CHAPTER 19
News of the latest shooting in Wagon Wheel, once again involving a Flying W rider as one of the victims and once again with Buckhorn the half-breed being the perpetrator, reached Thomas Wainwright as he was in the middle of breakfast with his beautiful young Mexican wife Lusita. The report was delivered by one of Sheriff Banning’s deputies.
Wainwright managed to hold his temper in check until after the deputy had departed. Only then, did he let loose a portion of his rage. “Blazing hell!” he roared, pounding a fist down onto the table so hard it caused plates and silverware to rattle and a steaming slosh of coffee to leap out of its cup. “The last thing I need is for word of this kind of notoriety to start spreading out of the territory at a time like this!”
“Try to stay calm, my husband,” Lusita said softly. “You are always complaining how no one pays adequate attention to our little piece of Arizona. Who of any importance is likely to even notice, let alone care, when it comes to these recent incidents?”
Wainwright scowled fiercely. “I don’t know. But I’ve been in enough skirmishes to have learned one thing. You never get cocky, never let your guard down. Just when you think you’ve got the battle in your pocket and you relax even the slightest, that’s when Fate will knock you back on your heels every time. Well, not this time, by God. I’ve got too much riding on this to risk letting myself get outflanked now . . . especially not due to that damn lunkheaded Conway or some quick-trigger stinking half-breed!”
Whatever he meant by this, Lusita did not know the details. She only knew it was some kind of big business transaction involving her own father, himself a wealthy rancher just across the border, and the seemingly insatiable acquisitions by both men of more and more land and cattle. The addition of hired guns—dark, dangerous men like Leo Sweetwater and the more colorful, recently deceased Dandy Jack Draper—was also a part of it.
The increasing intensity and moodiness she saw in her husband and father as a result of this escalating thing, nor the growing sense of danger she sensed from the presence of the cold-eyed gunmen, nor the vague reports of violence she was aware of in spite of attempts to shield her from it, were not the worst of it, though. Not for Lusita.
It was the sinking certainty deep in her heart that one of the initial steps in this big, all-consuming enterprise had been the union between her and Wainwright. She just couldn’t actually prove it.
Her father had never actually demanded she marry Wainwright, the way some old-fashioned patriarchs were known to do, but he’d surely encouraged it. Lusita was so anxious to please her father, as sad and lonely as he was after the death of her beloved mother, that she had agreed.
Though quite a few years older than her, Thomas Wainwright was still a dashing, relatively handsome man. She could learn to love him, she’d told herself, and live a life of attentiveness and comfort.
In a matter of months, she knew what a mistake she had made. Yes, she had plenty of comforts in her life and Thomas was reasonably attentive, but so much of his manner was cool and calculated. He wanted a child, an heir. It was soon evident that was the main purpose of their lovemaking, perhaps their whole marriage. When no pregnancy resulted, his coolness increased though he continued to treat her pleasantly and still saw to her material needs.
As time passed, the attempts at making a child waned and practically ceased completely, which was good, in one sense. But it left young, hot-blooded, unfulfilled Lusita all the more resentful of her circumstances. If Thomas would take the passion he was putting into the big business deal with her father or the angry outbursts such as he was displaying this morning and invest it in their lovemaking, Lusita thought longingly, somewhat bitterly, then maybe things would be different.
“I apologize for my outburst. That was uncalled for,” Wainwright said to both Lusita and the maid Consuela, who appeared with a cloth to mop up the spilled coffee.
“You’re under a great deal of stress. You needn’t apologize,” said Lusita.
“Sí, it was an accident,” Consuela agreed. “I will clean this spill and then bring you a fresh, hot refill.”
“That won’t be necessary, I believe I’ve had sufficient coffee.” Wainwright turned to his wife. “With your indulgence, my dear, I believe I shall take my leave from the table. I have some paperwork in my office I need to tend to, and then I mean to ride out to the spot where the bodies of our three riders were found yesterday. I expect the sheriff to be there, conducting his investigation into their shooting. I want to check his progress and also get more details on this most recent shooting incident last night in town.”
“You won’t be placing yourself in danger, will you?” Lusita asked. “All this shooting and violence . . .”
Wainwright smiled, appreciating the concern of his lovely wife but not wanting her to be upset. “Don’t worry. I won’t be at risk with any of that. If it makes you feel better, I’ll be sure to have some men with me.”
Lusita did not return his smile. “That is good. But when it comes to some of the men you’ve hired in recent months and weeks, I have to say some have about them a sense of danger that may be as bad as anything else out there.”
“That is exactly the idea, my dear. To have those kind of men on our side.” Wainwright rose. “On second thought, Consuela, I will have another cup of coffee. Bring it to my office, please, when you’re finished here. And when you see Armando, have him find Mr. Sweetwater and send him to my office also.”
Lusita looked up at him. “If you’re going to do some work in your office and then ride out to the . . . murder scene, to meet with the sheriff there . . . do you expect to be back in time for lunch?”
After brief consideration, Wainwright said, “No, probably not. I’ll try, but it would be best not to count on it. We definitely will dine together at dinner, though.”
“Very well,” said Lusita. “I shall plan accordingly.”
* * *
Buckhorn sat in the lobby of the Traveler’s Rest Hotel, drinking coffee and eating a freshly baked morning muffin from the tray that Isobel Fletchler had put out. It continued to amaze him that he was still welcome as one of the guests. After the events of last night and the resulting wreckage to the room he had briefly occupied, he expected the welcome mat would no longer be laid out for him.
That, however, was hardly the case. Not only did the Fletchlers harbor no blame against him for the attempted ambush, they’d moved his belongings to another room and insisted he complete the stay he had already paid for.
He thought back to their meeting.
Buckhorn agreed, but only with the proviso he also pay for some portion of the expense it would take to replace the bullet-blasted mattress and other damage. He had, after all, expected the ambush and allowed it to partly play out inside the hotel before closing the lid on it outside.
“You are an exceptionally fair-minded man or one completely without imagination. Maybe both,” Mrs. Fletchler summed up in her outspoken manner. “You realize, of course, that once we have the damaged room again ready for occupancy it will probably become the most popular one in our establishment.”
Her husband beamed at Buckhorn rather smugly. “She’s right, you know. Think of it.” He spread his arms and recited as if reading from a brochure. “Within these very walls is the gun smoked spot where two deadly assassins laid down a hellfire of blazing lead meant to end the life of a double-dangerous man who, in turn, ended theirs instead.... Why, heck, the room will probably never see an empty night for months, maybe years, to come.”
“In that case,” Buckhorn responded with a mock scowl, “I think I want to renegotiate. It sounds like instead of me paying for a portion of the damage, you ought to be paying me a cut of all the extra money you’re gonna be raking in on account of the ambush that nearly claimed my life in this bucket of blood joint you call a hotel.”
“Now you got the idea. But I’m afraid it sunk in a little too late,” Mrs. Fletchler said, wagging an admonishing finger. “A deal is a deal, Mr. Buckhorn, and you already made yours.”
Buckhorn shook his head and smiled. When the friendly banter was finished, the Fletchlers had departed and gone on about their morning chores, leaving him alone with the coffee and muffins.
He appreciated the solitude after spending another long session with the sheriff and his deputies, going over the details of the attempted ambush, not to mention the scrutiny from another gaggle of nosy citizens willing to interrupt their night’s sleep in order to gawk at the aftermath of the latest bloodshed.
It was exactly the kind of ghoulish curiosity the Fletchlers were reckoning would attract future guests to the room where the would-be assassins had struck. Buckhorn figured they were probably right.
For his part, he would have gladly crawled into the fresh bed of any room to catch up on some sleep. As it was, however, the sun was starting to come up before Banning was done with him and the crowd had mostly dispersed. By that point he was past wanting sleep, at least right away.
Left alone at last, his mind was churning with too many thoughts and questions, going in too many different directions with none of them holding any real promise. He’d gotten the lay of the land like he wanted. Hell, he’d become part of it. A big ol’ target, standing tall and inviting.
What good was that going to do him? Fighting to keep his own hide intact didn’t make a very good tactic for trying to nail Wainwright’s to the wall. What was more, he’d laid it on so thick with his “just passing through” spiel that it was going to be mighty awkward to come up with an excuse for staying. At the moment, it sure didn’t feel like he was on the verge of wrapping things up in only another day.
As he was finishing his second muffin, a man came in off the street and entered the hotel lobby. He paused for a moment, looking around, then walked toward Buckhorn.
Tensing slightly, Buckhorn tried to read the man’s face. Under the small round-topped table in front of him, his right hand slid a few inches closer to his holster. The newcomer was wearing no sidearm and did not appear to pose any kind of threat, but Buckhorn was always cautious.
“If you’re looking for the Fletchlers,” he said, “they’re around somewhere. I’m not sure where. I think there’s a little bell there on the—”
“Actually,” the man interrupted, “it was you I was hoping to have a word with. If you can spare a minute.”
It was only when he spoke that Buckhorn realized who the man was. Justine York’s brother, Carl Orndecker. He looked so different, dressed in crisp, clean clothes, shaved, his hair combed, all in sharp contrast to the disheveled, staggering, vomiting mess he’d been when his wagon had rolled up in front of the newspaper office. Buckhorn hadn’t recognized him at first.
Seeing the look on Buckhorn’s face, Orndecker smiled a little sheepishly. “Guess I look some different from the last time you saw me. I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to get lost. I can hardly deny I’ve got a drinking problem, but what you saw was about the worst of it. I seldom get as bad as yesterday. I’m working hard to get the demon wrestled to the ground, only some days my hold on him slips.”
“Thankfully, I’ve never had to fight that particular demon, though I’ve got a pretty good idea how stubborn and strong he can be. If his hold on you is slipping more often than the other way around, I’d say that puts you ahead as long as you don’t give up.”
“No, I’m not about to do that.” The sheepish smile came again. “For one thing, as long as Justine is in the picture, she darn sure won’t let me.”
“From everything I’ve seen, she’s a good one to have in your corner.”
“None better. She’s also one of the reasons I came by to see you. She wanted me to remind you that you’re scheduled to join her for lunch. She said to tell you that either she can prepare it or treat you at a restaurant.”
Justine had been another of those present after the attempted ambush in Buckhorn’s room. It hadn’t been a matter of gawking but rather a case of once again doing her job as a reporter. After she’d gotten the necessary details, she had extended the lunch invitation as a way of thanking him for his help unloading Carl’s wagon and returning the wagon and horse to the livery.
“Don’t worry,” Buckhorn replied to the reminder from her brother, “I’m not apt to forget a lunch date with your sister.”
“No, I can’t think of too many fellas who would,” Carl said. “By rights, though, I’m really the one who ought to be offering you lunch or some sort of compensation for your help. After all, it was me who got stupidly drunk and couldn’t finish the chores you ended up taking care of for me. At this stage of things, I suppose you’d rather leave it the way it is rather than me taking my rightful place instead of Justine.”
“You’d be supposing very correctly.” Buckhorn gestured toward the coffee and muffins. “You interested in a cup of coffee? Even though you’re not an actual guest, I’m sure the Fletchlers wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t, either. The Fletchlers are the salt of the earth. But I’ve already had plenty of coffee this morning, thanks. I’ve got to get back and catch up on chores around the shop.” Carl arched a brow. “With all the excitement you’ve stirred up since you hit town, not to mention the mysterious killing of those Flying W riders, Justine is going to crank out a special edition of the paper.”
“Sorry to be part of making added work for her.”
“You kidding? A slew of exciting events like this is what newspaper people live for.”
“You say that like you don’t necessarily consider yourself part of what you just called newspaper people.”
“That’s because I’m not. Justine’s late husband was the real newshound. He had it in his blood and it rubbed off on her. Me? I’m just on hand to help her out while she helps me.”
“Good for both of you.”
“I guess. Better for me than her.” Carl cleared his throat. “Well, I’d best be getting back over there. What else I wanted to say, though, was to thank you personally for helping out the way you did yesterday. For Justine’s sake and mine, too. I know I must have been a pretty disgusting sight. Most folks would have turned away, never got involved. I’m grateful you did otherwise.”
“No big deal,” Buckhorn told him. “Think nothing of it.”
Carl cleared his throat again. “Something more . . . you go to turn in tonight—or sooner, considering how you sure didn’t get much shut-eye last night—I’d be obliged and honored if you let me stand guard so’s you don’t need to worry about another attempt to blast you in your sleep. It’s a long story, but before the bottle, among other things, made me unfit, I used to wear a badge in these parts. I don’t carry a gun on a regular basis no more, but I’m a pretty fair hand with one when need be. You’d have peace of mind and it’d give me a chance to pay some of the debt for helping me and my sister.”
Buckhorn was a little taken aback. “That’s a mighty generous offer, mister, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But it’s also a kind of lopsided one. All I did for my part was to help Justine get you back to your room and then unload a few things out of a wagon. What you’re offering might amount to putting yourself in the way of a bullet.”
“Been there before,” Carl said. “If somebody does take a notion to try for you again but sees you got some backup, there’s a chance that would be enough to turn the yellow dogs away.”
Buckhorn shook his head. “Like I said, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not ready to have somebody risking their neck for mine.”
Carl looked like he wanted to argue the point further but decided against it. “You think about it,” he finally said.
“I will, but I’m not likely to change my mind.”
Carl started to leave, then paused and turned back. “About your lunch with Justine? My sister is a great gal and is really amazing at a wide range of things . . . but cooking’s not one of them. Take my advice—and here I go really risking my neck if you repeat to her that I said this—but your best bet is to take your meal with her at the Good Eats. Should I go ahead and tell her that’s what you want?”
Buckhorn grinned dubiously. “Sounds like the better part of valor. You’ve got me scared now to do it any different. Tell her about eleven-thirty, before the noon crowd starts to build, okay?”