Buckhorn

by William W. Johnstone

  “He’ll be even safer where I want to take him.”

  “And where is that?”

  “The Jim Dandy mine,” Buckhorn explained. “Thornton’s got some of his hired guns up there, not to mention a crew of pretty tough miners who are spoiling for a fight.”

  “Under those circumstances, what makes you think Yancy Madison will go after him? Despite the man’s many moral failings, he’s not a fool.”

  “Madison won’t have any choice, and neither will Conroy.” Quickly, Buckhorn explained his plan to have Amos Woodrow “accidentally” reveal that Garrett was at the mine and a federal lawman was on his way to the area. He concluded, “They’ll have to make sure Garrett can’t talk, or else their whole operation will be ruined.”

  Frowning again, Miss Quinn said, “That makes sense, I suppose . . . but so did your last plan.”

  Buckhorn inclined his head in acknowledgment of her point, then said, “I’d like to think I’ve learned something from that failure. I never used to even try to do the right thing, or care about it when I didn’t. This is all still a little new to me.”

  Abner spoke up, saying, “There’s an old proverb about how a leopard can’t change his spots. I reckon the same holds true for a hired gun.”

  “Now, Abner, we’re in no position to be judgmental,” Miss Quinn pointed out. “Most people look down on us, too, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Abner growled. “You want me to fetch Mr. Matthew?”

  Miss Quinn looked at Buckhorn again, then sighed and nodded.

  “I suppose so. I would dearly love to see Dennis Conroy and Yancy Madison brought to justice. You promise that you’ll keep Matthew safe, Mr. Buckhorn?”

  “I’ll do my very best,” Buckhorn said. That was as far as he would go.

  Abner nodded and went up the back stairs again. Buckhorn and Miss Quinn waited in an awkward silence that Buckhorn finally broke by asking, “How’s Sandra doing?”

  “She’s fine,” Miss Quinn replied. She smiled. “You’re not getting sweet on her, are you?”

  “Good Lord, no,” Buckhorn said. “She and I, though, we sort of understand each other, I think. We both have pretty checkered pasts.”

  “Most interesting people do,” Miss Quinn said. “Ah, here’s Abner with Matthew.”

  The big handyman brought Matthew Garrett into the kitchen with a hand on the newspaperman’s shoulder to guide him and keep him moving. Garrett’s gaze was as vacant as ever, but he clutched a small, leather-bound book in both hands as he held it to his chest.

  “He picked that up and insisted on bringin’ it with him,” Abner said. “Figured I shouldn’t argue with him if he was gonna be that stubborn about it.”

  “That looks like the volume of poetry he gave me,” Miss Quinn said. “It has one of my favorites in it . . . ‘Annabel Lee.’ Ah, such a beautiful, sad poem.” Her voice became brisk as she went on, “Ah, well, he can take it with him, I suppose. He gave it to me, after all, and it probably reminds him of me. If that makes him happy, then I’m pleased.” She stepped closer to him, put her hands on his upper arms, and squeezed. “Take care, Matt, and may the Good Lord watch over you.”

  “Keep him in here for a minute,” Buckhorn said. “I need to see if Woodrow’s out there with the wagon yet. Abner, blow out that lamp.”

  Abner didn’t look that happy about taking orders from Buckhorn, but he blew out the lamp, plunging the kitchen into darkness. Buckhorn eased the door open and moved out onto the stoop.

  He didn’t see anything, but when he let out a soft whistle, an answering whistle sounded from some nearby trees. Woodrow’s white-bearded figure stepped out into the open and waved.

  Buckhorn turned back to the kitchen and whispered, “All right, let’s go.”

  Abner led Garrett out of the house. Miss Quinn followed, wringing her hands together in front of her worriedly. Buckhorn took hold of Garrett’s right arm with his left hand and urged the old man toward the trees where Woodrow waited.

  “Got the wagon right back here out o’ sight,” Woodrow said as Buckhorn and Garrett came up to him. He led them through the grove to the place where the wagon was parked.

  Getting Garrett to climb up into the back of the wagon took some effort. As the old newspaperman balked at cooperating, Buckhorn thought about how much easier it would be to wallop him with a gun butt and lift him into the wagon bed unconscious, but that would mean going back on his promise to Miss Quinn to keep Garrett as safe as possible. Buckhorn bit back a curse and kept struggling.

  Finally, they got Garrett into the wagon. Buckhorn urged him to sit down, then to lay down on the blanket Woodrow had spread out in the back. They rolled Garrett up, leaving an opening where he could breathe. It was unlikely anybody would notice the long dark lump in the back of the wagon, especially once Sid and the other miners had loaded up again.

  Buckhorn climbed onto the seat next to Woodrow. As the old-timer took up the reins, he said, “We’ll head back to the Irish Rose now. It took a while to get everything squared away, so maybe folks won’t pay no never mind when those other fellas leave. They’ve had time for a drink or two.”

  Woodrow flapped the reins against the backs of the mules and clucked to them as he got the team moving. The wagon rolled out of the trees.

  As it did, a group of men came around the corner of Miss Quinn’s house, and a man’s voice rose in a sudden shout.

  “Over there on that wagon!” he cried. “That’s the fella I saw in the whorehouse. It’s Buckhorn, I tell you! Buckhorn!”

  CHAPTER 37

  “Great jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” Woodrow exclaimed. “We gotta get outta here!”

  He whipped up the team and sent the mules lurching ahead. Over by the house, the man who had yelled Buckhorn’s name went on, “Get ’em! There’s a bounty on that redskin’s head!”

  Buckhorn recognized the voice. It belonged to the man he had encountered unexpectedly in the whorehouse. The hombre either hadn’t been as drunk as he appeared to be, or else he had sobered up and remembered enough of the meeting to realize who the man in Miss Quinn’s kitchen really was.

  Either way, this plan was on the verge of falling apart before it really got started good, and Buckhorn was starting to think Woodrow was right about just shooting his enemies whenever he got the chance.

  At the moment he had to worry more about getting shot. Matthew Garrett was down low, below the level of the wagon’s sideboards and tailgate, so Buckhorn figured he was fairly safe. The same couldn’t be said of him and Woodrow as the men behind the whorehouse hauled out their guns and started to blaze away.

  The distance was a little far for handguns, but Buckhorn reached around to the small of his back and drew the revolver anyway.

  “Head for the saloon!” he barked at Woodrow as he turned on the seat and lifted the weapon.

  “We gotta go right by there anyway to get out of town,” the old-timer said as he slashed the ends of the reins at the mule team. “Might as well!”

  Buckhorn triggered three rounds at the men. He aimed high, since it was likely none of them actually worked for Conroy but just wanted the reward he had posted for Buckhorn. He didn’t want to hit any of them. He was more interested in making them duck and scatter.

  The shots had that effect. The men yelled curses and spread out to hunt cover.

  While they were doing that, the wagon careened around a corner into a side street and went out of sight. Buckhorn looked back and knew that he and Woodrow had bought a little time.

  But not much, because that flurry of gunshots would have roused the town’s interest.

  Sure enough, there were more people on Crater City’s main street than usual when Woodrow turned the wagon onto it a moment later. Men had emerged from the saloons and the other businesses to see what the commotion was about.

  “Slow down,” Buckhorn told Woodrow. “We don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves.”

  “Those fellas are gonna be chargin’ after us any secon
d now,” the old-timer warned.

  “I know, but keep it nice and steady as you head for the Irish Rose.”

  Woodrow did so. As the wagon rolled along, one of the townies even called to him, “Hey, Amos, do you know what all the shootin’ was about?”

  “No idea,” Woodrow replied. He clucked at the team again as he flicked the reins.

  Buckhorn saw the Irish Rose up ahead. He breathed a little easier as Sid pushed through the batwings and came out onto the boardwalk, followed by the other miners. One of them must have been standing near the window, keeping watch for the wagon, Buckhorn thought.

  Woodrow slowed the vehicle. Buckhorn said, “Don’t stop. The men can get on while it’s moving.”

  “That’ll look sort of odd.”

  “Once they’re on board, it won’t matter. We can light a shuck out of here as fast as you want, then.”

  “All right,” Woodrow said. “You’re the boss.”

  Before the wagon reached the saloon, however, angry shouts rose down the street.

  “Stop them! Stop that wagon! It’s that killer Buckhorn!”

  “Go, Amos!” Buckhorn snapped.

  “Now you tell me!” the old-timer groused as he slapped the reins against the team. Once again the wagon lurched ahead rapidly.

  Sid and the other men saw what was happening and ran to meet the wagon. They grabbed hold of the vehicle’s sideboards as it jolted past and hung on, struggling to pull themselves aboard. Buckhorn vaulted over the seat into the wagon bed to reach out and help them. He grasped arms and hands and hauled up as the miners clambered into the wagon.

  Shots blasted, but as far as Buckhorn could tell, none of the bullets came anywhere near them. The men hunkered as low as they could for the protection of the wagon’s thick planks.

  The mules thundered out of town, headed toward the main trail up into the mountains where the mines were located. Buckhorn leaned over the back of the seat and said to Woodrow, “They’ll be getting mounted up, back there in town, and those mules can’t pull this wagon and outrun men on horseback.”

  “No, they sure as blazes can’t,” Woodrow agreed. “You got any other ideas?”

  Buckhorn pointed to some trees up ahead and said, “I’ll drop off there and slow them down. I can hold them off for a while.”

  “The hell you say! You’ll be outnumbered. They’ll overrun you.”

  “The most important thing is getting Matthew Garrett to the Jim Dandy. Thornton knows the plan. He can carry on without me.”

  “Dadgum it, Joe—”

  “You know I’m right,” Buckhorn said.

  Sid spoke up, saying, “I know I’m not gonna let you face those mad dogs by yourself, Buckhorn. Amos, gimme that old hogleg of yours!”

  “I appreciate it, Sid, but you’re no gunfighter,” Buckhorn said.

  “I know how to point one of the damned things and pull the trigger! That’s bound to be some help.”

  Unfortunately, he was right about that, and Buckhorn knew it. Two of them would stand a better chance of slowing down the pursuit long enough for Woodrow to make it to the mine with the wagon and its valuable cargo.

  “Give him your gun, Amos,” Buckhorn told Woodrow.

  “You’re both loco! Why don’t I stay and help you?”

  Sid said, “Because you handle that team a hell of a lot better than I ever could, and you know it. Come on, Amos.”

  Muttering curses, Woodrow reached down to his hip and lifted his long-barreled revolver from its holster. He passed it over the back of the seat to Sid.

  “All right, slow down a mite when you get in the trees, but don’t stop,” Buckhorn said. “We’ll take our chances with the jump.”

  “I’d tell you to be careful, but I’d just be wastin’ my breath!”

  The wagon raced on as trees crowded both sides of the trail. The growth wasn’t very big—this region was too arid for that—but it was better cover than nothing. Buckhorn and Sid moved to the tailgate and poised themselves to jump off as Woodrow slowed down.

  “We’ll make our way to the mine if we can,” Buckhorn told the old-timer. “Good luck!”

  “Same to you boys!” Woodrow hauled back on the reins and the mules slowed.

  Buckhorn and Sid leaped for the sparse grass at the edge of the trail.

  Both men landed running, tried to keep their feet, lost their balance, and went down. Buckhorn rolled and came up first. He had managed to hold on to his gun. Sid had dropped the one he borrowed from Woodrow.

  “Check the barrel and make sure it’s not plugged,” Buckhorn warned as Sid picked up the gun and struggled to his feet. “You don’t want it blowing up in your hand.”

  Sid kept his finger well away from the trigger while he used a finger on his other hand to check the barrel.

  “It’s clean,” he reported.

  “Good, because you’re fixing to need it.” Buckhorn cocked his head to listen. “Horses coming from town.”

  He and Sid positioned themselves behind trees and lined the guns on the trail.

  “Keep your shots high,” Buckhorn said. “It’s not like these are Conroy’s hired killers. Chances are most of these men are just regular hombres who’ve let themselves be blinded by the hope of collecting that bounty Conroy posted.”

  “That makes ’em Conroy’s men as far as I’m concerned,” Sid growled. “But I understand what you mean, I reckon. I’ll try not to kill any of the varmints. You reckon they’ll be as careful when they’re shootin’ at us?”

  “Not hardly,” Buckhorn said.

  A moment later, a group of about a dozen riders came into view, galloping along the trail from Crater City. Buckhorn opened fire on them as soon as they were in range. He wanted them to be able to hear the bullets whining close over their heads.

  Few things put the fear of God in a man quite as quickly as that sound.

  Sid had taken up a position on the other side of the trail. With guns roaring and muzzle flashes ripping through the curtain of night, it probably seemed like the riders were headed into more trouble than they really were. That was Buckhorn’s hope, and it was rewarded when the men began reining in frantically and one of them bawled, “It’s a trap!”

  Several of the men started shooting. They fired wildly, caught up in the excitement of the moment, but they threw enough lead that Buckhorn and Sid were forced to draw back behind the trees where they had taken cover and make themselves as small as possible while bullets whipped through the branches and chewed splinters from the trunks.

  That fusillade stretched out, seeming to last forever, but Buckhorn knew that with each minute that passed, the wagon carrying Woodrow, Matthew Garrett, and the other men was putting more distance between it and the pursuers.

  When the shooting finally tapered off, Buckhorn and Sid leaned out from their cover and triggered several more shots. That prompted a renewed assault. It was like being caught in the middle of a thunderstorm—but this was gun-thunder crashing all around them.

  During a momentary lull in the firing, Buckhorn heard one of the men shout to his companions, “Some of you boys work around behind ’em! Careful, though. We don’t know how many men that murderin’ ’breed has with him!”

  Buckhorn had figured the enemy would get around to that tactic sooner or later. That meant it was time for him and Sid to get out of here, but there was only one way they could do that. They had to have horses.

  And the only horses around here belonged to the men who were trying to kill them.

  CHAPTER 38

  Buckhorn called to Sid, “Fade back some. We’re going to intercept those men who try to get behind us.”

  “Take the fight to them, eh?” Sid said. “I like that. I’ve only got a couple of rounds left in this gun, though.”

  “Better save them if you can,” Buckhorn advised. “You might really need them.”

  He darted through the trees, taking a chance that none of the flying lead would find him. That was quite a risk, but sometimes a man
couldn’t do anything else.

  He grimaced as he heard Sid’s sudden yelp of pain.

  “You hit?” Buckhorn called to the big miner as he paused.

  “Arm just got nicked a mite. It’s nothin’ to worry about.”

  Buckhorn resumed his stealthy retreat through the trees. He listened intently, as much as he could over the racket of the continuing gunfire, for the sound of horses. When he heard hoofbeats nearby, he stopped and stood silent and motionless.

  A couple of large, dark shapes loomed up in front of him. He waited as they came closer and became more distinct. He could see that they were two men on horseback. Their guns would be out and ready, but Buckhorn intended to negate that advantage by taking them by surprise.

  The men never saw him until he lunged out of the shadows and grabbed one of them. As Buckhorn hauled the man out of the saddle, he shouted, “Over here, Sid! Make a run for it!”

  Buckhorn still had the revolver in his right hand. He swung it hard against the side of the man’s head. The victim dropped, senseless, but his companion’s horse shied away. That second rider yelled, “They’re here, they’re here!” and slammed a pair of wild shots through the darkness.

  Then Sid sailed through the air, crashed into the man, and drove him off the horse. Buckhorn grabbed for the reins of both mounts while Sid smashed a couple of rock-hard punches into the face of the man he had just tackled. The hombre stretched out on the ground and went limp.

  Buckhorn’s fast reactions had allowed him to catch both horses. He pressed one set of reins into Sid’s hand and snapped, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Both men swung up into the saddles. Buckhorn didn’t know how good a rider Sid was, but the big miner seemed to be handling his mount all right. As they turned the horses, Buckhorn heard hoofbeats pounding on the trail.

  “We’ll have to cut across country,” he told Sid. “You know these parts very well?”

  “Not well enough,” Sid replied. “We’re gonna be ridin’ blind.”

  “If we have to trust to luck anyway, we might as well fog it. Come on!”