The latter caused a look of mild surprise to register momentarily on Buckhorn’s face. Calling, “Just a minute,” he rose and walked over to remove the chair wedged under the doorknob. He carried the Lightning down at his side.
“Come ahead on in, Sheriff.”
The door opened slowly and the two lawmen entered. Buckhorn stood off center of the doorway until they were all the way inside.
“Don’t have a lot of room in here for entertaining visitors,” Buckhorn said. “But grab a seat where you can find one and sit down.”
“We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” said Tolliver as he settled on the edge of the bed.
Menlo took the writing desk chair where Buckhorn had been sitting before their arrival. The old ranger ran his eyes over the gun parts spread out on top of the desk.
“Always a good idea to make time for taking care of the tools of your trade,” he remarked.
“A practice I try to follow,” agreed Buckhorn. “Especially after I take a fool notion to use my shooter like a hammer for trying to pound knots on the buffalo-headed skull of somebody like that big fella back in the hallway. I was making sure nothing important got bent.”
“You shot him three times smack in the face,” Tolliver reminded all present. “I’d say that should have been a pretty good indication the weapon’s aim was still okay.”
“That was only from a couple feet away. Not far enough to really say for sure. Everything looks okay, but when I get outside of town tomorrow, I figure on doing some distance shooting to make certain.”
Tolliver smiled wanly and said, “I like the sound of that ‘outside of town’ part.”
“Far as pounding knots on the head of Ace Ringwold,” Menlo said, “you ain’t wrong in thinking there’d be about as much risk to the object doin’ the pounding as to that ornery noggin of his. From what I saw, though, those .45 slugs you favor didn’t have no trouble drillin’ through.”
Buckhorn scowled.
“Wait a minute. You saying you know the identity of that big ox who tried to shotgun me?”
“Bespeaking of the lowlifes my job too often brings me in contact with, yes, that is true,” Menlo answered.
“Ain’t that something?” said Tolliver. “The ranger here strolled up and was able to recognize both of your attackers quick as a finger snap.”
“Although you didn’t simplify it any with the way you shot Ringwold in the face,” Menlo added. “But given Big Ace’s general size and shape and the fact I’d run across him not too long ago, there wasn’t much doubt. And seein’ as how the one down in the street was Bill Moonfield, Ace’s longtime running pard, well, that pretty much clinched it.”
“I never heard those names before in my life, just like I never saw the two jackasses packing them around,” Buckhorn said. “So that still doesn’t explain why the hell they came gunnin’ for me . . . unless you know the answer to that, too, Mr. Ranger?”
Menlo pushed out his lips and twisted his mouth around some before replying, “Ain’t necessarily crazy about your attitude or the lack of respect you’re showin’ for this badge of mine. But after what you got put through this evening, reckon you got the right to know what was behind it. And, I gotta admit, anybody who could get caught cold by a couple of hardcases like Ringwold and Moonfield and come out of it with their skin still intact has to be pretty near half-rough. Can’t help but admire that in a man.”
Buckhorn sat down in the chair he’d been using to jam the door and waited for the old ranger to continue.
“Like I said, I had a run-in with those two varmints not far back. Less than a week ago, in fact, down in a town called Tilted Rock. I knew they was on a half dozen different wanted dodgers. So I slapped the cuffs on and turned ’em over to the local sheriff. Arranged with him to hold ’em in his jail and send out telegrams for those who had claim to come get ’em for trial. I knew the trouble here had been hanging fire for too long, so I didn’t want to take time to haul ’em back myself.”
Menlo paused for a moment, frowning deeply over the sequence of events he was relating, then went on. “Thinkin’ back, I reckon I should have given closer consideration to that Tilted Rock sheriff. I’m figuring now he either was incompetent or crooked. Maybe a bit of both. I got no way of knowing if Ringwold and Moonfield busted their way out or bribed that fool in some way. But it’s plain enough they got clear of his jail . . . and headed after me.”
“And caught up with you here in Barkley?”
“So it would seem.”
Buckhorn leaned forward in his chair.
“If you’re leading up to saying they somehow mistook me for you, then they must’ve suffered from powerful bad eyesight—too bad to have ever trailed you here to begin with.”
“I’m suggesting they mistook you for me, it’s true,” said Menlo confidently. “But not as a result of visually mistakin’ us for one another.”
“What else is there?”
Menlo smiled somewhat smugly.
“They knew I had gotten into town late. They expected I would check into a hotel for the night. Since Barkley has only one—the Alamo—they somehow snuck a peek at the guest register. They didn’t see my name there but they saw yours, Buckhorn. And since you were the only guest registered this date . . . let’s face it, the Alamo’s business doesn’t exactly seem to be thriving . . . I can only guess they must have figured I signed in under a false name. It’s not real common, but it’s also not unheard of for a ranger to show up in a trouble spot and work undercover for a while until he’s got a firsthand feel for the lay of the land.”
It seemed a little farfetched, but Buckhorn was grudgingly able to follow the way Menlo was thinking.
“So the two hardcases looking to settle their score with you, set their sights on my room because they thought you were the one inside,” he said. “But where were you instead?”
Menlo did that twisty thing with his mouth again before answering.
“I guess we all have our personal rituals . . . or habits, you might call them. Like you taking extra care with your guns. One of mine, it happens, is a dislike for feeling bottled up or cornered when I first arrive in a new town. If I spend any length of time and I get a little used to a place, it mostly goes away. At first, though—I reckon partly because I spend so much time out on the trail anyway—I don’t like being hemmed in by four strange walls. So, for the first night or two, I usually spread my bedroll on the outskirts somewhere and sack out where I got some openness around me and I don’t get that bottled-up feeling.”
“And that’s where you were tonight?”
Menlo jabbed a thumb.
“Not too far out back of the jailhouse. Close enough to hear the shootin’ and the ruckus when it all busted loose. I crawled outta my bedroll and came out into the street with the rest of the folks who were scurrying for a look-see. You can’t imagine what a surprise it was when I spotted that first body on the ground and recognized it as Bill Moonfield.” He clapped a palm to the back of his neck and gave it a good rubbing. “Even at that, it took a while for me to start piecing it together. But after I heard how there was another fella, a great big one, layin’ dead upstairs and how Buckhorn had blasted his way clear of the crossfire they tried to lay on him . . . well, once I made my way inside and got a look at the hotel register, then I had it figured out.”
“It’s a convoluted tale, nobody can say otherwise to that. But it’s the only one that makes any sense, and it’s sure as blazes more than we had to begin with,” said Sheriff Tolliver. A corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “Maybe we ought to have you go take a look at those two other mystery ambushers who made a try for Buckhorn earlier in the day, Ranger. Might be you could identify them, too.”
“I’ll pass,” Menlo said wearily. “I’m still chapped over Ringwold and Moonfield being on my back trail for a day or two and me not havin’ a clue they were there. What’s more, what if those ones from earlier turn out to be fugitives also on the run from the rangers for some past d
eed? Buckhorn here might start to get the notion he’s got to go around cleanin’ up leftover ranger business. How do you think that’d make me feel?”
Buckhorn arched a brow and said, “Everybody has their cross to bear. How do you think it makes me feel to get mistaken for a Texas Ranger?”
CHAPTER 14
Buckhorn rose early the next morning, ate a quick, simple breakfast of boiled eggs, toast, and coffee, then claimed his horse from the livery stable and rode out of town to conduct some personal business.
The animal he took from the livery was a dappled gray stud he had confiscated from one of the ambushers who’d managed to kill his other horse at the start of yesterday’s attempt on his life. Buckhorn had gotten a limited feel for the gray during the trip on into town, after he’d dispatched its previous owner along with his partner. He liked the way the animal handled well enough to strike a bargain with Sheriff Tolliver for its purchase. If anybody came around making a counterclaim on the animal and thereby revealed an association with the hombre who’d been riding him before, then Buckhorn would be more than happy to deal with that individual as well.
Ahead of his scheduled ten a.m. meeting with Pamela Danvers, Buckhorn was looking to confirm a couple of things. One, he wanted to do some test-firing with his re-assembled Frontier Colt to make certain—as a backup to his visual inspection—that its action and accuracy were still as true as ever after what he’d put it through last night.
Two, he wanted to see how the gray reacted to gunfire, both from someone on his back as well as in generally close proximity. Somebody in Buckhorn’s line of work couldn’t afford to leave to chance that his gun might be adversely affected, even in the slightest, or that his horse might bolt from fright if shooting broke out in its presence.
About a mile and a half outside town, Buckhorn came to a broad, shallow valley that seemed a likely spot to conduct the activities he had in mind.
For starters, he shook out the long lasso from his saddle. He secured one end to the horn, the other he tied around the base of a sturdy looking sapling growing on a slope of the canyon. Buckhorn didn’t want to find out the hard way that the gray was easily spooked by having it take off unrestrained at the first blast of a cartridge. Since the horse was only just getting used to him, as he was to it, there was no telling how far or to where it might run. And the prospect of losing his saddle and gear on top of possibly having to walk all the way back to town was not an attractive thought.
Buckhorn didn’t waste any time getting his first indication of the gray’s nerves. As soon as he’d tied the lasso to the sapling, he wheeled sharply, drew the Colt, and fanned four rapid-fire shots toward the low rim of the canyon. The gray’s rear end skittered slightly to one side, but otherwise he held his ground nicely.
“Good boy,” Buckhorn walked over and told him, accompanying the words with some encouraging pats and strokes of the thick, strong neck. As he did this, Buckhorn felt the poke of the Colt Lightning where it was thrust in his belt at the small of his back.
Odd as it might sound, this was a comforting discomfort. When burning powder and concentrating on target shooting, a man periodically found himself with nothing but spent cartridges in his shooting iron. For somebody like Buckhorn, getting caught with an empty gun—even in a remote location and even if only momentarily—could be a fatal oversight. For that reason, he never allowed himself to begin a session of target practice without first arming himself with a fully loaded backup never meant to be part of the shooting except in case of emergency.
As he reloaded the Frontier model he had just fired, Buckhorn’s eyes scanned the canyon rim where he’d aimed his shots. There had been a row of smallish, jagged rocks up there that were his targets. None of them remained now.
The corners of Buckhorn’s mouth quirked in a ghost of a smile. So far, so good. Initial testing showed promise that his gun still shot true and the horse he’d chosen didn’t appear skittish.
For the next half hour, Buckhorn went through an established regimen of shooting. Some of it was from a fast draw, some taking a bit more time for accuracy at a distance. Some was with his Winchester rather than the handgun. Some was from a standing position, some lying flat on his stomach, some from horseback.
In all instances, his speed and accuracy were as sharp as ever. Never completely satisfactory to Buckhorn, but nevertheless enough for him to concede he wasn’t losing anything.
Through it all, the dappled gray held his ground as well or better than could have been hoped for. By the end, Buckhorn had become convinced the animal must have been trained as a military mount at some point. In fact, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever bothered naming a horse, he took to calling this one “Sarge” for its impressive, steady reliability.
Once Buckhorn had satisfied himself as far as everything he’d come here to test and it was time to start thinking about heading back, he took a few minutes to just relax. He drank deeply from his canteen, poured a hatful for Sarge to also partake of, then stretched out in the shade of a cluster of young trees while the gray munched on a nearby patch of graze. The sun was a simmering white blob in a cloudless sky, building toward a mighty hot day by the look of it.
Buckhorn’s thoughts lingered only briefly on events of the previous day and evening. There were a few dangling strings still left from that tangle, but by and large he was willing to put most of it behind and good riddance. What he was ready to focus on was what lay ahead—the missing Danvers son, Jeff, and what it might take to dig out whatever or whoever was behind his disappearance.
“Hello there, Powder-burner! Can you hold your fire long enough for a stove-up ol’ cowpuncher to meander on through?”
Buckhorn glided instantly, smoothly to his feet, hand dropping to rest on the grips of his holstered Colt. Walking toward him, across the flat center of the shallow valley, he saw an elderly gent leading a gleaming black mare hitched to a handsomely outfitted buggy.
The man’s right hip appeared permanently jutted outward in an awkward way, and he walked with a pronounced limp that was almost painful to watch. Inasmuch as the buggy seat was empty and the horse seemed to be plodding along just fine, Buckhorn couldn’t figure out why the “stove-up” man was making his way on foot—although the act didn’t seem to be producing the discomfort it looked like it should and he was actually moving along at a fairly good clip.
As the stranger drew nearer, Buckhorn shifted his gaze and scanned the canyon rim on all sides.
The limping man smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not some kind of decoy sent to distract you for a raiding party waitin’ to sweep down as soon as you relax your guard.”
“All right. Who are you, then?” Buckhorn said rather bluntly.
“Already told you. I’m a stove-up ol’ cowpuncher. Name’s O’Binion. Miles O’Binion. Mean anything to you?” The old-timer squinted expectantly in conjunction with the question.
Buckhorn studied him a minute longer more before answering. Somewhere between fifty and sixty, average height although he might have stood near six feet if not for the way his bad hip twisted him to one side. Alert, intelligent eyes and an air of wiry strength in spite of his physical limitations. Clad in standard range clothes but with boots that didn’t show the usual wear and scuffing, a hogleg holstered butt-forward on his good hip, and a cleanly shaven face that bore the deep seams of having withstood many strong winds and plenty of hard weather . . . though maybe not so much recently.
For all that, neither O’Binion’s name nor his appearance meant anything to Buckhorn. He said as much.
O’Binion shrugged and said, “Not altogether surprisin’, I guess. Could have gone either way. Just thought she might’ve mentioned me is all.”
“‘She’?” Buckhorn echoed. “You thought who might have mentioned you?”
“Why, Mrs. Danvers. The widow, Miss Pamela.” O’Binion jutted out his chin and did some extra scrutinizing of his own. “Less’n I miss my guess by a powerful wa
ys, you are the gunman she sent for, ain’t you? Fella by the name of Duckworth or some such?”
“Buckhorn. Joe Buckhorn.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I’m plumb terrible at rememberin’ names. Don’t take no offense by it, I sometimes butcher the handle of folks I’ve known for twenty years. You can butcher my name right back if it makes you feel better. But most folks just call me ‘Obie.’”
“Okay, Obie,” Buckhorn said. “Butchered handles aside, how is it you know about me by any name?”
“On account of there ain’t a whole lot concernin’ Miss Pamela that I don’t know about, buster. I’m what they’ve took to callin’ the ‘handyman’ around the Circle D. I was in on it practically from the beginnin’ with Gus hisself. Ramrodded the whole shebang for him when things started really takin’ off. Then this happened”—O’Binion smacked a fist against his deformed hip—“and I had to give up those chores to somebody else. But Gus kept me on, as has his widow since his passin’.”
“As their handyman.”
“That’s the size of it. Meanin’ I do a little bit of everything, not too much of nothing. Also meanin’ that, among other things—even though Miss Pamela can ride like the wind when she’s of a mind to—I generally drive her back and forth between the ranch and town. Which is where I’m headed now, to pick her up and bring her back home. But I guess you already know that, don’t you? That she’s coming back home this morning, I mean. If you are Buckburn, that is.”
“Buckhorn. And yes, I’m aware she’s going back to the ranch this morning. I’ll be accompanying her, as a matter of fact. I just didn’t know she had a buggy coming to pick her up.”
Obie pulled a watch on a long chain from his pocket and checked the time.
“Yeah, and I’m gonna be late if I don’t get a move-on. Good thing I left plenty early so’s it gave me the chance to stop and enjoy the shootin’ show you just put on. Whooee! That was something to see.”
Buckhorn felt a little funny hearing that. He didn’t like going through his routine with somebody watching. More than that, he didn’t like anybody watching him when he didn’t know they were there. Like Ranger Menlo had said about being unaware he was being trailed on his way to Barkley, it chapped.
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