They made camp in a canyon they could easily defend and kept watch all night in shifts. Nobody showed up to bother them. In the morning they drove the wagons out of the hills and north across open range to High Plains. They parked the wagons in the lot, planning to unload the next day since the sun had already dropped behind the mountains to the west. Buck was greatly relieved to see the place still standing—it felt like a reprieve.
“There’s somethin’ wrong,” one of the men said. “Ain’t hardly anybody on the street. You notice that?”
“I thought it seemed pretty quiet, myself,” said another.
Buck hardly heard them, going off to make a quick check of the premises, feeling more and more relief as he found the front door still locked, the windows unbroken. He went to the rear, saw nothing unusual—the hogs, chickens, sheep and horses looked all right.
Then he looked up into the timbers of the partly built barn silhouetted against the purple and gold remnants of sunset.
“Son of a bitch.”
Payson came around the corner from the machinery lot.
“Shit,” he said. Then he called to the others.
“That’s Horsely, Michael, and Tihlman,” somebody said, unnecessarily.
The bodies of Olinger’s former prisoners turned a little from side to side in the light breeze. Something fluttered. Buck went closer. A crude paper label was pinned to each shirtfront.
“Rustler,” Buck read aloud.
“Knowed we should ‘a’ turned them boys loose,” Payson said, matter of fact.
The other men looked warily at Buck, but all he said was, “Help me get them down.”
In a couple of minutes they had the bodies laid out on the clean new wood of the barn floor and the ropes cut off their necks. Buck ripped away the labels, crumpled them, tossed them down to one side.
“Been done a while,” Payson said. “Stiff as boards.”
“I guess we know who did it, though,” said one of the farmers.
Buck didn’t trust himself to speak. Payson—and his own instinct—had been right.
He should have seen this coming. But he had misread Snake Ed. Three good men had died because of his bad judgment.
“You boys watch this place and somebody go get Dunderland,” he said.
He spun on his heel and strode down the alley. The hollow thudding of his boot heels on the board sidewalk ricocheted back and forth across the empty, darkening street.
Olinger wasn’t in his office. Buck crossed the mud and thundered down the other walk to the Bucket of Blood. He stopped just short of the doorway listening to the low mumble of quiet talk within; and then, gun drawn, he stepped to the batwings and looked in over them.
No Snake Ed. No Texans. But Olinger was bellied to the bar. Buck holstered his gun and pushed inside.
Olinger looked around, and his dull eyes widened at sight of Buck. Buck strode straight for him, stopped three feet away.
“Why ain’t you out huntin’ the lynchers?” Buck’s voice was full of dangerous calm.
“What lynchers?” Olinger rolled off his belly, put his other foot on the rail.
“Ain’t you noticed yet you’re missin’ three prisoners?”
“What prisoners?”
“You ain’t expectin’ me to believe you turned ’em loose, are you?”
“Turned who loose? I ain’t had a prisoner in over a week.”
Buck’s right snapped out; Olinger’s head went back.
But his jaw was harder than Buck had thought: Olinger’s brow darkened and a fist came sailing, nearly connected, too.
Buck drove his left up under Olinger’s jaw, but though the impact resounded throughout the saloon, Olinger reeled only momentarily before he lashed out with a right that glanced stunningly off Buck’s cheekbone, then with a left that plowed into Buck’s belly just under his rib cage with force enough to take his breath away.
Buck took a step back, felt three more blows land, saw the butt of Olinger’s pistol coming at him and swung an arm to knock it free.
With his breath back, Buck put everything he had into a right that slipped through Olinger’s crossed-forearm defense to land solidly and squarely in the middle of Olinger’s face. Blood spurted, and Olinger reeled back.
Buck pressed his advantage, wild in his fury, and battered Olinger with a blizzard of punishing blows. Olinger stumbled back against the bar and braced himself there breathing heavily, apparently having trouble seeing.
The barkeeper had a shotgun, was starting to aim it. Buck leveled his Colt.
“You stay out of this or you’re a dead man,” Buck told him.
The shotgun landed on the bar with a clatter. Buck picked it up in his left hand, tossed it over the batwings into the mud of the street.
Olinger looked sick, holding his belly. Blood ran out of his nose, dripped down the front of his vest.
“You going to do something about them lynchin’ bastards?” A muscle twitched in Buck’s cheek.
Olinger felt of his bloody nose gingerly, still catching his breath.
“Well?” said Buck.
Olinger just stared at him with fiery, mean little eyes.
Buck reached out, grabbed Olinger by the front of his vest and yanked. As Olinger stumbled forward, Buck stepped behind him, gave him a kick, propelling Olinger through the batwings into the street.
Buck looked coldly around at the silent patrons, the barkeeper.
“Anybody else want some?” he asked. “Better take it now if you do, while I’m in a good mood.”