Laura Flynn had hunkered down to wait for trouble. That was a wise move, Frank thought, because she was bound to get it as soon as Sandeen decided the time was right to make the final move in this deadly game.
Frank rode openly along the trail that led to the ranch. Since it was obvious that he was only one man, he hoped the spread’s defenders would hold their fire when they saw him, even if they recognized him. And if they didn’t . . . well, he hoped their aim wasn’t any too good.
Stormy’s hooves thudding against the hard-packed dirt of the trail was the only sound. Other than that an eerie silence hung over the landscape. Frank was five hundred yards from the house, then four and three and two hundred, and finally he was within easy hailing distance. No one called out to him, though. His instincts told him that he was being watched. He felt the hostile eyes on him. But still, no one tried to stop him as he rode right up to the porch of the main house.
The front door was open, but the inside of the house was too shadowy for him to be able to see much. As he shifted his weight as if he were about to dismount, Laura Flynn’s voice came from inside, accompanied by the metallic ratcheting sound of a gun being cocked.
“Don’t move, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “I can see you just fine where you are, and I’ll shoot you if you try to get off that horse.”
Frank settled back in the saddle, still calm. He had been threatened with a gun too many times to let it bother him now. “Take it easy, Miss Flynn,” he said steadily. “I’m not looking for trouble. I came to help you, and to deliver some news.”
“Good news?” Laura asked skeptically from inside the house.
Frank sighed and shook his head. “Not hardly, I’m afraid. Some of Sandeen’s men bushwhacked your wagon and your riders as they were on their way into town.”
For a long moment, Laura didn’t say anything. Frank sensed he wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already been afraid of. The sound of the massacre could have been heard easily here on the ranch.
Finally, Laura asked, “Are any of my men alive?”
“Just Glover, and he’s hurt pretty bad. A fella I know took him on into town to get help for him.”
“One of Sandeen’s men, you mean? Why would he do that?”
Frank took a deep breath and suppressed the annoyance he felt. “Not hardly. The man I’m talking about is named Tom Horn. He’s a special deputy sent into the Mogollon range by Sheriff Buckey O’Neill to get to the bottom of all the trouble in these parts.”
That information prompted a surprised silence from Laura. Frank waited a moment and then went on. “I’ve told you before, Miss Flynn, that I’m not working for Sandeen. I know you saw me here last night and thought that I was with those masked raiders, but I was actually trying to stop them.”
“That . . . that’s what Mr. Glover said.” Frank heard a step, and Laura Flynn moved into the doorway where he could see her. She was holding a Colt in her right hand. The barrel pointed at Frank and didn’t waver as Laura said, “He told me that you were shooting at Sandeen’s men last night.”
Frank nodded. “That’s right, and I winged a few of them. I give you my word, I didn’t kill your uncle and I’ve been trying to stop Sandeen, not help him.”
The revolver in Laura’s hand lowered. “But I . . . I shot at you.”
Frank smiled thinly. “That wasn’t the first time I’ve been shot at by somebody who made a mistake. I don’t take any offense from it. I’d still like to give you a hand, if you’re willing to accept my help.”
She stared at him, clearly torn by the decision facing her. She said, “Mr. Buckston was so sure. . . .”
“Buckston made a mistake, too.” Frank paused. “I saw him get hit last night. Is he still alive?”
“Yes, the bullet just creased his head.” Laura hesitated, as if unsure whether to say anything else. Then she continued. “But he’s still unconscious. We . . . we don’t know if he’s ever going to wake up again.”
Frank nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen the same thing happen. For what it’s worth, nearly everybody I’ve known who got hurt like that came to eventually.”
“Nearly everybody?”
Frank shrugged. “A few never did,” he said. Right now, Laura needed honesty more than she needed to have punches pulled.
After a moment, Laura asked, “How badly is Mr. Glover hurt? Will he pull through?”
Again, Frank was honest. “It’ll be touch and go. He was shot through the shoulder, and that wagon turned over while he was trying to get away from Sandeen’s men and landed on his legs. Both of them were broken, that’s for sure. Whether or not he had any other injuries, I just don’t know.”
“My God,” Laura said in a hollow voice. “To think I could have prevented all this death and misery if I had just . . . just gone along with what Ed Sandeen wanted . . .”
Frank shook his head and said, “Don’t start thinking like that. There never would have been peace between Sandeen and your uncle, no matter what you did. Sooner or later Sandeen would have tried to take over the Lazy F, and your uncle would have fought back. The trouble was bound to happen as soon as Sandeen moved into this part of the country. His sort of man brings it with him, wherever he goes.”
“What sort of man is that?” Laura asked.
“Ruthless,” Frank answered. “Ambitious. Hungry for money and land and above all, power. Call it whatever you want, but it comes down to the fact that Sandeen and men like him think they can take whatever they want and nobody can stop them. It’s up to the decent folks, the honest folks, to show those men that they’re wrong.”
Laura smiled faintly. “Well, if nothing else, you’ve convinced me that you don’t work for Sandeen, Mr. Morgan. What do I do now?”
Frank returned the smile. “You could invite me in. I don’t like to sit back and wait for trouble to come to me, but in this case I don’t see that we have any choice. Sandeen has us outnumbered, so we’d be foolish to take the fight to him. Tom Horn’s going to try to bring some help back from San Remo. Until then, we hunker down and wait.”
“You’re right, of course. Come in, Mr. Morgan. Welcome to the Lazy F. I apologize for the inhospitable welcome at first.”
Frank had already spotted rifle barrels protruding from windows in the house and several of the outbuildings. As he swung down from the saddle he grinned and said, “As far as I’m concerned, any welcome is a hospitable one as long as folks hold their fire.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Glover had lost consciousness again by the time Tom Horn reached San Remo with him, but the cowboy was still alive. Horn had his left arm around Glover’s torso and could feel the wounded man breathing. The dun’s hooves clattered on the plank bridge as Horn rode across. He spotted the livery barn with the smaller building in front of it that had to be the blacksmith shop Frank Morgan had told him about, and headed straight for the place.
A short, burly, mostly bald man stepped out, obviously having seen him coming. The fact that two men were riding double and one of them was hanging on to the other meant trouble most of the time, and the blacksmith acknowledged that fact by greeting Horn with a rifle in his hands. A big, wolflike dog followed the man out of the shop and watched the newcomers with a keen wariness.
“Good Lord!” the blacksmith exclaimed when he got a good look at the man riding in front. “That’s Caleb Glover! What happened to him?”
“Got shot in an ambush and then had a wagon turn over him,” Horn replied as he brought the dun to a stop. “You Jasper Culverhouse?”
“That’s right.” Culverhouse lowered the rifle. “Do I know you?”
“No, but Frank Morgan told me to find you.” Horn noticed how the big cur’s ears pricked forward at the mention of Morgan’s name and wondered if the dog belonged to The Drifter. “My name’s Tom Horn. I’m workin’ as a special deputy for Sheriff O’Neill. Now, are we gonna keep jawin’, or are you gonna help me with this fella?”
Culverhouse set the rifle aside and re
ached up with brawny arms to take hold of Glover. “Easy now,” he said. “We’ll take him in and put him on my bunk.”
Carefully, the two men carried Glover into Culverhouse’s living quarters. The blacksmith’s bed was little more than a rope bunk in a narrow room, but they lowered the injured man onto it and then as they stepped back, Culverhouse said, “Would you mind goin’ down to the café to fetch the lady who runs it? She keeps company with Glover, and she can lend me a hand takin’ care of him.”
Horn nodded. “Yeah, Morgan said something about her. I reckon she’s a colored lady?”
“Yeah, but we don’t pay much attention to such things around here,” Culverhouse said in a warning tone.
“It don’t make no nevermind to me. I’ll bring her right back.”
Horn turned to go, but Culverhouse stopped him with a hand on his arm. Horn tensed and looked icily down at the blacksmith’s hand. Culverhouse let go.
“You say you’re a special deputy?”
“That’s right. Buckey O’Neill sent me to get to the bottom of all the trouble in these parts. I ran into Morgan, got most of the story from him, and then him and me found this fella and some others who’d been ambushed by Sandeen’s men.”
“Sandeen! You know for sure he was behind it?”
Horn gestured toward the bunk. “He said he saw somebody named Riley who works for Sandeen. Sounds like enough proof for me until I hear something better.”
“And Morgan . . . Morgan’s not part of it?”
Horn smiled. “He ain’t workin’ for Sandeen, if that’s what you mean. He says he didn’t kill Howard Flynn, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Me, too,” Culverhouse agreed. “Some folks may not want to believe it, but I do.”
“We’ll hash it out later,” Horn said. “For now, see what you can do for that fella, and I’ll go get his lady friend.”
He left the blacksmith shop, only to find that several people were already headed in that direction. Somebody must have noticed him and Culverhouse carrying Glover into the building, and the word had spread that there was a wounded man up here.
A scruffy-looking gent in a suit and a bowler hat, with a graying beard and an eye that tended to wander, came up to him and said, “Mister, who might you be?”
“I could ask the same question of you,” Horn drawled coolly.
The man hooked his thumbs in his vest. “I’m Willard Donohue. Happen to be the mayor of San Remo. I’m told you just brought in an injured man.”
Horn thought the man looked more like a tramp than the mayor, but he ignored that and jerked a thumb toward the blacksmith shop. “Yeah, I left him down there. Culverhouse is workin’ on him. Fella name of Glover, rides for the Lazy F.”
“Caleb Glover!” Donohue said. “My God, somebody needs to tell Mary Elizabeth!”
“Lady who runs the café?” When Donohue nodded, Horn went on. “I’m on my way there now.”
“Much obliged.” Donohue started past him, then stopped. “Say, you never did tell me your name.”
“Tom Horn.”
The look on Donohue’s face told Horn that he had heard of him, but Horn didn’t hang around to explain what he was doing here. He strode toward the café, his long legs covering the ground quickly.
It was mid-afternoon by now, a slack time for any eatery. The café was empty when Horn walked in. A woman’s voice came through an open doorway that led to the rear of the building. “Be right with you.” Judging from the appetizing aroma that drifted through the door, she was baking back there.
“Miss Warren?” Horn called.
She stuck her head out the door, a good-looking black woman on the cusp of middle age, and began, “I said I’d be—” She stopped when she saw the look on Horn’s face. The fact that he was a stranger probably alarmed her a little, too. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I just brought in a fella named Glover. He’s down at the blacksmith shop, hurt pretty bad.”
The woman’s hand went to her mouth as her eyes widened in horror and fear. “Caleb!” she cried. She rushed out of the kitchen, still wearing her apron and with flour dusting her hands, and left the café on the run.
Horn followed at a more leisurely pace. Before he reached the blacksmith shop, he noticed a buggy rolling into San Remo from the other end of town, along the trail that meandered to the northwest and eventually reached Prescott. He might not have paid as much attention to the vehicle if not for the fact that there were two women in it, and the one handling the reins was pretty and had long red hair. She brought the buggy to a stop in front of one of the mercantiles.
The women weren’t any of his business, Horn told himself. He resumed walking toward the blacksmith shop. By the time he got there, quite a crowd had gathered. They parted to let Horn through, and when he stepped into Culverhouse’s room, he saw the blacksmith and the colored lady bent over the bunk, working on the injured man.
“How bad is he?” Horn asked Culverhouse. He had heard Glover’s statement that the bushwhackers were led by the gunman named Riley, who evidently worked for Ed Sandeen. That was enough legal proof for Horn to act upon, but it would better in the long run if Glover was around to testify against Sandeen if matters ever came to court. Which they probably wouldn’t, Horn mused, since dustups like this usually resolved themselves in powder smoke and blood, but just in case . . .
“Bad enough,” Culverhouse answered grimly. “The bullet busted his shoulder and he lost a lot of blood, but at least it went on through so he’s not carryin’ a chunk of lead in him. Both legs are broken. He’ll never ride again, and he’ll be damned lucky to walk.”
“But he will live?”
Culverhouse grunted. “The fact that he’s still alive is a blasted miracle, so yeah, I’d say he’s got a chance. If losin’ that much blood didn’t kill him, us cleanin’ him up and tryin’ to set those legs in splints probably won’t. But we’ll know more in a day or two.”
“Do what you can for him,” Horn said. “I got to have a talk with the rest o’ the citizens.”
He stepped out of the blacksmith shop and raised his hands to quiet the clamor among the crowd. As they looked at him curiously, Horn reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a badge. He pinned it to the front of his shirt and said in a loud voice, “My name is Horn. I’m a special deputy workin’ for Sheriff Buckey O’Neill of Yavapai County and empowered by him to take action for the purpose o’ quellin’ the range war that’s supposed to be brewin’ in these parts.” Quelling, that was a good word. He liked that. “Earlier today, gunmen workin’ for Ed Sandeen ambushed a party of Lazy F riders and wiped them all out except for the man I just brought into town.”
That brought angry mutters from several of the townies. Horn raised his hands again.
“There’s a good chance that Sandeen is goin’ to attack the Lazy F itself,” he went on, “and I’m callin’ for volunteers, here and now, to form a posse and ride back out there with me to help defend the place.”
“How do you know Sandeen was responsible for the ambush?” one of the men asked.
“That fella inside, Glover by name, said he saw one of Sandeen’s hired killers amongst the gunmen. Somebody named Riley.”
“That’d be Vern Riley,” Mayor Donohue said. “He’s one of Sandeen’s men, all right, and damn sure a killer. But what makes you think Sandeen’s gonna strike directly at the ranch?”
“That’s what Frank Morgan thinks, and that’s good enough for me, too.”
“Morgan!” another man said. “But he works for—”
Horn shook his head wearily. “Don’t say Sandeen. You folks got the wrong idea about him. There’s nobody around here who wants to stop Sandeen more than Morgan, and nobody Sandeen would like to see dead more than him.”
Donohue scratched his grizzled beard. “Morgan always did strike me as an honest fella, even when it looked like the evidence was against him. Shoot, I’m the one who hired him as town marshal before Howard Flynn got k
illed and all hell broke loose.”
“Yeah, well, hell’s due to get a chunk shoved under the corner if Morgan’s right about Sandeen ridin’ against the Lazy F,” Horn said. “The girl who owns the place, Flynn’s niece, doesn’t have enough men left out there to fight off a bunch of raiders. That’s why I want to take a posse out there, and we don’t need to waste any time, otherwise there may not be anything left to save.”
“You said you’re a deputy,” one of the townies said. “Can’t you get word to Sheriff O’Neill and have him send in more men?”
“By the time a rider could get to Prescott and Buckey could send a posse back here, the Lazy F might be wiped out,” Horn snapped. “I do intend to send word to the sheriff, but we can’t expect to see any reinforcements from him get here in time.” Horn looked around at the citizens of San Remo. “It’s up to you folks. I know some of you have done business with Sandeen in the past, and you don’t want to get on his bad side. But if you’d seen what I saw out there on the trail between here and the Lazy F, you’d know he’s gone kill-crazy. If he gets away with grabbin’ that spread, he’ll go after all the other ranches in these parts next, and when he gets his hands on those, he’ll turn his attention on the town. I’ve seen range hogs like that before. If you don’t stop him, he won’t quit until he controls everything in the Verde valley, all the way to the Mogollon Rim.”
“But . . . but such things can’t happen!” one of the men sputtered. “This is a civilized country. We have laws!”
“Laws are just words, and they don’t mean a damned thing unless somebody’s willin’ to stand up and make ’em stand for something,” Horn said as he rested a hand on the butt of his gun. “I’m goin’ back out to the Lazy F. The rest of you do what you want.”
The scorn in his voice was plain to hear. He started to push his way through the crowd, but Donohue blocked his path. “Wait just a minute, fella,” the mayor rumbled. “We didn’t say nobody was goin’ with you. We’ve stood up to Sandeen before, and we can do it again.” He looked around. “Ain’t that right, boys?”
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