The stubborn scowl on Justine’s face appeared to lessen somewhat, but she still didn’t look wholly convinced.
The discussion was taking place in the storeroom of the Sun Ledger, the rear area Buckhorn and Justine had passed through when they’d assisted a drunken Carl back to his room and then where Buckhorn had brought the bales of paper stock when he finished unloading the wagon. The four people present, including Martin Goodwin, who’d shown up as instructed, were perched on crates and bales of paper. Once the dowser had arrived and introductions had been made all around, Buckhorn had set the current exchange in motion by revealing his recent invitation to dine at the Flying W.
“So are you saying,” Goodwin asked, “that if Wainwright does make you an offer to hire onto his crew of gunmen, you’re going to accept?”
Buckhorn nodded. “That’s the way I’m leaning, yeah.”
“The crazy talk keeps piling up deeper and deeper,” Justine said, shaking her head as if in disbelief.
“No, it may not be so crazy at all. Not if it’s used as a means to infiltrate Wainwright’s operation.” Carl’s eyes narrowed as he pinned a hard gaze on Buckhorn. “That is what you mean, right?”
“Exactly,” Buckhorn said. “A lot of people seem convinced that Wainwright is on the verge of something big, but nobody knows what. From the inside, I’ll have a better chance of not only finding out what it is but, when the time is right, maybe I’ll also have a chance to foul it up at the source.”
“I don’t know about crazy,” said Goodwin, “but it sure sounds awfully daring.”
“All the same thing,” Justine muttered.
“Since you’ve obviously got your mind made up,” Carl said, “what’s the rest of it? You didn’t pull us all together just to tell us what you’re going to do. Unless I miss my guess, you’ve got some parts for us to play, too.”
“Your guess is right on target,” Buckhorn told him. “For starters, you and Justine need to know that Goodwin and I are here to call Wainwright to account for past deeds totally separate from the land-grabbing and whatever else he’s got going here in your area. We can’t give you exact details on who sent us or why, and we’ll be asking that you carry on like we don’t know each other. What you get out of working with us is that we’d all be pulling together against Wainwright. And, just incidentally, Goodwin might also find your area a brand-new water source.”
“You said he was a dowser. You really believe in that kind of witchery?” asked Justine.
“I do,” Goodwin was quick to answer. “I don’t consider it witchery nor can I guarantee positive results. But if there’s underground water at some reachable point around here, I have a good chance of finding it. If you care to see, I have documented evidence from many cases where I’ve succeeded.”
“It clearly would be great for the area if water can be found,” Buckhorn said. “Initially, we figure the dowsing is sure to catch the attention of Wainwright. If he believes there’s even a small chance Goodwin might succeed, no telling how he’ll react.”
“He’ll blow his stack,” Carl said. “If another water source emerges, it throws everything out of kilter for him. Never mind all the rangeland he already controls and however much more he has his sights set on, another season of drought would also put the town itself at his mercy. I don’t know if that’s part of his big plan or not, but he’s sure not likely to sit back and watch that part of it get washed away.”
“One way or another, he’s bound to see a reputable dowser as a threat,” Buckhorn said.
“So where does that leave Mr. Goodwin?” Justine asked. “If Wainwright does see him as a serious threat, you realize the danger that would put him in, don’t you?”
Buckhorn nodded. “Yeah, I do. That’s where I was hoping we could count on some help from you and Carl. For starters, I’m asking Carl to take his offer to stand guard over me and shift it to looking out for Goodwin when he commences his dowsing.”
Carl didn’t waste a lot of time pondering the idea. “Comes to tying a knot in Wainwright’s tail or any troublemakers he sends around, I’d be happy to pitch in.”
Justine was quick to show her own spunk. “What about me? What part would I play?”
“You can take the lead in spreading word about Goodwin and his dowsing. Print up and distribute some flyers. Word of mouth. Whatever you can think of.”
“Right up my alley. I wish to heck you’d have told me about this sooner. I already revised my special edition once, to fit in coverage of that latest shoot-out. I’m not sure where I could have fit it. The layout’s done now and we just finished running—”
“Don’t worry about it. All you gotta do is mention of the dowsing in a few places and I’m betting it will take off from there like a prairie fire.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“One more thing. To make it look convincing, Goodwin ought to have some kind of group behind him, some kind of financing that hired him to come here and do his dowsing. Could be four or five ranchers still holding their land, or a handful of town businessmen, or even a mix of the two. They don’t have to pay anything or do anything, just be agreeable to letting their names leak out if push comes to shove.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Carl said. “There are enough hard feelings against Wainwright by enough people to find plenty to fill that bill.”
“I know ones I can get. I’m sure of it,” Justine agreed.
“Not to throw too big a rock into the wagon spokes,” said Goodwin, “but what if we’re wrong with all of this speculation? What if Wainwright’s invitation to Buckhorn doesn’t include a job offer? What if it’s just a trap aimed at trying to kill him after all?”
“It’s not like I haven’t dodged clear of more than one trap in my time,” Buckhorn pointed out.
“But what if this time is the one where your luck doesn’t hold?”
Buckhorn smiled wryly. “Well, in that case you’ll have to forgive me for taking a little less interest in what happens next.”
Carl said, “If Wainwright’s dinner invitation turns out to be something different altogether, meaning Buckhorn ends up neither hired on to the Flying W nor shot full of holes . . . well, I guess we take a step back and decide what to do from there.”
“Wouldn’t have much choice.” Buckhorn’s expression hardened. “Be sure to keep in mind from this point on that anybody who sides against Wainwright in any way—us, a pack of phony dowsing backers, whoever—is going up against a dangerous, ruthless bastard. You folks know what he’s done around here, me and Goodwin know about some additional nastiness from his past. He may have a small army of hired guns, but the most dangerous part of his outfit remains Thomas Wainwright himself.”
CHAPTER 26
Buckhorn had gotten directions to the Flying W ranch headquarters from Sheriff Banning as well as from Justine and Carl. His destination lay a little over an hour out of town, so he made sure he got a good start.
Even after all the miles he’d covered on the way from New Orleans, Sarge seemed rested and eager to get clear of the confines of the livery corral. He acted downright frisky, wanting to kick up his heels and run some, but Buckhorn held him to a more moderate pace. He didn’t want to show up late for the dinner invitation but neither did he want to get there too early and appear overly eager.
Also, he wanted to roll things over in his mind some more, reevaluate matters even though he’d already covered most of them more than once.
It occurred to him that the situation he found himself in would have been handled much easier back in the old days, when his temperament was harsher and he was far less discriminating about how he completed the jobs he took on. Basically, he would have isolated Wainwright and killed him.
Those days were gone. Buckhorn still killed—when he had to. That pretty much went hand in hand with doing gun work, the only trade he knew and was skilled at. Blatant assassinations or targeting somebody from ambush were tactics he no longer resorted to.
>
Painted in shades of gold and orange and pink by a beautifully shimmering sunset, he rode Sarge north and west. He could feel the heat gradually lift from the air and the land. Every now and then a faint breeze stirred.
In time, they topped a moderately sharp rise. Just off to the left was the curve of Whitestone Lake. The water—the blessed water—appeared as flat and motionless as the surface of a mirror. Farther to the north, and back to the east slightly, the main house and outbuildings of the Flying W ranch headquarters were visible.
Up to this point, Buckhorn had spotted only a few scattered head of cattle. From the crest of the rise to the ranch buildings, however, he could see several hundred longhorns spread over the grassy flat. Surrounding the cluster of buildings, to keep the cattle out on the otherwise open range, was a long, unbroken row of whitewashed wooden fencing.
Buckhorn nudged Sarge down the opposite side of the rise. They hadn’t gone far after reaching the flatter ground before he took note of a single rider who seemed to be waiting for them in the shadow of a jagged-topped rock outcropping a short distance ahead.
When he got closer, Buckhorn saw the rider was Leo Sweetwater.
At least, based on present circumstances and past descriptions—young, lean, sharp-eyed, dressed predominantly in black, and wearing a two-holstered gunbelt—that’s who he took him to be. He sat his saddle with casual indifference, right leg hooked up over the saddle horn. A cigarette hung from one corner of his mouth.
When Buckhorn reined up before him, the rider said, “You’d be Joe Buckhorn. That right?”
“It is.”
“I’ve heard of you. Wainwright sent me out to make sure you found your way in okay.”
Buckhorn cut his eyes toward the ranch house and buildings in the distance, then back. “Unless that’s not the Flying W, looks like I made it okay.”
“Fat chance any other cattle pusher in these parts has a home like that. My name’s Sweetwater, by the way. Leo Sweetwater. Maybe you’ve heard of me, too?”
“Some,” Buckhorn allowed.
“I’d offer to shake hands,” Sweetwater said, a thin smile playing across his mouth, “but you know how they tell it in the dime novels. A couple blazing-fast pistoleros like us can’t risk having our gun hand caught in the grip of somebody else’s, right?”
“Yup. Nothing like those dime novels for hitting a thing accurate,” Buckhorn said. “Although, in your case, since you pack two guns, I guess you’d still have a gun hand free.”
“That’s the general idea of packing two. I see you don’t subscribe to that particular belief.”
Buckhorn shrugged. “Always managed to get the job done with one. Besides, I can’t hit a barn with my off hand.”
“Most can’t.” Sweetwater smiled. “But I can. Equal. Maybe we’ll find the chance for me to give you some pointers sometime.”
“That’d be real interesting.”
“First things first, though. We’d better get you on up to the house. The general plain don’t like tardiness.”
Sweetwater swung his right leg down and toed the stirrup as he leaned to mash out his cigarette against the rock outcrop, then the men set out at an easy gait for the ranch headquarters.
“You joining in on the dinner?” Buckhorn asked.
“Nope. I ain’t invited. I’ve sat at the big table a time or two, but it ain’t hardly common.”
“Any idea why Wainwright extended an invitation to me?”
“Nope,” Sweetwater said again. Then he grinned. “Maybe he wants to thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
“For culling out that old mossy-horn Dandy Jack.”
Buckhorn frowned. “Reckon I must be missing something. Why would Wainwright want to thank me for taking out his top gun?”
“I’m Wainwright’s top gun,” Sweetwater said quickly. “Jack might have been for a while, when Wainwright first hired him on, but it didn’t take long for the general to figure out all he got for his money was a has-been. When I came aboard the difference was even clearer. I figured it was just a matter of time before it’d be up to me to take the trash out, but you beat me to it. I maybe oughta be jealous, but it ain’t no big thing. You can have the glory for cashing in the chips of that old has-been. I’m young. I still got plenty of time to make my rep.”
Buckhorn cut him a sidelong glance. “You keep calling Jack a has-been. That’s for sure now that he’s dead, but I think there was more sand left in him there at the end than you give him credit for.”
“Guess we see it a little different then,” said Sweetwater with a shrug. “I remember hearing how you and Jack let on you knew each other from the past before you ended up slapping leather there in the Silver Dollar. I think maybe you’re confusing what he used to be with where he’d gotten to at the end.”
It was Buckhorn’s turn to shrug. “Anything’s possible, I guess. Doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference anymore. He’s dead.”
“Yup. Gone and soon to be forgot.” Sweetwater’s expression took on a sudden flintiness as he added, “Something best not forgotten is what I said about me being the top gun around here. You end up hanging around for any amount of time, be smart for you to keep that in mind.”
“Oh, I will,” Buckhorn assured him, his own expression flat, unreadable. “I surely will remember that.”
CHAPTER 27
Sweetwater rode with Buckhorn up to the hitch rail in front of the Wainwright residence. There, with an abrupt “adiós,” he turned and galloped off.
Buckhorn looked after him for a minute, then climbed down from his saddle and tied Sarge to the rail. “I figure I’ll be a spell,” he said to the big gray, “so I’m guessing they’ll have somebody come and take care of you while I’m inside. If not, just stand easy while I’m gone. I’ll be back out eventually.”
Before leaving the side of the horse, Buckhorn reached to unstrap his saddlebag and from inside the pouch he withdrew a long-necked bottle of wine. One of the finest, he’d been assured, available in Wagon Wheel.
On a few different occasions, he had taken on bodyguard jobs for some very wealthy men. One of them in particular had impressed upon him the habits and mannerisms of proper social etiquette. While the rugged frontier seldom required the practice of such niceties, Buckhorn tried to demonstrate them when he got the chance. Showing up with a bottle of fine wine in response to a dinner invitation seemed appropriate.
As he carried the bottle toward the front door, he cast a glance back over his shoulder for another look at the barns, bunkhouses, corrals, and the long wooden fence he’d ridden by on the way in. All were tidy and maintained damn near to perfection, right down to nary a cracked board or smudged patch of whitewash on the fence.
Even if he didn’t know about Wainwright’s past as a high-ranking Army officer, he had a hunch the term military precision might have crossed his mind at the original sight of them.
If those features of the ranch headquarters were impressive, by comparison the ex-general’s personal residence made them look almost shabby. Tall and expansive, buffed adobe, also whitewashed until it practically gleamed in the last glow of the setting sun, the structure seemed nothing short of imposing as Buckhorn paused before it. The ornate front door—made of some heavy, dark wood stained to a wine tint, carved with exquisite designs, and prominently displaying a dragon-headed brass knocker—was probably worth more than what a common ranch hand earned in a decade, Buckhorn reckoned.
Somewhat resentful of the inequity, he grabbed the snarling dragon’s head and gave it an extra hard slam against the striker plate.
Moments later, the door opened and the most impressive feature yet of the Wainwright estate was revealed. Standing in a mixture of light thrown by the interior lanterns behind her and the final fingers of dusk reaching all the way from the horizon as if they’d lingered just to touch her, was one of the most stunning women Buckhorn had ever laid eyes on.
Jet hair tumbled to creamy smooth shoulders left
intriguingly bare by the gown she wore. Smoldering dark eyes, lush lips, and a supple girl-woman form accentuated by the elegant sheath of cobalt blue completed the picture.
“You must be Mr. Buckhorn,” the vision said.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“I am Lusita Wainwright. Won’t you please come in?” She took a step back, held the door open wider, and Buckhorn entered past her. The scent of her was as intoxicating as the rest.
Closing the door behind them, Lusita turned and said, “My husband extends his sincere apology for not being here to greet you himself. The unexpected arrival of an old friend and business partner has claimed his time and attention for the moment. He promises that he will be delayed only a short time. In the meantime, I will do my best to serve as a suitable hostess.”
“I doubt you could be anything less,” Buckhorn said. He presented the bottle of wine he had brought along.
“How very thoughtful,” said Lusita, accepting it. “Would you like to have a drink now, while we await my husband? I can have this opened if you wish, or we have a wide variety of other wines and liquors to choose from. We even have some cold beer, a brand my husband highly recommends.”
Buckhorn didn’t drink much in the way of alcohol. Never whiskey, though he did enjoy a glass of wine now and then and a cold beer always stood a good chance of sounding inviting. That was what he opted for.
“Very good,” said Lusita. “Since my husband is occupying the den, let us make ourselves comfortable in the sitting room. This way.”
Buckhorn followed her from the front foyer into a sunken room containing a large fireplace at one end and a carefully arranged assortment of couches and overstuffed chairs. A set of longhorns hung over the mantle and some impressive racks of deer and elk antlers were suspended on the other walls. Animal hide rugs covered the floor. The room was decidedly masculine in tone yet Lusita’s mere presence gave it all the feminine balance any space would ever need.
A chunky elderly woman wearing an apron appeared. Her seamed face was the color of rich cinnamon and her iron gray hair was pulled into a severe bun.
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