The Last Buffalo Hunt

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The Last Buffalo Hunt Page 8

by J. R. Roberts


  She found Cross as he was coming out of one of the saloon tents.

  “Joyce,” he said, “what are you doing on the street? This is no place for you to be walking around alone. It’s too dangerous.”

  “That’s what Father keeps telling me.”

  “Well, he’s right.”

  “You think he’s right about everything, don’t you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, “not everything. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  “No,” she said. “Take me someplace where we can talk… alone.”

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll go and have some coffee. Come on. We can get a table in a corner, where nobody can hear us.”

  He took her by the elbow and led her away from the saloon.

  THIRTY

  “Hey,” Crapface said, “ain’t that your girl?”

  “Huh? Where?”

  “Straight ahead.”

  They had been sitting there over an hour. They could see right down the street, but not as far as the saloon tents.

  “That’s Miss Woods, ain’t it?” Crapface asked. “With the soon-to-be Sheriff Cross?”

  “The want-to-be Sheriff Cross, and yes, that’s her.”

  “I wonder where they’re goin’,” Crapface asked. “And what they’re doin’.”

  “Looks to me like they’re going to get something to eat.”

  As Joyce and Cross entered a tent, Clint knew that it was one that served food.

  “Guess they’re having a late breakfast,” he commented.

  “Or an early lunch,” Crapface said. “Do you want to go and find out?”

  “Not really,” Clint said. “I’ve had my conversation with Mr. Cross.”

  “And a long conversation with Miss Woods,” Crapface reminded him. “Don’t forget that.”

  “How could I?”

  They sat silently for a while, and then Crapface asked, “Think they’re talkin’ about us?”

  “Why would they?” Clint asked.

  “I dunno,” Crapface said. “What else would there be to talk about in this town?”

  “There must be a lot,” Clint said.

  But he had to admit, he also wondered if he was a subject of conversation between the two people. After all, they’d both spent time with him recently. Under very different circumstances.

  Cross and Joyce got a table in the rear of the tent. There were only a few other people there, and they were able to speak without being overheard.

  They ordered coffee, then waited quietly until their server had poured it and left.

  “What can I do for you, Joyce?” Cross asked when they were alone.

  She had debated with herself how to approach this, and she decided just to go straight ahead.

  “I heard you and my father talking this morning.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you often eavesdrop on your father?”

  “Never,” she said, “but I did today.”

  “And what do you think you heard?”

  “I heard you and him talking about killing Clint Adams.”

  “No,” Cross said, “you must have heard wrong.”

  “Really?” she asked. “Then what were you talking about?”

  “How to get Adams to help us.”

  “By killing him?” she asked. “And making a name for yourself?”

  He reached across the table for her hand. She wanted to pull away but decided not to.

  “You can’t go around saying things like this, Joyce,” he said. “For one thing, you’ll get your father in trouble.”

  “And you?”

  “Yes, and me.”

  “Then you won’t kill Clin—Mr. Adams?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Not even if my father tells you to?”

  “I don’t think he’d do that, but no… not if you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t.”

  Now he took her hand in both of his.

  “But who is your concern for?” he asked. “Adams, or me?”

  “Why, you, of course, John.”

  “Joyce, you know your father expects us to marry, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “You’ll be the sheriff’s wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I won’t be the sheriff forever,” he said. “I expect to move up.”

  “I know you will, John.”

  “I had better walk you home now.”

  He paid the bill and they stepped outside. She looked up the street and saw the hotel, with two men sitting out front. She recognized Clint.

  She knew what her father and Cross had talked about, but she let Cross think that he had persuaded her she had heard wrong.

  In order to get to her home, they were going to have to walk past the hotel. She took his arm, and they headed that way.

  Cross saw Clint sitting in front of the hotel with his friend. He intended to walk Joyce right by them. Joyce may have thought she’d persuaded him not to kill Clint Adams, but that was not the case. Now he had to go to her father and they had to figure out what to do with her before they killed him. She might not turn her father in for murder, but she could very well turn him in. After all, he wasn’t family. Not yet anyway.

  “They’re comin’ this way,” Crapface said.

  “I see them.”

  “Don’t say nothin’.”

  “That would be rude.”

  “Okay, then don’t say nothin’ unless one of them does,” Crapface said. “And don’t say nothin’ that’ll make ’em mad.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “That I can do.”

  They watched the two people walking toward them, wondering if they were coming to the hotel, or if they were going to pass it by.

  THIRTY-ONE

  As they approached, Clint noticed that Joyce was taking great pains not to look his way. He thought her effort was wasted. He was sure that Cross knew about them.

  It seemed as if they were going to pass the hotel by, probably on the way to her father’s house, but suddenly Cross changed direction. In moments they were standing right in front of where Clint and Crapface were seated.

  “Mr. Adams,” Cross said, “I’m sure you remember Miss Woods?”

  “Yes, I do,” Clint said. “Hello, Joyce.”

  “Mr. Adams,” she said, keeping up her hopeless pretext.

  “And your injured friend,” Cross said. “I’ve forgotten his name.”

  “Jones,” Clint said, “this is Tyrone Jones.”

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Jones?” Cross asked.

  “Better,” Crapface said, “much better.”

  “That’s good,” Cross said. “Then you’ll be on your way soon.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  Cross touched the brim of his hat and they moved on. Joyce did not look back.

  “Not soon enough?” Clint said to Crapface. “I thought you said not to say anything that might make them mad.”

  “Couldn’t help it,” Crapface said. “I wanna get out of this town before you have to kill somebody else, or somebody kills you.”

  “I wouldn’t like that either.”

  “That man,” Crapface said, “wants to kill you.”

  “I know.”

  “And if we stay here, he’ll try it.”

  “I know.”

  “And either he’ll kill you, or you’ll kill him.”

  “Jesus, Crapface,” Clint said. “I get it.”

  “Just makin’ sure,” the buffalo hunter said. “Hey, why don’t we go get us a couple of beers?”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Clint said. “But a beer sounds good. I’ll go get them and bring them back.”

  “Okay,” Crapface said, “but make it fast so they don’t get warm.”

  Clint stood up and said, “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  “You better be.”

  Clint walked to the saloon he
and Crapface had been in before. Might as well stay with what he knew.

  He went to the bar, where Brent was tending.

  “Well, I thought maybe you were gone.”

  “Not ’til my friend heals,” Clint said.

  “Where is he?”

  “Over at the hotel. I need two beers to take over there.”

  “I gotta put ’em in pails.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Be right back.”

  While he was waiting, Penny came walking up to him.

  “Well, where have you been?” she asked, bumping him with her hip.

  “My friend had an accident,” he said. “I’ve been taking care of him.”

  “That’s a good friend,” she said. “But I thought you were gonna be my friend.”

  “I am your friend,” he said. “I thought I proved that already.”

  “I think I’m gonna need a bit more proof before we’re done,” she said.

  She smiled, went off to do her job.

  Brent returned with two pails of beer. Clint paid him and left.

  “That was fast,” Crapface said.

  Clint handed him one pail, then sat down with the other one.

  “That’s good,” Crapface said after a long drink.

  “Make it last,” Clint said. “I’m not going back again.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Another girl.”

  “Oh, the blond saloon girl? She ain’t gonna be any trouble.”

  “There would be if she came to my room the same time as Joyce.”

  “That one better not come to your room,” Crapface said. “Not anymore.”

  Clint drank some beer and said, “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Back so soon?” Woods asked as Cross entered.

  Cross looked out into the hall, then pulled the door closed behind him.

  “What’s going on?” Woods asked.

  “She heard us talking before.”

  “Who did?”

  “Joyce!”

  Woods frowned.

  “What did she hear?”

  Cross paced.

  “She heard us talking about killing the Gunsmith,” he said.

  “She told you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t she come to me?”

  “You’ll have to ask her that.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She asked me not to kill him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because doing it would get you and me into trouble.”

  “And you believe her? I mean, that’s her reason?” Woods asked.

  “Why else?”

  “Maybe she’s in love with him.”

  “She hardly knows him.”

  “You said she was with him last night.”

  “So what?” Cross asked. “She’s not going to fall in love with him after one night. We’re still going to get married.”

  “You think so?”

  “We agreed.”

  Cross sat back in his chair.

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “I already did,” he said. “She agreed not to tell anyone.”

  “I’ll talk to her anyway.”

  “Do you want me to get her?”

  “No,” Woods said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll speak with her.”

  “All right,” Cross said. “Let me know what happens when you talk to her.”

  “Don’t worry,” Woods said. “She won’t say a word. We’re still on track. Take your first opportunity to kill Adams. Get some help if you have to, but make it look like a fair fight.”

  After Cross left, Woods sat at his desk for a very long time, going over his options.

  He could forget about using Clint Adams, and just let him leave town.

  He could ship Joyce back East, keep her out of the way so she wouldn’t be a problem. But in the East or here, she could still tell someone what he was planning.

  He could have his own daughter killed.

  Would Cross do it? No. He was in love with her. Cross thought he was a killer, but he had limits—not many, but refusing to kill the woman he loved was one of them.

  If Woods decided to kill Joyce, he’d need somebody with no limits at all.

  But that was ridiculous.

  He was an ambitious man, saw Woodsdale and this new county as a way to further his own political ambitions, but even he wouldn’t sacrifice his own child.

  Would he?

  Joyce sat in her room, wondering what was going on downstairs. Wondering if she’d made a mistake. Maybe she should have gone to her father first.

  She went to her window and looked out, saw John Cross waking away. What had he told her father? And what had her father told him?

  What was going to happen?

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Okay,” Clint said.

  “Okay, what?” Crapface asked.

  “Okay, I’ve had enough of just sitting here.”

  “So have I.”

  “Yeah, well, the difference is, I can leave and you can’t.” Clint stood up.

  “I don’t want to sit here alone.”

  “Your only other choice is to go back to your room,” Clint said.

  “Jesus, that ain’t much of a choice.”

  “I’m going to see if I can find out what’s going on around here, for real.”

  “Wait, wait,” Crapface said. “You can’t leave me here without my rifle.”

  “You want to go back to your room and get it?” Clint asked.

  “No, I want you to go to my room and get it, bring it to me here. I’ll stay out here awhile longer, but not without my Sharps.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, pointing his finger, “but you better be here when I get back.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “If you’re not, I’ll get a set of chains from the sheriff and chain you to your bed.”

  “Okay, okay,” Crapface said, “but remember, he’s the almost sheriff.”

  Clint hurried up to Crapface’s room, grabbed his Sharps and some rounds, and took them back downstairs. He was almost surprised to find Crapface still sitting there.

  “What?” his friend said. “I tol’ you I’d stay here, didn’t I? Gimme.”

  He put his hand out and Clint placed the Sharps in it.

  “Rounds?”

  Clint handed over six rounds. Crapface put them in his pocket.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’m ready.”

  “For what?”

  “With Baby in my hands,” Crapface said, “anything.”

  “I forgot you call that thing Baby.”

  “Just a pet name,” Crapface said. “You never named your gun?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “it’s call Gun.” He pointed again. “Stay here, or in your room.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Crapface placed his Sharps over his legs.

  Clint walked into the center of Woodsdale, where activity was at its height. It was getting on to late afternoon. There was still some construction going on, but soon those workers would be done for the day and would flock into the saloons. Or maybe they’d line up to sign their names.

  Clint decided to go into the saloon before it got crowded, and see how much information he could get from Brent, Penny, and some of the others who worked there.

  He entered and approached the bar.

  John Cross saw Clint Adams go into the saloon. He assumed that Joyce Woods was still at her father’s house, where he had left her. So this might turn out to be his best chance to kill Adams, since Colonel Woods said they were still on track to carry out their plans.

  He crossed the street to enter the saloon.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “What kind of information are you lookin’ for?” Brent, the bartender, asked after he’d served Clint a cold beer. He leaned on the bar to listen.

  “Colonel Woods,” Clint said.

  “What about him?”

  “What’s
he really after around here?”

  “Well,” Brent said, “he’s already got a town named after him, but somehow I don’t think he’s gonna stop there.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If you want specifics, I got none,” Brent said. “All I know is what I hear from men who come in here. Some folks have their doubts about the colonel. They think he ain’t exactly out for the good of the town in this fight with Hugoton.”

  “What about Cross?”

  Brent shrugged.

  “He’s pretty much the colonel’s man,” Brent said. “He’ll do what the old man wants him to do—especially if it means he gets to be the sheriff, and marry the colonel’s daughter.”

  “And what about Sam Robinson?”

  “What about him?”

  “What kind of a sheriff would he make?” Clint asked him.

  “I don’t know what kind of sheriff either of them would make,” Brent said. “I don’t know either man except to serve them drinks, and to hear what other folks say about them.”

  “So you’ve heard a lot about them.”

  “That may be, but what I’ve heard I can’t swear is true.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I’ve heard people say that Cross would make a better lawman,” Brent answered, “and Robinson a better politician.”

  “And what’s needed around here right now?” Clint asked.

  “In the early days of this town, probably a lawman,” Brent said. “But if John Cross becomes the sheriff, Colonel Woods will still be around, and he’s definitely a politician.”

  “So by voting Cross in,” Clint said, “you’ll get two for one.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Clint finished his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar. Brent stood up straight.

  “Another one?”

  “Why not?”

  He looked around while the bartender got him another beer.

  “Where’s Penny?” he asked when the bartender came back.

  “Off working somewhere.”

  “Working?”

  Brent gave Clint a knowing look.

  “She doesn’t only serve drinks,” he said, “if you know what I mean.”

  Clint understood.

  “In fact, I think she’s over at the hotel,” Brent added.

  “The hotel?”

  “With your friend.”

  “Crapface?” Clint asked.

  Brent shook his head.

  “Robinson.”

 

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