“I ain’t holdin’ nothing down,” Micah snarled in response. “This is getting damned frustrating and I’m plenty sick of it. I send out three men—count ’em, three—and they can’t manage to kill one lousy Indian.”
“Doggone it, Micah,” Dave said. “You want everybody in the joint to hear you?”
There was only a handful of other customers in the Crooked Spur that evening. Four of them were playing red dog at another round-topped table over by the front door, two others were holding up the bar while they sipped their beers and chewed the fat with the barkeep.
None of them appeared to be paying any attention to the men in the corner, but if you looked closely enough you could spot a certain rigidity in the backs of the card players that indicated what they really were doing was working hard at making it look like they weren’t paying attention.
“To hell with what that bunch of lard-bottomed townies hears or don’t hear,” Micah said. “I say what I want when I want to say it.”
“Maybe so,” Dave allowed. “But, if you ever find somebody who does manage to kill Buckhorn for you, then one of those lard bottoms over there might remember what they heard and it could mean serious trouble.”
“If that crack about findin’ somebody who can manage the job on that redskin was aimed at me,” said Hank Boynton, the third man seated at the table, who was still a little out of breath from having burst into the Crooked Spur only a few minutes earlier, “you can shove it up your pipe, Dave.”
“You’d better try a turn at takin’ it easy, too,” Dave advised him. “I didn’t mean nothin’ personal by it, Hank. I was just sayin’, that’s all.”
Hank scowled.
“Yeah, I heard what you was sayin’. If you think it’s such an easy waltz around the dance floor, maybe you oughta take a crack at it yourself. I tell you that is one quick, lucky redskin.” Hank’s head sank lower and so did his voice. “I had him square in my sights yet somehow I missed my first shot. After that, the devil was everywhere and nowhere. I could tell he was circlin’ on me through the bushes and trees . . . and I knew that if I stuck around much longer I’d be feelin’ his sights on me—just ahead of a bullet that wasn’t gonna miss.”
Micah expelled a ragged breath. When he spoke, it was in a more controlled voice.
“That’s okay, Hank. You did your best. I’m glad you didn’t stick around long enough to get ventilated like that pair of so-called hardcases I brought in from Vermillion and sent after Buckhorn before he ever hit town. Luckily, they were new to the area so nobody recognized the carcasses he brought in. But that wouldn’t hardly have been the case with you, Hank. If Buckhorn had plugged you and drug your carcass back to town it would have pointed straight to me.”
One side of Hank’s mouth tilted up ruefully.
“Gee, Micah, thanks for the deep concern over the me gettin’ plugged part.”
“Aw, you know what I mean. Of course you getting plugged would matter, too.” Micah made a placating gesture. “It was a bad call on my part to even send you after that damn ’breed. I got too hasty, too eager. I knew damn well either my mother or that old bucket-mouth Obie would blab to Buckhorn about the tracks you two spotted on the hogback. And I had almost as strong a hunch that he’d want to go nosing around out there for himself.”
“Turned out you had it figured exactly right,” said Dave.
Micah shook his head.
“Yeah, but it was still a bad idea to send Hank and not only risk him but everything else, too, by failing to show a little more patience. Now that we’ve got that Texas Ranger willing to throw in with us on catching those rustlers and my mother is sending Buckhorn off on a wild goose chase after my kid brother, things are falling into place just fine without me taking unnecessary chances.”
“You met with Ranger Menlo while I was gone after the ’breed?” Hank wanted to know.
“For a fact,” Micah told him. “He liked my idea about planning a trap for the rustlers and jumped at the chance to be part of it. Him and the sheriff both. Menlo’s going to meet us out there tomorrow afternoon, after we’ve moved the cattle into the meadow, so he can look things over and help us work out the final details.”
Hank’s eyes shone as he said, “Man, if you could catch Dan Riley and his cattle thieves red-handed, with a Texas Ranger right there in our corner, that would settle Riley’s hash once and for all and really give you a grip on everything, Micah. Especially with Jeff out of the picture.”
“In the picture or not,” Micah snorted, “my tenderhearted little brother is of no consequence to me doing or getting whatever I want.”
Dave poured some of the whiskey into a glass, knocked it back, then said, “What is the deal on Jeff, anyway? Where do you figure he’s got to since he took off, and why ain’t your ma or you or anybody else heard a peep out of him in all this time?”
“How the hell do I know where the little puke got to? And why should I care?” Micah reached for the bottle and took a swig directly from it. Lowering it, he added, “Okay. The truth on what I think where Jeffy’s concerned? I think the young fool had his back so humped up over Eve Riley that he turned careless and got caught trying to sneak her out from under her old man’s nose. I figure right about now—for aiming to spoil the delicate little bud he sees his daughter as—Dan Riley has chopped Jeffy into bite-sized little pieces and fed ’em to that pack of hogs his brother Milt keeps in a pen out back on his ranch.”
Hank’s face turned a little green and his lips twisted with distaste.
“Are you serious?”
Micah shrugged.
“Never can tell. Daddies get mighty testy about protecting the virtue of their little girls.”
“But according to that note you told us Jeff left, he claimed Eve was wanting to go with him.”
“That’s the way he saw it. Maybe he was mistaken,” Micah said. “Or maybe she did feel that way about him, but when Daddy caught ’em trying to run off together, she slipped into the innocent act and pleaded that she was being snatched away against her will. Wouldn’t be the first time a little teaser pulled something like that. Not by a long shot.”
“But Eve seems to’ve gone missin’, too,” Dave pointed out. “When you sent me and Hank to spy on Milt Riley’s ranch to see if we could spot anything after Jeff went missin’, there wasn’t no sign of her anywhere around, either.”
“Not hide nor hair,” Hank confirmed. Then the green tint returned to his face. “Jesus. You don’t think Riley would’ve done . . . you know, what you said before . . . to his own daughter, do you?”
“No. Of course not.” Micah waved a hand dismissively. “But that don’t mean he might not figure she deserved to be locked away for a spell. You know, like you do with a bitch dog in heat until you can make sure the studs have quit comin’ around.”
“Yeah, I guess that could explain it,” allowed Dave.
“Look. We’re spending way more time than I care to discussin’ my roaming brother and his romantic inclinations. Whatever he’s gone and stepped in, I don’t give a damn about.”
Micah took another swig of the whiskey. This time when he lowered the bottle, his mouth was stretched in a sly smile.
“Hell, since my mother has sicced the ’breed on finding little Jeffy, he’s bound to go poking around the Rileys, right? With a little luck, maybe he’ll ruffle the feathers of over-protective Daddy Dan and the two of them will get into it. Whatever else he is or isn’t, Dan Riley is one rough old cob.” The smile turned into a prolonged chuckle that bordered on becoming a giggle. “Wouldn’t that be something? After all my fretting and our failed attempts to remove my mother’s hired gun, maybe her mortal enemy will be the very one to solve our Injun problem for us!”
CHAPTER 19
Taking dinner that evening with Pamela and Obie in the handsomely appointed main house turned out to be considerably more pleasant than Buckhorn expected.
For starters, the meal itself—as prepared and served by Helga, a stout
old German gal who’d been the Danverses’ cook-housekeeper for years—was excellent. Roast beef, cabbage, sweet potatoes, fresh-baked rolls, and cherry pie for dessert, accompanied by cold buttermilk and rich, strong coffee. And then, a little later on, some red wine that Pamela said came from her late husband’s private stock.
Buckhorn couldn’t help thinking, as he sipped the wine and gazed upon his lovely and elegantly decked out hostess, that Gus Danvers not only had good taste but had been one damn lucky man.
Conversation during the meal had moments of intense seriousness when Pamela spoke of her missing son and expressed her hope and confidence that Buckhorn would somehow find him and bring him back safe and sound. For the most part, though, it was lighter in content. The comfortable banter between Pamela and Obie was easy to listen to, and in the process, Buckhorn heard plenty more stories about the formative days of the Circle D.
He would have liked to have heard more about Dan Riley and how things had gone so awry with him, but every time the talk seemed headed that way Pamela quickly showed signs of her anger and bitterness and Obie would steer things in a different direction.
In the midst of enjoying their wine, Micah showed up. He came barging in as soon as he returned from town. He’d obviously been drinking and his mood seemed every bit as surly as it had been at the close of that afternoon’s encounter.
“Well, well, well,” he said from the doorway to the dining room, mouth spread in a sneering grin. “Mother and her little helpers. What a charming sight to behold.”
“That’s more than I can say for you,” Pamela was quick to respond. “You’re drunk and you’re clearly still bent on being as rude and obnoxious as possible. There’s hardly anything charming about that.”
Micah’s sneer remained firmly in place as he said, “Yeah, well, even if the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Mother, it can still roll off for a ways after it hits the ground.”
“If you’re comparin’ yourself as an apple off the tree that was your pa,” said Obie in a disgusted tone, “that’s a laugh. You don’t measure up no closer’n a shriveled-up bud on a branch.”
“I already heard enough outta your mouth for one day, you old gimp. Any more will be too much, and too much is liable not to be healthy for you.”
A flush of anger flooded Obie’s face and his gnarled hands balled into fists on top of the table.
“It’s a damn good thing for you, you impertinent pup, that I am a stove-in ol’ gimp. If it was otherwise, I’d’ve long ago give you the thrashin’ your pa would have took care of himself if he was still around to see you earn it.”
“It’s easy to talk tough,” Micah goaded him, “when you know you’re safely in a position to never have to back it up.”
It took all the restraint Buckhorn could muster to hold himself in check. For Pamela’s sake, he’d promised to do his best to cut Micah some slack. But that didn’t keep him from wanting to drive his fist square into that taunting sneer and knock it clean off the insolent brat’s shoulders.
“I won’t have this kind of belligerence in my house, at my dinner table,” Pamela stated forcefully. “I won’t stand for it!”
Still planted in the doorway, Micah appeared to sway somewhat unsteadily and his eyes took on a kind of bleary weariness.
“More and more lately,” he said, “it seems like what you really can’t stand, Mother, is me. I guess it’s too bad that the wrong son went missing.”
“Micah! What a dreadful thing to say.”
“See what I mean? That’s how I always come across to you—dreadful in both word and deed. Why try to deny it?”
Pamela’s nostrils flared.
“I refuse to have this ridiculous conversation—”
“Ah, back to ridiculous,” Micah interrupted. “Didn’t we already cover that ground? Is ridiculous a step up or down from dreadful? Which do you consider it?”
“I consider it a moot point,” Pamela said, fighting to keep her voice level. “Either way, I refuse to continue this discussion with you in your drunken condition. We clearly need to have a serious talk, but now is not the time or place.”
Micah spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture and said, “At last, something we can agree on. This is also not the time or place for me to waste any more of my evening. I’ll find an empty cot in the bunkhouse where I will be welcome to either sleep off my drunkenness—or perhaps deepen it. One way or other, it shall run its course. And then, Mother, we can indeed have our ‘serious talk.’”
So saying, Micah turned and started from the doorway, holding himself in that rigid, carefully balanced manner of someone who is intoxicated to the point of unsteadiness but trying very hard not to show it. After a couple steps, he paused to say over his shoulder, “Never mind me. Go on back to whatever you were doing that made the charming scene I walked in on. Pretend I never showed up to rain on your little indoor picnic.” And then he clomped out of the room and on out of the house.
The trio at the table sat in silence for several awkward moments until, in a notably strained voice, Pamela said, “My apologies for the abysmal behavior of my son. Thank you for speaking up on behalf of Gus and myself, Obie. And thank you, Joe, for staying out of it. I could tell it wasn’t easy for you.”
She took a swallow of her wine before continuing, “I don’t know what has gotten into Micah lately. It troubles me and angers me, in equal parts. I want to lay it on a combination of stresses over the cattle rustling and concern about whatever’s happened to Jeff added to the day-to-day responsibilities of ramrodding our outfit . . . but I fear there may also be something totally apart from those things.”
“The boy’s got some darkness down deep inside him,” Obie said. “Ain’t no gettin’ around it.”
“This is one time,” Pamela replied, a forlorn smile appearing, then almost instantly fading, “that I wish you were less agreeable, dear Obie.”
“If the rustlers go ahead and make a try on the herd being moved into that meadow and Micah’s plan to catch them in the act works out,” Buckhorn suggested, trying to toss in something a little more positive, “maybe that’ll help set his head a little squarer on his shoulders.”
Pamela’s reaction was to shift her gaze questioningly back and forth between Buckhorn to Obie. Catching the gist of her unspoken inquiry, Obie said, “Yeah, it was me. I went ahead and told Powder-burner about the curious tracks on the hogback and what had Micah so fired up about ’em, what he figured they must mean.”
Buckhorn said, “Don’t blame Obie. I was being nosy and pressured him into telling me what it was that had Micah spurring so hard to get to town. Hope you don’t see me knowing about it as a problem.”
“No, of course not,” Pamela replied. “I should have gone ahead and explained it myself. I guess I was too preoccupied with other thoughts.”
“As far as Micah’s trip to town,” Obie said, “he just came and went without mentionin’ how his meetin’ with that Texas Ranger went.”
Frowning, Pamela said, “The fact he came back drunk doesn’t seem like a good sign. If he wanted to get the ranger’s cooperation, I hope he had more sense than to try and do it in that condition.”
“If he met with the ranger at all,” Buckhorn said, “he most likely did his drinking afterward. Nobody’d be dumb enough to do it the other way around.”
Obie grunted.
“You’re probably right. But that boy’s actions ain’t been overly bright lately.”
“Now I wish I was the one who could disagree,” Pamela said with a wistful sigh as she reached once more for her wineglass.
Buckhorn and Obie exchanged glances and an unspoken acknowledgment passed between them, signaling that now was probably a good point to call it an evening. When Obie suggested as much, Pamela seemed to welcome the notion.
“Please accept my apologies for the way things concluded,” she said as she saw them to the door. “Prior to that, I, for one, had a most enjoyable time. I hope you did, too.”
/> The two men heartily assured her they had and then took their leave.
* * *
Back in Obie’s cabin, the old handyman didn’t waste any time pulling a jug of corn whiskey out from one of the kitchen cabinets.
“With all due respect to Gus’s ‘special stock,’ wine ain’t never done much of a job when it comes to satisfyin’ my liquor appetite. But this genuine, double-rectified bust-head is guaranteed to do the job, and then some.” He held the jug high. “Join me?”
“Got to pass. Me and that stuff don’t mix well,” Buckhorn told him. “But thanks, anyway.”
Obie looked confounded. Then: “Oh. Well . . . You know, on second thought I don’t reckon my old gizzard needs any of this panther juice poured over it tonight, neither. Micah’s demonstration of tangle-footedness ain’t exactly something needs copyin’.”
“Hey, old-timer. You want to have yourself a nightcap, you go right ahead,” Buckhorn said. “Don’t hold back on account of me, you hear? If you had some more wine or a glass of cold beer, I’d be more than happy to join you. But whiskey ain’t a taste I ever acquired or ever wanted to. Personal choice of mine, that’s all. But don’t let it stop you.”
“You sure?”
“Said so, didn’t I?”
Obie dug out a tin cup and tipped the jug over it, pouring a generous amount. Before lifting the cup to his lips, he frowned down into it for a long moment.
“Too bad I ain’t got enough of this who-hit-John to drown that snotty damn Micah in.”
“Be a waste of good whiskey, wouldn’t it?”
“Not if it got the job done . . . or soaked some sense into that twisted-around thick head of his!”
Buckhorn watched the old man’s throat muscles work as he gulped from the cup, and he knew that what he was really trying to drown was his own frustration and humiliation over no longer being physically capable of confronting Micah like he would have done back in the day.
Buckhorn felt pangs of mixed sorrow and anger, remembering how, as a little kid, he had watched his father use whiskey to try to drown his frustrations and limitations—in his case, never realizing or admitting that the whiskey itself was the problem holding him back more than anything. Not that Obie seemed anywhere near the hopeless boozehound that Buckhorn’s father became, but the trip down that path always started by tipping up a bottle.
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