“I think he’s coming around,” somebody said.
“Thank God,” said a different voice. Female . . . Pamela Danvers.
Buckhorn could smell dirt. Damp earth. He was lying on the ground, partly on his side. He tried moving his legs and they seemed to work okay. He pushed himself up on one elbow.
“Take it easy. Don’t get too rambunctious there, Powder-burner. You took a hell of a wallop to the head.” Obie’s voice.
“Why can’t I see?” Buckhorn demanded, annoyed, maybe a little panicky.
“You’re in a cellar. Underground. There’s no light. Your eyes will adjust in a minute and you’ll be able to barely make out some shapes and such, but that’s about as good as it’ll get.” This voice was recognizable as belonging to Ranger Menlo.
Buckhorn pushed himself the rest of the way to a sitting position. The pain in his head poured down through the back of his neck and shoulders. But that was okay, he could stand a lot of pain. As long as his vision hadn’t been seriously damaged.
“What cellar? Who’s down here with me?”
“It’s a storm cellar out back of the main house.” Pamela’s voice again. “They shoved all of us in here to lock us securely out of the way—you, Obie, Ranger Menlo, Thad, Helga, and me. Everybody but Jeffrey.”
“I’m afraid that poor lad is havin’ a pretty rough go of it,” said Sheriff Tolliver’s voice. “Micah kept him at the house to beat more information out of him.”
Buckhorn was starting to be able to make some things out now. Thin lines of light leaked through the seams between the wooden boards of the sloping cellar door that covered the recessed area into which he and the others were crowded. By those slivers of illumination he could discern blurred ovals that were faces, a few patches of lighter-colored clothing.
“Have they got guards stationed on us?” he asked, lowering his voice from before.
“Not as far as I can tell,” answered Menlo. “There’s really no need. Once they dropped a bar across those doors on the outside, they’ve got us pretty well contained.”
“How long was I out? How long have we been down here?”
Again it was Menlo who answered, “About twenty minutes all told. They had the sheriff and me drag you out here with the rest of us right after you got pistol-whipped.”
Buckhorn reached up and gave an experimental push against the underside of the cellar door. There wasn’t much give.
“It’s solid as a damn rock,” said Obie. “Oak boards on the two door halves, hinged at the outside, a four-by-four barred across the middle. I was in on the buildin’ of it years ago. We made sure it was good and sturdy.”
“How far away from the house?”
“Fifty, sixty feet. Thereabouts.”
“In the year or so right after we built the house, there was a series of bad summer storms,” said Pamela. “One of our neighbors dug a storm cellar but he put it too close to the other buildings, and when a storm hit his place it blew part of a roof over the shelter and trapped him and his family for several days before anybody found them. Gus wanted to be sure we put ours a good distance out.”
“Look, we all know the basics of a storm cellar so we should recognize the fix we’re in here,” said Menlo somewhat impatiently. “That’s what we got. But I’d like to hear a little more about the who behind it. You need to fill us in on what happened when you went after Jeff, Buckhorn. How did you find him so quick and how did he find out about Micah’s outlaw activity? What else does he know that Micah is so anxious to try and force out of him?”
“I wish everybody would quit talking about that part,” Pamela said with a touch of shrillness in her voice. “I know what Micah threatened to do in order to get more answers out of Jeffrey, but I’d rather not keep hearing it over and over again. Still, what Menlo says has merit, Buckhorn. What answers can you give us?”
So Buckhorn laid it out for them, holding back only the scheme he and Menlo had cooked up to warn Dan Riley about the meadow trap for the sake of Buckhorn winning his way into the gang. He concluded by saying, “But the business about Micah and his bunch also being in on stagecoach robberies came as something brand new right here this morning. It happened just like Jeff told it. For some reason he had an urge to take a quick look through Micah’s room while there was the chance, and we turned up the money sack.”
“So not only has Micah put together some kind of gang and has been robbing and rustling and pulling God knows what else practically right under my nose,” Tolliver said, “but one of my very own deputies is in the thick of it with him. Hell, for all I know, Scanlon might be part of it, too.”
“At least you haven’t been betrayed by your very own blood,” Pamela said. “I wasn’t totally blind, I certainly saw there were flaws in Micah . . . But I kept thinking, hoping . . . And I surely never . . .”
“Let it go. Never mind all that for right now,” Buckhorn said. “There’ll be plenty enough blame and self-pity to go around if we manage to get out of this. But that’s the main thing to concentrate on right at the moment. Blood kin, friends, coworkers, none of that matters. These are ruthless, dangerous hombres—each of us has to think of them in only that way.”
“Buckhorn’s right,” said Menlo. “We can’t expect them to give us any quarter. So we can’t allow ourselves to think any other way in return.”
“Well, that’s real tough minded and all well and good,” said Tolliver. “But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re bottled up and pretty much helpless to retaliate against ’em at all. No matter how unforgiving we mean to be.”
“You’re never helpless as long as you’re alive,” Buckhorn said through gritted teeth. He began moving around as best their confines would allow, groping, searching as he was able with his eyes as well as his hands. “Didn’t anybody think to place any kind of provisions down here?”
“Yes. We stored a sack of candles and matches. And some canteens of water,” Pamela said. “But they took all that out when they locked us in here.”
“I’ve got some matches if you want a quick look,” said Menlo, the pipe smoker. “But I’ve already burned a couple and I can tell you there’s not much to see. It’s a hole in the ground on the slope of a hill, all that a storm cellar is supposed to be.”
“I’ll take you up on burnin’ a couple more of those matches,” Buckhorn said. “I’d like to take a look for myself, if you don’t mind.”
Menlo struck a match. Buckhorn looked away from the initial flash so as not to distort his vision again, but then, after the Lucifer tip had dimmed to a meager flickering flame, he used its weak, temporary illumination to quickly scan their surroundings. He was concentrating on some rubble at the rear of the cavity when the flame died out.
“What’s that looser pile of dirt at the back?” he asked.
“I took it as part of the rear wall just crumbling loose,” said Menlo.
“No. Wait a minute, I remember now,” said Obie. “Been so long since we dug this blamed thing and then never did use it but once or twice over the years that I all but forgot. The thing was, after we got this here part dug, Boss Gus still worried about gettin’ trapped if we ever had to use it in the event of a bad storm, on account of that neighbor Miss Pamela spoke of. Anyway, he fretted over it so much that he decided to add a second escape hatch just to be sure.”
“I never knew that,” Pamela said.
“It’s a fact,” insisted Obie. “Might’ve went a little fuzzy in my memory for a while, but I remember good now because I’m the one who got stuck doin’ most of the diggin’.”
“Wait a minute,” said Buckhorn, not wanting to get over-eager but at the same time feeling a surge of excitement. “Are you sayin’ there’s another way out of here, a tunnel or some such?”
“That’s right. A tunnel. Runs back another forty feet or so and comes out in the middle of what used to be a fruit orchard,” confirmed Obie. Then he added, “Leastways it did. Like I said, ain’t nobody hardly been down here but once or
twice, and not for a lot of years at that. The way it looked in that match light, it must’ve—”
Buckhorn didn’t wait for him to finish.
“Let’s try another one of those matches, Menlo. Over here closer.”
Bodies shifted around in the cramped, near-total darkness. When Menlo snapped another match to life, Buckhorn already had his hands on the loosened pile of rubble at the rear of the cavity. In the brief illumination, he began scooping and dragging away handfuls of dirt and sand.
“Yes,” he said just before the match winked out. “Yes, there is a tunnel here!”
An excited, wordless murmur passed through the group.
But then Tolliver lamented in a dull tone, “But it looked all caved in.”
“Right here at the mouth, yeah,” Buckhorn said, continuing to drag handfuls of dirt away from what he could feel to be taking shape as a roundish secondary cavity dug at the base of the larger area’s back wall. “But maybe for only a short distance. Maybe most of the tunnel is still clear. Damn it, man, it’s something to hope for, to try for.”
“He’s absolutely right,” Menlo said. “The rest of us can help by scattering around this loose dirt he’s pitching out. It’s obvious our captors either forgot or never knew about the tunnel. In case they check on us before Buckhorn breaks through, we don’t want to make it obvious what we’ve discovered by leaving clumps of fresh dirt for them to spot.”
“You heard the ranger, Thad,” Pamela said sharply. “Start helping to scatter this fresh dirt. Do anything but just moan and complain.”
A moment later, a previously unheard voice spoke up, saying, “Excuse me, Mr. Buckhorn, but perhaps I have some items here that would help with your digging?”
It took Buckhorn a second to realize that it was Helga talking. In his visits to the Circle D main house, he further realized, he had never heard the stout, elderly woman say anything before. She had a surprisingly soft, sweet voice.
“What is it you’re referring to, Helga?” asked Pamela.
“If the ranger would light another match please, I can show you. In all the excitement, I’m sorry I was too frightened to think about these before. When I am preparing and cooking meals, you see, I often drop utensils in my apron pocket to keep them handy for further use until everything is ready and served.”
When another of Menlo’s matches flared it revealed Helga holding her flower-patterned apron spread open before her and in the shallow scoop of material lay a large serving spoon and a spatula.
“Blazes, gal, that’s practically a treasure trove!” Obie exclaimed.
“I’ll say,” agreed Buckhorn, reaching for the items while there was still light to see what he was grabbing. While not quite on the level of a pickaxe and shovel, the spatula and spoon were certainly a step up from bare hands for digging out the collapsed tunnel.
“Miss Helga,” said Menlo in a deeply sincere tone, “to say you have very possibly proven to be a lifesaver to all of us would not be an exaggeration.”
“What a wonderful revelation, Helga!” Pamela added.
“If it wasn’t so dark that I’m afraid I might grab Obie by mistake,” Buckhorn said, “I’d reach out to give you a big hug and kiss, Miss Helga.”
“Paugh!” Obie said. “If’n you was to grab me the wrong way, bub, you’d need more than that spatula and spoon to scoop your way free of the clawin’ and kickin’ I’d do in return! Now get back to diggin’ and don’t bring up no more o’ those disgustifyin’ notions!”
CHAPTER 40
“I will sure enough be damned,” said Micah, stepping back to catch his breath and sleeve sweat from his forehead. “I never thought the delicate little nance had anywhere near this kind of tough streak in him. Stubborn blasted fool.”
From where he stood nearby, watching, Hank leisurely held out a half-full bottle of whiskey. Micah took it and tipped it high.
Directly in front of Micah, tied to a straight-backed dining chair, slumped Jeff. He’d once again been rendered unconscious by the blows Micah had been raining on him with gloved fists. The beaten man’s head hung forward, chin resting on shallowly rising and falling chest, strings of blood and snot dripping from the corners of his mouth and from the flattened nostrils of his pulverized nose. His eyes were narrowed to nearly invisible slits within swollen bulbs of flesh, ugly purplish in color.
Micah handed back the bottle. Turning to the dining room table behind him, he snatched up one of the napkins from a plate of cold food and used it to wipe the streaks of blood from the tight black gloves he was wearing.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Micah said, “Everything’s out in the open now about the gang we’ve put together and the robbing and rustling we’ve been doing. Not to mention how charitable we’ve been about giving all the credit to Dan Riley in addition to the stuff he does on his own. So why be so damn stubborn when it comes to clearing the air on one final detail? He spent time with Big Dan, he played footsie with sweet little Eve, he buddied up with that damn half-breed . . . Why can’t he tell me, his own brother, the simple thing I want to know?”
“I think he’s close, Boss. I think he was darn near ready to spill before he passed out this last time.”
Micah frowned.
“But what if he passes out one too many times? What if he passes out and don’t come around again? I mean, I don’t care if the little puke dies. I figure on seein’ to that anyway. I just don’t want it to be before he tells me what I want to know.”
There was the sound of the front door opening, and seconds later Dave came clomping into the dining room.
“McKeever back with Kelso and the boys yet?” Micah asked him.
“No. I wouldn’t expect ’em for a while longer.” Dave tipped his head to indicate Jeff. “Get the rest of what you wanted out of him?”
“No luck yet,” Micah muttered.
“Remind me,” said Hank. “What’s left that we need out of him again?”
Micah shook his head in exasperation.
“How many times do I have to explain it to you? Jeff spent most of those days he was missing with Dan Riley. That means he must know where Riley and his gang go to hide out between jobs. Just like Kelso and our boys have got that hideout camp up in the hills where they lay low. Understand?
“And the reason we need to know where Riley’s got his hideout is because, now that the cowflop has all of a sudden hit the fancy carpet, we need to go there and wipe ’em out. After we do that, we’re gonna bring back enough of their bodies to stage it like they showed up here and got in a big shoot-out with the ranger and the sheriff and all the other people who now know too much—thanks to Jeffrey. The whole bunch who could make it bad for us will be dead. And the only survivors left to tell the bloody awful tale of what happened, backed by McKeever as an eyewitness officer of the law, will be us.”
“But the truth is that we’ll be the ones who did all the killin’. Right?”
“Now you got it.”
Hank scrunched up his face and asked, “Even your own ma?”
“Afraid that’s how it has to be,” Micah said with a shrug.
Hank wagged his head admiringly.
“Boy, you have got one thick layer of bark on you, Boss.”
“Speakin’ of your dear mum,” Dave said to Micah. “Has it occurred to you that she might be a useful tool to help get that last bit of info you want out of Jeffy-boy?” He strode over and held out a hand for Hank to fork over the bottle. After he’d taken a swig, he lowered it and added, “Your baby brother is provin’ tougher than you expected when it comes to holdin’ out . . . but how long could he hold out if it was your ma takin’ the punishment?”
Micah eyed him narrowly.
“You got a nasty, lowdown mind, you know that?”
Dave took another slug of whiskey, said nothing.
“But I like it,” said Micah, nodding, a ghost of a smile flicking across his mouth. “We’ll roust Jeff-boy and give him one more go. Hank thinks he’s almost ready to
spill. If he don’t, we’ll drag Mother back in here and try your idea.”
* * *
Buckhorn slowly lifted the wooden barrel lid that covered the exit of the storm cellar’s escape tunnel. He closed his eyes and sputtered against the layer of dirt and dried leaves that dislodging the lid disturbed, causing much of it to spill down onto him. Once the spillage had ceased, he opened his eyes again, allowing them to adjust to the daylight, and carefully scanned in all directions.
At ground level, all he could see was a carpet of more leaves, tufts of grass poking through, and the bases of several surrounding tree trunks. He was in the grove of fruit trees, as described by Obie. No buildings were in sight, and no one appeared to be anywhere close by.
Buckhorn shoved the barrel lid all the way off to one side, thrust his head and shoulders up through the opening, and sucked in deep mouthfuls of fresh air. It was the sweetest taste he’d ever experienced.
The escape tunnel had proven to be seriously collapsed in only a couple of places—at the start and about halfway through. Buckhorn had dug relentlessly through the obstructions, aided considerably by the spoon and spatula provided by Helga. His fingers and hands were nevertheless scraped and bloody, but the accomplishment of clearing the passage was well worth it.
The task now was to come up with the best plan for proceeding from here. Buckhorn had been thinking about that all the while he was digging, but he knew that any ideas he had would have to be discussed with the others. So, instead of quitting the tunnel entirely, he replaced the barrel lid cover and crawled back to the main cavity to discuss their altered situation with the rest of the group.
“Believe me, I understand how badly everybody wants to get out of this hole in the ground,” he told them. “It looks pretty clear out there in the immediate vicinity of where the tunnel empties. But if we all go clambering out at once, we’ll run a greater risk of drawing attention.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Tolliver wanted to know. “That you go and leave the rest of us behind?”
“Quit your damn whinin’, Sheriff, and let the man talk,” growled Menlo. “If he wanted to take off and leave the rest of us on our own, he wouldn’t have come back in the first place.”
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