Clint saw what Joyce had meant by following his nose. There were quite a few tents that were serving food. He stopped at a couple, found them cramped and crowded, then finally went into the third, where there were some empty seats.
He sat down and a waiter came over.
“Help ya?”
“Steak and eggs,” Clint said. “When I’m done, I’ll need another to take with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And coffee, strong.”
“Comin’ up.”
Clint had seated himself so he could see the front flap of the tent. He saw John Cross as soon as he entered. Cross walked directly to him, so he knew the man had known he was there.
“Can I join you?” he asked.
“I thought you’d be eating breakfast with the colonel,” Clint said.
“That meal was for your benefit,” Cross said. “The colonel usually eats at home.”
“Then have a seat. I’ve got coffee coming.”
He saw the waiter coming toward them, so he held up two fingers. The waiter nodded, and when he arrived, he had a pot of coffee and two mugs. He poured the two mugs full, and then waited for Cross to order.
“Ham and eggs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cross looked at Clint, who scanned the room, drank from his mug, then finally turned his attention to the man in front of him.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Cross?”
“Sheriff Cross.”
“Not yet,” Clint said. “There still has to be an election, doesn’t there?”
“It’s a formality.”
“That’s what the colonel told you, right? I don’t think Sam Robinson thinks so.”
“You saw Robinson?”
“We had a talk.”
“What about?” Cross asked. “What did Robinson want from you?”
“The same thing the colonel wanted.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Same thing I told the colonel… no.”
Cross stared at Clint some more, then asked, “Is that what you told Joyce?”
“What’s that?”
“Joyce Woods,” Cross said. “When she came to your room last night, did you tell her no?”
Clint thought about it for a moment, then said, “First of all, I’m not saying she came to my room last night. It’s not something a gentleman discusses. And second, why don’t you ask her?”
“I will,” Cross said, “don’t worry.”
The waiter came with their breakfast, set their plates down in front of them.
“I’m hungry,” Cross said.
“Me, too.”
“I don’t like to talk while I eat.”
“Me neither.”
They started to eat.
TWENTY-SIX
“You mind talking over coffee?” Clint asked when they had finished their breakfast.
“About what?” Cross asked.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “You came here looking for me, right?”
“No,” Cross said. “I followed you from your hotel.”
“I know,” Clint said. “And badly, too.”
“Believe me,” Cross said, “if I didn’t want you to see me, you wouldn’t have.”
“Cross,” Clint said, “I have half a mug of coffee left. You have that much time to get to the point.”
“I don’t want you around,” Cross said. “I don’t need your help. If you get in my way, I’ll kill you. Is that to the point enough?”
“Does your boss know you feel this way?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him. I’m tellin’ you first,” Cross said.
Clint finished his coffee and put the mug down. Then, true to his word, he stood up and walked out.
Conversation over.
Clint had to wait across the street for Cross to leave before he could go back in and pick up Crapface’s breakfast. He couldn’t go back in while Cross was still there, not after his very deliberate exit.
He opened Crapface’s door with his key and entered the room.
“It’s about time,” his friend said. “I’m starved!”
“Sorry,” Clint said. “I had a guest at breakfast, and got held up.”
He handed Crapface the tray bearing a plate of steak and eggs, a knife and a fork.
“No beer? I need something to wash this down with.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t carry coffee back.”
“Who was your guest?” Crapface asked, cutting into his meat.
“John Cross.”
“The would-be sheriff?”
“That’s the one.”
“What did he want?”
“Just to tell me he’d kill me if I got in his way.”
“And how would you get in his way?”
“Maybe by staying in town and siding with his opponent,” Clint said. “Or taking the colonel’s offer. But I think he was really talking about the colonel’s daughter.”
“Oh, Jeez—” Crapface said, making a pained face.
“He said he knew she came to my room last night.”
“And what did you say?”
“I didn’t address it,” Clint said. “Let him talk to her if he has a problem.”
“Why don’t you talk you her,” Crapface suggested, “and tell her to stay away from you. She’s only trouble, Clint.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “but wrapped up in such a pretty package.”
Crapface chewed and shook his head, gestured with his knife.
“You’re gonna get yerself killed because of a woman, mark my words.”
“We all have to die sometime.”
“Yeah, well, I’d just as soon be trampled by a herd of buffalo—and my chances of that are gettin’ slimmer and slimmer. If we don’t get up to the panhandle, the last of those buffalo are gonna be dead.”
“I’m going to get the doctor to come and have a look at you,” Clint said. “If he says it’s okay, we’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
“How about right now?”
“Tomorrow morning, Tyrone.”
“Jesus,” Crapface said, looking both pained and aggrieved, “don’t go callin’ me by my proper name. I hate it!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Clint found the doctor with a patient, a boy who had broken his arm and his very concerned and tired-looking mother.
“I need time to treat this boy’s arm,” the doctor said to Clint.
“Doctor, will he be all right?” the mother asked.
“He’ll be fine, Mrs. Lance. Come in with me, you can be with him while I treat him.”
Clint waited for the sawbones to treat the damaged limb, then walked with him back to the hotel.
“Is that pretty much the type of thing you handle?” Clint asked him. “Or are gunshot wounds more the normal thing?”
“This is pretty much a normal boomtown, Mr. Adams,” the doctor said. “We get all kinds of injuries here—broken arms and legs, gunshot wounds, folks run down by buckboards, injuries from fights—and that’s not even mentioning women who give birth.”
“Sounds like you’re busy.”
“Most days.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to check on Crapface.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask, is that really his name?” the doctor asked.
“Pretty much what everybody calls him,” Clint explained.
“Why would he stand for that?”
“Because it’s also what he calls himself.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because his real name’s Tyrone.”
“Oh.”
Clint used the key to unlock the door. The doctor watched, frowning.
“Just being safe,” he told the doctor. “Crapface isn’t exactly spry at the moment. We don’t want anyone surprising him.”
They entered and Crapface looked up at them from the bed.
“Hey, Doc!” he said anxiously. “Take a look at my shoulder and let this fella know I can ride okay, won’t ya?”
“I’ll take a look, Mr. Jones,” the doctor said, “but I can’t promise anything.”
The doctor unbuttoned Crapface’s new long johns, which Clint was seeing for the first time. Then he unbandaged the wound so he could examine it, probe it a bit with his fingers. Crapface tried not to, but he winced and caught his breath.
“Hurt?” the doctor asked.
“Naw,” Crapface lied.
The doctor cleaned the wound and then applied a fresh bandage.
“So?” Crapface asked. “Whataya say, Doc? Can I ride out?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” the doctor said. “If you try, you’ll likely tear your stitches and start to bleed. You need another day or two.”
“Aw, Jesus,” Crapface said. “I can’t stay in this bed for another two days.”
“Well,” the doctor said, “you could go outside, sit in a chair in front of the hotel. Get some air.”
“That’s all?” Crapface asked. “Sit in a chair?”
“It’s better than lying on that bed,” Clint pointed out, “isn’t it?”
Crapface crossed his arms, winced, and said, “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’ll stop in again tomorrow,” the doctor promised. “As soon as I see that those stitches won’t come apart, I’ll give you the go-ahead.”
Begrudgingly, Crapface said, “Thanks, Doc.”
Clint nodded to the doctor, who left.
“Want me to help you outside?” Clint asked.
“I guess so,” Crapface said. “I’ll need my boots.”
Clint looked over at Crapface’s worn boots in the corner of the room, with his soiled socks lying on top of them.
“It’s a good thing we’re such good friends,” he said with a sigh.
Out in front of the hotel Clint found two wooden chairs and set them down on the boardwalk. Then he sat Crapface down in one of them, and sat himself down in the other one. Crapface was wearing the grimy shirt Clint had discarded, and his own worn trousers and boots. He had left the skins in the room.
“How’s that?” Clint asked. “Better?”
“Some,” Crapface said reluctantly. “At least I’m gettin’ some fresh air on my face.”
Crapface took a deep breath then stared out at the muddy streets and motley collection of tents. The only other buildings were behind them, so he couldn’t see them.
“Not much to look at,” he said.
“Most towns aren’t when they start out,” Clint said.
“And some of them don’t get very far,” Crapface said. “I’ve seen towns boom, and then die.”
“I know,” Clint said. “Leadville, Dodge, some of them lasted longer than others.”
“This one may not last long at all,” Crapface said. “This colonel sounds a little too… out for himself.”
“I agree,” Clint said.
“And Cross, he’s got his own interests.”
“Maybe that other town, Hugoton, has got people who are working together.”
“I wonder if we’ll have to pass by that one to get to the panhandle,” Crapface said. “And I do mean pass by. I don’t wanna make any more stops.”
“I agree with that,” Clint said. “No more unscheduled stops.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Colonel Woods looked up as John Cross entered his office. They were in Woods’s house, which was the first building the colonel had erected when he came to “Woodsdale.” After that came the hotel.
“Where’ve you been?” the colonel asked.
“Out.”
“Doing what?”
Cross sat down across from his boss.
“Marking my territory, I guess.”
“What do you mean?” the colonel asked. “Were you in a pissing contest?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
Woods laughed, sat back from his paperwork.
“With who?”
“Clint Adams.”
Now Woods guffawed, to the point of choking.
“You’ve got more cojones than even I gave you credit for,” he said. “What the hell were you doing putting yours up against the Gunsmith?”
“Well, for one thing, we don’t need him.”
“And you told him so?”
“That’s right.”
“And why don’t we need him?”
“Because I’m gonna be sheriff, and that’s all we need,” Cross said.
“You don’t think the election would go smoother for you with him on your ticket as your deputy?”
“No.”
“Well,” Woods said, “what if I told you that I do think you’d do better with him? What if I said I need him? What then?”
“Then I’d say get yourself another boy,” Cross said. He started to get up.
“Okay, wait a minute,” the colonel said. “Don’t be in such a rush.”
Cross settled back into his chair.
“How about a brandy?”
Cross frowned. Woods usually didn’t offer him a drink. Not after their first meeting anyway.
Woods poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Cross.
“All right,” he said, sitting behind his desk again, “tell me what this is really about.”
Cross maintained a stubborn silence.
“It’s Joyce, isn’t it?”
“What?”
Woods laughed.
“Come on, Cross,” he said. “I saw the looks they were giving each other at the table last night. You saw them, too.”
Cross sat forward in his chair.
“She’s supposed to marry me, not mess with some saddle tramp who’s passin’ through.”
“I’d hardly call the Gunsmith a saddle tramp.”
“You’re impressed with his reputation.”
“And you’re not.”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me you threatened to kill him?”
“Only if he got in my way.”
Woods shook his head.
“Did you know he talked to Robinson?”
“I didn’t know,” Woods said, “but he’s staying in Sam’s hotel, so that’s no surprise.”
“Robinson tried to recruit him.”
“And?”
“He told him no, like he told you.”
“Well, then you don’t have any problems, do you?” Woods asked. “As soon as his friend heals, they’ll be on their way.”
“Can’t be too soon for me.”
“Of course,” Woods said, “if you want to ensure your election—and your reputation…”
“What are you driving at?”
“You and the Gunsmith, in the street.”
“I don’t get it,” Cross said. “Now you want me to kill him?”
“I’m just thinking that maybe he can do us more good dead than alive.”
“How so?”
“You’ve got to be smarter, Cross,” Woods said. “Who do you think this town, this county, would vote in as their sheriff—Sam Robinson, or the man who killed the famous Gunsmith?”
“I see your point.”
“There’s only one thing wrong with that.”
“What?”
“Can you do it?”
“I can do it,” Cross said. “You just tell me where and when.”
“I’ll work that out,” Woods said. “Don’t you worry about it.”
TWENTY-NINE
Joyce Woods was standing outside her father’s office, listening to the conversation between him and John Cross. She hurried away before Cross left, so he wouldn’t catch her. Now in her room, she was wondering what she should do. Confront her father, tell him that she’d heard him and Cross planning murder? Or tell Clint Adams, which would mean betraying her father?
Maybe the man to talk to was Cross. That was it. He loved her, wanted to marry him. Maybe if she agreed to that, he’d forget about the plot to kill Clint Adams. And she wasn’t only trying to save Clint’s life, but her father’s life and reputation as well. If it ever came out, he’d be ruined. That would
kill him.
She decided to go and see Cross right away, see if she could sway him. If he loved her enough, wanted her enough, it should be easy.
She pulled on a shawl and hurried down the stairs, but before she could go out the front door, she heard her father’s voice.
“Where are you off to?”
She stopped short and turned to face him.
“I’m just… going out.”
“Joyce,” he said, “this is not the kind of place for you to be walking around alone. It’s dangerous out there. Somebody could get killed.”
“I know that, Father. I was just… going to see John.”
“Cross? About what?”
“I… just want to talk to him.”
“Well, he was just here,” Woods said. “If I’d known you wanted to talk to him, I would have called you down.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “I want to talk to him alone.”
“Is this about… well, the two of you?”
“Yes,” she said, “that’s what it’s about.”
“Joyce,” Woods said, “if I were you, I wouldn’t do anything to spoil the plan now.”
“The plan?”
“For you and John to marry,” he said. “It’s not easy for a girl to find a man who actually wants to get married these days.”
“I know that, too, Father.”
“And if I was you,” her father said, “I’d stay away from that Gunsmith fellow.”
“Really?” She turned to face him. “Stay away from him?”
“Now, now,” he said, taking her by the shoulders, “don’t take an attitude with me, honey. I’m just trying to do what’s best for everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“Yes,” he said, “you, me, John Cross, the town, the county.”
“What about Clint Adams?” she asked. “What’s best for him?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think that’s up to him to worry about.”
“That’s right,” she said. “You have enough to think about, don’t you?”
She turned and put her hand on the doorknob.
“Joyce! You’re not still going out, are you?” he asked, alarmed.
“I told you, Father,” she said. “I want to talk to John, and I want to talk to him now!”
“You headstrong girl—” he started, but she opened the door and went out.
Headstrong, he thought, just like her mother used to be.
The Last Buffalo Hunt Page 7