CHAPTER 22
The lunch with Justine York was pleasant, and no doubt would have been even more so if Buckhorn hadn’t been somewhat distracted by thoughts of Martin Goodwin showing up and how his presence might best be used against Wainwright.
Luckily, Goodwin hadn’t mentioned Buckhorn’s name upon arriving in town nor had he made any inquiries as far as seeking him out. That was all taken care of when he opted to also take a room at the Traveler’s Rest. As he was signing the register, there it was a couple lines above his—Buckhorn’s own sign-in from earlier and the original room number scratched out and corrected to the current one. That was Goodwin’s basis for knowing where to go when he’d paid his visit.
After talking, the two men had agreed that they would continue to avoid letting anyone know they had any association. They would meet covertly—the next time scheduled for after the patrons of the hotel had turned in—until they came up with a plan for utilizing Goodwin in the most effective way possible.
Ironically, while Buckhorn was attempting to keep the lunchtime conversation with Justine focused on something lighter, it was she who dragged in the subject of Thomas Wainwright and his operation. “I think these recent displays of escalating violence are indicators of one of two things. Either Wainwright is getting ready to move on to the next phase of whatever his land-grabbing has been leading up to all along . . . or his plans aren’t moving fast enough and he’s trying to shake things up in order to get back on pace.”
“Sudden violence has a way of moving things off dead center, that’s for sure,” Buckhorn said. “But I kinda figured—not that it’s the way I wanted it, mind you—that a lot of folks around here would be looking to blame me for the gunplay that keeps popping up.”
“Well, no denying you’ve been involved in more than your share. But it was always a matter of self-defense,” Justine pointed out. “Nobody can blame you for that. Those three Flying W riders who were ambushed out on the range. Nobody knows who they ran up against, but that wasn’t you.”
“Yeah, the common thing in all cases is that it was Wainwright men who got dead. That might count as shaking things up, but to keep having your own cut down hardly seems like a good rallying tactic.”
“The ones who fell to you weren’t necessarily meant to be the ones cut down. You were. Had it gone that way, those who forced your hand would have been praised and anybody else riding for the Flying W brand would have been swept up in the momentum. Could even be that those first three victims were slackers who got gunned down as examples to help make the point.”
Buckhorn said, “Anything’s possible, I guess. For your sake, I just hope the stuff you put in that newspaper of yours—this special edition you’re running, and otherwise—sticks to the facts and doesn’t amount to stretching your neck out too far on speculation.”
“I know all about running a newspaper. I learned from the best,” Justine said coolly. “I know what to label as fact and when and how to speculate in an editorial. Wainwright damn well knows I know these things and the fact he’s never retaliated against me, even though I’ve burned him in my pages more than once, proves he knows the power of the press.”
“Was the same true when your husband was running the paper? Did he set himself against Wainwright, too?”
Justine frowned. “How do you know about my husband?”
Buckhorn shrugged. “Heard some things here and there. Carl said your husband was a real newshound, had newspapering in his blood. When you said a minute ago that you learned from the best, I took that to mean you were talking about him.”
“I was. But I really don’t feel comfortable talking about Gerald.”
“Was he still alive when Wainwright started muscling in on more and more land?”
“Yes, he was. But I said I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.” Buckhorn leaned back in his chair, feeling bad for having leaned a little hard on the widow . . . but he still had things he wanted to know. “Let’s go back to Wainwright then, and this big plan you think he’s cooking up beyond just amassing land. Any idea what he’s got in mind?”
Justine shook her head. “Don’t I wish. Most people can’t seem to see it at all. They see him gobbling the land and controlling the water and a lot of them don’t like it, but that’s as far as it goes. Those who’ve lost land or water rights to him bemoan only their own fates, and those who’ve gone untouched directly cling to the hope the drought won’t last and they’ll scrape by. They either can’t or don’t want to see that there’s some bigger picture forming.
“Wainwright’s claimed practically enough land for a small state and gathered enough hired guns for a small army. That’s without mentioning the riders and wranglers he employs for his ranching operation. And since he’s married Lusita, God knows how many in-laws he can also call on.”
“How’s that again?”
“About two years ago,” Justine explained, “Wainwright married Lusita, an absolutely stunning creature, much younger than the general, and the daughter of Don Pedro Olomoso, a big rancher and mine owner just across the border. The marriage obviously formed a bond between the two powerful men. An offspring, which seemed obvious to everybody, was a big part of the union since Wainwright had no heirs—would have strengthened it even more. So far, no heir has entered the picture but that hasn’t kept Wainwright and Don Pedro from growing chummier.”
“You think this Mexican don is part of Wainwright’s bigger plan?”
“Could be. I’ve thought of that, but can’t really see the gain for either side. Whatever was added by a partnership would have to be split and shared by that same partnership. They have roughly equal amounts of land, though Wainwright’s is better for raising beef. His herd is much larger and of better quality than the don’s, from what I understand, and he has better established markets. What Don Pedro lacks in cattle-raising capacity he makes up for by silver-mining potential from the Barranaca Mountains that fall partly within his land—if he can keep the Indians who prowl there off the backs of his miners. From all reports, he seems to have finally killed or driven off most of them. After he’s cleared the way, the Mexican government will be poised to move in and claim their share of any silver that comes out.”
“Sounds like Wainwright, for sure, would come out on the short end of the stick by risking a fight with the Yaquis and the Mexican government if he threw in with the don.”
“Except he likes fighting Indians, remember,” Justine said. “And you can bet that any partnership between those two rascals would be geared toward dodging the Mexican government or anybody else who tried to trim their profits. Never forget that the lure of silver or gold has fogged the mind of many men, especially with somebody like Lusita adding some steam to the picture.”
Buckhorn arched a brow. “You make her sound mighty bewitching.”
Justine smiled crookedly. “She is. Or could be. I just don’t know if she realizes it or not. She may be more an innocent victim than a temptress wielding influence. Either way, it unfortunately doesn’t provide any answers as far as whatever it is I’m convinced Wainwright is planning—in cahoots with Don Pedro or alone.”
They’d finished their main courses and were considering the question of dessert. Also, they were into the noon hour proper and the popular restaurant was rapidly starting to fill up.
“I think I’ll pass on dessert,” Justine decided, “but don’t let me stop you. The Groelsch sisters make pies that are even better than their other dishes. You oughtn’t deprive yourself of some.”
“Naw, that’s okay,” Buckhorn said. “I might stop in for a slice and a cup of coffee later on, but I’m plenty full for now.”
“You could do both. You’ll wish you had, once you try some. As for me, I need to get back to the shop. I still have plenty to do in order to get that special edition out. Let me take care of our bill so we can make room for somebody else.”
“That’s pretty awkward for me,” Buckhorn protested. “Let me go ahead and take care of the bill.”
“Nonsense. This is repayment for helping yesterday with that wagonload of paper stock and . . . well, with Carl, too. We’re both extremely grateful.”
“If you insist. You know, Carl stopped by earlier . . . to thank me in person.”
“Yes, I was aware.”
“That was mighty decent of him.”
Justine smiled. “I’m glad you think so. Mainly, I’m glad you got to meet him when he was in a better condition.”
“So am I.”
Justine had just finished paying and they were starting to leave when gunshots exploded from the street outside. One . . . two . . . three.
The pacing of the shots was very measured and deliberate. Unhurried, somehow not particularly threatening. Nevertheless, Buckhorn shoved Justine behind him and stepped out, his Colt gliding smoothly to his fist. Up and down the dusty, sun-washed midday street, people were scrambling frantically, ducking into the nearest doorways.
All except one man who stood in the center of Front Street, facing the Silver Dollar Saloon. He was a young man, not much past twenty, hatless but otherwise decked out in standard range wear. The sun glistened brightly on his headful of unruly reddish hair. His left hand was closed around a small box of some sort.
Hanging loosely in his right, pointed downward at the moment, was a converted Navy revolver with a wisp of smoke curling up from the end of the barrel.