with Mr. Dalton!”

  With Mickey’s help, Stump and Wilson carried the stricken man into Wilson’s bedroom and laid him on the bed. “Go get Doc Tatum. Tell him to hurry!”

  “First time I’ve ever been called to come here when it wasn’t
a gunshot,” Doc saw fit to comment when he walked in. “Where is he?”

  Wilson led him back to his bedroom, and Doc started to examine a seemingly peaceful patient at that time. But when he tried to question Dalton, he seemed confused and unable to answer the simplest of Doc’s questions. Doc asked Wilson how Dalton was behaving before he appeared to lose it all. When he got all the information Wilson could give him describing Dalton’s behavior before the incident with the body on the table, Doc came to his conclusion. “Based on everything I see here and what you’ve told me, I’d say Mr. Dalton had a stroke.”

  * * *

  Spade Gunter was in the bunkhouse when Stump rode into the Double-D barnyard to deliver the news about his boss. It was his sad duty to carry the news to Estelle Dalton. She was in her room when he, with Maria escorting him, told her that her husband had suffered a stroke. “He ain’t dead, ma’am,” Spade hurried to assure her. “He’s just bad off, is what Stump says. The doctor said he would do what he could for him tonight and for us to send a wagon in to carry him home in the mornin’.”

  Estelle was surprisingly calm when hearing the news. Spade had expected her to come to pieces when she heard and that was why he wanted Maria to go in with him. “A stroke,” she asked, “isn’t that in the brain?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” Spade answered and looked at Maria for help.

  “Sí, señora, it affects the brain,” Maria told her.

  Estelle turned back to Spade. “I’m sure Daniel will expect you to take over the operation of the ranch, so I’ll expect the same.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll see to it that everything’s took care of.”

  “I know you will, Mr. Gunter,” she said. “Maybe we can concentrate on raising cattle and forget about Ben Savage and the town of Buzzard’s Bluff.”

  Spade stood speechless for a few moments, surprised to hear what sounded like treasonous talk behind Daniel Dalton’s back. He was surprised to think she had even the faintest notion of her husband’s ambitions. When she stood, patiently waiting for his response, he wondered if he was meeting the real Mrs. Daniel Dalton. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally replied. “It’s time we got back to the business of raisin’ cattle. I’ll go into town in the mornin’ and bring Mr. Dalton home.”

  * * *

  In the days that followed the death of Pitt Ramsey, Buzzard’s Bluff enjoyed a period of quiet that the town had not seen in some time. Ham Greeley brought reports from the Double-D that Stump Jones told him. According to Stump, things were mighty different around that ranch now with Daniel Dalton confined to an easy chair all day long and his long-silent wife consulting daily with foreman, Spade Gunter. “Don’t ol’ Daniel Dalton complain about that?” Tuck asked.

  “Shoot,” Ham replied. “He couldn’t if he wanted to. The stroke left him paralyzed and he can’t even talk.”

  Tuck was about to make a comment about how quiet it was at the Golden Rail when he suddenly hesitated, when he saw who came in the door. Seeing the look on Tuck’s face, Ham and Tiny turned to see what had captured his attention. “Evenin’,” Spade Gunter said. “I’m lookin’ for Ben Savage.”

  “You’re in the wrong saloon, ain’tcha, Gunter?” Tuck challenged.

  Spade fixed on him with a patient eye. “Not if Ben Savage is here,” he answered.

  “I reckon we’ve got kinda cautious when somebody from the Double-D comes in ’specially to see Ben,” Tiny said. “The last one was Pitt Ramsey and that didn’t turn out too good for ol’ Pitt.”

  “Is he here?” Spade pressed.

  “I’m here,” Ben said from the back door. He motioned for Rachel, who was coming in with him, to stay back away from the door. “What can I do for you? Spade, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Spade replied. “I understand you and the lady standin’ by the door are partners in this business.”

  “That’s a fact,” Ben answered, wondering where Spade was going with it.

  “Well, I came in to let you know there’s a new partnership out at the Double-D. A man and a lady, just like you’ve got here, and we’re callin’ off the war between the Golden Rail and the Lost Coyote. Mrs. Dalton is hopin’ you’ll accept our offer of peace.”

  Knowing a true sign when she saw one, Rachel stepped forward and extended her hand before Ben could respond. “You go back and tell that lady that we certainly will accept your offer.” As Spade took her hand, Rachel turned to Ben. “Isn’t that right, partner?”

  “I reckon I know better than to get in the way when two ladies make a deal,” Ben said.

  “Well, I’ll be go to hell,” Tuck muttered, astonished.

  * * *

  An hour’s ride from Buzzard’s Bluff, at the Double-D, the shell of the man for whom the ranch was named sat in a chair by the window, staring out. What he stared at, no one knew, for the stroke he had suffered left him unable to move or speak. Not noticing when his wife walked into the room, he was startled when she began cleaning the drool off his face with a wet cloth. “Well, Daniel,” she spoke softly, “we’ve come full circle, haven’t we? Now it’s you, sitting by the window all day, instead of me.” She wasn’t sure he understood what she was talking about, but she continued. “The Double-D is solely in the cattle business. I’m sending Spade back into town today to let Wilson Bishop know that I’ve decided to sell the Golden Rail.” She hesitated then, her face breaking into a broad smile when she saw a glint of understanding in his eyes. “I’m going to let the owners of the Lost Coyote know I’m taking offers. I’m sure you’d agree that Ben Savage should have first chance at it.”

  When she walked out of the room, her smile still in place, Maria was prompted to ask, “A good day, señora?”

  Estelle paused, considering the question. “Yes, it is, Maria.” She laughed. “A very, very good day.”

  Keep reading for a special excerpt . . .

  A GOOD DAY FOR A MASSACRE

  A SLASH AND PECOS WESTERN

  The Cutthroats are back. The badguys are history.

  Life on the straight and narrow is easier said than done for a pair of crooks like Jimmy “Slash” Braddock and Melvin “Pecos Kid” Baker. But these reprobates are doing their damnedest to make an honest go of it. They’ve managed to safely deliver a church organ to a mountain parish when their sometime employer—Chief U.S. Marshal Luther T. “Bleed-’m-So” Bledsoe—recruits them for a job only fools would take.

  Marshal Bledsoe wants them to pick up a shipment of gold in the mining town in the Sawatch Mountains. Here’s the catch: Slash and Pecos’s wagon is just a decoy. When a ruthless gang ambushes the real gold shipment, it’s up to Slash and Pecos to go after the trigger-happy bandits. And they won’t be alone. A lady Pinkerton, Hattie Friendly—who is anything but—survived the ambush and is hellbent on getting the gold back. Even if she has to team up with a pair of ornery old cutthroats like Slash and Pecos . . . .

  Look for A GOOD DAY FOR A MASSACRE, where books are sold.

  CHAPTER 1

  “You two old scalawags stop that wagon and throw your guns down, or we’ll fill you so full of lead, they’ll need an ore dray to haul you to Boot Hill!”

  The shout had vaulted down from somewhere on the forested ridge jutting on the right side of the old wagon trail. The words echoed around the narrow canyon before dwindling beneath the crashing rattle of the freight wagon’s stout, iron-shod wheels.

  Jimmy “Slash” Braddock turned to his partner, Melvin Baker, the Pecos River Kid, sitting on the freight wagon’s seat to his left, and said, “Whose callin’ us old?”

  Driving the wagon, handling the reins gently in his gloved hands, Pecos turned to Slash and scowled. “Who... what?”

  “Someone just called us old.”

  Pecos lifted his head and looked around, blinking his lake-blue eyes beneath his snuff-brown Stetson’s broad brim. “I didn’t hear nothin’.”

  “You didn’t hear someone call us old from up on that ridge yonder?”

  “Hell, no—I
didn’t hear a damn thing. I think you’re imaginin’ things, Slash. It’s probably old-timer’s disease.”

  “Old-timer’s disease, my butt.” Slash’s brown-eyed gaze was perusing the stony ridge peppered with lodgepole pines and firs, all cloaked in sparkling, smoking gowns of high-mountain sunshine. “I heard someone insult us way out here on the devil’s hindquarters.”

  A rifle cracked on the ridge. The bullet punched into the trail several feet ahead of the two lead mules and spanged shrilly off a rock. Instantly, the mules tensed, arching their tails and necks. The off leader loosed a shrill bray.

  “Whoa!” Pecos said, hauling back on the reins. “Whoa there, you cayuses!”

  As Pecos stopped the mules, Slash snapped up his Winchester ’73, pumping a live round into the action. He’d started to raise the rifle, to aim up the ridge, when another rifle barked—this one on his and Pecos’s left. The bullet cracked loudly into the wagon panel two feet behind Pecos. The sound evoked a low ringing in Slash’s ears; it made his heart kick like a branded calf.

  Pecos flinched.

  As men who’d spent over half their lives riding the owlhoot trail, robbing trains and stagecoaches and evading posses and bounty hunters, they were accustomed to being shot at. That didn’t mean they’d ever gotten comfortable with it.

  “You were told to throw your weapons down, buckos!” said a man with a British accent from the pine-clad slope on the trail’s left side, on the heels of the rifle crack’s dwindling echoes. “You won’t be told a third time. You’ll just be blasted out of that wagon boot to bloody hell an’ gone!”

  Slash glanced at Pecos, who sat back on the hard wooden seat, holding the reins taut against his chest. Pecos returned Slash’s dark look, then lifted one corner of his mouth, clad in a silver-blond goatee that matched the color of his long, stringy hair, in a woeful half-smile.