Paid in Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  When a slice of broad, ugly face made even uglier by an expression of furious anger was revealed between broken, shifting pieces of the rubble, Buckhorn didn’t hesitate to pound down on it with the barrel of his Colt. Blood spurted from the ox’s nose, but rather than being stunned by the clubbing, it only served to infuriate him more. Issuing another thunderous roar, the ox shoved straight upward with both powerful arms and at the same time arced his massive body.

  Buckhorn was lifted into the air and tossed to one side like a sack of corn shucks. He landed hard and went rolling. The Colt flew from his grasp. He dug in his heels to halt the roll, then scrambled to his feet as fast as he could. The ox was rising, too, shedding broken pieces of wood like a buffalo shivering off shards of winter sleet.

  Buckhorn’s eyes swept frantically, trying to spot his gun. Failing to see it, he knew that the worst thing he could do was allow the ox to stand up all the way and get his balance set.

  Buckhorn launched himself once again straight for the shotgunner. He lowered his head and rammed with as much momentum as he could generate right into the bulging gut. At the same time he threw first a left hook and then a right hook into the big man’s ribs.

  There was some give to the gut as the top of Buckhorn’s head sank into it. He had the satisfaction of hearing a great whoosh of air being expelled outward. But the ox’s ribs felt as unyielding as iron rods under Buckhorn’s hammering fists. Still, the big man was staggered, the back of his head and shoulders clunking loudly as they were driven into the edge of the door frame.

  Buckhorn tried going upstairs with his punches, starting with a hard uppercut aimed at the big man’s jutting, whiskered chin. If the blow had landed, it surely would have taken a toll. At the last second, however, the ox jerked his head to one side and Buckhorn’s fist only grazed a flabby cheek. The miss pulled Buckhorn off balance and left him open for the ox to hook a thick arm around his middle and once more fling him away with enough force to lift his feet off the ground.

  Buckhorn crashed against the back wall of the hallway and barely managed to stay upright when his feet again touched the floor. He was still groping to find his balance when the ox shoved away from the door frame and came at him with fists doubled together in a sweeping roundhouse aimed at tearing his head off. In response, rather than continuing to hold himself upright, Buckhorn dropped into a low crouch, letting the intended blow pass over his head. The ox’s doubled fists struck the wall with pulverizing impact, knocking loose great chunks of plaster and chalky dust.

  Knowing instinctively that an attempted stomping would come next due to the position he’d placed himself in, Buckhorn pitched forward into a somersault that carried him out to the middle of the hallway. He scrambled once more to his feet as the ox wheeled to face him, lips curled in a menacing, animal-like snarl.

  As Buckhorn pushed himself up from the floor, his hand touched the cold steel of an object that could give him a badly needed edge in this desperate confrontation. It wasn’t his Colt, which he would have preferred because he knew for certain there were unfired rounds in it, but the double-barreled Greener that had been used to blast apart the hotel room door was almost as good.

  The only problem was that he had no way of knowing if it had been reloaded. With only a split second to calculate before the ox charged, Buckhorn decided there hadn’t been enough time for that before the big man had begun tearing at the door barehanded. Still, even if as only a club, the Greener felt good as he closed his hands around it.

  As expected, the ox came charging at him. The fact he seemed undeterred by the sight of Buckhorn now wielding the Greener was a pretty good indicator the weapon held only spent cartridges. That might have been somewhat more reassuring if the ox wasn’t also showing the same indifference toward the threat of the shotgun being used as a club.

  But Buckhorn was undeterred, too, when it came to doing exactly that. He got set as the ox rushed, cocking the Greener over his right shoulder, gripping the twin barrels, fiercely intent on making the walnut stock a skull-splitter if he could find the right opening. Taking the ox alive was no longer a chief concern of Buckhorn’s—keeping himself that way was.

  The big man’s rush came at surprising speed, crushingly powerful arms reaching out ahead, fingers clawed to rip or ball into smashing fists, a string of curses on his lips. Buckhorn was braced and ready but he knew the collision was going to be terrific.

  At the last instant, however, one of the ox’s feet slipped on an unstable piece of the rubble, causing his balance and momentum to shift ever so slightly. This was enough to allow Buckhorn’s reflexes to gain a tiny slice of an advantage and to react ahead of those reaching arms and hands, slipping up in between. This time when Buckhorn swung an uppercut it wasn’t with his fist—it was with the butt of the Greener, driving it devastatingly hard to the point of the ox’s chin.

  The big man’s head snapped back even as the momentum of his lunging body continued to carry him forward. Spit and blood and chips of broken teeth flew from his mouth. His knees buckled and his upper body tipped steadily downward until he finally flopped heavily to the floor.

  Even though he’d landed the telling blow, Buckhorn couldn’t completely escape the ox’s rush. He was knocked to one side and down and the Greener, caught between the victim’s now-flailing arms, was wrenched from Buckhorn’s grasp.

  Buckhorn rolled onto his stomach and again scrambled to get back to his feet. As he did so, his eyes at last fell on the .45 that had been knocked from his grasp what seemed like an eternity ago. He stood up, feeling newly revitalized with the Colt returned to his fist. He also felt relieved by the assumption he would look around and find the ox knocked senseless.

  But to his shock and amazement, he saw that wasn’t the case. Sprawled in the middle of the hallway, rolled onto one hip and propped on his left elbow, the big man was not only still conscious but appeared ready to continue making a fight of it. Blood streamed from his mouth and nose, and his eyes were decidedly glazed over, but they still held an intense, hateful glare aimed directly at Buckhorn.

  What was more, his right hand was reaching inside the front of the vest he wore, clawing frantically to withdraw something—a weapon of some sort, Buckhorn had to figure.

  The words coming between gasps for breath, Buckhorn shook his head and said, “Don’t try it, man. You don’t have a chance.” He raised the Colt. “It’s over. Whatever you’re reaching for, let it drop.”

  But it became clear beyond any doubt that surrender wasn’t in the big man’s makeup. As quick as his dazed condition would allow, he jerked from inside the vest a short-barreled revolver that looked like a toy in his giant fist. But it wasn’t a toy. If given the chance, its sting would deliver death as certain as any other gun.

  Buckhorn was past handing out any more chances to the ox. He said, “You damn fool,” and then triggered the Colt’s remaining rounds into the man.

  CHAPTER 12

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the Hotel Alamo and the street out in front of it were swarming with activity.

  During the time he’d been locked in battle with the ox, which actually hadn’t lasted that long no matter how it seemed, Buckhorn was reasonably sure that anyone within earshot of what was taking place had shown the sense to keep their heads down. After he’d dispatched the big man, an exhausted Buckhorn had dragged himself back to his room where he sat on the edge of the bed and promptly reloaded his Colt.

  That done, he placed the gun on the mattress beside him for as long as it took to pull on his britches, boots, and gunbelt. It was while he was doing this that he’d heard the first indications—the scurry of feet, the murmur of voices—of others venturing forth to see what the ruckus was about.

  Once he was dressed, Buckhorn had taken his Colt and headed downstairs. He knew the ox was dead but he wasn’t sure about the man he’d blasted out of the window. It didn’t seem likely the window shooter could have survived the bullets and the fall, but it wasn’t a loose end
Buckhorn wanted to leave dangling.

  Down on the street, a crowd of onlookers was gathering, its makeup consisting mostly of hotel staff and guests along with a handful of patrons drifting down from the saloons in the next block. They all edged back to give Buckhorn plenty of room when he showed up and walked over to examine the sprawled form of the window shooter. Checking him out didn’t take a lot of time or effort; he was definitely dead.

  Buckhorn was still standing over the fallen man, .45 held at his side, when a lean, square-jawed young fellow wearing a deputy’s badge shouldered his way through the ring of onlookers. The newcomer’s eyes swept the scene, then came to rest on Buckhorn.

  “Just hold it right like you are, mister. Don’t move.” Out of the corner of his eye, Buckhorn could see the deputy’s hand settle on the grips of the six-shooter holstered on his right hip. “Toss that gun. Then step away.”

  Buckhorn didn’t want any more trouble, but neither was he feeling in an especially tolerant mood.

  “Best make up your mind, son,” he said. “You want me to stand still or do you want me to back away?”

  “Just watch your mouth and do as you’re told.”

  Buckhorn stood very still for a long moment. Then he said, “No, I don’t believe I’m in the mood to toss my iron. I’ll holster it, real slow like. That’ll have to do.”

  A flush spread over the deputy’s smooth face, partly anger and partly bewilderment.

  “Now see here, mister, you’d better—”

  Before he got the rest of it out, a new presence and a new voice emerged from the growing crowd of gawkers.

  “Bud McKeever! What in the world do you think you’re doing?” Pamela Danvers demanded, stepping forth clad in a maroon dressing gown, ink black hair spilling loosely around an expression of fierce disapproval. “Stop accosting this man! Can’t you see that he’s not the one in the wrong here? He only defended himself against an assault on his room.”

  “How can you be so sure?” McKeever said stubbornly. “Getting to the bottom of all the shooting is what I’m trying—”

  The young deputy got interrupted again, this time by the hotel’s front desk clerk, a man named Wellfleet.

  “Mrs. Danvers is right, Bud. Two men—that one layin’ there and another one up in the second-floor hallway—attacked Mr. Buckhorn in his room. I heard the shotgun blast that started the ruckus and, once you look at the way things are laid out, you can see plain enough how it went. Mr. Buckhorn is lucky to be alive.”

  “Plus,” Pamela added stonily, “Buckhorn is an associate of mine. I personally vouch for his behavior.”

  By now the young deputy was showing signs of getting plenty flustered. When Sheriff Tolliver suddenly appeared, hatless and outer shirt stripped away, suspender straps flopping limply at his sides, the look of relief on McKeever’s face was undeniable.

  “What in blazes is going on? What happened here?” the sheriff barked irritably.

  “There’s been a shooting, sir,” McKeever answered.

  “You think I haven’t figured out that much?” Tolliver jerked his scowl from the deputy and planted it on Buckhorn. “Why am I not surprised to find you in the middle of it? I thought I warned you about more gunplay in my town.”

  “Reckon you didn’t spread your warning wide enough,” Buckhorn told him. Then, jerking a thumb to indicate the man lying in the dirt, he added, “Seems like this jasper and another one upstairs didn’t get the message.”

  “The one upstairs dead, too?”

  “He sorta insisted on it.”

  “Any chance you know who they are this time?”

  Buckhorn shook his head and said, “Never seen either of ’em before in my life.”

  Tolliver bared his teeth in a grimace.

  “Jesus. The way you go around killing people, seems you could at least go to the trouble of getting to know one of ’em once in a while before you stop their clocks.”

  “Maybe I’ll hand out business cards or put up fliers—asking all no-good skunks to kindly introduce themselves before they commence tryin’ to stop my clock. How would that be?”

  “He’s got kind of a mouth on him,” McKeever said.

  Tolliver cut him a look.

  “What about you? You know this dead hombre?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “The one upstairs?”

  “Ain’t been up there yet,” McKeever answered. “I only just got here ahead of you.”

  “Well, get up there then. Have a look and see if you happen to recognize that one,” Tolliver said gruffly. “Get the nosy parkers out of the way while you’re at it, and keep that hallway clear until I get there. Crazy fools will be dippin’ their damn hankies in the blood for souvenirs if we don’t keep ’em back. Where’s Harold Scanlon? Anybody seen him?”

  “He ain’t showed up yet. Not around here,” Wellfleet said.

  Tolliver raked his scowl over the nearest faces in the crowd until he locked on the round mug of a portly middle-aged man in a white shirt with garters on its sleeves.

  “You, Tom Rogan. Go find Scanlon and tell him to get his butt over here. Then go fetch Schmidt, the undertaker. Tell him to bring his wagon, we got some more work for him.”

  Rogan’s head bobbed obligingly as he said, “Sure thing, Sheriff. Right away.”

  After Rogan had hurried off, Tolliver faced the encircling crowd again and flailed his arms, waving them back.

  “Give me some breathing room here, folks! Back up a little. Godamighty, this ain’t no doggone carnival show. Have a smidge of respect for the dead, even if he only was an ambushing rat.”

  With a good deal of grumbling, the crowd receded a few steps.

  Only Pamela Danvers stood her ground, even came forward some to say, “You need to calm down, Thad. You’re acting awfully distraught.”

  “And why shouldn’t I? I’ve had four dead men dumped in my lap in less than twenty-four hours. That’s hardly grounds for keeping calm, Pamela.”

  “It doesn’t mean you have the right to snap people’s heads off or give yourself a stroke on top of it.”

  While this exchange was going on, Buckhorn finally got around to holstering his .45. When he turned and started to go back inside the hotel, Tolliver was quick to stop him.

  “Hold it. Where do you think you’re going?”

  Buckhorn gestured.

  “Back up to my room. What used to be my room, that is, what’s left of it. I want to gather up my personal belongings before everybody and his brother starts roaming around up there. Then I’ll be needing a different place to finish the night, one without a busted door and window and a bed ventilated by bullet holes.”

  “As an associate of Mrs. Danvers, we can sure fix you up with that, Mr. Buckhorn,” Wellfleet assured him. “And you have my personal apology for all the trouble and inconvenience. That’s hardly the normal treatment experienced by guests of the Alamo Hotel.”

  “And hardly the shape I make a habit of leaving my hotel rooms in,” Buckhorn replied. He tipped his head toward the dead man. “But you’ll have to take up the matter of damages with either this gent here, or his partner.”

  Wellfleet’s expression seemed uncertain as to whether or not Buckhorn might be making an attempt at wry humor. Either way, he wasn’t showing any sign of being amused by the thought of a damaged room.

  “You go ahead and tend to your personal effects,” the sheriff said to Buckhorn. “If my deputy has any questions about it, have him come to the window and I’ll set him straight on it being okay with me.”

  “Me and him didn’t exactly hit it off,” Buckhorn pointed out. “I have to bring him to the window, I might be tempted to toss him down so you can tell him a little more direct.”

  “Haven’t you had enough exercise for one day?” Tolliver said.

  Buckhorn shrugged.

  “Reckon so. But he’s a proddy one, and I’m not exactly in a patient mood.”

  “I’ll go ahead of Mr. Buckhorn and make sure Deputy
McKeever knows his coming up is okay with you, Sheriff,” offered Wellfleet. “Even if no one else has, I certainly have seen quite enough belligerence and damage for one night.”

  “Obliged to you for doing that, Wellfleet,” said Tolliver. Then, to Buckhorn: “Go on and collect your stuff, get settled in a different room. But don’t get too comfortable. I still need to go over with you the exact details of what happened here.”

  “I hope you don’t intend to interrogate Joe too far into the night,” Pamela said. “Especially after what he’s been through already. We have plans for him to accompany me out to my ranch first thing in the morning.”

  “All the more reason to get this wrapped up tonight,” Tolliver said. “I can’t let him gun down two men and then ride out of town without getting a proper statement on the events of the shooting.” He looked at the body lying in the street, grunted, and shook his head. “Especially considering the others directly involved are hardly in any condition to talk about it.”

  “You’ll get your statement, Sheriff. Come around whenever you’re ready,” Buckhorn told him. Then, grinning wryly, he added, “Try not to keep me waitin’ too long, though. As you can see, I need to log all the beauty sleep I can get.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Buckhorn was sitting at the writing desk in his new room when the knock came at the door. Scattered on the desktop before him was his disassembled Frontier Colt. Close by, at the corner of the desk, in keeping with Buckhorn’s habit never to be caught without quick access to an armed and ready weapon, was a short-barreled Colt Lightning chambered for the same .45 caliber rounds as the Frontier model.

  His fist closing on the Lightning, Buckhorn called, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Sheriff Tolliver. I’ve got Ranger Menlo with me.”