“It’s more than just fantastic,” Carl said. “It’s . . . insane. Impossible . . .”
“We can go ahead and throw the whole alphabet at it if we want,” Buckhorn said. “but it’s gonna take a lot more than just words to stop those two.”
“So what do we do? Notify the sheriff? Call in the army?” Martin Goodwin wanted to know.
His inquiry hung in the air with the weight of a fifth presence.
It was Buckhorn who responded. “For us to go to the authorities seems pretty pointless to me. Sheriff Banning may not be completely under Wainwright’s thumb, but he’s close to it. No matter, something like this would be too big for him to handle on his own. He might first turn it over to the U.S. Marshals but, even at that, it would end up in the lap of the Army. You oughta be able to reckon it from there. Who are they most likely to listen to? Me, with these wild accusations laid out on this paper here—or the word of a former Yankee general, now one of the wealthiest land and cattle barons in the territory?”
“They’d hand out the loudest horselaugh ever heard in these parts,” Carl said bitterly. “And if Wainwright wanted to push it, they could probably find grounds for bringing charges against the lot of us.”
“So what does that leave?” Goodwin asked. “We can’t hold off and do nothing, just let them try and get away with it. Can we?”
Buckhorn thought of his original task. “I could ride back out there tomorrow and kill Wainwright. That’s what I was sent here to do anyway, in a roundabout way,” Buckhorn said. “Hell, if Don Pedro is still right there handy, I could go ahead and plant a couple slugs in him, too, while I was at it. That’d cut the heads off the two fattest snakes we know about.”
He shook his head. “But what would it leave? Who else might be in on their scheme? Seems doubtful it all rests strictly on the two of them. For one thing, Don Pedro mentioned spies keeping him advised on the revolution getting ready to bust loose. If there’s other snakes big enough in size—government officials, say, from either side of the border—all I’d do was give ’em warning so they could shift some things around and maybe still go ahead with a revised plan. And I’d ’ve made a target out of myself and maybe the rest of you for nothing.”
“One way or another, we’re in this with you,” Carl said. “There’s no backing out of it now.”
Justine regarded Buckhorn intently. “If you believed it would end it all, could you really do that? Ride out and simply shoot Wainwright and Don Pedro?”
Buckhorn met her eyes with a hard, flat gaze. “That’s how I used to do things. I said that so you’d know—all of you.” He cut his gaze to Goodwin and Carl before coming back to Justine. “If I was the same as then, Wainwright would already be dead and I’d be long gone. If any of that makes a difference, say so now before we go any farther.”
“I don’t have the same background as Buckhorn,” Goodwin said, “yet our mutual connection gives us the same outlook where Wainwright is concerned. I may not have the guts to do it myself, but knowing he was dead—by whatever method—would not trouble me in the least. He’s long overdue. Now it’s bigger than just killing him. We must also kill this crazy idea that, if carried out, will surely result in bloodshed and chaos on a scale nobody wants to imagine.”
“Of course we must,” Justine said, never taking her eyes off Buckhorn. “I never meant to suggest otherwise.”
“Which brings us,” Carl said, “right back to the little matter of how.”
CHAPTER 29
“I’ve had a lot of time to think on that,” Buckhorn said. “Way I see it, two things might give us a couple hammers to knock some pins out from under what’s been put together. The first is right here, all around us.” He tapped the rough sketch he’d made representing the area on both sides of the border earmarked to make up the country of Silverado. “Smack in the middle of all the rest of their land is the one thing neither Wainwright nor Don Pedro already own—the town of Wagon Wheel.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Carl agreed. “But I’m not sure I see—”
Buckhorn cut him off by turning to Justine. “You told me a lot of folks around town don’t much like the way Wainwright has gobbled up so much land and brought in all his hired guns. Even in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve heard that kind of resentful talk in the Good Eats Café and again in the Silver Dollar Saloon. The ones behind those feelings aren’t really doing anything about them, right?”
“That’s the way it’s been, yes.”
“What can they do about it?” Carl said. “Nobody likes Wainwright’s heavy-handed tactics, but he hasn’t broken any laws, for sure not in the eyes of Paul Banning. If the drought gets much worse, no matter how many people don’t like the old general right now, they know damn well he might start to look a whole lot better if they have to rely on him for some of his water.”
“I might have something to say about that,” piped up Goodwin.
Buckhorn nodded at the dowser. “That’s what I’m counting on, now more than ever.” He turned to Justine and Carl. “If Goodwin here was to stir up a new water source, isn’t it possible that would also stir up the townsfolk, maybe stiffen their backbones a little more? Given the way they already feel about Wainwright and then suddenly freed from having to worry about water, don’t you reckon they’d make a more receptive audience for the tale I got to tell about what’s coming around the corner?”
Carl frowned. “And then what? They might be more apt to listen to you, yeah, but do you really think a bunch of businessmen and shopkeepers and the like are going to rise up and stand against Wainwright and his gunslingers? What chance would they have?”
“Carl, what kind of talk is that?” Justine demanded. “You’ve lived and worked among these people. You used to look out for them. This is a tough country, even living in town, and these are tough, resilient people. They had to be to make it this far. Some townsmen have a few added years, but several of them are veterans of the war. You’d sell them short with just a shrug of your shoulders?”
“She’s talking sense, Carl,” Buckhorn said. “Going up against Wainwright’s gunnies would take grit and sacrifice. Digging in and fighting for their town, for their homes and families . . . having reasons like that can make a mighty big difference to some men.”
Carl’s brow furrowed. He passed the back of one hand across his mouth. “Sure. Sure, you two are right. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it might have a chance. It deserves at least that much consideration.”
“It hinges, first and foremost, on finding a new water supply,” Justine said, her eyes going to Goodwin.
The dowser smiled. “I haven’t had any chance to mention it yet, but after we all met before, I did have a chance to take a stroll around the town and its outskirts and actually spotted some ground up around the north end that I think looks promising. As soon as somebody gives me the word, I can take my rod and other paraphernalia up there and go to work. With a little luck, I might run across something in pretty short order.”
“Go ahead and figure you’ve been given the word,” Buckhorn told him. “Start doing what it is you do, the sooner the better. You parading around with that goofy-looking stick you showed me and Justine doing her part spreading awareness of what you’re up to is bound to start drawing attention. Plenty of it. It won’t take long, I’m betting, before a big chunk of that attention will come from Wainwright.”
Goodwin made a face. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to that part.”
“Don’t worry,” Carl said. “I’ll be there to protect you . . . ’less ’n I oversleep and don’t get up in time.” He grinned crookedly. “But hell, even then, Wainwright’s wild-eyed top gun, Sweetwater, wouldn’t be crazy enough to shoot you down right in front of a bunch of onlookers . . . I don’t think.”
“That’s not funny, Carl,” his sister chided him. “You know how rough Wainwright’s wolf pack can play, even if shooting isn’t a part of it.”
Goodwin’s mouth showed a grin, a l
opsided, uncertain one. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, Mrs. York, you’re not.”
“You just need to remember what your stake is in this thing,” Buckhorn said. “You’ll do fine. Besides, even though Wainwright is bound to take an interest in you and your dowsing, I’m hoping that at least by the time you sprout water, he’ll have plenty else to worry about.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Goodwin asked.
“You remarked something about two hammers to knock the pins out from under Wainwright and Don Pedro,” Justine said. “If your finding water and stirring up the townsfolk is the first one, Mr. Goodwin, what’s the second?”
“Even though my dinner at the Flying W turned out to be a sort of hurried-up affair, it still gave me time to get a read on some added things about Wainwright and Don Pedro,” Buckhorn explained. “Mainly, it wasn’t hard to see that those two old pirates don’t trust each other worth a damn.”
“That’s really not surprising,” said Goodwin. “Men who are immersed in crime and double-dealing are prone to neither trust nor believe in the honesty of anyone else—not even a so-called partner.”
Buckhorn nodded. “Well, that’s sure as fire true with this pair.”
“But how does knowing that really gain us anything?” Justine asked.
“Remember what I said before about how we’d have to come up with somebody or a group of somebodies to claim responsibility for hiring Goodwin and bringing him here?” Buckhorn scanned the faces around him. “What if we figured out a way to make Wainwright suspect that somebody was Don Pedro? Wainwright already has the simmering mistrust. Considering that the one thing that gives him most of his power over this whole region is his precious water, how big a double cross would he consider it if he believed none other than his own partner was trying to cut in and make Wainwright’s water not so exclusive?”
“It would make him crazy,” Carl said.
“Oh, great,” Goodwin responded. “Just what I need, something to make him madder yet when it comes to me and my dowsing.”
“No guarantees, but it actually might benefit you,” Carl told him. “He’d be so enraged over what he believed Don Pedro was trying to pull, he might look right past you as just another hired hand.“
“The more enraged and crazy we can make him, the better for us all the way around,” Buckhorn summed up.
Carl nodded his agreement. “If we can trick those two old rascals into going to war against each other, the revolution and the breakaway new country and all the rest would fall by the wayside. Or at least be delayed—until one of them came out the winner.”
“By then, we ought to have figured out a convincing way to expose the rest of what they’re currently planning,” Justine said. “What can we do to trigger such a rift between them?”
Carl said, “I might have an idea.”
Buckhorn made a gesture. “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”
Carl shifted a little in his chair. “Okay. The thing is, when I go on one of my benders, I often end up doing the brunt of my drinking at a little cantina down in Mexville. The tequila is cheaper and the atmosphere includes a couple chiquitas who I sort of favor. Truth to tell, I visit them now and then even when I’m not drinking heavy.” He cut a sidelong glance over at Justine and gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Sis, but that’s just the way it is.”
Justine returned his glance coolly. “I think I had a pretty good idea you weren’t living the life of a monk, Carl. Go on with telling us your idea.”
“What I’m thinking is that me and Goodwin could take a little trip down that way tomorrow evening, after he’s spent the day dowsing and has gotten everybody’s attention. We could put on a show of hitting the sauce pretty heavy, like we’re celebrating. Maybe do some cuddling with my chiquitas while we’re at it. Somewhere in the process, once our tongues were oiled up good and loose, we could carelessly drop Don Pedro’s name a time or three, making sure it was understood that he was the one financing Goodwin’s water-finding expedition.
“I guarantee once we said it for the second time, word of the claim would have traveled outside the joint and would be on its way to reach Wainwright’s ears before the night was over. It’s that kind of place. The minute somebody overhears anything they think might be of interest—especially, of value—somewhere else, they’re passing it on.”
“I like it,” Goodwin was quick to say.
“And hearing the claim in that manner,” Carl added, “I think would be almost instantly convincing to Wainwright. Hell, what reason would a couple loud-mouthed drunks lacking the sense to keep their lips buttoned have for lying? What could be their angle? What could they be looking to gain if it wasn’t the truth?”
Buckhorn let the rhetorical questions hang in the air for a minute, then gave a nod of his head. “I like it, too. I think you’re right about the impact it would make on Wainwright. He’ll be quicker to believe it and quick to want to act on it. It stands a good chance of getting exactly the kind of reaction we want.”
“I guess it’s up to me to start my dowsing first thing in the morning and hope it serves as the catalyst for setting in motion all of these other things we’re hoping for,” said Goodwin.
“That’s about the size of it,” Carl said.
“There’s just one other thing to touch on,” Buckhorn said, “but it’s one we have absolutely no control over and it could send everything in the wrong direction from what we want.”
“What’s that?” Justine wanted to know.
“The revolution that’s brewing down in Mexico. Don Pedro won’t be willing to start his part of the shindig until that kicks in and he can feel reasonably sure the current government forces are too busy down there to have time for what he and Wainwright are cooking up here. He’s got spies keeping him up to date on how things stand.” Buckhorn cut his gaze to Justine. “With all that revolutionary tension in the air, I’m guessing a gaggle of reporters from some of the big city papers must be keeping an eye on things down there, right?”
“There’s bound to be,” Justine said.
“Anybody you can make contact with?”
“Not directly. None that I know of. Tomorrow, I can send out some telegrams to people I do know, and through them set something up.”
“If anything pops down there before the stuff we’re trying to put in place up here, it obviously changes the whole picture. We need to know it as soon or shortly after Don Pedro does.”
“I understand.”
“I guess that’s it then. Tomorrow shapes up as a mighty big day. Anybody got any final questions?” Once again Buckhorn scanned the faces before him. “If not . . . well, I guess the only thing left is to wait for all that we’ve planned to start kicking into motion.”
CHAPTER 30
Buckhorn returned to his hotel room and caught about four hours of sleep. Before quitting the room, he took time to scoop some freshly poured water onto his face from the washbasin, repack his war bag, and check the loads in all of his guns.
On his way out of the lobby, he detoured long enough to snag three of Mrs. Fletchler’s fresh-baked muffins. He ate two as he walked up the street to the livery stable and fed the third to Sarge once he got there.
After saddling up and squaring his bill with the liveryman, Buckhorn swung aboard the big gray and pointed him north out of town. Glancing over his shoulder, he was pleased to see Martin Goodwin exiting the hotel, carrying his case of dowsing tools, and starting across the street toward the newspaper office where Carl Orndecker stepped out to greet him.
A low-hanging sun above the eastern horizon bathed Buckhorn and Sarge in warming rays as they rode along over the rolling grassland. Just for the hell of it, and because he had plenty of time to make it to the Flying W ranch headquarters by noon, Buckhorn swung a ways farther to the west than the route he’d followed previously. He figured he’d come in at an angle that would give him a better look at Whitestone Lake and then follow the curve of the water’s edge around until he wa
s again in sight of the ranch buildings.
The terrain that way was more broken than to the east. A handful of low buttes rose here and there, with other upthrusts of smaller, more ragged rock formations in between. A few clumps of scraggly pine growth hugged the base of some of those rocks.
He reached a point where the overall lay of the land seemed to be on a gradual incline and he reckoned it shouldn’t be long before the rise would crest and then slope back downward to where he’d come in view of the lake.
Before he got that far, he caught the stuttering noise of what sounded like distant gunfire. He reined Sarge to a walk and listened harder. It was gunfire, no mistake about that. And not all that distant—ahead and a bit more to the west.
Buckhorn brought Sarge to a full stop. His eyes narrowed and he scanned slowly over the rugged landscape between where he was and where he thought the shooting was coming from. Numerous rocky outcrops dotted the space in between, most of them poking up in low, jagged spines, rising abruptly and then just as abruptly falling away. A wide, shallow dry wash wound its way in and out among several of them.
He continued to listen and the guns continued to bark, the sporadic reports sounding like an exchange between three shooters. One pistol, two rifles, he made it out to be. If the pistoleer was alone against the other two, he had a disadvantage in both number and firepower.
“Well, pal,” Buckhorn muttered to Sarge, “since this is Flying W range and I’m supposed to be riding for that brand now, I reckon there ain’t much for it but to ease up there and see if I need to take a hand in whatever the fuss is about.” He heeled Sarge down into the wash and urged him steadily, carefully forward.
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