Buckhorn nodded grimly. “I think I understand. You can’t pick your family, as the old saying goes. I had a father who let himself get owned by the bottle, too, right up until the day he died.”
Justine regarded him. “I thought you were going through the motions like somebody who’d had some practice at it.”
“Unfortunately.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for—”
“Who’s gonna unload the wagon?” Buckhorn interrupted her.
“What?”
“The wagon. The one your brother drove up in. Isn’t there stuff in it to be unloaded?”
“Oh. Yes. Mostly bales of paper stock.”
“From what I saw, they looked kinda heavy.”
Justine nodded. “Yes. Heavy and awkward.”
“I can give you a hand with them,” Buckhorn offered. “Then what about the horse and wagon?”
“They go back to the local livery barn. I rent them whenever we need to haul anything. But I can handle that part, getting them back. If you could help me unload that paper stock, though, I’d surely—”
Buckhorn cut her short again by simply walking away and heading out to start unloading the wagon. Justine trailed after him.
When they got to the front door, they became quickly aware of a flurry of activity building out in the street. There was an excited buzz of voices and a number of folks were streaming down the boardwalks on either side.
Justine hailed one of the men hurrying past her doorway. “Clyde! Clyde Andrews! What’s going on? What’s this hubbub all about?”
The man slowed his step but didn’t halt. Over his shoulder he shouted back to Justine, “Didn’t you hear? Two Flying W men just rode into town with three of their own shot dead and laying facedown across their saddles. They’re reining up down by Sheriff Banning’s office right now.”
CHAPTER 12
Whether or not the sleepy feeling that had seemed to be settling over the town earlier that afternoon would have lasted for any duration became a moot point once the dead cowboys were brought in. The dead, curiously enough, had a revitalizing effect.
As far as Buckhorn could tell, about three quarters of those present in the downtown area drifted closer to the sheriff’s office to at least have a gander at the bodies. About half hung around for a while, jabbering excitedly among themselves. The rest, having gotten their close-up look, returned to whatever it was they’d been doing before.
Buckhorn didn’t wander down for a look. He’d already had his. In addition to not needing to see any more of the men he’d shot it out with the previous day, he had work to do—the job of unloading the paper bales he’d volunteered to handle for Justine York.
Since part of running the Sun Ledger meant she was also its lead reporter, Justine had legitimate reason for not only joining the throng that poured to the sheriff’s office but for taking her place at its head in order to question the lawman and the men who’d brought the victims in, getting all the information she could about the identities of the deceased and the circumstances under which they’d been found.
Buckhorn had urged her to take care of that while he took care of the unloading and returning the horse and wagon to the local livery. They’d agreed to get in touch later, after things had simmered down.
Emerging from the livery, he saw there was still quite a gathering in front of the sheriff’s office and that Justine was still part of it, wielding her pencil and notepad in the midst of the chatter. Given that, he ducked back into the livery barn to check on Sarge, whom Fletchler from the hotel had taken care of boarding there.
After the long trip from Louisiana, the big gray deserved some pampering and Buckhorn had given instructions for him to receive it. Assuring himself that was indeed the case, Buckhorn lingered for a few minutes to chat a bit with his trail partner and give him a good neck rub.
Quitting the stable once again, it occurred to Buckhorn that he, too, was still owed some additional pampering. Although diverted for a time, his initial intention had been to catch an afternoon nap up in his hotel room.
The appeal of that returned. Not that the chore of unloading Justine York’s wagon had exhausted him to any degree, but the matter of last night’s meager amount of sleep hadn’t been settled. He also was reminded of his earlier plan to spend some time in the local saloons come evening, to see what else he could learn about things in general and the overall mood running through Wagon Wheel and surrounding Whitestone County. If that had been a worthwhile idea before, the discovery of the dead Flying W riders was bound to have tongues wagging even more so.
* * *
Buckhorn’s nap lasted considerably longer than he’d anticipated. He woke to find the long shadows of evening reaching into his hotel room.
At the washbasin on the dresser, he splashed water on his face and slicked back his hair. He strapped on his gunbelt, shrugged back into his vest and coat, and straightened his string tie. Ever conscious of his humble beginnings and well aware of lacking anything close to handsome features, he nevertheless worked to keep his appearance as presentable as possible.
Early in his career as a hired gun, he’d done some bodyguard work for a wealthy, successful man who paid particular attention to his grooming and attire. That had left a lasting impression on Buckhorn—the lesson that a good start toward improving a body’s status in life could be achieved by putting care into how you looked and showing the desire to improve.
Before quitting the hotel room, he took the time to enhance his wardrobe a bit more by dropping an over-under derringer into his right front coat pocket and slipping a spare revolver, a Colt Lightning, behind the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back.
Another lesson he had learned was that a man who made his living by the gun stood a better chance to keep on living if he didn’t necessarily rely on just one gun. Considering how he was a stranger heading out to do some nosing around in the saloons of a town where he’d already managed to get crossways with some local rowdies earlier in the day, taking along extra firepower didn’t seem like a bad idea at all.
In the hotel lobby, Buckhorn happened upon a plump, elderly lady wearing a ruffled, brightly flowered apron and, contrastingly, iron gray hair pulled into a severe bun. She was fussing over a medium-sized serving table positioned before the front window just off to one side of the double entrance. Taking a closer look, he saw she was arranging a tray of cookies, some cups, and a tall silver pot.
He remembered then how Fletchler, the clerk who’d checked him in, had mentioned that his missus made a habit of putting out a tray of muffins in the lobby each morning and a tray of cookies in the evening. About the same time, Buckhorn got a whiff of them, along with the aroma of fresh coffee from the pot, and it made a mighty tempting combination.
The plump lady turned with a smile as he walked over. “Good evening. You must be Mr. Buckhorn from room seven. The mister told me about you checking in this morning. I’m Mrs. Fletchler, by the way. I’m glad you chose our humble establishment. I hope you’re finding everything to your liking.”
“Everything is fine.” Buckhorn nodded toward the display on the serving table. “And, by the smell of your coffee and cookies, it just got a little better.”
Mrs. Fletchler emitted a pleased little laugh. “It’s only a few simple sugar cookies. I like to put them out for the guests, even though we seem to have precious few of those these days. So, by all means, help yourself. Can I pour you some coffee?”
“Much obliged. Black is fine, no fixings necessary.”
In a matter of moments, Mrs. Fletchler was handing him a cup of rich, dark coffee and a saucer containing three golden sugar cookies. The latter were still warm; crispy on the outside, gooey in the middle, buttery sweet all the way through.
For a moment, he felt like a cookie-crazed little kid, though the truth of the matter was that there’d been damn few sweet treats like these during his childhood years. A swallow of strong, bitter coffee went down more like a
dose of reality.
“If you’re wondering about the mister,” Mrs. Fletchler said as Buckhorn took his time, savoring each bite and sip, “he’s wandered off down to the sheriff’s office and jail again to catch up on the latest gossip regarding the tragedy from earlier today. You heard about that, didn’t you?”
“The three men who were found shot, you mean?”
“Uh-huh. What with the Flying W gobbling up land the way it has been and more and more folks resenting it, something like this was bound to happen, I guess. Still a darn shame, though.”
Buckhorn regarded her with new appreciation as he took another bite of cookie. Here might be a source for some information spiced with a bit of gossip—to use her own choice of words—that he hadn’t figured on.
“I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention, not being from around here and so not likely to know any of the unfortunates or anything,” he said as he chewed. “But I did hear that name Flying W mentioned two or three times. I take it that’s the brand the dead men rode for. Pretty big operation, is it?”
“The biggest, and getting bigger all the time,” Mrs. Fletchler said with a nod. “The fellow behind it, Thomas Wainwright—he was a big hero, a general, in the late war—seems bent on owning the whole of Whitestone County all the way down to the border. With everybody else’s range drying up in this blasted drought while he’s got Whitestone Lake right there in the heart of his property, he’s sitting in the catbird seat to do it.”
“His lake the only water source around?”
“The only steady one. The only one not showing signs of petering out if this drought continues much longer. Wainwright’s lake is spring-fed, they claim. Will never dry out.”
Buckhorn’s mouth pulled into a thin, straight line. “Let me guess. While others around him are drying up, Wainwright’s digging in his heels about sharing water from his lake.”
“You got it. In the past it was a different story. There’s a half dozen canals running off Whitestone and the water they carry has always served other ranges outside Flying W’s own boundaries. Even though there was other groundwater to be accessed here and there, it was just easier for neighbors to tap into Whitestone. Everybody knew there was plenty there. I think those neighbors paid a little bit for the usage, but it didn’t amount to much.
“That was the first sign of things changing and the start of hard feelings. Wainwright all of a sudden upped the amount he was charging for anybody using water out of those canals. Upped by a big jump.”
“And that was after the drought was already in full swing?”
“Yes, it was. That’s how Wainwright got his hands on some of the first land he bought. Those who were already on it didn’t have enough water of their own and couldn’t afford to pay the Flying W’s new price to draw off from the lake. So they sold. From there, it’s slowly gotten worse. The drought’s worse, Wainwright is stingier about releasing any of the water from Whitestone Lake, and the resentment toward him and Mother Nature has built to a tension so tight it was bound to snap into violence.”
“Now three men are dead,” Buckhorn pointed out. “Any chance that’ll ease the tension some? Maybe at least for a little while?”
Mrs. Fletchler shook her head. “I don’t think so. More like it’ll only add to it. Especially on the Flying W side. Whatever else Thomas Wainwright may or not be, he surely has been aware and prepared for the escalating hard feelings against him and his tactics. That’s been clear by the kind of men he’s hired lately to ride for his brand.”
“Yeah, I know the type,” Buckhorn muttered.
Mrs. Fletchler eyed him more sharply than before. “You’re not one of them, are you?”
Buckhorn mentally cursed himself for letting the remark slip. He thought about steadfastly denying anything like the notion being suggested, but gazing back into Mrs. Fletchler’s steady, penetrating eyes told him he didn’t have a chance in hell of selling that much of a lie. So, instead, he aimed for something in between.
“Since you’ve got me spotted, I’ll fess up to having spent a chunk of my life on the rough side of things. But am I here to sign on as one of Wainwright’s crew? No, that’s got nothing to do with what brought me here.”
Mrs. Fletchler continued to regard him for a long moment before concluding, “You got the look. That means you’re the type who, if you stick around for any amount of time, is likely to get involved regardless. I don’t know what did bring you here, but it would probably be healthiest if you moved on as quick as you can.”
“Healthiest for who?” Buckhorn wanted to know.
“That’s the part I haven’t quite decided yet.”
He held up the last bite of his third cookie and flashed a lopsided grin before popping it into his mouth. “You want to hurry me down the trail, you’ll have to quit tempting me with these. You can’t have it both ways.”
CHAPTER 13
Out on the street, the air had cooled considerably with the setting of the sun. Most of the businesses up and down the main drag of Wagon Wheel were closed, their doors locked, windows dark.
On the corner of the next block, however, Buckhorn could see light showing in the window of the newspaper office. Justine York undoubtedly was at work writing her first story on the shooting of the Flying W riders. He thought about going down and ducking in to talk with her for a minute, but decided against it. She had a job to do and needed to be left alone to do it. He’d catch up with her tomorrow.
Looking up the street in the other direction, he saw the sheriff’s office and jail building aglow with light and the shifting shadows of several men milling inside. A single shape, most likely one of the deputies, stood outside smoking a cigarette.
Buckhorn had been given strict orders to check in with the sheriff by the end of the day, but he didn’t think it would be a good time. Under the circumstances, he figured, that was something else that could wait until tomorrow.
Halfway between the sheriff’s office and where Buckhorn stood on the boardwalk out front of the Traveler’s Rest, on the opposite side of the street, was a saloon called the Silver Dollar. It was bigger, more gaudily painted, and—on that particular evening, at least—louder and busier than its competition, the Watering Hole. Normally the kind of place Buckhorn would shy away from if he had the choice.
But having already had a taste of what he might encounter in the Watering Hole and fully intending to pay a visit to both establishments before the night was over anyway, he decided he’d go ahead and give the Silver Dollar a try. Besides, it also happened to be the closest of the two.
He paused for a minute just outside the batwing doors, giving the place a good once-over before pushing the doors wide and going in. It wasn’t quite as crowded as the racket spilling outside indicated, but it was plenty busy and those present were making up for any shortage in number by being extra loud and rowdy.
He found an empty space near one end of the bar, a spot that served double duty by tucking him sort of back and out of the way and providing a good vantage point for observing the goings-on spread across the rest of the room. He ordered a beer.
It came with too much of a head on it, but was cold and tasty once he’d gotten through the foam. Leaning back against the front edge of the bar, elbows propped high on either side, he settled in to watch and listen between leisurely sips of the brew.
The subjects on every tongue were the discovery of the dead men, the drought, and water rights issues. They were generally accepted as being related. Two camps seemed to hash over the matter. Gathered around tables in the center of the room was a large, loud contingent of men who either rode for or were otherwise associated with the Flying W brand. Along the bar and at a couple tables on the fringe was a lesser number—about half—who had interests apart from the big ranch. While no one was advocating the shooting of the cowboys, that bunch seemed not as interested in that aspect as they were in the divisive water rights issue that had been left simmering for too long.
Among the more
vocal members of the smaller group, planted just a couple places down the bar from where Buckhorn had landed, was the beefy, jug-eared man he had overheard making a bitter comment about Wainwright earlier at the Good Eats Café. Hampton, the waitress had said his name was. He’d appeared reluctant to spout too much at the restaurant but in the saloon, fortified by liquor and surrounded by others who felt the same, he wasn’t holding much back.
“Boil the pot too long and too hot,” Hampton was saying, “the lid is bound to come off. Wainwright has seen this coming just as well as the rest of us. Why do you think he’s hired so many gun wolves to fill out his crew? So now three men are dead and I say it’s damn near as much his fault as the one who pulled the trigger!”
“You seem to know an awful lot about an awful lot. Leastways you think you do.” One of the bunch from the middle of the room raised his voice a little to be heard. “How do you know there was just one trigger-puller who did for those boys? Them three fellas had more than a little bark on ’em. It would’ve took some doing for just one hombre to shade all three.”
“Aw, it was just a manner of speech, that’s all,” said a man at the bar next to Hampton. “Hamp here’s got no way of knowing how many it took to put down those three, do you, Hamp?”
“I can speak for myself,” Hampton said through clenched teeth. “How many did the trigger-pullin’ on those fellas ain’t the point. The point is that it’s been Wainwright and his stinginess and greed who’s pushed this whole business to the breakin’ point. Well, now it broke. It busted wide open and those three will be just the beginning if somebody don’t do something to make Wainwright see the wrong and right of things.”
“That almost sounded like a threat, Hampton,” said another voice from the pack of cowboys.
“Call it what you want, but it’s the truth,” Hampton said stubbornly, “and you all know it.”
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