Buckhorn

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m still the fella who killed Chet Farley,” he reminded her.

  “You’re just the gun,” Sandra said. “Yancy Madison’s the son of a bitch who really pulled the trigger.”

  Buckhorn shrugged and said, “If that’s the way you want to look at it.”

  She came closer, put a hand on his arm, and said, “That’s the way. All right with you?”

  “All right,” Buckhorn said.

  “Then maybe you want to come upstairs with me. Miss Quinn said you need a place to . . . sleep.”

  “All right,” Buckhorn said again.

  CHAPTER 28

  Buckhorn’s sleep had the stunned quality of exhaustion. He didn’t dream, at least not that he remembered, and when he slowly opened his eyes the next morning, he saw that he had barely moved during the night.

  He was alone in the bed. A ray of sunlight slanted through a gap in the curtains over the room’s single window. Buckhorn stretched still weary muscles and wondered where Sandra was. She had been snuggled against his side when sleep claimed him.

  He sat up in bed, ran his fingers through his long, tangled, raven-black hair. A glance to his right showed him his holstered gun, hanging within easy reach from the back of the chair beside the bed. His clothes were piled on the chair as well.

  A step sounded in the hall on the other side of the closed door. Buckhorn reached over and plucked the Colt from its holster. The door opened, and Sandra came in carrying a tray that held a couple of coffee cups and a plate of food.

  “You don’t need the gun,” she said as she used a foot to push the door closed behind her.

  Buckhorn slid the Colt back into leather. Sandra wore the same wrapper she’d had on the night before, and her hair was tousled from the bed. Some of the hard lines on her face seemed to have softened a little. She looked good.

  “Anybody going to be curious about you bringing breakfast up here, especially with two cups?” he asked her.

  “Nobody else is up yet, except for Miss Quinn and Abner,” she replied. “You know how it is with whores. We’re not early risers by nature.” She set the tray on the little table on the other side of the bed and handed him one of the cups. “Here. You look like you could use this.”

  Buckhorn took a sip of the hot, black coffee and felt its bracing effect go through him.

  “A few more cups of this and another good night’s sleep, and I might start to feel human again,” he said.

  “Why wait until night to sleep? You’ve got all day, don’t you? You can’t go out wandering around town, not with all of Conroy’s men gunning for you. It won’t be safe for you to head for the Garrett house until after nightfall.”

  “You have a point there,” Buckhorn admitted.

  Sandra took the coffee and handed him the plate full of bacon, eggs, hash browns, and biscuits.

  “Here. You need to get your strength up. You’re not going to sleep all day, you know.”

  “That would seem to be a bit of a waste,” Buckhorn said.

  * * *

  Early that afternoon, Buckhorn was standing at the window, looking out through the narrow gap in the curtains but being careful to make sure no one on the outside could catch a glimpse of him. He was dressed now except for his coat and hat.

  The door opened behind him. Buckhorn swung around, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. Abner came in and closed the door quietly. He held out a folded newspaper.

  “Figured you’d like to take a look at this,” he said. “I picked it up while I was down at the store, buying some supplies.”

  “Edward didn’t let any grass grow under his feet,” Buckhorn commented as he took the newspaper and unfolded it. It was two sheets, four pages in all.

  “That’s the way you wanted it.”

  Buckhorn nodded and said, “He did a good job,” as he scanned the newspaper with its boxed story in a prominent position right under the masthead. The rest of the front page and the other three pages had local news articles and advertisements printed on them, obviously things that Edward would have run in the paper’s next regular issue. He might have trouble filling up that issue’s pages.

  But probably not, since there was a good chance some newsworthy events would be taking place between now and then.

  NEWSPAPER PUBLISHER MAKES AMAZING RECOVERY read the headline of the boxed story. Below it in smaller type, Buckhorn read:

  Dr. Victor Cranford has announced that Matthew Garrett, longtime editor and publisher of the Chronicle and one of Crater City’s leading citizens, has begun to recover from the heinous injuries he suffered in the recent attack on his person. Dr. Cranford said in a statement to this reporter, “I expect my good friend Matt Garrett to make a complete and swift recovery now that he has begun speaking again. It won’t be long until he’s back at the helm of the Chronicle where he’s supposed to be.”

  Readers of this newspaper will recall that several weeks ago Matthew Garrett was set upon by unknown assailants who not only severely injured him but also did extensive damage to the newspaper office and the printing press. The motive for this vicious attack remains unknown, but it is hoped that with Mr. Garrett’s impending recuperation, he will soon be able to identify his attackers and shed some light on the reasons for the brutal incident.

  The Chronicle joins with all the respectable citizens of Crater City in wishing a speedy recovery to one of the most beloved members of the community!

  Buckhorn grunted. He and Edward Garrett had discussed what should be put in the newspaper story, and the young man had done a good job of it. This revelation ought to spur Conroy into taking action. The man was cunning enough that he might suspect the newspaper story was a trap, but he couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility that it was real.

  “Anything else you need?” Abner asked.

  Buckhorn shook his head, refolded the paper, and tossed it on the table.

  “Now we just have to wait until dark,” he said.

  * * *

  The extra sleep he had gotten during the day revitalized Buckhorn, so he felt sharp and ready for action as night settled over Crater City. He didn’t want to delay too long in leaving Miss Quinn’s, but the streets needed to be good and dark before he set out for the Garrett cottage.

  The lamp wasn’t burning in Sandra’s room as he sat there waiting in the shadows. When the door opened, he put his hand on his gun again, then relaxed as he saw her familiar silhouette against the light in the hall. She slipped inside and closed the door.

  “You’ll be leaving soon,” she said quietly as she leaned back against the door.

  “That’s right.” Buckhorn stood up and moved toward her. “I appreciate you putting up with me today.”

  “It wasn’t that difficult,” she said. There was just enough light in the room for him to see the faint smile on her lips.

  “I kept you from doing any business,” Buckhorn pointed out.

  “You think I care about that?” Her voice was a little sharp as she asked the question.

  “I figure you must have your regulars, fellas who ask for you.”

  “And Miss Quinn just told them I was indisposed for the day.” She shrugged. “It happens. I’m not worried about it, or about any income I might have lost.”

  “Still . . .” He slid a hand inside his coat. “I can pay you for the inconvenience . . .”

  “Damn it, Buckhorn.” She took a step closer to him. “I told you I don’t care. I swear, I don’t know whether to slap you for being so stubborn or—”

  Buckhorn shut her up by kissing her.

  When they moved apart a few moments later, Sandra said, “I’ve been around too much to think that this really means anything. If you don’t get yourself killed tonight . . . if your plan works and you bring Conroy down . . . you’ll just ride off to some other job, won’t you?”

  “I haven’t stayed in one place for very long since I was a kid. Things seem to work out better that way.”

  “That’s what I figured.” She steppe
d back even more and rested her hands on his chest. “Just be careful, all right? Even if you’re not staying around here, I . . . I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Sometimes I wish things were different.”

  “But they can’t be,” she said. “Not for people like us.” She drew in a deep breath. “Now go on. Get the hell out of here. Go set your trap.”

  Buckhorn nodded. Sandra was right.

  People might change . . . but their fates seldom did.

  * * *

  It wasn’t Buckhorn’s Indian blood that allowed him to slip unseen through the darkness, although some people might think so. Instead it was years and years of living on the knife-edge of danger, never knowing when his survival might depend on not being seen by his enemies.

  When he reached the back door of the Garrett house, he was confident that he hadn’t been spotted. Edward Garrett must have been waiting for the signal that Buckhorn tapped out softly, because the door opened almost instantly. Buckhorn glided inside.

  The kitchen was dark. Edward whispered, “Is my uncle all right?”

  “I checked on him just before I came here,” Buckhorn said. “He’s doing fine. Miss Quinn is taking excellent care of him. He seems to like having her around, from what I can tell. You know, he might stand a better chance of recovering if he stayed there when this is all over, instead of coming back here.”

  “You mean I should let him live in a whorehouse?”

  “There are worse places,” Buckhorn said.

  “Well . . . I’ll think about it.”

  “Abner said the whole town is talking about your uncle and his ‘recovery.’”

  “Yeah, that extra edition of the paper caused quite a stir. Several of Uncle Matt’s friends came by the office and wanted to see him, but I put them all off by telling them that Dr. Cranford said he couldn’t have visitors yet. People are going to be disappointed when they find out he hasn’t really regained his senses. But maybe one of these days . . .”

  “That’s right,” Buckhorn said. “It never hurts to hope.”

  Edward made a little noise and said, “Somehow I didn’t expect such optimism from you, Mr. Buckhorn. Anyway, I guess the plan still calls for me to go next door to the newspaper office and spend the evening there?”

  “That’s right. Light the lamps in there. Let people see you working at one of the desks or the printing press. We want Conroy and his men to think that your uncle is here by himself.”

  “And when they come to kill him?”

  “I’ll be waiting for them. I’m hoping Yancy Madison is one of them. If I can catch him trying to murder your uncle, he might turn on his boss and admit that he was acting on Conroy’s orders.”

  “What good is that going to do?”

  “Conroy owns a lot of the businesses in this town,” Buckhorn said, “but he doesn’t own all of them. If enough people hear the proof that Conroy ordered your uncle murdered, they’ll turn on him. He’ll lose his grip on the town. And then he’ll act in the open, figuring he doesn’t have anything to lose.”

  “You want him to try to kill you.”

  Buckhorn shrugged.

  “I’ll give him a chance, if that’s what he wants.”

  Edward sighed and said, “Taking on that many men by yourself . . . you’re either a brave man, Mr. Buckhorn, or more than a little loco.”

  “Some of both, I expect,” Buckhorn said.

  Edward left the house and went next door to the newspaper office. A lamp was turned low in the cottage’s front room, and another burned in the bedroom where Matthew Garrett had been staying until tonight. Buckhorn waited across the hall in Edward’s darkened room. He was patient, unmoving, playing the old familiar game of waiting for an enemy to make the first move—so he could strike back, swift and deadly.

  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he heard a board creak faintly somewhere. Not in the house, he decided. No, it was on the porch. Someone was out there.

  Buckhorn stood up from the ladderback chair where he had been sitting. His Colt whispered against the holster as he drew the gun out and moved silently toward the half-open door. His incredibly keen hearing picked up the sound of the front door opening. Then another creak, this time from a floorboard in the living room.

  As the tiny sounds moved closer, Buckhorn decided they came from only one person. Would Conroy send just one man to do this job? It was possible. One hired gun was enough to kill an old, sick, injured man. Buckhorn could only hope that the would-be assassin would turn out to be Yancy Madison. But whoever it was, Buckhorn intended to turn him into a weapon to be used against Dennis Conroy.

  A shadow moved in the corridor, a shadow thrown by the light from the lamp in the front room. It seemed to drift through the air, like an insubstantial puff of smoke. Then that shadow solidified into the shape of a person stepping up to the door of Matthew Garrett’s room and pushing it open . . .

  Buckhorn moved swiftly into the hall, raising the gun in his hand to bring it crashing down on the head of the skulking killer. He stopped the blow just in time as he realized what he was about to do.

  Alarmed by the near attack, Alexis Conroy spun around, cringed back against the doorjamb, and gasped, “What . . . what are you doing?” Her voice was filled with disbelief as she added, “Buckhorn?”

  CHAPTER 29

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Buckhorn asked as he lowered the gun he had almost used to buffalo her.

  Alexis had recovered quickly from her surprise. With her wits about her again, she said coolly, “I could ask you the same thing. You know that Yancy and all the rest of my father’s men will shoot you on sight, don’t you?”

  “I figured as much. I know Madison came back here and told everybody I double-crossed him and the other men your father sent to the Calvert ranch.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I hate to disappoint you,” Buckhorn said, “but Yancy Madison is a liar. He probably didn’t say anything about how he tried to have me killed, did he?”

  Alexis frowned and asked, “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he dropped hints about me helping him get rid of your father and take over the whole operation—including you—and I didn’t take him up on it. He figured he had talked too much and it would be safer to get rid of me.”

  “You could be lying, you know,” she said. “Maybe you wanted to take Yancy’s place, and that’s why you turned on him.”

  “You already asked me to do that, remember?” Buckhorn said. “And I didn’t take you up on the deal.” He smiled and reached up with his left hand to lightly cup her chin. “Although you did make a very attractive offer to me.”

  She pulled away from him and snapped, “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here. Are you guarding Matthew Garrett?” She glanced toward the door, then looked again. “Wait a minute. Is he even in there?”

  Buckhorn wasn’t going to spill the whole plan to her, not when he wasn’t convinced that he could trust her one hundred percent. So instead of answering, he said, “What’s your business with Garrett?”

  “I . . . I don’t have any business with him. I just read in the newspaper that he’s doing better, and I wanted to come by and tell him I’m happy about that. I always liked Mr. Garrett.”

  “Even though he was trying to break your father’s grip on the town and maybe even send him to prison?”

  “I told you, I don’t support everything my father does.”

  “Well, that’s pretty obvious,” Buckhorn said, “since you’re having an affair with Hugh Thornton.”

  The light in the hallway wasn’t very good, but Buckhorn could tell that his accusation caused her to turn pale. She stared at him and blurted, “Who told—”

  “You’re not even going to bother denying it?”

  Her chin lifted defiantly.

  “My personal life is my own business. What we . . . shared . . . a couple of days ago doesn’t give you any claim on me.”


  Buckhorn shook his head and said, “Believe me, lady, I’m not making any kind of claim. I just want to know why you’re really here.”

  Alexis looked at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowing in apparent thought, and then said, “I think I understand now. Matthew Garrett isn’t here because you have him hidden away somewhere.”

  Buckhorn didn’t say anything. He was content to let her speculate and draw her own conclusions.

  “He’s going to testify against my father, so you stashed him somewhere and that newspaper story was supposed to provoke Dennis into doing something rash?”

  “You call him Dennis?” Buckhorn asked, amused by that.

  “What should I call him? Papa? He never has been one to show a lot of paternal warmth. My mother died when I was a baby, so I was raised by nannies and governesses and tutors.”

  “I don’t need your life story,” Buckhorn said. “I just want to know what really brought you here tonight.”

  “Oh, all right!” Alexis let out an exasperated sigh. “Earlier today, Yancy came into the Irish Rose with that extra edition of the newspaper. I could tell he was upset about it. He went straight up to my father’s suite. While he was up there, I had Walt go out and get a copy of the paper to bring back to me. As soon as I read Edward’s story, I knew why Yancy had such a burr under his saddle. He and my father can’t afford to have Matthew Garrett regain his senses and start talking about what happened to him.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  Alexis shrugged.

  “Nothing that would stand up in court, but I’m convinced of it anyway. When Mr. Garrett was attacked, Yancy hadn’t been in town long. He was eager to please my father. It wasn’t long after . . . what happened . . . that Dennis put him in charge of the gunmen here in town.”

  “So you think it was Madison himself who went after Garrett.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” she said.

  “Neither would I,” Buckhorn agreed. “So maybe it’ll be Madison who comes to silence him.”

  “I don’t want that to happen. I thought maybe if Yancy showed up, I could talk him out of it. I didn’t have any idea you were going to be here. But if Yancy does try anything, you’ll kill him.” Alexis cocked her head to the side a little. “Or capture him, perhaps. Yes, that might be even better for you. You could try to use him as a weapon against my father, maybe convince Yancy to turn on Dennis and testify.”