CHAPTER 9
Following the shoot-out with the Flying W riders, Buckhorn struck his camp and took steps to remove himself and all traces of anything that might connect him to the three dead bodies left behind.
To confuse his back trail, he rode over the tracks the trio had left on their approach to his camp. When these eventually led him to a stretch of broken ground not friendly to taking on sign, he swerved away and reset his own course.
He swung down south for a spell and then angled north again, aiming for Wagon Wheel. His intent was to ride in from a direction quite different from that of anyone coming from the scene of the shoot-out. A couple hours before daybreak, he stopped to spread his bedroll and grab some shut-eye in a cold camp. He planned to arrive in town when it was full daylight and the direction he came from was sure to be noticed.
* * *
Tired and irritable, Buckhorn rode into Wagon Wheel midmorning. The town had the look of a typical Southwest border town. Since it was Whitestone County, Arizona Territory, it was predominantly American in the style of its structures and the business names plastered on the buildings lining Front Street. On the south end, however, where the string of buildings extended and became a nameless, rather shabby village commonly referred to as Mexville, Spanish touches were more in evidence.
A fair amount of activity was taking place in the business district and, as he’d counted on, a number of faces turned to note his arrival.
Two businesses along the street advertising themselves to be hotels caught Buckhorn’s attention. The first one he came to appeared to be simple and unpretentious, quiet-looking. TRAVELERS’ REST HOTEL, its sign proclaimed. He reckoned it would do for his needs.
“I know it’s a little early to be checking in,” Buckhorn told the balding, bespectacled little man at the front desk, “but I’ve been traveling most of the night and I need a bath, a meal, and a bed to stretch out on for a good long snooze.”
“The bath and the bed we sure got,” the desk clerk said. “Unfortunately, we don’t serve meals here except for having a pot of coffee available in the lobby most any hour. My missus puts out a tray of muffins in the morning and a tray of cookies in the evening. But that’s about it. Just a couple doors up the street, there’s a nice little restaurant that serves good food. The Good Eats Café, in fact, is what it’s called. Nothing fancy, about like our place here, but it’s good stick-to-your-ribs vittles at a fair price.”
“Can’t ask for more than that,” Buckhorn said. “I probably oughta scrape some of this trail dust off and change duds, though, before I plop down to eat in public amongst other folks. How long before you could have a bath ready?” He watched the clerk’s eyes, expecting there might be a hitch on account of him being a half-breed, but there wasn’t even the slightest hesitation.
“We got a tub in the back room that the missus fills and heats up each morning,” the clerk explained. “It’s fresh and ready right now, not even been used yet today. If that suits you, you can hop in right away. If you’re hankering for more privacy, though, and would rather bathe in your own room—”
“Hold it right there.” Buckhorn held up a hand, stopping him. “The tub in the back room will suit me right down to the ground. Just tell me what I’ll owe you for that and a night’s stay—no, on second thought, might as well make it a couple nights. I’ll need a place to stable my horse, too.”
“We can take care of you all the way around, mister,” the clerk assured him. “You came to the right place.”
* * *
By the time Buckhorn made his way up the street to the Good Eats Café, after claiming his room at the hotel and then soaking, scrubbing, and donning fresh clothes, the noon hour was in full swing and the eatery was packed. It obviously was a popular place.
Since he didn’t care for rubbing elbows with a bunch of strangers while taking his meals, ordinarily he would have waited, finding a way to kill some time until he could return when the place was less crowded. But on this occasion he had reason to alter his normal habit.
As a leadup to eventually locking horns with Thomas Wainwright, Buckhorn had decided it would be beneficial to first spend some time getting a feel for the lay of the land, gaining some sense of the mood of the townspeople. What better way to get a start on that than to have a leisurely lunch in the midst of this throng and listen to what was going on around him?
He allowed himself to be ushered to a place at one of the tables and ordered the lunch special of ham, mashed potatoes, peas, and a tall glass of cold buttermilk. His plate came heaped high and included a slab of cornbread.
Everything was delicious. Even the buttermilk was some of the best he’d ever tasted. It was no chore at all to take his time, savoring every bite, while inconspicuously watching and listening to those on all sides.
Much of the talk he picked up on centered around the scarcity of good water for the area. Seemed like it had been an especially hot, dry summer and if the coming winter didn’t provide a good measure of moisture, things were going to be mighty tough on surrounding ranchers and farmers, even the town itself.
Buckhorn listened, barely able to hold back a wry smile. That complaint was common on most days. If he ever spent time in a ranching and farming community and didn’t hear the residents lamenting about dry conditions, he didn’t know what the hell he would do.
It was only when he heard somebody bitterly mutter something about “that damn Wainwright makes sure he’s got plenty for himself, though, don’t he?” that Buckhorn’s ears perked up.
He identified the speaker as a beefy, jug-eared hombre in a sweat-stained blue work shirt sitting a couple tables over with a group of other men who all looked to be laborer types, though not of the cowpuncher mold. As soon as the fellow had uttered those words, he and a couple of the others looked around somewhat uneasily, as if concerned about who might have overheard the comment.
According to Haydon, in addition to sheer intimidation, Wainwright was taking over much of the land to acquire control of key water rights. Haydon had been a little slim on exact details, but he’d provided enough for Buckhorn to already have in mind that it was an aspect of the situation he needed to explore further once he’d arrived.
Catching the remark of the beefy man and then seeing the anxious way he and his friends had acted afterwards—not to mention all the other talk of the dry conditions and how much tension everybody seemed to be under as a result—only emphasized that it was something worth digging into a little deeper.
The beefy man and his friends were pushing back their chairs and shuffling toward the door just as the coffee and piece of apple pie Buckhorn had ordered for dessert arrived.
“Excuse me,” he said to the stout German lady waiting on him. From what he’d gathered, she was one of two spinster sisters who owned and operated the restaurant. “That burly fellow there, the second to the last one going out the door”—he gestured—“looks mighty familiar to me, somebody I think I used to work with down in El Paso. I wasn’t sure enough to go over and say anything, though. Do you happen to know if his name is Grable?”
“Oh, I am afraid it is mistaken you are, sir.” The negative response came with a look of genuine regret. “That gentleman’s name is Hampton.”
“Whew,” Buckhorn said, managing a sheepish expression. “I’m glad I didn’t end up embarrassing myself then.”
The pie and coffee were as good as everything that had preceded them. Buckhorn took his time downing each, even accepting a refill on the coffee.
The lunch crowd had thinned considerably. He toyed with the notion of lingering long enough for the place to quiet down to the point where he might have a chance to strike up some small talk with one or both of its proprietors. But with just the two of them running the whole show, they stayed active, bustling about to clear and reset tables, do dishes, and start making preparations for the next round of meals.
In the end, Buckhorn decided they really weren’t good prospects for what he had in mind. Number one, they were too busy; number two, neither of them seemed the overly chatty type. Toward that end, it occurred to him the talkative clerk back at his hotel had the makings of a far better candidate. Upon first encountering the bespectacled little man—Fletchler was how he’d gotten around to introducing himself—Buckhorn’s priorities had been different. With that now changed, he’d have to make a point of looking up Mr. Fletchler again.