Savannah smiled and dropped a little curtsy. “Your manners do you credit, sir.”
Holliday smiled in turn, then said, “If my luck changes and I hit a winning streak, I will send for Kate and have her join me in Deadwood. But if the cards are still against me, I must perforce return to Fort Griffin and the less-than-chaste arms of my beloved.”
A sly look crept into Holliday’s eyes. “Ah, Buck, perhaps after I’ve had a few hours’ sleep—I was up all night playing nickel-and-dime poker with some sodbusters and other assorted rubes—you might care to join me in a game?” Holliday held up a thin white hand, the blue veins very prominent. “But tired and worn out as I am, I fear you may seek to take unfair advantage of me.”
Fletcher shook his head and laughed loudly. “Doc, I went that route with you before, remember, in Dodge. You said you was tired and worn out then. I was lucky to rise from that table still owning my horse and saddle. As I recall, I lost everything else.”
Fletcher wondered at that laugh. It was the first time in years he’d done that, and it felt good.
“Well, Doc,” he said, “it’s been real nice talking to you again, but Savannah and me, we have to fill an order of supplies over to the general store.”
Savannah laid the tips of her fingers on Fletcher’s arm. “Buck, if you don’t mind, I’m feeling very tired. I’d like to lie down here and take a nap for an hour while you get the supplies together.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” FIetcher asked.
“I’ll be just fine. I don’t think anyone would try to attack me in town.”
Doc Holliday, who had been listening intently to this exchange, tapped the butt of his Colt. “Buck, I’ll be right here in the next room. Believe me, if I hear anything untoward, I will dash pell-mell to the lady’s rescue.” He turned to Savannah. “Be assured, dear lady, you can depend on me.”
Fletcher knew Doc from old and respected his ability with a gun, but a niggling doubt was eating at him. Doc Holliday was known for a lot of things, but reliability wasn’t one of them. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “That sounds just fine, Doc. But mind you stay wide awake and keep your ears sharp.”
“You can leave it all in my hands, Buck,” said Holliday. “Savannah Jones is as safe as a snuff box in granny’s apron. I’ll protect her as I would my own dear Kate.”
After Holliday left, Fletcher told Savannah to put a chair under the doorknob and warned her not to open the door to anyone unless it was him or Doc. Savannah nodded. She stepped toward him and stood very close, so close the sweet, womanish smell of her skin and hair made his head swim.
“Buck,” she whispered, “take care. You’re... I mean, you’re...” Her words stumbled to a halt. She shook her head. “Just take care.”
Fletcher stood there for a moment, confused, a big, rugged-looking man, slightly stooped, with all his weight in his arms and shoulders. Standing there in his weather-faded blue shirt, down-at-heel boots and ragged mackinaw, his was not a figure to be cutting a dash among the ladies, and well he knew it.
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, then managed huskily, “I’ll take care.”
He left then and stood in the hallway until he heard Savannah put the chair under the doorknob.
Fletcher walked down the stairs slowly. The fact that Doc, a man real handy with a Colt, was in the room next to Savannah’s helped set his mind at ease, a little anyway.
But what he didn’t know as he stepped onto the boardwalk and made his way toward the general store was that Doc Holliday, the effects of the morning’s whiskey finally catching up to him, was already sprawled across his bed.
Snoring.
Jeb Coons had given Fletcher a list of the supplies he needed, and the big gunfighter dropped it off at the general store, telling the proprietor to sack them up and that he’d stop by later.
He had time to kill, so he crossed the street to the Hole in the Bucket Saloon. Fletcher wasn’t normally a drinking man, but bartenders were a gossipy breed, and it was just possible that this one might know something of Savannah’s past and why she was in the Dakota Territory.
Unfortunately, the bartender could offer nothing more than the hotel clerk.
“We don’t get ladies like her in this saloon,” the man said. “And if she doesn’t come in, I don’t get a chance to talk to her.”
At this early hour, there were only two other people in the saloon. A plump, soft-looking man in a broadcloth suit, a banker by the look of him, who sat in a corner drinking coffee while he read the newspaper, now and then darting disapproving glances at a shabby loafer who sat at another table nursing a beer and a hangover.
The batwing doors swung open, and a small, wiry man with mild blue eyes stepped up to the potbellied stove and spread his hands to the warmth.
“Quite nippy out,” he said, smiling at Fletcher.
Fletcher nodded. “Some.” Then, deciding to take a small step toward sociability, he added, “Wind’s from the north. Might be warning of a hard winter.”
The little man’s eyes slid off the gunfighter’s face then back again like he was trying to make up his mind about something. Finally he said, in a clipped English accent, “Is your name Buck Fletcher by any chance?”
Like the banker, the bartender and the loafer, Fletcher recognized this as a grave breach of Western etiquette. You never asked a man his handle. If he wanted you to have it, he’d give it to you. The man had stepped over an invisible yet rigid line, and it rankled.
“It might be,” Fletcher said, fighting down his irritation.
“Well,” returned the little man, smiling, “if it is, there are two fellows in the street who told me to ask you to step outside.”
“Why?”
The little man shrugged. “I’m very much afraid that they seem quite determined to kill you.”
Chapter 6
Fletcher stood in silence for a few moments, then turned to the bartender. “Is there a sheriff in town?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t have one. The sheriff we had just up and quit, and the mayor hasn’t got around to appointing a new one yet. Not that there are many candidates lining up for the job. The tin star is still sitting on the mayor’s desk, and I reckon it will stay there for a spell.”
The four men in the saloon watched Fletcher, wanting to see what he’d do next.
The gunfighter nodded toward the little man by the stove, who was opening his long tweed coat to the heat. “Two men, you say?”
“Two. And rough-looking, desperate characters. Ruffians, by the look of them.”
“Then I’ll talk to them.”
“Mr. Fletcher, if that’s indeed who you are, I believe you’ll find those two rather limited conversation-wise,” the little man said. “They’re the type who only talk with their guns.”
The men were waiting in the street when Fletcher stepped outside. Both wore buffalo-hide coats, and both were dirty and shaggy. Long yellow hair fell over their shoulders, and their beards spilled thick and un-trimmed over their chests.
There was no mistaking the hate in their eyes and the desire to kill. The larger of the two held what looked to be a .44-40 Winchester, and, a step behind, the other had a Greener, its twin barrels pointed right at Fletcher’s belly.
A shotgun had a way of taking the ginger out of a man fast, and Fletcher had seen even feared gunfighters back down from a Greener in the right hands. And he had no doubt this one was in very capable hands. The man was primed, ready and looked like he knew how to use a gun well.
A sickness growing in him, knowing what was to come, Fletcher stepped to the edge of the boardwalk and asked, “What can I do for you boys?”
The man with the rifle made a sudden motion with his right arm, and Fletcher caught the glint of gold spinning through the air. He made no attempt to catch the coin, but let it fall, ringing, to the boardwalk.
“That’s yours,” the man said. “You left it in a dugout saloon back to the Bald Mountain country af
ter you killed our paw an’ our brother Ezra. See, Ezra was just a boy, scarce twenty year old, an’ you shot him down like a dog.”
“That Sharps he carried was plenty growed up,” Fletcher said. “I wanted no trouble, but they brought it to me. They wanted to kill me and take what was mine.”
“It don’t matter a damn who was in the right or who was in the wrong,” the man with the shotgun said, showing yellow teeth in a feral snarl. “Right or wrong, we avenge our kin. That’s our way.”
“We been following you for quite a spell,” the Winchester man said. “Another of our kin, a yellowbelly who ain’t around no more, was out deer huntin’ an’ told us that after the shootin’ was over, he seen you ride away from the dugout, a big man ridin’ a sorrel hoss an’ dragging a mustang behind.
“We been askin’ around, an’ we was told you got a woman stashed up on the Two-Bit. Me an’ him,” the man said, nodding toward his brother, “been watching you mighty close.”
“Puzzles me that you haven’t bushwhacked me by this time,” Fletcher said, trying to postpone the gunfire for as long as he could. “I’d have figured that was more your style.”
The man nodded. “Studied on that a time or two, but me and Ephraim here, we decided we wanted to watch you die up close.” The man shrugged. “It’s a lot more fun that way.”
There’s a time for talking and a time for shooting, and the time for talking was being used up fast. But Fletcher made one last, desperate try.
“Boys,” he said, “you got no call to die in the street. Your paw and Ezra just ain’t worth dying for.”
“That’s what you say,” the man with the shotgun said. “Why, you yellowbelly, I—”
The talking time was over.
Fletcher dove off the boardwalk, drawing his gun as he flew through the air. His Colt was already hammering as he hit the ground. He saw his bullets kick up puffs of dust on the Winchester man’s chest, then he rolled and swung on his shotgun-toting brother. Too late! Ephraim had the Greener to his shoulder and was taking dead aim, his finger already white on the trigger.
A shot slammed behind him, and Fletcher saw the man stagger backward, the muzzles of his shotgun dropping. He’d been hit square in the middle of his forehead, and blood and brain fanned like a crimson halo around him. But he was still standing. Still dangerous. Fletcher rose on his right knee and fired at Ephraim, saw the hit, then fired again.
Like a felled oak, his shotgun blasting harmlessly into the air, the man crashed backward and hit the street with a dreadful thud, sprawling his full length on the frost-hardened mud.
Both men lay there unmoving, as dead as they were ever going to be. Behind him, Fletcher heard a deep, racking sob. He turned and saw the little man in the tweed coat standing on the boardwalk, a shocked, sick expression on his face. He was holding a smoking Colt in his right hand.
“Oh my God, I just killed a man,” he gasped. “I can’t believe it. I just killed a man. Oh my God, my God ...”
Fletcher punched empty shells from the cylinder of his own Colt, reloaded and holstered the gun. “Mister,” he said, “I don’t know why you dealt yourself a hand in this game, but I surely do thank you, and I owe you one.”
A gawking crowd gathered around the dead men, and the bartender stepped onto the boardwalk and quickly summed up the situation.
“You there, Lem Wilkins and Brad Elliot,” the man said, “take those two down to the undertaker. Then come back, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“What about their rifles an’ horses an’ sich?” the man called Elliot asked.
“Bring them back here,” the bartender said, shaking his head slowly. “Maybe they left widows behind or some other kin.”
He turned to Fletcher. “Mister, you gave them boys a chance to step away from a shooting. Studying on it, I’d say you done all you could. Now come inside and I’ll buy you a drink, but then be on your way.”
The bartender’s eyes were hard, and there was no give in them. “My name is Caleb Mills, and I own this saloon. We don’t have any law in Buffalo City, but I head up the vigilante committee. Now, come in and drink up and be welcome. Then leave town.”
“And if I don’t?” Fletcher asked, suddenly angry.
The bartender’s face didn’t change. “Within ten minutes I can round up a dozen men with shotguns. Do you think even Buck Fletcher can face that many?”
“You’re pushing me mighty hard, Mills,” Fletcher said. “I won’t be buffaloed.”
The saloon owner was short and stocky, with huge forearms and wrists. He wore a flowered vest and a gold watch chain across his belly, and he looked strong and capable.
“Fletcher,” he said, as he watched the dead being carried away, “those were mountain men, born to the feud. Now, maybe you’ve killed them all, but if you haven’t, their surviving kin will come here seeking revenge. I don’t want another street fight. Too many innocent people can be killed when the bullets start flying.”
Buck Fletcher bitterly sensed the injustice of it all. He’d killed only in self-defense, and now it rankled that he was being run out of town.
His eyes cold, Fletcher was about to angrily tell the bartender exactly where he could shove his drink, but the voice of the little man in the tweed coat stopped him.
“Gentlemen, I pray you,” he said, his English accent very strong, “I need a brandy. I’ve never killed a man before, and I’m afraid I’m quite undone. Indeed, I feel faint.”
The bartender nodded at Fletcher. “That invitation for a drink is still open.”
“Please, Mr. Fletcher,” the Englishman pleaded, “I really do need a brandy.”
Fletcher stood there for a few moments, weighing his options.
He decided that he owed the little Englishman a favor or three, and having a drink with him would be a small start in balancing the ledger.
The ludicrousness of the situation had finally dawned on Fletcher and tickled the wry humor that always lay just beneath his tough, unsmiling exterior.
“Make that two brandies, Mr. Mills,” he grinned, “and you have yourself a deal.”
As he was about to step into the saloon, Fletcher was passed by the loafer who’d earlier been nursing the dregs of a warm beer. The man ran, scooped up the fallen double eagle from the boardwalk and bit into it. He grinned hugely, then hightailed it, hallooing as he leaped into the air and clicked his heels together.
Fletcher let him go, shaking his head as he walked through the batwing doors. Buffalo City was shaping up to be a mighty strange town.
Mills produced a dusty bottle of Hennessy cognac and poured a generous glass for Fletcher and the Englishman.
The little man nodded toward a table in the corner. “Shall we?”
Fletcher nodded, and they settled themselves at the table. Fletcher built himself a smoke as the Englishman introduced himself. He gave his name only as Bob, and Fletcher did not press the matter.
“It seems to me,” Fletcher said, “that I’ve seen you somewhere before. I just can’t recall a place or time.”
“Most unlikely,” Bob said. His hand was trembling slightly as he held his glass to his lips. “You see, I’m a landscape painter by profession, just arrived from England a couple of weeks ago. I’d read so much about the glory of the Black Hills that I decided to preserve them on canvas before they’re ruined by mining.”
For the first time, Fletcher noticed faded paint stains on the little man’s hands and down the front of his English tweed jacket and pants.
Bob sipped his brandy and said, “Ah, I’m starting to feel a bit better. I’ve never killed a man before. It’s a dreadful thing.”
Fletcher nodded. “Yes, it is. It’s not easy to kill a man and walk away from it. Every time you kill, a little piece of you dies. Kill often enough, and though you may still talk and eat and breathe, you’re a walking dead man your ownself.”
Bob smiled slightly. “How very depressing.”
“Maybe so, but I reckon that’s the way of
it,” Fletcher said, his eyes bleak and remote.
The Englishman laid his brandy glass on the table. All his movements were precise and exact, with no wasted motion.
“You know, Buck—may I call you Buck?—I was on my way in here to talk to you when I encountered those ruffians outside.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well, it was Judith Tyrone who asked me to speak to you. She owns the Lazy R, you know.”
Fletcher nodded. “I’ve heard of her. They say Pike Prescott is pushing her mighty hard.”
Bob spread his slim hands, the nails clean and cut short, and shrugged. “Prescott wants her range. There’s a fortune to be made supplying beef to the Deadwood miners, and he needs more grazing. Have you any idea how many cows thirty thousand miners can get through in a week?”
“I’ve a pretty good idea. Say, how did you know I’d come into town?”
“Well, I didn’t. Not really. But the Prescott hands were saying you intended to stay up there on the Two-Bit, and I knew you must eventually come in for supplies. When I’m not out in the wilderness painting, I stay pretty close to the hotel, so I told Mrs. Tyrone I’d watch for you.”
Fletcher began to build another smoke. “What did Judith Tyrone want you to talk to me about? I’m not selling my gun, if that’s what she has in mind.”
Bob shook his head. “No, nothing like that, though God knows she could use you. She’s already had two hands murdered out on the range and another who lies close to death. Prescott is very aware that Mrs. Tyrone’s hard-working cowboys are no match for his hired guns, especially that Higgy Conroy. He’s a born killer.”
“I’ve met him,” Fletcher said dryly, adding nothing more.
“Well, to get to the point, Judith—I mean, Mrs. Tyrone—heard you have a very sick woman at your cabin on the Two-Bit, and she’s very concerned for her welfare.”
“You mean Savannah Jones?” Fletcher asked. Then, without waiting for a reply, added: “She’s over to her room at the hotel right now.”
Ralph Compton Showdown At Two-Bit Creek Page 6