“That murder gave her free and clear title to old Deke’s ranch.
“Later, she got rid of Prescott too, leaving the PP Connected in the hands of a girl who’s not much more than a child. Judith figured to eliminate Amy Prescott then take over the Connected and own the whole shooting match.
“As far as the law is concerned, she’d be in the clear—just a poor young widow who stood up to a powerful rancher and decided to fight for what was hers. Can you imagine Judith up there on the stand, beautiful and grieving, sobbing into a bit of lace handkerchief as she tells why she’d been forced to kill Amy Prescott in self-defense and take over the PP Connected ? There isn’t a jury of twelve men in the Territory who would find against her.”
Matt Baker poured himself some coffee. “But the stakes got a lot bigger when she heard about the gold on PP Connected land. I figure Higgy Conroy discovered that quartz seam in the butte when he was still working for Prescott. He got a couple of miners to help him explore the seam. Then, when he realized just how huge it was, he shot them both to shut their mouths for good.
“I believe Higgy brought the news of the gold to Judith and quickly found his way into her confidence—and, if the information I’m getting is correct, into her bed.”
That last shook Fletcher, but he decided to not let it show. He shook his head. “But Judith had punchers killed. She wouldn’t kill her own hands.”
Baker smiled grimly. “Buck, in her own sweet way, Judith Tyrone is as cold-blooded a killer as Higgy Conroy and maybe more so. There’s evil in her, a total lack of compassion and empathy for the suffering of others. Maybe she was born that way, maybe life made her that way. Who knows?”
Fletcher smoked in silence for a few moments, then said, “Judith wanted me to join her, sell her my gun. If you two are telling the truth, why would her hired killer shoot at me not once but three times, and the last time come mighty close to succeeding?”
“Buck, I don’t think the rideman, whoever he is, was trying to kill you, at least not at first,” Savannah said. “He was trying to scare you into thinking he was working for Pike Prescott and that Prescott wanted you dead. It was Judith’s way of forcing you to side with her against the PP Connected.
“But when you refused to join her, she ordered the killer to try again—but this time for real.”
Fletcher shook his head. “This is a lot of talk. Can you prove any of it?”
“No,” Baker said. “Not unless we can connect Judith Tyrone to the death of her husband and the other murders.”
“Buck, we’re not working for the law here,” Savannah said. “We’re working for a Pinkerton client. But bringing Judith Tyrone to justice is what he’s paying for, and he doesn’t expect anything less. Nor will we settle for less.”
Fletcher was silent for a few moments, thinking. Then he said, “Where is Amy Prescott?”
Baker’s face was grim. “Her ranch house was burned down a couple of days ago. Then Conroy out-drew and killed her cook in a saloon in Buffalo City when the man accused him of plotting against Amy. I guess that cook set store by her, and in the end it was the death of him.
“Now she and what’s left of her punchers are hiding out in the hills, though Higgy Conroy has vowed to hunt them down and kill every last man of them.”
“Where’s the law in all this?”
“There’s still no sheriff in Buffalo City, and as far as Deputy United States Marshal C. J. Graham is concerned, the Lazy R acted only in self-defense, especially after Higgy Conroy swore on a stack of Bibles that he changed sides after Amy Prescott ordered him to murder Judith Tyrone.
“Graham issued warrants for the arrest of Amy Prescott and her men, and she and her punchers are now hunted fugitives with a price on their heads. Unless Savannah and I can save them, I doubt that any of them, including Amy, will live much longer.”
Fletcher was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “It’s bad luck, to tell a lie on the Bible.”
Savannah’s face wore a puzzled expression. “Why, yes, I suppose it is.”
Fletcher smiled. “Sorry, someone I know told me that. It just came into my head. I have no idea why.”
Fletcher still had the tobacco hunger. He began to roll another smoke.
“Where are Conroy and Tex Lando? And there’s another gun hand rides with them, a man called Eddie.”
“As far as I know, they’re in Buffalo City and walking a wide path,” Baker said. “Conroy and the others seem well-supplied with money, and they’ve been talking about how they’re about to strike it rich. Now, some folks think that strange since none of them is ever seen to do a lick of work, but they’ve got the town so cowed, nobody dares say it.”
“I had around four hundred dollars in my money belt. they’re probably spending that,” Fletcher said ruefully. “What about the vigilantes?”
“They’ve got them buffaloed too,” Baker replied. “They’re all married men, and they don’t want to face Higgy Conroy’s guns. I can’t say as I blame them.”
Fletcher still couldn’t bring himself to believe what he’d heard. Judith Tyrone was behind all this from the very start? It just didn’t seem possible.
But then he recalled that day in the cabin when he’d kissed her. After their mouths had parted, he’d expected to see passion in her eyes. Instead, he’d seen only calculating coldness and a hint of triumph.
Had she been using him, just as she had used her husband and now Higgy Conroy?
He looked from Matt Baker to Savannah. If they were indeed Pinkerton agents, there was no doubting their word. Would Savannah lie to him? She’d lied about losing her memory, and then she’d run away and left him in Buffalo City. Yet when he looked at her now, he saw only warmth and concern ... and something else, something very different from Judith’s cold stare.
Love, Martha Jane Canary had called it. Was he seeing love in her eyes? Fletcher shook his head.
That was impossible.
“Buck,” Matt Baker said, interrupting his thoughts, “Savannah and I have talked it over, and we agree that the best thing we can do right now is find Amy Prescott and try to protect her.”
“And me?” Fletcher asked.
“You’re going to lie right there in that bunk and get well.” Savannah smiled. “Leave it all to Matt and me.”
“The hell I am. I’m going after Conroy and the other two. We have a score to settle. Then I’m going to talk to Judith Tyrone and get the straight of all this.”
Baker shook his head. “Buck, we gave you the straight of it. Anyhow, you’re going nowhere. You’re all shot to pieces. You can’t face Conroy in this state. He’s lightning fast with a gun, and he’ll kill you for sure.”
For the first time, Fletcher looked at the thick bandages covering his side and shoulder. When he tried to move, he felt only pain and stiffness.
As if reading his thoughts, Baker said, “I had to stitch up your side. Did it with a needle and thread while you were unconscious. If those stitches rip loose, you’ll bleed again, and pretty soon you’ll collapse. I don’t know how you’d even get up on a horse.”
Fletcher threw the blanket aside, only to discover with a shock that he was naked, his legs covered in angry red wheals from coyote bites.
He covered up quickly, feeling his face redden, and said to Savannah, “Woman, bring me my clothes.”
Savannah looked helplessly at Baker. The man shrugged. “Do it. He won’t get far.”
Savannah left for the other room, then returned holding a bundle of clothing in her arms.
“Your own clothes were beyond hope,” she said. “Matt bought you these. I think they’ll fit.”
The young woman laid underwear, shirt, pants, socks and a pair of store-bought boots on the bed. With these were canvas and leather suspenders and a new wool mackinaw of red-checkered plaid.
“We found your hat, but that was about all,” Baker said, grinning.
“My guns?”
“Over there on the table. A new gunbelt
, holster and .44-40 Colt and a used but serviceable Winchester in the same caliber.”
Fletcher nodded, looking up at Baker. “I owe you.”
Baker nodded. “You sure do. Around fifty dollars I’d say, give or take the odd penny or two.”
“Like I told you,” Fletcher said, unwilling to let it go, “I owe you, and not only for the clothes and guns.”
“It was a pleasure, trust me,” Baker said quickly, trying his best to end it.
Fletcher nodded. “Just so you know.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you bought me a horse?”
“I suppose I did,” Baker said. “Not that you’re fit to ride him.” He waved toward the barn. “He’s back there. An American stud a bit smaller than your old one, but he’s game enough: got plenty of giddyup and not much whoa. I’m told he can jump a three-bar fence, but I haven’t tried him.”
“Where ... where did you get him?” Fletcher asked incredulously.
“From a gambler by the name of Whitcroft. He has quite a sideline selling horses. ‘Buy ’em cheap, sell ’em dear’ is Mr. Whitcroft’s motto.”
Baker smiled. “While you were lying there refighting the War of Northern Aggression—on the wrong side, I might add—I rode into Buffalo City and talked to him.” The man’s smile widened. “Savannah feared for your life, fussing and fretting like womenfolk do, but I figured you were way too ornery to die and, when you woke up, you’d need a horse.” He shrugged. “I guess I was right, and she was wrong.”
“How much for the stud?”
“Well, he wanted two hundred dollars, but I got him down to one-fifty, and he threw in the saddle.”
Fletcher shook his head. “And I thought I was a horse trader. Still, he didn’t get the better of me. I only paid him one-sixty-five for the mares in the barn.”
“I know,” Baker smiled. “Whitcroft told me he was quite willing to go as low as one-thirty. But then he realized you were a pilgrim when it came to horse trading, and the price went up considerably. I’d say you was took.”
“Seems like it,” Fletcher agreed ruefully. “Maybe me and Mr. Whitcroft will have harsh words some day.”
He pulled the clothes on the bunk closer to him. “Savannah, please, I need to get dressed,” he said.
The woman smiled and turned her back to him. Fletcher swung his legs off the bed and stood. The entire room began to spin wildly, and he clutched desperately at the edge of the table, dizzy and suddenly nauseated.
He was weak, much weaker from loss of blood than he’d realized, and the pain in his side and shoulder, now that he was up and moving, hammered at him savagely, draining his strength even more.
Baker put an arm around Fletcher’s waist, supporting him. “It’s back into bed for you,” he said gently.
“Leave me the hell alone!” Fletcher yelled angrily. He pushed Baker away and stood on his feet, swaying, until the room stopped reeling and finally came to a lurching halt.
Slowly, painfully, he dressed, each item of clothing its own separate ordeal that popped beads of sweat on his forehead and forced him to grind his teeth, fearful that he might cry out and disgrace himself.
Fletcher stomped into the boots. Then, guilty at how he’d yelled at Baker, he said, smiling, “Good fit.”
He checked the loads in the Colt and buckled on the gunbelt, picking up the Winchester.
“It’s loaded too,” Baker said quietly.
Fletcher nodded. “Matt,” he said, angry at himself for having to make the admission, “I don’t think I can saddle my own horse.”
Baker, an odd light in his eyes, said nothing. He merely nodded, then stepped outside.
Savannah and Fletcher followed a few moments later and stood in front of the cabin, waiting for Matt to bring the horse.
“I can’t believe you’re still determined to go after Conroy,” Savannah said, her eyes blazing. “Don’t you realize how weak you are?”
“I know how weak I am,” Fletcher replied, struggling to smile. “I’m maybe about ten percent of the man I was when I first rode into the Territory. But that ten percent will have to be good enough.”
“Let the law handle Conroy,” Savannah persisted. “Matt and I will go with you and talk to Marshal Graham. We can get official documentation from Pinkerton’s that he and I are who we say we are. Graham will listen to us.”
Fletcher shook his head. “Savannah, Conroy and the two with him left me to die in the snow like a hurt animal, and they laughed at me while they were doing it. I can’t let that pass, and I can’t walk away from it. There’s no place for the law in this. It’s something I have to do myself.”
His face set and grim, he added, “Much ill was done to me, and I must bring about the reckoning.”
“Then go!” Savannah said, her eyes filling with tears. “See if I care.”
She turned away from him. Fletcher reached a hand to her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, then ran into the cabin, slamming the door behind her.
“I got to hand it to you, Buck,” Baker said. “You sure have a way with women.”
His eyes bleak, Fletcher studied the horse Baker led. He wasn’t as tall as his dead sorrel, but he had the same wide blaze on his face and the same four white stockings. He stepped light on his feet, eager for the trail.
“He’ll do.” Fletcher nodded approvingly.
Baker handed him the reins and then stepped back a half-dozen paces. Fletcher shoved the Winchester into the boot. He felt the ground under his feet move, and he pressed his fevered head against the cool leather of the saddle until the world righted itself again.
He was very weak, weaker than he’d first thought, and for the first time that morning he began to have serious doubts if he could even make it to Buffalo City, let alone face Higgy Conroy.
But he had it to do, and Fletcher accepted that stark fact and all it implied.
He turned to say goodbye to Baker, but the man was watching him closely, a strange light in his eyes, his right hand very close to his gun.
“Fletcher!” he yelled.
And drew.
He was fast, very fast, and Fletcher didn’t come close. His Colt hadn’t even cleared the leather when he found himself looking into the muzzle of Baker’s gun. A long, tense silence stretched between them. Then Baker spun the revolver, a flashing arc of silver, and let it thud back into the crossdraw holster.
“Higgy Conroy is faster than me,” was all he said. “A lot faster.”
Chapter 20
Buck Fletcher rode through gently rolling country past the 5,469-foot pinnacle of Pillar Peak, its rugged crest covered by a thick mantle of snow. Ahead lay Lost Gulch, and beyond, south of Bear Den Mountain, was Buffalo City.
He rode slumped in the saddle, dizzy from weakness. Once or twice he passed out, waking each time with a jolt. The stud kept walking steadily, as if sensing the dire straits of the man on his back.
The snow-covered land around him lay empty, trackless, with no sign of men, horses or cattle. The hills were lost in their own deep silence, touched by the light of the sun that had begun its long climb into a blue sky free of clouds.
Fletcher was wracked with pain, much worse now that he was riding, and only the irresistible urge to confront Higgy Conroy and the others drove him on. Matt Baker had proved to him how the weakness from his wounds had slowed his reactions. He could no longer consider himself a fast gun, yet he must face Conroy—and the snake-eyed gunman was faster than most.
So be it. What he could not do with speed, he must do with cunning. Though what the cunning might be, and where it would spring from, he had no idea.
At Lost Gulch, Fletcher stopped, dismounting heavily and awkwardly, and bathed his fevered face in a thin stream of ice-cold water splashing from the rocks. Then he drank deep and long and took time to roll and smoke a cigarette.
Later he rose and put a hand on the saddle horn, and again the world spun around him, trees, hills, sky and snow flashing past in a blur of green, blue and white.
Gradually, his brain cleared, and he got a foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle, sudden jolts of pain a cruel reminder of just how badly shot up he was.
He turned the sorrel toward Bear Den and let him set his own pace for a while. The winter sun felt warm on Fletcher’s face. He dozed off and on as he rode, finally waking when Buffalo City came in sight, the heights of the gorge around the town covered in snow.
He left his horse at the livery stable and stepped outside, the Winchester hanging loosely in his left hand.
Because of his weakened condition, he could no longer rely on the flashing speed of his draw. The rifle would have to provide the edge that would keep him alive.
And he couldn’t afford to take bullets either.
Matt Baker had told him that before he left the Two-Bit.
“All shot to pieces the way you are, you can’t trade hits with Conroy,” Baker had said. “When you shoot, shoot straight, and make damn sure he’s in no condition to shoot back.”
That was a tall order, but Fletcher knew there was no other way.
The sun had climbed to its highest point in the sky, and Buffalo City was coming alive. People crowded the boardwalks, and wagons and riders crammed the muddy street. A stage pulled by six rangy mules stood outside the depot of the Black Hills Stage and Express Line, disgorging a few stiff and weary overnight travelers, their drawn, gray faces betraying the ordeal of their cramped, jolting journey.
All this Fletcher saw without interest. He’d seen similar scenes in a hundred different cow towns from Texas to Montana, and it no longer held any fascination for him.
He walked, stiff-legged and weary, toward the Hole in the Bucket Saloon. If Conroy and the others were in town, that was as good a place as any to start looking for them.
In that, Buck Fletcher was not disappointed.
When he stepped through the doors of the saloon, he saw the man called Eddie dancing in the middle of the rough, planked floor with a soft-bodied but hard-eyed blonde in a short red dress.
Ralph Compton Showdown At Two-Bit Creek Page 18