Bloodthirsty

by William W. Johnstone

  “We’re gonna at least pick their bodies, though, ain’t we?” Poudry asked.

  “What the hell for? They was nothing but dirt-poor losers. What’d you figure they’d have of any value? Besides, don’t forget the breed was already here once before. You put an Injun anywhere near a dead body laying around to be picked clean of any valuables, you can bet the redskin will have the job done quicker than a hiccup. Ain’t that right, Buckhide?”

  “The name’s Buckhorn,” came the correction in a flat, even tone.

  “Whatever,” grunted Blevins as he set the brake and started to climb down from the buckboard seat. He swatted at a swarm of flies. “Come on, let’s wrap ol’ Parsons in that tarp we brung along and then get the hell out of here.”

  “While you’re seeing to him,” Buckhorn said, “I’ll go get the body up by that highest boulder and bring it down. Then you two can fetch the nearer one.” He swung down from the saddle and started for the slope.

  He’d gone only a couple steps when Blevins’s booming voice rang out. “Hold it, breed!”

  Buckhorn stopped and turned back to face the big man. He looked at him, not saying anything.

  “Didn’t you hear me say we ain’t botherin’ with them other two bodies?”

  “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. What I did hear, real plain, was General Wainwright saying as to how we were to take these bodies and return them to their family.”

  “And how’s he gonna know the difference if nobody squawks?”

  “Maybe we got us a little tattletale who tells every fart he hears,” said Poudry.

  Blevins guffawed. “A tattletale breed. If that wouldn’t beat all.”

  Buckhorn had fully expected, sooner or later, that some of the Flying W hardcases would see fit to test his mettle. Sighing, he reckoned it was as good a time as any to get at least the first round of it over with.

  Squaring his shoulders, planting his feet a little wider, he said in a voice that sounded like sandpaper brushing across stone, “Mister, you call me breed in that snotty tone one more time, the bed of that wagon is liable to get mighty crowded if we have to cram your fat ass in there along with the rest of what we came here to haul away.”

  Blevins’s mouth gaped open so wide and so suddenly that a dribble of juice from the foul tobacco he was chewing ran out one corner. His darting eyes turned even busier than usual, snapping around like he was hearing voices inside his head or something. “W-what did you say to me?”

  “You heard me plain enough. Or did some of that disgusting cud you’re chewing leak up and clog your ears? I don’t like being here in the flies and the stink with those buzzards circling overhead any more than you do, but I was sent to do a job, and that’s what I intend to do—the full works, like it was laid out. The only question is, are you and Frenchie gonna do your share or are you just gonna add to what I’ve got to take care of?”

  “By that, you mean takin’ care of us, too?”

  “Except for the loading you on the wagon part. I think I’ve changed my mind on that. Let somebody else come back and hoist your lard.”

  “You really think you’re that good?”

  “One way to find out.”

  “Amigo,” Poudry said rather nervously, “I do not think this is such a good idea. If we shoot him, we will have to explain to Wainwright why it came to that. If he shoots us, that obviously is not a desirable thing. I do not see where it works out good for us either way.”

  “He’s talking sense, Blevins,” Buckhorn said. “We can leave it at each of us having done a little growling and just go ahead and do what we were sent here for. Maybe take our differences back up another time.”

  “Oh, we will definitely do that,” Blevins promised.

  Buckhorn grunted. “Yeah. I expect we will.” He could see this was going nowhere, so he turned his back on the pair and started up the slope to where Johnny Laudermilk’s body lay. Over his shoulder, he said, “If either of you think about shooting me in the back, stop and consider how hard it’ll be to explain the bullet holes coming from that way.”

  No shots were forthcoming, but he’d gone several steps before the anxious tingling between his shoulder blades went away.

  * * *

  After the bodies were loaded, they headed for the ranch house formerly owned by the Laudermilks, where they expected to find the rest of the family packing and making final preparations to pull out. Since Buckhorn had no idea where the ranch was located, Blevins, at the reins of the buckboard, led the way. After rolling away from the wash and in sharp contrast to all the chatting they’d done on the way there, the two wagon riders did very little talking.

  Buckhorn trailed from off to one side and a few yards to the rear. Although he’d determined his two companions were neither desperate enough to shoot him in the back nor brave enough to face him head-on, he liked it a lot better being able to keep an eye on them.

  Over the last mile or so, however, they had started up again. Once more it was low mutterings that Buckhorn couldn’t make out. He had a hunch they were cooking something up and it was probably a dish that wouldn’t be to his liking. Whatever it was, it appeared they were going to try and serve him some.

  Once their destination hove into sight, Blevins hauled back on the reins and brought his rig to a halt. “Now looky here, you,” Blevins said as Buckhorn pulled up even with the buckboard and reined Sarge to a stop also. “Me and Pepperjack are needing to know just how much of a Goody Two-shoes you are, exactly.”

  Buckhorn almost laughed in his face. “Me? A Goody Two-shoes? Mister, you’d better spit out that tobacco you’re chawing in a big hurry. I think you got a serious batch of locoweed mixed in.”

  “So you’re saying you’re not?”

  “Not by any measure I know of.”

  Blevins scowled. “Okay. Maybe that makes sense. That other business back there, like you said, was laid out as direct orders. I guess I shouldn’t have thought about shortcuttin’ ’em.”

  “So what is it you’re getting at?” Buckhorn wanted to know.

  “Well, me and Pepperjack been talking. When we get up yonder”—he nodded his head to indicate the ranch buildings in the distance—“the only strict orders Wainwright gave was to deliver the bodies to the widow. Right? Beyond that, he didn’t lay on any restrictions or give any exact instructions. That the way you remember it?”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, you got no way to know this on account of you’re new to the area, but it so happens that Mrs. Laudermilk—now Widow Laudermilk—she ain’t a half-bad-looking woman. Not for these parts, she ain’t. And that’s for damn sure.”

  “It is true,” agreed Poudry eagerly, his mouth spreading in a wide, lewd smile that displayed a shiny gold tooth. “What is more, she has a teenage daughter. Sixteen or seventeen, I think she is. Ah, but the woman has awakened in her, if you know what I mean. Every indication is that she will blossom to be as fine looking as her mother. Maybe even more so.”

  “So what me and Pepperjack was thinking,” Blevins went on, “was that it would be downright shameful and rude to drop off these cold bodies and then just ride off and leave all that ripe womanhood untended. They’re bound to need some comforting in their time of, er, grief. Especially the lonely widow, what with her husband gone and therefore the services a woman just naturally looks to from her man suddenly left empty.”

  “And the daughter,” Pepperjack added. “Trying to come to grips with the loss of her beloved papa—think what solace it would be for her to discover feelings and pleasures to help her get beyond the suffering of such terrible sadness and emptiness.”

  Buckhorn remained silent and stone-faced throughout these disgusting spiels of self-serving hogwash.

  Blevins, unable to tell if what they were pitching was sinking in or not, finally blurted, “Do you get what it is we’re tryin’ to say or don’t you?”

  “Oh, I get what you’re saying real clear,” Buckhorn responded. “What you’re saying is tha
t you two pigs, combined, aren’t worth the price of the pair of slugs it would take to rid the world of your filth.”

  Quicker than an eyeblink, Buckhorn had his Colt drawn and leveled on a spot directly between Blevins and Poudry. With a slight twitch of the muzzle, one way or the other, he could plant a .45 caliber pill in either one. It wouldn’t take more than a fraction of a second to blow both of them clean off the seat. “But since I’m pretty flush at the moment,” he continued through clenched teeth, “I’d be more than willing to cover the cost.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Blevins said, sneering but clearly nervous again. “You’d have the same problem explaining to Wainwright that we would’ve had if we’d done you back down the way.”

  “One big difference. I’m not afraid of Wainwright. If he hires trash like you, I’m not so sure I want to work for him anyway.”

  “Big talk.”

  “Think what you want. Like before, there’s one sure way to find out.”

  “So what are you going to do to us?” Poudry asked anxiously.

  “I’m not sure. But I know I’m not gonna let you anywhere near that widow and her kids. We’ll begin by you shucking your hardware. Slow and easy, one at a time. You first, Blevins. Start with the shotgun. Hand it to me. Then toss your sidearm and everything else back into the wagon bed.”

  When both men were disarmed, Buckhorn used the shotgun to motion them down off the buckboard seat. “Both of you on this side. When you light down, back away a half dozen steps and take your boots off. Throw ’em in the wagon bed along with—”

  “To hell with you!” Blevins erupted. “I ain’t taking my boots off for nobody, especially no goddamned redskin.”

  Aiming the man’s own shotgun at him, Buckhorn said, “Your choice. You can leave ’em on if you want. You do, you’ll be taking a ride in the wagon bed with ’em on and then from there you can wear ’em straight into Hell. I’ll give you to the count of three to decide. One . . .”

  “Do not be a fool, Blevins,” Poudry pleaded as he began kicking off his own boots. “Look in that hombre’s eyes. He means every word he says.”

  Blevins’s restless eyes tried to stare down Buckhorn, but the flinty glare of the latter made it no contest. Mouth curling savagely, Blevins averted his hate-filled gaze and began removing his boots.

  “All right. Here’s the way we’re gonna do this,” Buckhorn said after both pairs of boots were in the wagon bed. He continued to talk as he dismounted and walked Sarge around to the back of the buckboard and tied him on. “You two are gonna wait right here while I take the rig on ahead and drop off the bodies of Laudermilk and his son. Stay right where you are, so I can keep clear sight of you.”

  He climbed up onto the seat of the rig and reached for the reins with one hand. All during this, he kept Blevins’s shotgun steadily trained on the two men now in stocking feet.

  “I see you coming toward the house, I’ll shoot and kill you. I see you trying to get away, I’ll ride you down and kill you. You stay put and behave, I’ll come back by, pick you up, and try to get you back to the Flying W alive. It’s gonna be your call all the way. We got an understanding?”

  Accepting their silence and baleful stares as sufficient answer, Buckhorn snapped the team’s reins and set the buckboard rolling toward the former Laudermilk ranch buildings.

  CHAPTER 32

  “You send me out with these two ever again,” Buckhorn said, reporting back to Wainwright and Leo Sweetwater after they’d returned to the Flying W, “either me or them won’t be making it back alive.”

  Wainwright scowled. “I don’t respond well to ultimatums, Mr. Buckhorn.”

  Buckhorn met his scowl with a stony, unyielding gaze. “Call it a suggestion then. Or a promise. In any case, you can count on me meaning what I say.”

  “He’s a dirty damn liar, Mr. Wainwright!” protested Bart Blevins. “You know how humpbacked them redskin bucks get for white women. He was the one who wanted to violate the Widow Laudermilk and then take advantage of her poor innocent daughter, too. He was like a rutting boar hog! It was all me and Pepperjack could do to hold him back and keep him from—”

  “Shut up!” Wainwright barked. “You sicken me. What’s more, you make me ashamed of myself for ever having stooped so low as to hire you. I knew your reputations yet I was willing to overlook them because I thought I could . . . Never mind what I thought. I hardly have to explain myself to the likes of you.”

  “No, you sure don’t, sir.” Blevins spoke again quickly in a mewling, condescending tone, trying desperately to get through the trouble without having it get any worse. “As a top officer of the blue and a wealthy landowner and successful businessman, you surely don’t owe me or Pepperjack any explanation for—”

  “Enough,” Wainwright cut him short again, including a chopping motion with one hand. “I’ve heard all I can stand. I can ill afford to lose more men at a time like this, yet two of the traits I will least abide from men serving under me are whining and the vulgar abuse of innocent women.”

  “I tell you it wasn’t us looking to debauch that woman,” Blevins insisted. “You, the big Indian hater, would take the word of a damn low-down half-breed over white men like me and Poudry?”

  “You and Poudry are vermin, not men—and lying ones to boot,” said Wainwright. “And yes, I’m taking the word of Buckhorn over yours. What’s more, the way I see it now, since I take the measure of him and his gun to be worth the both of you and more, by gaining him and shedding you I really won’t be losing anything at all, will I?”

  “What do you mean, shedding us?” Poudry asked. “I have not protested. I have said nothing.”

  “Then perhaps you should have. The pair of you are dismissed.” Wainwright made a shooing-away gesture. “Get them out of my sight, Mr. Sweetwater. Take them to the bunkhouse and have them pack their things. Keep an eye on them. I will figure up their wages and have pay envelopes prepared by the time they’re ready to go.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Wainwright,” said Blevins.

  “No, I am correcting one.”

  “What about our guns and boots from the wagon?”

  “All of your personal belongings will be returned to you.”

  “Not this,” Buckhorn said, patting the shotgun he held in the crook of his arm. “I’ve taken kind of a shine to it, plus I don’t particularly care for the thought of having it aimed my way from behind some dark corner the first chance this skunk gets.”

  “I’m giving you a good deal of allowance, especially considering the brevity of our association, Mr. Buckhorn. But you’d be advised not to push your luck too far with me,” Wainwright warned. “A man’s belongings are rightfully his.”

  “He can have the scattergun back—both barrels first—any time he wants to come get it.”

  Wainwright heaved an exasperated sigh. “Mr. Sweetwater, you will escort the dismissed men as far as the lake. Make sure they keep going from there.” He raked a hard gaze over Blevins and Poudry. “And you two would be advised to understand this. My property runs from here for more than a day’s ride in any direction above the border. Be off of it by this time tomorrow. After that, anyone and everyone who works for me will have standing orders to shoot you on sight. Now get out of here and get your gear packed.”

  * * *

  As Buckhorn entered the bunkhouse designated for the Flying W’s gun crew, Blevins and Poudry were being noisily escorted out the door. Buckhorn held up the shotgun he had taken from Blevins and made a production of cracking it open and shucking its shells. Snapping it closed again, he handed it to Sweetwater and said, “Give it back to him when you’re far enough out. I decided I don’t want to keep it after all. Damn thing might be infested with vermin.”

  A separate building from the older adobe structure occupied by the crew of working wranglers, the gunnies’ place was a converted wood frame horse barn, a bit roomier and also a bit draftier. Judging by the number of mismatched joints he spotted as he walked
in, Buckhorn reckoned that whatever ranch hands had done the converting did not count carpenter work among their top skills.

  Still, it was clean and relatively tidy with a bit of fresh-cut wood odor lingering in the air here and there. Buckhorn had for sure slept in worse places. A hell of a lot worse.

  He counted more than two dozen bunks arranged in three rows. A few were empty, a condition at least partially accountable to him. He picked one out for himself, claiming an available one near the far back corner. It had good firmness to the rope mattress, a clean-smelling pillow, and a sturdy footlocker with a hasp for attaching a lock if he wished. In the storage space were two extra blankets. He tossed his war bag in on top of them and closed the lid.

  As Buckhorn sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on knees, he absently studied a spot on the floor between his feet. Numerous things churned inside his head.

  Sitting there on the bed, he could hear the three men riding out, Blevins and Poudry still bitching and moaning, Sweetwater silently doing his job to scoot them on their way.

  Buckhorn wondered about giving back the shotgun. He wondered about a lot of things where Blevins and Poudry were concerned. Some of what he thought he didn’t like very much. But then, there were a lot of things about the whole situation Andrew Haydon had sent him into the middle of that he didn’t care for very much.

  Before Buckhorn got lost too deep in reverie, a prune-faced old black man came over and said that Sweetwater had asked him to introduce the newcomer around, show him the general layout of things, and otherwise keep him company until Sweetwater returned.

  “My name is Tyrone. Since I’m the cook for this outfit—the general’s gun crew, I’m talkin’ about—it might be that you end up keepin’ me company if’n Leo takes too long getting back. In the kitchen, that is . . . on account I gotta start rustlin’ up some grub for these curly wolves before too much longer.”

  Buckhorn shrugged. “No problem. I’ve peeled a potato or three in my day. Might as well start doing something around here to earn my keep.”