Buckhorn

by William W. Johnstone

“Didn’t say that, neither.” Woodrow chuckled. “But to tell you the truth, I was talkin’ more about Yancy Madison and those fellas Hackberry and Carlson and some o’ the rest. I don’t really know you, Joe, but them others been around here long enough for me to figure out that they’re no good.”

  “Thornton’s hired some men with plenty of bark left on them, too,” Buckhorn pointed out. He lifted a finger to his jaw. “You can probably see the bruise starting to form there. It came from a punch from a fella named Bannister.”

  Woodrow’s bushy white eyebrows crawled up his forehead.

  “Bannister? Where in blazes did you tangle with him? Is he in town?”

  “Nope. We’ve been up to the Jim Dandy this morning.”

  Woodrow looked astounded. He leaned forward and said, “All right, you can’t leave it at that. You got to tell me about it.”

  Before Buckhorn could say anything, a rotund blond woman in an apron came over to take his order. When she had returned to the kitchen, Woodrow said, “That’s Helga, Olaf’s wife. She’s waitin’ on tables today, and their daughter Ingrid’s doin’ the cookin’. Now come on, you was about to spill the story.”

  For the next few minutes, Buckhorn told the old man what had happened at Thornton’s mine. When he was finished, Woodrow nodded.

  “Yeah, Bannister’s a mite hotheaded, all right. I never said the fellas workin’ for Hugh were all woolly little lambs. When you come down to it, though, a fella’s kind of got to fight fire with fire. Conroy’s the one who started all the trouble.”

  “I’m sure Conroy would claim Thornton’s to blame for everything,” Buckhorn said as the café door opened and Madison stepped inside. Buckhorn saw him, but Woodrow didn’t because Madison was behind the old-timer.

  “Maybe so . . . but it wasn’t Thornton who run people off their ranches so he could steal the places for his right-of-way. He didn’t burn down barns and rustle cattle and have folks shot, neither!”

  Buckhorn might have urged Woodrow to go on, but at that moment Madison dropped a hard hand on the old man’s shoulder and demanded harshly, “What the hell are you talking about, you crazy old coot?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Woodrow might have jumped up out of the chair in surprise, but Madison’s hand held him down. The old-timer’s head swiveled on his neck as he turned to look behind him.

  “Let go o’ me, dadgum it,” he said. “I ain’t botherin’ you, Madison.”

  “If you’re spreading lies about my boss, it bothers me,” Madison said. “You’re quick to run your mouth, so just go ahead.”

  Woodrow scowled down at his empty plate.

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he muttered.

  “It sounded to me like you were accusing Mr. Conroy of all sorts of crimes. Isn’t that the way it sounded to you, Joe?”

  “I don’t know yet what Woodrow was going to say,” Buckhorn replied. “You didn’t let him finish.”

  “Listening to a loco old man’s ravings is just a waste of time.” Madison jerked Woodrow to his feet and gave him a shove toward the door. “Go on, get out of here.”

  Woodrow stumbled from the shove, then caught his balance and protested, “I ain’t paid for my dinner.”

  Madison laughed and took a half-dollar from his pocket. He flicked it toward Woodrow, who instinctively caught it.

  “Your meal’s on me,” Madison said. “Now move along.”

  Woodrow pointed at the table. “My hat . . .”

  Buckhorn picked up the battered old hat with the turned-up brim and sailed it over to Woodrow, who caught it as well. The old man put the hat on, slapped the coin down on the counter, and stalked to the door, trying to recapture some of his lost dignity but not succeeding very well.

  The last thing he did before leaving the café was to glance back at Buckhorn with what appeared to be disappointment in his rheumy eyes.

  Several of the other customers in the café cast disapproving frowns toward Madison, but the gunman ignored them. He laughed and sat down at the table with Buckhorn.

  “What made you start talking to that old pelican?” he asked.

  “I ran into him a couple of nights ago when I first rode into town,” Buckhorn said. “He seems harmless enough.”

  “I wouldn’t call spreading lies about Mr. Conroy harmless. You’d be wise to steer clear of him.”

  “Sure,” Buckhorn said with a shrug.

  “Have you ordered already?”

  “Yeah. The boss doesn’t need us again this soon, does he?”

  Madison shook his head and said, “No, I just thought I’d join you, that’s all.”

  Mildly, Buckhorn said, “A fella might think you’re keeping an eye on me, Yancy. We’ve spent a lot of time together since I rode into town.”

  “Hell, no need for that. You’re one of us, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” Buckhorn said.

  * * *

  After they had eaten, Madison headed to the saloon.

  “Something’s bound to pop pretty soon, now that the gloves are off,” he told Buckhorn, “but it’ll probably take Mr. Conroy a little while to figure out what his next move should be.”

  “I’m going back to the hotel,” Buckhorn said. “That tussle with Bannister left me a little tired.”

  Madison chuckled and said, “The two of you got into it pretty good, all right. I’m not sure I’d want to tangle with you in a bare-knuckles brawl. Of course, I never have cottoned to settling my differences with fists.”

  He grinned and tapped a fingertip against the butt of his six-gun.

  Buckhorn ignored that and said, “If you need me, you know where I’ll be.”

  “Sure. Get some rest. I’ve got a hunch things will be pretty quiet, at least until tonight.”

  Buckhorn got his key from the clerk at the desk in the hotel lobby and went upstairs to his room. The piece of broken matchstick was still stuck between the door and the jamb, just like he’d left it. When he opened the door, the bit of wood fell to the floor. He picked it up and dropped it idly into his coat pocket.

  He set his hat on the table, took off his coat, tie, and boots, unbuckled his gunbelt and hung it over the chair back, and stretched out on the bed. He had just closed his eyes when someone rapped on the door.

  Buckhorn muttered a curse and sat up. He swung his feet to the floor, slid the Colt from leather, and called, “Who is it?” just before he stood up and moved quickly and silently to the other side of the room. If anybody were to, say, kick the door open and blast a double load of buckshot into the bed, he’d have a surprise waiting for them.

  Instead a man’s voice said, “My name is Edward Garrett, Mr. Buckhorn. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if I might.”

  Buckhorn frowned and said, “I don’t know who you are.”

  “I’m the editor of the Crater City Chronicle. The local newspaper.”

  Which was owned by Hugh Thornton, according to what Buckhorn had been told. He was curious enough to step over to the door, turn the key in the lock, and back away again, keeping the Colt in his hand leveled the whole time.

  “It’s open.”

  The knob turned and the door swung into the room. A tall, slender young man with a prominent Adam’s apple and a shock of brown hair stepped in. His eyes widened slightly as he looked at the barrel of the gun facing him.

  “You don’t need that,” he told Buckhorn.

  “I tend to judge things like that for myself. What do you want, Mr. Garrett?”

  “Look, I’m not armed. You can put that gun away, really. Guns sort of... make me nervous.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong town,” Buckhorn said dryly. “Open your coat.”

  “What?”

  Buckhorn gestured with the revolver and repeated, “Your coat. Open it.”

  “Ah. So you can see for yourself I’m not armed.” Garrett took hold of both sides of his coat and spread it open. “Satisfied?”

  “You could still have a derringer in your pocke
t, I suppose, but I doubt if you could get it out and kill me in time to keep me from killing you. You don’t look like you’d be that eager to throw away your life.” Buckhorn lowered the Colt, then stepped over to the chair and pouched the iron. “What do you want?”

  “I told you, just to talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Amos Woodrow came to see me a little while ago.”

  “The old-timer who works for Hugh Thornton?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who also happens to be your boss. Thornton, that is, not Woodrow.”

  Garrett nodded.

  “Right again. Mr. Thornton is the publisher of the Chronicle. I’m just the editor. But he gives me a pretty free hand in the way I run the paper.”

  “Free enough that you can interview a gunman who works for his archenemy?”

  “Archenemy,” Garrett repeated with a smile. “That sounds like something out of a dime novel, Mr. Buckhorn.”

  “I don’t reckon ‘business rival’ is a strong enough term.”

  “No, that’s true,” Garrett agreed. “The hostility between Mr. Thornton and Dennis Conroy goes deeper than that.”

  “What did Woodrow tell you about me?”

  “You seem to be asking all the questions here. It usually works the other way around in an interview.”

  “Just spit it out,” Buckhorn said, his voice hard.

  “All right. Woodrow said he had taken you for a reasonable man. He said you looked interested when he started to tell you about some of the things Conroy has done. But then Yancy Madison came in and he wasn’t sure but what he’d misjudged you, based on the friends you’ve made since you came here.”

  “Madison and I work together,” Buckhorn said. “That doesn’t make us friends.”

  “No, I suppose not. Anyway, Woodrow thought you might be interested in hearing the truth.”

  “Thornton’s version of the truth. Everybody’s got one.”

  Garrett shrugged and said, “I don’t want to waste your time . . .”

  Buckhorn lifted the gunbelt from the chair and used his foot to shove it over toward Garrett.

  “Sit. Tell me whatever you want. I’ll listen. No promises beyond that.”

  “All right.” Garrett sat down in the chair while Buckhorn perched on the edge of the bed. “You know that Conroy’s trying to build a railroad spur from the Southern Pacific up here to Crater City.”

  “Your boss is doing the same thing.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Thornton bought the right-of-way for his line from the people who owned the property. Conroy stole his by buying up bank notes and forcing out the ranchers and farmers who were in his way.”

  That agreed with what Lorna McChesney had told Buckhorn. He said, “There’s nothing illegal about a man buying a note from a bank, or calling it in if it’s due.”

  “No, but when men working for him rustle stock and burn down barns and ride up in the middle of the night shooting, all to make sure the notes can’t be paid, that’s going too far.”

  “Do you have any proof that Conroy was behind those things?”

  “No, but my uncle did. Or at least he claimed he did.”

  Buckhorn frowned and said, “Your uncle?”

  “Matthew Garrett. He was the original editor of the Chronicle, until several weeks ago. I helped him with the printing and everything else.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Somebody broke into the newspaper office late at night while Uncle Matthew was working there, damaged the press, and beat him within an inch of his life. It looked like he’d been pistol-whipped.”

  As Edward Garrett answered Buckhorn’s question, he lost his mild-mannered appearance. His hands clenched into fists, he started breathing harder, and his eyes blazed with anger. He looked like he wanted to lash out at somebody.

  “Take it easy,” Buckhorn told him. “How is he now?”

  “He didn’t regain consciousness for three days. When he woke up, he . . . he wasn’t himself anymore.” Garrett shook his head. “He hasn’t spoken since. We can barely get him to eat or even notice we’re there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Buckhorn said. “What about the evidence you said he had against Conroy?”

  “Gone, of course,” Garrett said bitterly.

  “If it ever existed in the first place.”

  “I believe my uncle, Mr. Buckhorn.”

  “Sure. I understand. But it’s not proof. What else have you got?”

  “Other people in town who have spoken up against Conroy have had things happen. Businesses can’t get the merchandise they need. There used to be another livery stable in town, but part of the corral fence got knocked down and all the horses disappeared. It put the place out of business.” Garrett paused, then added grimly, “People have disappeared, too. Closed up shop and vanished in the middle of the night, leaving notes saying they were moving on.”

  “It happens,” Buckhorn said.

  “Maybe . . . but my uncle thought those people were murdered, or at least run off at gunpoint, and I do, too.”

  “Murder’s a pretty strong accusation. Hell, I thought everybody got along in Crater City. I thought as long as everybody was making money, it was all fine.”

  “That’s because Mr. Thornton got tired of Conroy running roughshod over everybody and brought in some tough hombres to stand up to him. Things have been quieter since then, so I guess you could call it a truce . . . but it’s an armed truce. It wouldn’t take much to make the whole thing blow up, and when it does . . .” Garrett sighed and shook his head. “When it does, a lot of innocent people are going to be hurt.”

  Woodrow had said much the same thing in one of their earlier conversations. Buckhorn thought about everything Garrett had told him, then asked, “Did Woodrow tell you Conroy went up to the Jim Dandy mine today?”

  “Good Lord! No, he didn’t mention that. What happened?”

  “Conroy accused Thornton of trying to have his surveying crew killed.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Garrett declared. “Mr. Thornton will fight back if he has to, but he’s not a killer.”

  “He’s hired some men who are.”

  For the first time, Garrett looked a little uncomfortable and unsure of himself.

  “I don’t necessarily agree with everything Mr. Thornton’s done, but I guess he feels like he’s been backed into a corner. Sometimes it’s hard to keep to the moral high ground when you’re fighting for your life.”

  “Moral high ground.” Buckhorn smiled.

  “You don’t think such a thing exists?”

  “If it does, I’ve never spent much time there. Look, kid, what do you want from me?”

  “Amos Woodrow seemed to think you might consider switching sides—”

  “Forget it,” Buckhorn said. “I took Conroy’s pay.”

  “And that’s it? You’ll stick with him no matter what he does?”

  Buckhorn stood up and went to the door.

  “I think this ‘interview’ is over.”

  Garrett got to his feet and frowned. He said, “You won’t even think about it?”

  “Nothing to think about.” Buckhorn opened the door. “So long. Good luck with the newspaper.”

  Garrett went out, still frowning, and Buckhorn turned back to the bed. The things he had learned didn’t change anything, not yet, anyway, and he was still tired . . .

  Another knock sounded on the door.

  Buckhorn heaved an exasperated sigh, swung around, jerked the door open. “Kid, I just told you—”

  “I don’t think you told me anything recently, Mr. Buckhorn,” Alexis Conroy said. “And I’m certainly not a kid.”

  CHAPTER 15

  That was true. A dark green hat perched on her piled-up auburn hair, and a suit of the same shade discreetly hugged the splendid curves of her body. If anything, the elegance of the outfit made her look even more beautiful than she had in the flashier attire she wore in the saloon.

  “Sorr
y,” Buckhorn told her. “I thought you were somebody else.”

  “There’s nobody else in Crater City like me.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “You’d be a fool to argue when you could invite me in.”

  “I’m not sure how wise that would be. I work for your father. He might not like it if he knew his daughter was alone in a hotel room with one of his employees.”

  “Employees is a nice word for hired guns.”

  “I was trying to be polite.”

  “There’s no need,” Alexis said. “And you don’t need to worry about my father, either. I come and go wherever I like and do what I please. He knows that.”

  “He might not be too fond of the idea, whether he knows it or not.”

  “I’m not accustomed to standing in hallways,” Alexis said. Her voice had a touch of frost in it now.

  “No, I imagine you wouldn’t be.” Buckhorn stepped back. “Come on in.”

  Alexis walked into the room carrying a small purse that matched her suit and hat. The bag was big enough to hold a derringer or a short-barreled pocket pistol, and Buckhorn wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she had one in there.

  He closed the door behind her. If she minded, she didn’t say anything about it. He said, “I’m surprised you’re not pouring drinks at the saloon.”

  She turned to face him and said, “This is a slow time of day. It won’t get really busy until later.”

  “So what brings you here?”

  “I heard there was some trouble up at Hugh Thornton’s mine earlier today.”

  “You could say that. I can show you the bruises, if you’d like.”

  She shook her head.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take your word for it. Yancy Madison said things are about to get bad. Even worse than they’ve been.”

  “Madison’s been talking to you, has he?”

  Alexis’s red lips curved slightly in a smile.

  “Yancy talks to me every chance he gets.”

  “I imagine most of the men around here do.”

  “Not like Yancy. He has . . . ideas . . . in his head. Ideas about marrying me and someday taking over for my father.”

  “Any chance he’s right about that?” Buckhorn asked.