After brief consideration, Wainwright said, “No, probably not. I’ll try, but it would be best not to count on it. We definitely will dine together at dinner, though.”
“Very well,” said Lusita. “I shall plan accordingly.”
* * *
Buckhorn sat in the lobby of the Traveler’s Rest Hotel, drinking coffee and eating a freshly baked morning muffin from the tray that Isobel Fletchler had put out. It continued to amaze him that he was still welcome as one of the guests. After the events of last night and the resulting wreckage to the room he had briefly occupied, he expected the welcome mat would no longer be laid out for him.
That, however, was hardly the case. Not only did the Fletchlers harbor no blame against him for the attempted ambush, they’d moved his belongings to another room and insisted he complete the stay he had already paid for.
He thought back to their meeting.
Buckhorn agreed, but only with the proviso he also pay for some portion of the expense it would take to replace the bullet-blasted mattress and other damage. He had, after all, expected the ambush and allowed it to partly play out inside the hotel before closing the lid on it outside.
“You are an exceptionally fair-minded man or one completely without imagination. Maybe both,” Mrs. Fletchler summed up in her outspoken manner. “You realize, of course, that once we have the damaged room again ready for occupancy it will probably become the most popular one in our establishment.”
Her husband beamed at Buckhorn rather smugly. “She’s right, you know. Think of it.” He spread his arms and recited as if reading from a brochure. “Within these very walls is the gun smoked spot where two deadly assassins laid down a hellfire of blazing lead meant to end the life of a double-dangerous man who, in turn, ended theirs instead.... Why, heck, the room will probably never see an empty night for months, maybe years, to come.”
“In that case,” Buckhorn responded with a mock scowl, “I think I want to renegotiate. It sounds like instead of me paying for a portion of the damage, you ought to be paying me a cut of all the extra money you’re gonna be raking in on account of the ambush that nearly claimed my life in this bucket of blood joint you call a hotel.”
“Now you got the idea. But I’m afraid it sunk in a little too late,” Mrs. Fletchler said, wagging an admonishing finger. “A deal is a deal, Mr. Buckhorn, and you already made yours.”
Buckhorn shook his head and smiled. When the friendly banter was finished, the Fletchlers had departed and gone on about their morning chores, leaving him alone with the coffee and muffins.
He appreciated the solitude after spending another long session with the sheriff and his deputies, going over the details of the attempted ambush, not to mention the scrutiny from another gaggle of nosy citizens willing to interrupt their night’s sleep in order to gawk at the aftermath of the latest bloodshed.
It was exactly the kind of ghoulish curiosity the Fletchlers were reckoning would attract future guests to the room where the would-be assassins had struck. Buckhorn figured they were probably right.
For his part, he would have gladly crawled into the fresh bed of any room to catch up on some sleep. As it was, however, the sun was starting to come up before Banning was done with him and the crowd had mostly dispersed. By that point he was past wanting sleep, at least right away.
Left alone at last, his mind was churning with too many thoughts and questions, going in too many different directions with none of them holding any real promise. He’d gotten the lay of the land like he wanted. Hell, he’d become part of it. A big ol’ target, standing tall and inviting.
What good was that going to do him? Fighting to keep his own hide intact didn’t make a very good tactic for trying to nail Wainwright’s to the wall. What was more, he’d laid it on so thick with his “just passing through” spiel that it was going to be mighty awkward to come up with an excuse for staying. At the moment, it sure didn’t feel like he was on the verge of wrapping things up in only another day.
As he was finishing his second muffin, a man came in off the street and entered the hotel lobby. He paused for a moment, looking around, then walked toward Buckhorn.
Tensing slightly, Buckhorn tried to read the man’s face. Under the small round-topped table in front of him, his right hand slid a few inches closer to his holster. The newcomer was wearing no sidearm and did not appear to pose any kind of threat, but Buckhorn was always cautious.
“If you’re looking for the Fletchlers,” he said, “they’re around somewhere. I’m not sure where. I think there’s a little bell there on the—”
“Actually,” the man interrupted, “it was you I was hoping to have a word with. If you can spare a minute.”
It was only when he spoke that Buckhorn realized who the man was. Justine York’s brother, Carl Orndecker. He looked so different, dressed in crisp, clean clothes, shaved, his hair combed, all in sharp contrast to the disheveled, staggering, vomiting mess he’d been when his wagon had rolled up in front of the newspaper office. Buckhorn hadn’t recognized him at first.
Seeing the look on Buckhorn’s face, Orndecker smiled a little sheepishly. “Guess I look some different from the last time you saw me. I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to get lost. I can hardly deny I’ve got a drinking problem, but what you saw was about the worst of it. I seldom get as bad as yesterday. I’m working hard to get the demon wrestled to the ground, only some days my hold on him slips.”
“Thankfully, I’ve never had to fight that particular demon, though I’ve got a pretty good idea how stubborn and strong he can be. If his hold on you is slipping more often than the other way around, I’d say that puts you ahead as long as you don’t give up.”
“No, I’m not about to do that.” The sheepish smile came again. “For one thing, as long as Justine is in the picture, she darn sure won’t let me.”
“From everything I’ve seen, she’s a good one to have in your corner.”
“None better. She’s also one of the reasons I came by to see you. She wanted me to remind you that you’re scheduled to join her for lunch. She said to tell you that either she can prepare it or treat you at a restaurant.”
Justine had been another of those present after the attempted ambush in Buckhorn’s room. It hadn’t been a matter of gawking but rather a case of once again doing her job as a reporter. After she’d gotten the necessary details, she had extended the lunch invitation as a way of thanking him for his help unloading Carl’s wagon and returning the wagon and horse to the livery.
“Don’t worry,” Buckhorn replied to the reminder from her brother, “I’m not apt to forget a lunch date with your sister.”
“No, I can’t think of too many fellas who would,” Carl said. “By rights, though, I’m really the one who ought to be offering you lunch or some sort of compensation for your help. After all, it was me who got stupidly drunk and couldn’t finish the chores you ended up taking care of for me. At this stage of things, I suppose you’d rather leave it the way it is rather than me taking my rightful place instead of Justine.”
“You’d be supposing very correctly.” Buckhorn gestured toward the coffee and muffins. “You interested in a cup of coffee? Even though you’re not an actual guest, I’m sure the Fletchlers wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t, either. The Fletchlers are the salt of the earth. But I’ve already had plenty of coffee this morning, thanks. I’ve got to get back and catch up on chores around the shop.” Carl arched a brow. “With all the excitement you’ve stirred up since you hit town, not to mention the mysterious killing of those Flying W riders, Justine is going to crank out a special edition of the paper.”
“Sorry to be part of making added work for her.”
“You kidding? A slew of exciting events like this is what newspaper people live for.”
“You say that like you don’t necessarily consider yourself part of what you just called newspaper people.”
“That’s because I’m not. Just
ine’s late husband was the real newshound. He had it in his blood and it rubbed off on her. Me? I’m just on hand to help her out while she helps me.”
“Good for both of you.”
“I guess. Better for me than her.” Carl cleared his throat. “Well, I’d best be getting back over there. What else I wanted to say, though, was to thank you personally for helping out the way you did yesterday. For Justine’s sake and mine, too. I know I must have been a pretty disgusting sight. Most folks would have turned away, never got involved. I’m grateful you did otherwise.”
“No big deal,” Buckhorn told him. “Think nothing of it.”
Carl cleared his throat again. “Something more . . . you go to turn in tonight—or sooner, considering how you sure didn’t get much shut-eye last night—I’d be obliged and honored if you let me stand guard so’s you don’t need to worry about another attempt to blast you in your sleep. It’s a long story, but before the bottle, among other things, made me unfit, I used to wear a badge in these parts. I don’t carry a gun on a regular basis no more, but I’m a pretty fair hand with one when need be. You’d have peace of mind and it’d give me a chance to pay some of the debt for helping me and my sister.”
Buckhorn was a little taken aback. “That’s a mighty generous offer, mister, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But it’s also a kind of lopsided one. All I did for my part was to help Justine get you back to your room and then unload a few things out of a wagon. What you’re offering might amount to putting yourself in the way of a bullet.”
“Been there before,” Carl said. “If somebody does take a notion to try for you again but sees you got some backup, there’s a chance that would be enough to turn the yellow dogs away.”
Buckhorn shook his head. “Like I said, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not ready to have somebody risking their neck for mine.”
Carl looked like he wanted to argue the point further but decided against it. “You think about it,” he finally said.
“I will, but I’m not likely to change my mind.”
Carl started to leave, then paused and turned back. “About your lunch with Justine? My sister is a great gal and is really amazing at a wide range of things . . . but cooking’s not one of them. Take my advice—and here I go really risking my neck if you repeat to her that I said this—but your best bet is to take your meal with her at the Good Eats. Should I go ahead and tell her that’s what you want?”
Buckhorn grinned dubiously. “Sounds like the better part of valor. You’ve got me scared now to do it any different. Tell her about eleven-thirty, before the noon crowd starts to build, okay?”
CHAPTER 20
Thomas Wainwright lifted two sheets of paper off his desktop and held them out to Leo Sweetwater. “Bills of sale. For the Laudermilk and Wesslin properties. You know where to locate them, right?”
“I’ll find ’em,” Sweetwater said, taking the papers.
“Take some men with you, men who know the area,” Wainwright instructed. He jabbed a finger at the papers he had just handed over. “Each of those has a two-hundred-dollar increase over my last offers for those same places. As is clearly stated, the offer is good only for twenty-four hours. If they’re too stubborn and stupid to accept, they’ll never see another offer anywhere close to the amounts given there. Make that very clear to them. Also make clear that, sooner or later, they will come to terms with me.”
“How hard to you want me to drive home that point?”
Wainwright leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Not as hard as I would have suggested just a day or so ago. With the recent outburst of violence in Wagon Wheel, I’m afraid we need to be a little more subtle about driving home our points. At least for a while. I don’t want to draw too much outside attention to our little piece of the country, especially not right at this time, due to exaggerated reports of violence.”
“Sometimes,” said Sweetwater, “just the hint of violence—as long as there’s a basis for knowing it’s more than only hot air—can be mighty persuasive by itself.”
Wainwright smiled a thin, humorless smile. “It’s uncanny how much you think like me. I wish to hell I had hired you in the beginning, rather than that has-been, to borrow your term about Dandy Jack.”
“He’s dead,” Sweetwater said somewhat testily. “How about we quit wasting so much time talking about the old bastard?”
“Point well taken,” agreed Wainwright. “As to your other point about using the hint of violence—or sudden misfortune, one might say—when talking to Laudermilk or Wesslin, here are a couple vulnerable spots you might consider working into your conversations with them. Laudermilk, it so happens, has a nice little pinto filly that he likes to race at festivals and other events around the county. Often as not, he wins or places very high with her. Enough to earn some extra money he badly needs to keep that place of his going. It would be a real shame, in more ways than one, if such a fine animal were to pull up mysteriously lame or, worse yet, be frightened out of her corral by, say, a cougar some night and break a leg fleeing across rough country in the dark. And the Wesslins have that brand-new addition they’re building onto their house in anticipation of the twins Mrs. Wesslin is expected to give birth to in about three months. What a tragedy it would be if some of that fresh, exposed wood framing caught a spark somehow and the whole works went up in flames some night . . .”
Sweetwater’s mouth curved in a mirror image of Wainwright’s cold smile. “I see you’ve played this game before.”
“You can’t begin to imagine,” Wainwright assured him, thinking back to the lessons he’d learned during his time running the prison for Rebel POWs—how to break a man physically with brutal, unimaginative torture . . . or how to crush their spirits more subtly by toying with their minds.
“When you speak with Wesslin and Laudermilk, be sure to give them my regards,” the former general said, his attention snapping back to the business at hand. “Take however many men you’ll need, report back to me as soon as you can.”
“A couple men should be plenty.”
“I’m riding out to the spot where our three riders were found gunned down yesterday. I expect to find the sheriff there and I’ll get an update on where he stands with his investigation into the killings. I should be back here by the time you return.”
“Sounds about right.”
Wainwright pursed his lips thoughtfully and Sweetwater lingered in taking his leave. He sensed his boss had something more to say . . . which proved true enough.
“This half-breed who keeps popping into situations with our men . . . Buckhide or whatever his name is . . .”
“Buckhorn. His name is Buckhorn.”
“Are you familiar with him at all? Ever hear of him before?”
Sweetwater nodded. “Heard the name, heard of him. Never crossed paths with him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“From everything I ever heard, he’s supposed to be pretty good. Tough, fast. Was a time he was considered especially ruthless. You don’t hear his name mentioned quite so much the past couple years and there’s some say he’s tamed down a mite over that time.”
“He’s hardly acted tame since he showed up in these parts.”
“No, he hasn’t, has he?” Sweetwater’s gaze was flat, calculating. “You want me to take care of him?”
Wainwright’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Come on, Leo. I expect smarter thinking than that out of you. Would taking care of him in the way I presume you meant be in keeping with what we just discussed regarding Laudermilk and Wesslin? About temporarily keeping the violence low key when confronted with problems?”
“All you have to do is tell me what you want, General. I’ll do it.” Sweetwater didn’t bother to hide his displeasure at being chastised nor at himself for making a bad assumption.
“What I want is your reaction to the possibility of me hiring Buckhorn to join our outfit.”
Sweetwater blinked. “For starters, I’d have
to ask why you think we need him.”
Wainwright shrugged. “He’s here in our area. He’s available. If he’s as good as you say he is, why not? Can we have too many good guns signed on for our cause?”
“Would I still be considered your top gun?” Sweetwater wanted to know.
“I’d make it clear to all parties concerned.”
Sweetwater considered, didn’t say anything more right away.
“While you’re chewing on that, here’s something else to take a bite of. Before we left town last night—and before he subsequently hung back to pursue his own ill-conceived plan—Conway babbled something about Buckhorn also being responsible for that ambush of our three riders. At the time, I shrugged it off as a nonsensical coincidence. But to be sure and give fair consideration wherever it might be warranted, what do you think of that notion? It did happen right around the same time Buckhorn showed up in the area. Any chance he might be responsible?”
Sweetwater shook his head. “Not likely. Not from what I know of the man. If he got tangled up with those three, it would have been a straight-ahead shoot-out, not an ambush.”
“How about my earlier proposal, then? Think you could manage to get along with Buckhorn if he rode with us?”
“A body can stand most anything . . . for a while. You’d have to expect, though, that a pair like us in the same outfit would almost certainly reach the point of having to try each other, find out which one is best.”
“As long as that sort of confrontation was delayed for a time, I think it could be tolerated.”
Sweetwater considered for another long moment. “I suppose it could work for a while.” His eyes narrowed. “Now, can I ask you a question?”
Wainwright gave a barely perceptible nod. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve heard about your feelings and past dealings with Indians, even partial-bloods,” Sweetwater said. “Can you stand having this breed around as part of our outfit?”
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