CHAPTER 20
Thomas Wainwright lifted two sheets of paper off his desktop and held them out to Leo Sweetwater. “Bills of sale. For the Laudermilk and Wesslin properties. You know where to locate them, right?”
“I’ll find ’em,” Sweetwater said, taking the papers.
“Take some men with you, men who know the area,” Wainwright instructed. He jabbed a finger at the papers he had just handed over. “Each of those has a two-hundred-dollar increase over my last offers for those same places. As is clearly stated, the offer is good only for twenty-four hours. If they’re too stubborn and stupid to accept, they’ll never see another offer anywhere close to the amounts given there. Make that very clear to them. Also make clear that, sooner or later, they will come to terms with me.”
“How hard to you want me to drive home that point?”
Wainwright leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Not as hard as I would have suggested just a day or so ago. With the recent outburst of violence in Wagon Wheel, I’m afraid we need to be a little more subtle about driving home our points. At least for a while. I don’t want to draw too much outside attention to our little piece of the country, especially not right at this time, due to exaggerated reports of violence.”
“Sometimes,” said Sweetwater, “just the hint of violence—as long as there’s a basis for knowing it’s more than only hot air—can be mighty persuasive by itself.”
Wainwright smiled a thin, humorless smile. “It’s uncanny how much you think like me. I wish to hell I had hired you in the beginning, rather than that has-been, to borrow your term about Dandy Jack.”
“He’s dead,” Sweetwater said somewhat testily. “How about we quit wasting so much time talking about the old bastard?”
“Point well taken,” agreed Wainwright. “As to your other point about using the hint of violence—or sudden misfortune, one might say—when talking to Laudermilk or Wesslin, here are a couple vulnerable spots you might consider working into your conversations with them. Laudermilk, it so happens, has a nice little pinto filly that he likes to race at festivals and other events around the county. Often as not, he wins or places very high with her. Enough to earn some extra money he badly needs to keep that place of his going. It would be a real shame, in more ways than one, if such a fine animal were to pull up mysteriously lame or, worse yet, be frightened out of her corral by, say, a cougar some night and break a leg fleeing across rough country in the dark. And the Wesslins have that brand-new addition they’re building onto their house in anticipation of the twins Mrs. Wesslin is expected to give birth to in about three months. What a tragedy it would be if some of that fresh, exposed wood framing caught a spark somehow and the whole works went up in flames some night . . .”
Sweetwater’s mouth curved in a mirror image of Wainwright’s cold smile. “I see you’ve played this game before.”
“You can’t begin to imagine,” Wainwright assured him, thinking back to the lessons he’d learned during his time running the prison for Rebel POWs—how to break a man physically with brutal, unimaginative torture . . . or how to crush their spirits more subtly by toying with their minds.
“When you speak with Wesslin and Laudermilk, be sure to give them my regards,” the former general said, his attention snapping back to the business at hand. “Take however many men you’ll need, report back to me as soon as you can.”
“A couple men should be plenty.”
“I’m riding out to the spot where our three riders were found gunned down yesterday. I expect to find the sheriff there and I’ll get an update on where he stands with his investigation into the killings. I should be back here by the time you return.”
“Sounds about right.”
Wainwright pursed his lips thoughtfully and Sweetwater lingered in taking his leave. He sensed his boss had something more to say . . . which proved true enough.
“This half-breed who keeps popping into situations with our men . . . Buckhide or whatever his name is . . .”
“Buckhorn. His name is Buckhorn.”
“Are you familiar with him at all? Ever hear of him before?”
Sweetwater nodded. “Heard the name, heard of him. Never crossed paths with him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“From everything I ever heard, he’s supposed to be pretty good. Tough, fast. Was a time he was considered especially ruthless. You don’t hear his name mentioned quite so much the past couple years and there’s some say he’s tamed down a mite over that time.”
“He’s hardly acted tame since he showed up in these parts.”
“No, he hasn’t, has he?” Sweetwater’s gaze was flat, calculating. “You want me to take care of him?”
Wainwright’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Come on, Leo. I expect smarter thinking than that out of you. Would taking care of him in the way I presume you meant be in keeping with what we just discussed regarding Laudermilk and Wesslin? About temporarily keeping the violence low key when confronted with problems?”
“All you have to do is tell me what you want, General. I’ll do it.” Sweetwater didn’t bother to hide his displeasure at being chastised nor at himself for making a bad assumption.
“What I want is your reaction to the possibility of me hiring Buckhorn to join our outfit.”
Sweetwater blinked. “For starters, I’d have to ask why you think we need him.”
Wainwright shrugged. “He’s here in our area. He’s available. If he’s as good as you say he is, why not? Can we have too many good guns signed on for our cause?”
“Would I still be considered your top gun?” Sweetwater wanted to know.
“I’d make it clear to all parties concerned.”
Sweetwater considered, didn’t say anything more right away.
“While you’re chewing on that, here’s something else to take a bite of. Before we left town last night—and before he subsequently hung back to pursue his own ill-conceived plan—Conway babbled something about Buckhorn also being responsible for that ambush of our three riders. At the time, I shrugged it off as a nonsensical coincidence. But to be sure and give fair consideration wherever it might be warranted, what do you think of that notion? It did happen right around the same time Buckhorn showed up in the area. Any chance he might be responsible?”
Sweetwater shook his head. “Not likely. Not from what I know of the man. If he got tangled up with those three, it would have been a straight-ahead shoot-out, not an ambush.”
“How about my earlier proposal, then? Think you could manage to get along with Buckhorn if he rode with us?”
“A body can stand most anything . . . for a while. You’d have to expect, though, that a pair like us in the same outfit would almost certainly reach the point of having to try each other, find out which one is best.”
“As long as that sort of confrontation was delayed for a time, I think it could be tolerated.”
Sweetwater considered for another long moment. “I suppose it could work for a while.” His eyes narrowed. “Now, can I ask you a question?”
Wainwright gave a barely perceptible nod. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve heard about your feelings and past dealings with Indians, even partial-bloods,” Sweetwater said. “Can you stand having this breed around as part of our outfit?”
Answering with little or no hesitation, Wainwright said, “For what is at stake in the long run, yes. I’m convinced I can.”
“I’ve got to tell you,” Sweetwater said frankly, “this whole line of talk comes as a pretty big surprise.”
“Let me try to explain. At a very low point in the late war, President Lincoln was casting about for a winning general to command our troops and first considered Grant. We’ve all heard the story of how several of his advisors brought up the subject of Grant’s heavy drinking, to which Lincoln replied, ‘Then find out what kind of whiskey he drinks, so I can have some of it sent to all of my other generals.’”
Sweetwater nodded agreeably, indicating he was familiar with the tale.
Wainwright went on. “But another discussion between Lincoln and his advisors took place that never got widely circulated because it was a bit too vulgar to be considered in good taste. Someone mentioned how Grant always stank of cigar smoke and horse piss and spending any time inside a tent with him was highly unpleasant, to which Abe replied, ‘I don’t care what he smells like. I can stand the stink of a little smoke and piss inside my tent if they’re accompanied by the smell of victory.’”
Sweetwater managed a grin. “For us, so it is with Buckhorn.”
“Exactly,” Wainwright said. “If it will help keep things under control until the mechanisms of my greater overall plan start to turn, I can stand some Indian stink inside my tent.”