“Was the same true when your husband was running the paper? Did he set himself against Wainwright, too?”
Justine frowned. “How do you know about my husband?”
Buckhorn shrugged. “Heard some things here and there. Carl said your husband was a real newshound, had newspapering in his blood. When you said a minute ago that you learned from the best, I took that to mean you were talking about him.”
“I was. But I really don’t feel comfortable talking about Gerald.”
“Was he still alive when Wainwright started muscling in on more and more land?”
“Yes, he was. But I said I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.” Buckhorn leaned back in his chair, feeling bad for having leaned a little hard on the widow . . . but he still had things he wanted to know. “Let’s go back to Wainwright then, and this big plan you think he’s cooking up beyond just amassing land. Any idea what he’s got in mind?”
Justine shook her head. “Don’t I wish. Most people can’t seem to see it at all. They see him gobbling the land and controlling the water and a lot of them don’t like it, but that’s as far as it goes. Those who’ve lost land or water rights to him bemoan only their own fates, and those who’ve gone untouched directly cling to the hope the drought won’t last and they’ll scrape by. They either can’t or don’t want to see that there’s some bigger picture forming.
“Wainwright’s claimed practically enough land for a small state and gathered enough hired guns for a small army. That’s without mentioning the riders and wranglers he employs for his ranching operation. And since he’s married Lusita, God knows how many in-laws he can also call on.”
“How’s that again?”
“About two years ago,” Justine explained, “Wainwright married Lusita, an absolutely stunning creature, much younger than the general, and the daughter of Don Pedro Olomoso, a big rancher and mine owner just across the border. The marriage obviously formed a bond between the two powerful men. An offspring, which seemed obvious to everybody, was a big part of the union since Wainwright had no heirs—would have strengthened it even more. So far, no heir has entered the picture but that hasn’t kept Wainwright and Don Pedro from growing chummier.”
“You think this Mexican don is part of Wainwright’s bigger plan?”
“Could be. I’ve thought of that, but can’t really see the gain for either side. Whatever was added by a partnership would have to be split and shared by that same partnership. They have roughly equal amounts of land, though Wainwright’s is better for raising beef. His herd is much larger and of better quality than the don’s, from what I understand, and he has better established markets. What Don Pedro lacks in cattle-raising capacity he makes up for by silver-mining potential from the Barranaca Mountains that fall partly within his land—if he can keep the Indians who prowl there off the backs of his miners. From all reports, he seems to have finally killed or driven off most of them. After he’s cleared the way, the Mexican government will be poised to move in and claim their share of any silver that comes out.”
“Sounds like Wainwright, for sure, would come out on the short end of the stick by risking a fight with the Yaquis and the Mexican government if he threw in with the don.”
“Except he likes fighting Indians, remember,” Justine said. “And you can bet that any partnership between those two rascals would be geared toward dodging the Mexican government or anybody else who tried to trim their profits. Never forget that the lure of silver or gold has fogged the mind of many men, especially with somebody like Lusita adding some steam to the picture.”
Buckhorn arched a brow. “You make her sound mighty bewitching.”
Justine smiled crookedly. “She is. Or could be. I just don’t know if she realizes it or not. She may be more an innocent victim than a temptress wielding influence. Either way, it unfortunately doesn’t provide any answers as far as whatever it is I’m convinced Wainwright is planning—in cahoots with Don Pedro or alone.”
They’d finished their main courses and were considering the question of dessert. Also, they were into the noon hour proper and the popular restaurant was rapidly starting to fill up.
“I think I’ll pass on dessert,” Justine decided, “but don’t let me stop you. The Groelsch sisters make pies that are even better than their other dishes. You oughtn’t deprive yourself of some.”
“Naw, that’s okay,” Buckhorn said. “I might stop in for a slice and a cup of coffee later on, but I’m plenty full for now.”
“You could do both. You’ll wish you had, once you try some. As for me, I need to get back to the shop. I still have plenty to do in order to get that special edition out. Let me take care of our bill so we can make room for somebody else.”
“That’s pretty awkward for me,” Buckhorn protested. “Let me go ahead and take care of the bill.”
“Nonsense. This is repayment for helping yesterday with that wagonload of paper stock and . . . well, with Carl, too. We’re both extremely grateful.”
“If you insist. You know, Carl stopped by earlier . . . to thank me in person.”
“Yes, I was aware.”
“That was mighty decent of him.”
Justine smiled. “I’m glad you think so. Mainly, I’m glad you got to meet him when he was in a better condition.”
“So am I.”
Justine had just finished paying and they were starting to leave when gunshots exploded from the street outside. One . . . two . . . three.
The pacing of the shots was very measured and deliberate. Unhurried, somehow not particularly threatening. Nevertheless, Buckhorn shoved Justine behind him and stepped out, his Colt gliding smoothly to his fist. Up and down the dusty, sun-washed midday street, people were scrambling frantically, ducking into the nearest doorways.
All except one man who stood in the center of Front Street, facing the Silver Dollar Saloon. He was a young man, not much past twenty, hatless but otherwise decked out in standard range wear. The sun glistened brightly on his headful of unruly reddish hair. His left hand was closed around a small box of some sort.
Hanging loosely in his right, pointed downward at the moment, was a converted Navy revolver with a wisp of smoke curling up from the end of the barrel.
CHAPTER 23
The young man lifted his face and shouted at the upper half of the Silver Dollar, “Hully Markham, you double-crossing, backstabbing son of a bitch, show your ugly stinking face! Right now!”
His words got no reaction.
The street was mostly empty, except for faces peeking around the corners of doorways and Buckhorn standing motionless on the boardwalk out front of the Good Eats Café.
The man in the middle of the street hollered again. “Hully! I know you’re up there and you can hear me, you spineless coward. Don’t make me come get you!”
Again there was no response to the demands from the man in the street. Not right away.
Then, accompanied by some muttering and cursing, some movement appeared on the second-floor balcony that ran across the face of the saloon building. As was common to establishments like the Silver Dollar, it served a row of rooms whose windows could be seen above the colorfully painted banister enclosing the balcony. The rooms were the cribs of the soiled doves who worked the Dollar and, on warm summer nights when cowboys were in town, the banister served as a showcase for the gals to advertise their wares in hopes of attracting customers.
What came on display, however, was something quite different. It involved a soiled dove, but only one—a pretty though somewhat plump little number who called herself Gladys. Her bright orange hair shone in the sun and spilled frothily down over her bare, freckled shoulders and got lost in the filmy folds of the gauzy robe she clutched closed at the front, scarcely containing a pair of oversized breasts.
Standing close beside and partly behind her was a very anxious-looking man in an unbuttoned white shirt and a pair of faded denim trousers. He looked roughly the same age
as the one hollering down in the street, somewhat leaner, with a dimpled chin in need of a shave and a prominent Adam’s apple that right at the moment was doing a lot of bobbing up and down.
“Oney-Bob,” called down Gladys in a trembling voice, “what in the world are you causing such a ruckus for? You’re making a dreadful and embarrassing scene is what you’re doing!”
“Well, you’d better get used to it, Gladys, on account of I got a lot more to get to afore I’m finished,” said the young man addressed as Oney-Bob. “You and that yellow dog Hully Markham have made a fool out of me and put me in a state fit to be tied. You, Gladys, I am through with, even though it breaks my heart. But I ain’t through with that Hully, not by a bucket full! The only question is whether or not he’s got the stones to face me like a man or I have to chase him down to take out of his hide what he deserves!”
“You need to simmer down, Oney-Bob, if you know what’s good for you.” Hully thrust his chin out defiantly as he said this, but all the time he kept his hands on Gladys’s meaty shoulders and made sure he kept her pushed partly in front of him.
“What’s good for me is what’s gonna be bad for you, you snake in the dirt!” Oney-Bob snapped back.
Smiles were starting to appear on the faces of some of those peeking out of the doorways, and Buckhorn even heard a few titters of nervous laughter as the realization started to sink in that what they were witnessing was a pair of jealous cowboys vying for the favor of the same dove.
To Buckhorn’s way of thinking, that smoking gun still in the grip of Oney-Bob wasn’t quite so funny. He was relieved when he glanced up the street and saw Deputy Gates—the only lawman left in town, what with the sheriff and Deputy Pomeroy and some other men gone off to investigate the site of where those Flying W men had been found shot—walking measuredly toward where the surly exchange was taking place.
As he drew closer, the deputy spoke in an easy, soothing tone. “Hey there, Oney-Bob. What’s all this hollering and carrying-on about?”
“Watch out, Deputy,” called down Hully. “He’s got a gun and he’s been drinking. He can be wild mean when he gets like this.”
Oney-Bob paid no attention to Gates. His blazing eyes just kept staring up at the Silver Dollar balcony. “You only think you’ve seen me wild mean,” he said through clenched teeth. “You wait till I get my hands on you, Hully, then you’ll feel it up close and personal.”
“Come on now, that’s no way to talk,” said Deputy Gates. “You and Hully been pals for a long spell. Whatever’s gone wrong between you can surely be worked out without threats like that, can’t it?”
“No! How can I be pals with a skunk who’d do me like he done? He promised me—both of ’em did—that he’d stay away from her.”
“That ain’t true,” Gladys wailed. “I never promised such. How could I, a gal in my position?”
“There’s sense to what she’s saying,” Gates pointed out. “You can see that, can’t you, Oney-Bob? After all, Gladys is a . . . well, having fellas up to her room is what she does.”
“You think I don’t know that? How do you reckon I met her?” Oney-Bob said, his face reddening. “Even though I love her, I can understand how she has to do her job, make her living. I don’t like it, but I can tolerate it. Leastways until I’m ready to take her away from that life.”
“But then why . . .”
“A quick poke is one thing,” Oney-Bob explained. “Like I said, I can tolerate that. There’s nothing personal in it, it’s just a matter of doing some business and getting things over with. But all night, now that’s another matter. That’s where things get, whatyacall . . . intimate. That’s how I come to fall in love with Gladys in the first place, and her with me. I’m gonna take her away from here and we’re gonna get married just as soon as I can scrape together enough taking-off money.”
“That’s a dream, Oney-Bob. You lunkhead!” hollered Gladys. “I got that same dream with a half dozen of my other regular gentlemen callers. But we all know it ain’t true, ain’t ever gonna really happen. Everybody knows it except you, I guess. You silly damn fool.”
“Yeah, everybody but me . . .” As he said it, Oney-Bob made a motion with his left hand and cast onto the dusty street the little box he’d been holding. As it hit, the box popped open and a ring with a large sparkly stone fell out. “And there’s the engagement ring this silly damn fool was bringing you.”
“Oh, Oney,” said Gladys, her chin trembling.
“That’s too bad, Oney-Bob. I’m sorry,” Gates said, sounding genuinely sincere. “But that still don’t mean you can go around shooting and threatening over it. Now, how about you put the gun down, too? Or, better yet, just hand it over to me.”
Oney-Bob’s whole body suddenly went rigid. “No!” His gun hand swung up and he turned toward the deputy, who’d taken a step closer and was holding out his hand. “Stay out of this, Gates, or you’ll force me to hurt more than just that damn Hully. He’s got to get his desserts, get what’s coming to him. He knew how I felt about Gladys, even knew I was coming here today to give her that ring. And he for damn sure knew how I felt about her doing all-nighters, especially with the likes of him!”
“That’s right. I knew all those things,” Hully admitted. “And I know something else, too. I know she’s nothing but a whore, Oney-Bob! That’s what I wanted to try and get sunk into that thick skull of yours afore you went and made an even bigger fool of yourself. I wanted you to hear I was up here with her in order to get that point across. I just didn’t figure you’d come gunning for me over it!”
“Well, then you figured exactly wrong, didn’t you?” Oney-Bob twisted back to face Hully again, but the latter slid even farther in back of Gladys, giving Oney no clear target without the risk of hitting the gal he’d thought to be the love of his life.
“Here now!” Gates said, bringing his hand to rest on the grips of the hogleg holstered on his hip. “You’re gonna fool around and get somebody hurt, Oney-Bob. If you don’t drop that gun, you’re gonna force me to make it be you.”
Oney’s eyes whipped back and forth between Gates and Hully. His whole body was starting to tremble with rage and frustration. He couldn’t shoot the man he wanted to—Hully—for fear of hitting Gladys, but he badly wanted to shoot somebody.
Buckhorn recognized the young man was working himself into the kind of blind fury where he was going to cut loose one way or another. Gates had better do more than just rest his hand on that hogleg, Buckhorn thought to himself, if he knows what’s good for him.
In that same long, tense moment, Buckhorn spotted movement in one of the doorways across the street, behind and slightly off center from where Oney-Bob stood. The doorway was that of the Sun Ledger newspaper office. As Buckhorn watched, Carl Orndecker stepped out of the shadows and came to stand silently in his doorway, much like Buckhorn was doing in the doorway of the café, also with a revolver raised and ready.
Buckhorn heard Justine emit a soft gasp from in back of him.
“Damn it, Oney, enough is enough,” Deputy Gates declared. “I want that gun, and I want it right now!” He took another step forward, his left hand reaching for Oney’s gun, his right still resting on his own still-holstered sidearm.
The fury inside Oney-Bob broke wide open. “Stop meddlin’, damn it!” he shouted, thrusting his pistol to arm’s length and firing point-blank at Gates.
Oney got off a second shot as the deputy spun away and started to fall but, in the same instant, Carl Orndecker started shooting from the newspaper doorway. He punched two slugs through Oney-Bob’s extended arm, causing the limb to flop uselessly and the Navy to fall from nerveless fingers.
Instead of also firing on the hapless Oney, some instinct told Buckhorn to concentrate on Hully. It paid off when, as soon as Oney was eliminated as a threat, the open-shirted man shoved aside the frantically wailing Gladys and raised a previously concealed pistol that he promptly aimed down at the pal whose love life he’d allegedly been out to assist.
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Buckhorn’s Colt spoke first. The .45 caliber slug smashed into Hully’s shoulder and knocked him clean off his feet. The unfired hideaway gun dropped over the edge of the banister and onto the street below.
It was over that quick. An eerie silence settled briefly in its wake, broken only by the sobs and wails of Gladys, who lay in a heap on the floor of the balcony where Hully had shoved her.
CHAPTER 24
“Much as I hate to admit it,” Paul Banning said, his scowl deepening as it shifted back and forth between Buckhorn and Orndecker, “I guess I owe you two a debt of gratitude. If you hadn’t stepped in the way you did, there’s no telling how much damage Oney-Bob would’ve done after he put down my man Gates. Hell, for that matter he might not have been done with Gates. He might have gone ahead and killed him and then gone on from there.”
“So how is Gates?” Orndecker asked.
“Doc is still working on him, but he seems pretty sure he can pull him through okay.” The sheriff’s expression was somber. “One bullet tore through the outside of his rib cage, that one ain’t so bad. The other went in more toward the middle of his stomach and ripped up his insides pretty bad. No telling how long that’s gonna lay him up or what kind of shape it’s gonna leave him in even after he heals as good as he’s gonna get. I left Pomeroy there to wait it out until the doc had the final stitching done and could give us a more complete report.”
“What about us?” Hully Markham called from his cell. “They took Gates right to the doctor’s office, where he’s got everything for the most proper care and treatment. Me and Oney, the doc just took time to stop the bleeding and wrap our wounds, then said it was okay to lock us up until he could get to us and do more.”
“So what’s your point?” Banning asked testily.
“My point is we still ain’t been proper took care of. I hurt like hell and some blood is leaking through my bandage. It looks like the same for Oney-Bob. He’s laying passed out over there on his bunk.”
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