Buckhorn’s wound was little more than a bullet burn to the outside of his left thigh, slicing a furrow through meat and a shallow layer of muscle. It didn’t even bleed a significant amount. The doctor applied some salve and a bandage, which he suggested reapplying daily for a few days, again mainly to guard against infection.
That left Jeff, whose suffering at the hands of Micah came to no small amount of damage. Broken nose; dislocated jaw; cracked ribs; concussion; possible internal bleeding; and cuts and bruises too numerous to count. The doctor strongly suggested he be taken to town and kept in the back room of his office, the closest thing the area had to an actual hospital, for a number of days. But Jeff, backed by his mother as well as Eve, refused that.
So the main house at the Circle D became the second closest thing to an actual hospital in the area, its size coming in handy to accommodate the healing of all the wounded men even as the surrounding ranch was undergoing its own healing.
* * *
On the morning of the fourth day, Buckhorn and Menlo stood talking and drinking coffee on the front porch. Menlo had his pipe going.
“So you’ll be riding out today,” the ranger was saying. “That your intent?”
Buckhorn nodded.
“That it is . . . unless you’re fixing to tell me you’ve got some kind of objection.”
“Nope.” Menlo puffed some smoke. “Ain’t anxious to see you go—and me sayin’ that is something I’d just as soon not get around, for the sake of my reputation—but I could see it comin’ and I got no basis to try and stand in your way.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Thing I regret the most is never bein’ able to see that mule-carrier message scheme in action—you know, the one Obie and you put together for gettin’ word in and out for the time you expected to be out of touch once you were infiltrated into Riley’s gang.”
Buckhorn grinned ruefully.
“What a bust that turned out to be, eh? Took us longer to dream up the scheme than the amount of time I ended up being infiltrated.”
Obie came limping out to join them and asked, “Did I hear my name bein’ taken in vain a minute ago?”
“You did for a fact,” Buckhorn admitted. “You, me, and a mule named Sylvester.”
Obie grunted and said, “Reckon I been linked in with worse company.”
“Yeah. But what about the mule?” said Menlo.
They all had a chuckle over that and then Obie turned serious.
“So. You still figurin’ on headin’ out today, Powder-burner?”
“Way I got it figured.”
“Not surprisin’, I guess,” said the old handyman. “Gotta admit I hate to see you go, though. You’ve made things mighty interestin’ since you showed up, and you’ve done a lot of good.”
“Hey,” protested Buckhorn, “I’ve got a reputation to think of, remember. I’m a hired gun, not a do-gooder. I did a job, got paid, it’s time to move on. That’s the way it works.”
“Yeah,” said Menlo, squinting against a curl of smoke as his gaze swept across the Circle D grounds. “We were all part of seein’ to it that plenty of men—not to say that most of ’em didn’t deserve it—paid for gettin’ that job done. Paid in blood . . . Reckon that, among other reasons, will have me feelin’ my own urge to move on before long.”
Pamela and Dan Riley came out to join them on the porch.
“What’s all this talk about everybody moving on?” Pamela wanted to know. “I’ve got a ranch to build back up, a crew to fill out. There’s plenty right here to occupy anybody who’s willing to pitch in.”
Buckhorn replied, “Speaking strictly for myself, and in addition to me not being the cowpuncher type to begin with, your new ramrod there”—he jabbed a finger at Big Dan—“already turned me down for one job and then, last I heard, was looking for me with blood in his eye. Somehow that doesn’t sound like real solid ground for starting a new career.”
“If you’d quit remindin’ me of all the past reasons I got to be sore at you,” said Riley, “I might forget about ’em on account of all the new stuff I got on my plate to get this ranch up and runnin’ smooth again. Just like the ranger there has indicated my fresh start has him willin’ not to dig too deep into the accusations of my past, er, business dealings.”
“Something else on your plate—on both of our plates,” Pamela reminded him, “is the upcoming marriage of your daughter and my son as soon as Jeff is healthy and on his feet again.”
“There’s another thing I’d rather not be reminded of,” Riley muttered, though not too seriously.
“I got a marriage of sorts I’m not so sure I want to be reminded of, either,” remarked Menlo with a scowl. “And that’s your man Ulysses pinnin’ on a deputy’s badge for Barkley’s newly elected Sheriff Scanlon.”
Riley shrugged.
“What can I say? Ulysses ain’t the cowpuncher type, neither. Whether he’s lawman material or not remains to be seen. But I’ll tell you what . . . while he’s finding out, I bet the town of Barkley will be tamer and quieter than it’s ever been.”
* * *
An hour later, Buckhorn found himself alone in the Circle D stable, aiming to slip away without further fanfare. His trail supplies were replenished, and Sarge was saddled and ready to ride. A moment before slapping foot to stirrup, however, he found out he wasn’t alone after all.
“Planning on leaving without even saying good-bye?” said a soft voice behind him.
He turned to see Joey standing there, the morning sunlight streaming through the stable door and turning her blond hair molten.
“Thought it would be best . . . or at least easiest,” Buckhorn admitted.
“Not even interested in another try at smoothing out those kissing wrinkles?”
“That definitely would not make leaving easier.”
She moved closer to him and said, “All the more reason to work on it then.”
The kiss was long and lingering. When their lips finally parted, Joey leaned back and gazed up at him.
“Now that was already a step in the right direction. But it wasn’t enough, was it? Not to keep you from going.”
“Like I said, it’s for the best. The best for you.” Buckhorn’s voice had an added huskiness now. But also a firmness. “You quit threatening to shoot fellas in the spine,” he added, “and you’ll find the right one for you. One you deserve. And he’ll be the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.”
With that, he pushed her gently away. Turned and mounted Sarge, rode off. He didn’t look back, knew he didn’t dare to.
But she stood looking after him until he was just a speck in the distance . . . and then gone entirely.
TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW
From bestselling authors William W. and J. A. Johnstone—the explosive adventures of Perley Gates, who’s carving out his own legacy in the violent American frontier . . .
Restless cowpoke Perley Gates wanted nothing more than to track down the grandfather who abandoned his family years ago. What he found was the crazy old sidewinder, barely hanging on after a Sioux massacre. The old man’s dying wish was to make things right for deserting his kin—by giving his strong-willed grandson Perley clues to the whereabouts of a buried fortune in gold.
Finding his grandfather’s legacy will set things right, setting up his family for life. But it won’t be easy . . . The discovery of raw gold in the Black Hills has lured hordes of ruthless lowlifes into Deadwood and Custer City—kill-crazy prairie rats, gunfighters, outlaws, and Indians—armed with a thousand glittering reasons to put Perley six feet under. All Perley wants is what was left to him, what he’s owed. But with so many brigands on his backside, finding his grandfather’s treasure is going to land Perley Gates between the promise of heaven and the blood-soaked battlefields of hell . . .
National Bestselling Authors
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE and J. A. JOHNSTONE
A REASON TO DIE
A PERLEY GATES WESTERN<
br />
Johnstone Country. Where It’s Never
Quiet on the Western Front.
Live Free. Read Hard.
www.williamjohnstone.net
Chapter 1
“It’s a good thing I decided to check,” John Gates said to Sonny Rice, who was sitting in the wagon loaded with supplies. They had just come from Henderson’s General Store and John had wanted to stop by the telegraph office on the chance Perley might have sent word.
Sonny was immediately attentive. “Did he send a telegram? Where is he?”
“He’s in Deadwood, South Dakota,” John answered. “He said he’s on his way home.”
“Did he say if he found your grandpa?”
“He said he found him, but Grandpa’s dead. Said he’d explain it all when he gets back.”
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Sonny drew out. “Ol’ Perley found him. I figured he would. He usually does what he sets out to do.”
John couldn’t disagree. His younger brother was always one to follow a trail to its end, even though oftentimes it led him to something he would have been better served to avoid. He laughed when he thought about what his older brother, Rubin, said about Perley. If there ain’t but one cow pie between here and the Red River, Perley will most likely step in it.
It was a joke, of course, but it did seem that trouble had a way of finding Perley. It was true, even though he would go to any lengths to avoid it.
“We might as well go by the diner and see if Beulah’s cooked anything fit to eat,” John casually declared, knowing that was what Sonny was hoping to hear. “Might even stop by Patton’s afterward and get a shot of whiskey. That all right with you?” He could tell by the grin on the young ranch hand’s face that he knew he was being japed. As a rule, Sonny didn’t drink very often, but he would imbibe on some occasions.
Thoughts running through his mind, John nudged the big gray gelding toward the small plain building at the end of the street that proclaimed itself to be the Paris Diner. He was glad he had checked the telegraph office. It was good news to hear Perley was on his way home to Texas. He had a long way to travel from the Black Hills, so it was hard to say when to expect him to show up at the Triple-G. His mother and Rubin would be really happy to hear about the telegram. Perley had been gone a long time on his quest to find their grandpa. His mother had been greatly concerned when Perley hadn’t returned with his brothers after the cattle were delivered to the buyers in Ogallala.
John reined the gray to a halt at the hitching rail in front of the diner, then waited while Sonny pulled up in the wagon.
“Well, I was beginning to wonder if the Triple-G had closed down,” Lucy Tate sang out when she saw them walk in.
“Howdy, Lucy,” John returned. “It has been a while since we’ve been in town. At least, it has been for me. I don’t know if any of the other boys have been in.” He gave her a big smile. “I thought you mighta got yourself married by now,” he joked, knowing what a notorious flirt she was.
She waited for them to sit down before replying. “I’ve had some offers, but I’m waiting to see if that wife of yours is gonna kick you out.”
“She’s threatened to more than once,” he said, “but she knows there’s a line of women hopin’ that’ll happen.”
She laughed. “I’m gonna ask Martha about that if you ever bring her in here to eat.” Without asking if they wanted coffee, she filled two cups. “Beulah’s got chicken and dumplin’s or beef stew. Whaddle-it-be?”
“Give me the chicken and dumplin’s,” John said. “I get enough beef every day. How ’bout you, Sonny?”
“I’ll take the chicken, too,” he replied, his eyes never having left the saucy waitress.
Noticing it, John couldn’t resist japing him some more. “How ’bout Sonny, here? He ain’t married and he’s got a steady job.”
She chuckled delightedly and reached over to tweak Sonny’s cheek. “You’re awful sweet, but still a little young. I’ll keep my eye on you, though.” She went to the kitchen to get their food, leaving the blushing young ranch hand to recover.
“She’s something, ain’t she?” John asked after seeing Sonny’s embarrassment. “Can’t take a thing she says seriously.” He thought at once of Perley, who had made that mistake and suffered his disappointment. Further thoughts on the subject were interrupted when Becky Morris came in from the kitchen.
“Afternoon, John,” Becky greeted him. “Lucy said you were here.” She greeted Sonny as well, but she didn’t know his name. “It’s been a while since any of the Triple-G men have stopped in. Perley used to come by every time he was in town, but I haven’t seen him in a long time now. Is he all right?”
“Perley’s been gone for a good while now,” John answered. “I just got a telegram from him this mornin’ from Dakota Territory. Said he’s on his way home.”
“Oh, well, maybe he’ll come in to see us when he gets back,” Becky said.
“I’m sure he will.” John couldn’t help wondering if Perley had taken proper notice of Becky Morris. Shy and gentle, unlike Lucy Tate, Becky looked more the woman a man should invest his life with. He might be wrong, but John suspected he detected a wistful tone in her voice when she’d asked about Perley.
Before they were finished, Beulah Walsh came out to visit. John assured her that her reputation as a cook was still deserved, as far as he was concerned. He paid for his and Sonny’s meal, and got up to leave. “We’ve gotta stop by Patton’s before we go back to the ranch. Sonny’s gotta have a shot of that rotgut whiskey before he leaves town.”
“I never said that,” Sonny insisted. “You were the one that said we’d go to the saloon.”
“Don’t let him bother you, sweetie,” Lucy said and gave him another tweak on his cheek. “I know how you heavy drinkers need a little shooter after you eat.”
“What did you tell her that for?” Sonny asked as soon as they were outside. “Now she thinks I’m a drunk.”
“I doubt it,” John replied.
* * *
Moving back down the short street to Patton’s Saloon, they tied the horses to the rail and went inside.
Benny Grimes, the bartender, called out a “Howdy” as soon as they walked in the door. “John Gates, I swear, I thought you mighta gave up drinkin’ for good.”
“How do, Benny?” John greeted him. “Might as well have. We ain’t had much time to get into town lately. Ain’t that right, Sonny?”
“That’s a fact,” Sonny agreed and picked up the shot glass Benny slid over to him. He raised it, turned toward John, and said, “Here’s hopin’ Perley has a safe trip home.” He downed it with a quick toss, anxious to get it over with. He was not a drinker by habit and took a drink of whiskey now and then only to avoid having to explain why he didn’t care for it.
“Well, I’ll sure drink to that,” John said and raised his glass.
“Me, too.” Benny poured himself one. After they tossed the whiskey down, he asked, “Where is he?”
“Way up in Dakota Territory,” John said, “and we just got word he’s on his way home, so we need to let the folks hear the news.” He had one more drink, then he and Sonny headed back to the Triple-G.
* * *
The man John Gates had wished a safe trip home earlier in the day was seated a few yards from a crystal-clear waterfall. It was a good bit off the trail he had been following, but he’d had a feeling the busy stream he had crossed might lead to a waterfall. As high up as he was on the mountain, it stood to reason the stream would soon come to a cliff. It pleased him to find out he had been right, and it had been worth his while to have seen it. It was a trait that Perley Gates had undoubtedly inherited from his grandfather—an obsession for seeing what might lie on the other side of the mountain. And it was the reason he found himself in the Black Hills of Dakota Territory on this late summer day—that and the fact that he was not married and his brothers were. It didn’t matter if he rode all the way to hell and who knows where. There wasn’t any wife waitin
g for him to come home, so he had been the obvious pick to go in search of his grandfather.
His grandfather, for whom he was named, was buried in the dark mountains not far from where Perley sat drinking the stout black coffee he favored. He felt a strong kinship with him, even though he had not really known the man, having never met him until a short time before he passed away. Even so, that was enough time for the old man to determine that he was proud to have his young grandson wear his name, Perley Gates. The old man had been one of the lucky ones who struck it rich in the Black Hills gold rush before an outlaw’s bullet brought his life to an end. Determined to make restitution to his family for having abandoned them, he hung on long enough to extract a promise from his grandson to take his gold back to Texas.
The gold dust had been right where his grandfather had said it would be. Perley had recovered four canvas sacks from under a huge rock before he’d been satisfied there were no more. With no scales to weigh the sacks, he guessed it to be ten pounds per sack. At the present time, gold was selling in Deadwood at a little over three hundred and thirty dollars a pound. If his calculations were correct, he was saddled with a responsibility to deliver over thirteen thousand dollars in gold dust to Texas, more than eight hundred miles away. It was not a task he looked forward to. The gold rush had brought every robber and dry-gulcher west of Omaha to Deadwood Gulch, all with an eye toward preying on those who had worked to bring the gold out of the streams. Perley’s problem was how to transport his treasure without attracting the watchful eye of the outlaws. It would be easier to convert the dust to paper money, but he was not confident he would get a fair exchange from the bank in Deadwood, because of the inflation there.
To add to his concerns, he had accumulated five extra horses during his time in the Black Hills and he didn’t want the bother of driving them all the way to Texas with no one to help him. With forty pounds of dust to carry, he decided to keep one of the horses to use as a second packhorse. His packhorse could carry the load along with his supplies, but with the load divided onto two horses, he could move a lot faster in the event he had to. His favorite of the extra horses would be the paint gelding that his grandfather had ridden. The old man had loved that horse, maybe as much as Perley loved Buck, so he didn’t feel right about selling it.
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