CHAPTER 31
Until Sweetwater made mention of it, Buckhorn hadn’t realized the man’s leg was pinned under the fallen horse. He thought the young gunman was just hunkered there because he had no chance to gain better cover. Once Buckhorn had been made aware of the predicament, he got down on his knees beside Sweetwater and the two of them scooped away handfuls of the wash’s sandy bottom from around the trapped leg until they created a kind of trough out of which they were able to pull the limb free.
Luckily, thanks again to the cushiony sand, the leg wasn’t broken. It came out bruised and battered and quick to swell, causing Sweetwater to do some limping, but it could have been a lot worse.
On the ride to Flying W ranch headquarters, doubled up aboard Sarge, Sweetwater gave a more thorough explanation of how the ambush had come about. He told how he’d recently leaned on Laudermilk in order to get him to agree to sell his property to Wainwright.
Sweetwater and the other Flying W rider had been on their way over to the former Laudermilk spread that morning to make sure the ex-owners were packing up and getting ready to pull out. A humiliated, angry, embittered Laudermilk had apparently anticipated that and along with his oldest son had waited in ambush to exact some revenge before leaving.
“Reckon you know how it went from there,” Sweetwater summed up. “Soon as we get to the Flying W, I’ll send some fellas with a wagon to fetch the body of our man Parsons and to deliver those of Laudermilk and his son to the family. Let them see to their own damn planting.”
At the ranch, Sweetwater’s tale was met with anger, regret over the loss of Parsons, and concern for Sweetwater’s injury, even though he insisted it wasn’t all that bad.
Wainwright came down from the main house to hear the report and to quell the talk of administering a heated reprisal to the rest of the Laudermilk family. “No,” he said firmly. “I think what’s left of the family—a widow and three young children—have paid quite enough for the foolishness of their patriarch. Let them bury their dead and move on. I expect the times ahead will be punishing enough for them. They don’t deserve for us to heap on any more.”
He gave approval to Sweetwater’s notion of sending some men back to the ambush site with a wagon to bring home the body of Parsons and to deliver the corpses of Laudermilk and his son to the widow.
Motioning Buckhorn aside, he said, “It’s uncommon for a newly hired man to be so immediately put to the test of a violent confrontation. I must say, from the sound of it you handled yourself in a very satisfactory manner. Leo, I assure you, is not prone to being overly generous when it comes to handing out praise.”
Buckhorn shrugged. “Just doing what was proper. Couldn’t hardly leave a fella who rides for my same brand in a tight spot.”
“Well said. I just want you to know that it has been duly noted by myself, and how pleased and relieved I am to know I clearly made a good choice in soliciting your services.”
We’ll see how long that lasts, Buckhorn thought.
“I don’t mean to pile too much on you all at once,” Wainwright continued, “but I want you to accompany the men who are going back with a wagon. You can show them the most direct way to the ambush site. Further, since I read you as having a cool head and fair demeanor, I’m entrusting you to see to it that Laudermilk’s widow and children suffer no coarse treatment from the others who’ll be going with you. Can you handle that?”
“If that’s the way you want it,” Buckhorn told him.
Wainwright gave a crisp nod. “That’s the way I want it.”
* * *
The two men Buckhorn joined to go fetch the bodies were named Blevins and Poudry. They came out of Wainwright’s fighting crew, not from among the working wranglers.
Big Bart Blevins was a brute of a man with spiky black whiskers, a mangled nose that looked like a scoop of oatmeal with purplish veins running through it, and suspicious dark eyes that seemed to be perpetually darting this way or that. His favored weapon was a double-barreled shotgun worn hanging from a sling down across the middle of his back. He also carried a short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 in a shoulder rig on the left side.
Pepperjack Poudry was of medium height and build, sporting a shaggy headful of sandy hair that he adorned with glittery trinkets. He bragged a mixture of French and Mexican blood and possessed the worst traits of each. He had a particular fondness for bladed weapons and carried a wide variety of knives and daggers on his person at all times. He also carried a converted Navy Colt pistol, prominently displayed in a bright red sash worn around his waist.
They rolled out with Blevins and Poudry sharing the seat of a high-wheeled buckboard pulled by a team of chestnut mares. Buckhorn rode a few yards ahead on Sarge. Blevins worked the reins of the buckboard and clucked gruffly to the mares, obviously having done some teamstering in the past.
As Buckhorn led in the direction of the dry wash, the men on the wagon seat conversed steadily. They spoke in mutterings and mumblings, their words unintelligible to Buckhorn. Whether this was inadvertent or by design, Buckhorn did not know nor did he particularly care. He had plenty on his mind without worrying about the rambling of a couple low-rung hardcases.
He knew a little bit about Blevins, had heard Poudry’s name mentioned a time or two, he couldn’t remember where. It didn’t matter. They were marked well enough. He knew their type as clear as if they had descriptions painted on their backs. They were mean and tough, that was about all you could say about them. Wainwright had been reaching pretty deep into the barrel when he scraped them up.
“This is the place,” Buckhorn announced as they approached the bloating lumps of the horse carcasses on the floor of the wash. A couple buzzards were making lazy circles in the sky overhead and the buzzing drone from clouds of flies could be heard as they drew closer.
“Wonder what I did to piss off the old man so’s he picked me for this meat detail,” muttered Blevins. “I never liked Parsons all that much to begin with. I sure ain’t got no give-a-damn about a couple ambushin’ skunks. You think I’m gonna lug their no-account asses all the way down off that hill just to make a delivery of ’em? Not very likely, says I.”
“We’re gonna at least pick their bodies, though, ain’t we?” Poudry asked.
“What the hell for? They was nothing but dirt-poor losers. What’d you figure they’d have of any value? Besides, don’t forget the breed was already here once before. You put an Injun anywhere near a dead body laying around to be picked clean of any valuables, you can bet the redskin will have the job done quicker than a hiccup. Ain’t that right, Buckhide?”
“The name’s Buckhorn,” came the correction in a flat, even tone.
“Whatever,” grunted Blevins as he set the brake and started to climb down from the buckboard seat. He swatted at a swarm of flies. “Come on, let’s wrap ol’ Parsons in that tarp we brung along and then get the hell out of here.”
“While you’re seeing to him,” Buckhorn said, “I’ll go get the body up by that highest boulder and bring it down. Then you two can fetch the nearer one.” He swung down from the saddle and started for the slope.
He’d gone only a couple steps when Blevins’s booming voice rang out. “Hold it, breed!”
Buckhorn stopped and turned back to face the big man. He looked at him, not saying anything.
“Didn’t you hear me say we ain’t botherin’ with them other two bodies?”
“I guess I wasn’t paying attention. What I did hear, real plain, was General Wainwright saying as to how we were to take these bodies and return them to their family.”
“And how’s he gonna know the difference if nobody squawks?”
“Maybe we got us a little tattletale who tells every fart he hears,” said Poudry.
Blevins guffawed. “A tattletale breed. If that wouldn’t beat all.”
Buckhorn had fully expected, sooner or later, that some of the Flying W hardcases would see fit to test his mettle. Sighing, he reckoned it was as good a time as any to get at least the first round of it over with.
Squaring his shoulders, planting his feet a little wider, he said in a voice that sounded like sandpaper brushing across stone, “Mister, you call me breed in that snotty tone one more time, the bed of that wagon is liable to get mighty crowded if we have to cram your fat ass in there along with the rest of what we came here to haul away.”
Blevins’s mouth gaped open so wide and so suddenly that a dribble of juice from the foul tobacco he was chewing ran out one corner. His darting eyes turned even busier than usual, snapping around like he was hearing voices inside his head or something. “W-what did you say to me?”
“You heard me plain enough. Or did some of that disgusting cud you’re chewing leak up and clog your ears? I don’t like being here in the flies and the stink with those buzzards circling overhead any more than you do, but I was sent to do a job, and that’s what I intend to do—the full works, like it was laid out. The only question is, are you and Frenchie gonna do your share or are you just gonna add to what I’ve got to take care of?”
“By that, you mean takin’ care of us, too?”
“Except for the loading you on the wagon part. I think I’ve changed my mind on that. Let somebody else come back and hoist your lard.”
“You really think you’re that good?”
“One way to find out.”
“Amigo,” Poudry said rather nervously, “I do not think this is such a good idea. If we shoot him, we will have to explain to Wainwright why it came to that. If he shoots us, that obviously is not a desirable thing. I do not see where it works out good for us either way.”
“He’s talking sense, Blevins,” Buckhorn said. “We can leave it at each of us having done a little growling and just go ahead and do what we were sent here for. Maybe take our differences back up another time.”
“Oh, we will definitely do that,” Blevins promised.
Buckhorn grunted. “Yeah. I expect we will.” He could see this was going nowhere, so he turned his back on the pair and started up the slope to where Johnny Laudermilk’s body lay. Over his shoulder, he said, “If either of you think about shooting me in the back, stop and consider how hard it’ll be to explain the bullet holes coming from that way.”
No shots were forthcoming, but he’d gone several steps before the anxious tingling between his shoulder blades went away.
* * *
After the bodies were loaded, they headed for the ranch house formerly owned by the Laudermilks, where they expected to find the rest of the family packing and making final preparations to pull out. Since Buckhorn had no idea where the ranch was located, Blevins, at the reins of the buckboard, led the way. After rolling away from the wash and in sharp contrast to all the chatting they’d done on the way there, the two wagon riders did very little talking.
Buckhorn trailed from off to one side and a few yards to the rear. Although he’d determined his two companions were neither desperate enough to shoot him in the back nor brave enough to face him head-on, he liked it a lot better being able to keep an eye on them.
Over the last mile or so, however, they had started up again. Once more it was low mutterings that Buckhorn couldn’t make out. He had a hunch they were cooking something up and it was probably a dish that wouldn’t be to his liking. Whatever it was, it appeared they were going to try and serve him some.
Once their destination hove into sight, Blevins hauled back on the reins and brought his rig to a halt. “Now looky here, you,” Blevins said as Buckhorn pulled up even with the buckboard and reined Sarge to a stop also. “Me and Pepperjack are needing to know just how much of a Goody Two-shoes you are, exactly.”
Buckhorn almost laughed in his face. “Me? A Goody Two-shoes? Mister, you’d better spit out that tobacco you’re chawing in a big hurry. I think you got a serious batch of locoweed mixed in.”
“So you’re saying you’re not?”
“Not by any measure I know of.”
Blevins scowled. “Okay. Maybe that makes sense. That other business back there, like you said, was laid out as direct orders. I guess I shouldn’t have thought about shortcuttin’ ’em.”
“So what is it you’re getting at?” Buckhorn wanted to know.
“Well, me and Pepperjack been talking. When we get up yonder”—he nodded his head to indicate the ranch buildings in the distance—“the only strict orders Wainwright gave was to deliver the bodies to the widow. Right? Beyond that, he didn’t lay on any restrictions or give any exact instructions. That the way you remember it?”
“Go on.”
“Well, you got no way to know this on account of you’re new to the area, but it so happens that Mrs. Laudermilk—now Widow Laudermilk—she ain’t a half-bad-looking woman. Not for these parts, she ain’t. And that’s for damn sure.”
“It is true,” agreed Poudry eagerly, his mouth spreading in a wide, lewd smile that displayed a shiny gold tooth. “What is more, she has a teenage daughter. Sixteen or seventeen, I think she is. Ah, but the woman has awakened in her, if you know what I mean. Every indication is that she will blossom to be as fine looking as her mother. Maybe even more so.”
“So what me and Pepperjack was thinking,” Blevins went on, “was that it would be downright shameful and rude to drop off these cold bodies and then just ride off and leave all that ripe womanhood untended. They’re bound to need some comforting in their time of, er, grief. Especially the lonely widow, what with her husband gone and therefore the services a woman just naturally looks to from her man suddenly left empty.”
“And the daughter,” Pepperjack added. “Trying to come to grips with the loss of her beloved papa—think what solace it would be for her to discover feelings and pleasures to help her get beyond the suffering of such terrible sadness and emptiness.”
Buckhorn remained silent and stone-faced throughout these disgusting spiels of self-serving hogwash.
Blevins, unable to tell if what they were pitching was sinking in or not, finally blurted, “Do you get what it is we’re tryin’ to say or don’t you?”
“Oh, I get what you’re saying real clear,” Buckhorn responded. “What you’re saying is that you two pigs, combined, aren’t worth the price of the pair of slugs it would take to rid the world of your filth.”
Quicker than an eyeblink, Buckhorn had his Colt drawn and leveled on a spot directly between Blevins and Poudry. With a slight twitch of the muzzle, one way or the other, he could plant a .45 caliber pill in either one. It wouldn’t take more than a fraction of a second to blow both of them clean off the seat. “But since I’m pretty flush at the moment,” he continued through clenched teeth, “I’d be more than willing to cover the cost.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Blevins said, sneering but clearly nervous again. “You’d have the same problem explaining to Wainwright that we would’ve had if we’d done you back down the way.”
“One big difference. I’m not afraid of Wainwright. If he hires trash like you, I’m not so sure I want to work for him anyway.”
“Big talk.”
“Think what you want. Like before, there’s one sure way to find out.”
“So what are you going to do to us?” Poudry asked anxiously.
“I’m not sure. But I know I’m not gonna let you anywhere near that widow and her kids. We’ll begin by you shucking your hardware. Slow and easy, one at a time. You first, Blevins. Start with the shotgun. Hand it to me. Then toss your sidearm and everything else back into the wagon bed.”
When both men were disarmed, Buckhorn used the shotgun to motion them down off the buckboard seat. “Both of you on this side. When you light down, back away a half dozen steps and take your boots off. Throw ’em in the wagon bed along with—”
“To hell with you!” Blevins erupted. “I ain’t taking my boots off for nobody, especially no goddamned redskin.”
Aiming the man’s own shotgun at him, Buckhorn said, “Your choice. You can leave ’em on if you want. You do, you’ll be taking a ride in the wagon bed with ’em on and then from there you can wear ’em straight into Hell. I’ll give you to the count of three to decide. One . . .”
“Do not be a fool, Blevins,” Poudry pleaded as he began kicking off his own boots. “Look in that hombre’s eyes. He means every word he says.”
Blevins’s restless eyes tried to stare down Buckhorn, but the flinty glare of the latter made it no contest. Mouth curling savagely, Blevins averted his hate-filled gaze and began removing his boots.
“All right. Here’s the way we’re gonna do this,” Buckhorn said after both pairs of boots were in the wagon bed. He continued to talk as he dismounted and walked Sarge around to the back of the buckboard and tied him on. “You two are gonna wait right here while I take the rig on ahead and drop off the bodies of Laudermilk and his son. Stay right where you are, so I can keep clear sight of you.”
He climbed up onto the seat of the rig and reached for the reins with one hand. All during this, he kept Blevins’s shotgun steadily trained on the two men now in stocking feet.
“I see you coming toward the house, I’ll shoot and kill you. I see you trying to get away, I’ll ride you down and kill you. You stay put and behave, I’ll come back by, pick you up, and try to get you back to the Flying W alive. It’s gonna be your call all the way. We got an understanding?”
Accepting their silence and baleful stares as sufficient answer, Buckhorn snapped the team’s reins and set the buckboard rolling toward the former Laudermilk ranch buildings.