CHAPTER 32
“You send me out with these two ever again,” Buckhorn said, reporting back to Wainwright and Leo Sweetwater after they’d returned to the Flying W, “either me or them won’t be making it back alive.”
Wainwright scowled. “I don’t respond well to ultimatums, Mr. Buckhorn.”
Buckhorn met his scowl with a stony, unyielding gaze. “Call it a suggestion then. Or a promise. In any case, you can count on me meaning what I say.”
“He’s a dirty damn liar, Mr. Wainwright!” protested Bart Blevins. “You know how humpbacked them redskin bucks get for white women. He was the one who wanted to violate the Widow Laudermilk and then take advantage of her poor innocent daughter, too. He was like a rutting boar hog! It was all me and Pepperjack could do to hold him back and keep him from—”
“Shut up!” Wainwright barked. “You sicken me. What’s more, you make me ashamed of myself for ever having stooped so low as to hire you. I knew your reputations yet I was willing to overlook them because I thought I could . . . Never mind what I thought. I hardly have to explain myself to the likes of you.”
“No, you sure don’t, sir.” Blevins spoke again quickly in a mewling, condescending tone, trying desperately to get through the trouble without having it get any worse. “As a top officer of the blue and a wealthy landowner and successful businessman, you surely don’t owe me or Pepperjack any explanation for—”
“Enough,” Wainwright cut him short again, including a chopping motion with one hand. “I’ve heard all I can stand. I can ill afford to lose more men at a time like this, yet two of the traits I will least abide from men serving under me are whining and the vulgar abuse of innocent women.”
“I tell you it wasn’t us looking to debauch that woman,” Blevins insisted. “You, the big Indian hater, would take the word of a damn low-down half-breed over white men like me and Poudry?”
“You and Poudry are vermin, not men—and lying ones to boot,” said Wainwright. “And yes, I’m taking the word of Buckhorn over yours. What’s more, the way I see it now, since I take the measure of him and his gun to be worth the both of you and more, by gaining him and shedding you I really won’t be losing anything at all, will I?”
“What do you mean, shedding us?” Poudry asked. “I have not protested. I have said nothing.”
“Then perhaps you should have. The pair of you are dismissed.” Wainwright made a shooing-away gesture. “Get them out of my sight, Mr. Sweetwater. Take them to the bunkhouse and have them pack their things. Keep an eye on them. I will figure up their wages and have pay envelopes prepared by the time they’re ready to go.”
“You’re making a big mistake, Wainwright,” said Blevins.
“No, I am correcting one.”
“What about our guns and boots from the wagon?”
“All of your personal belongings will be returned to you.”
“Not this,” Buckhorn said, patting the shotgun he held in the crook of his arm. “I’ve taken kind of a shine to it, plus I don’t particularly care for the thought of having it aimed my way from behind some dark corner the first chance this skunk gets.”
“I’m giving you a good deal of allowance, especially considering the brevity of our association, Mr. Buckhorn. But you’d be advised not to push your luck too far with me,” Wainwright warned. “A man’s belongings are rightfully his.”
“He can have the scattergun back—both barrels first—any time he wants to come get it.”
Wainwright heaved an exasperated sigh. “Mr. Sweetwater, you will escort the dismissed men as far as the lake. Make sure they keep going from there.” He raked a hard gaze over Blevins and Poudry. “And you two would be advised to understand this. My property runs from here for more than a day’s ride in any direction above the border. Be off of it by this time tomorrow. After that, anyone and everyone who works for me will have standing orders to shoot you on sight. Now get out of here and get your gear packed.”
* * *
As Buckhorn entered the bunkhouse designated for the Flying W’s gun crew, Blevins and Poudry were being noisily escorted out the door. Buckhorn held up the shotgun he had taken from Blevins and made a production of cracking it open and shucking its shells. Snapping it closed again, he handed it to Sweetwater and said, “Give it back to him when you’re far enough out. I decided I don’t want to keep it after all. Damn thing might be infested with vermin.”
A separate building from the older adobe structure occupied by the crew of working wranglers, the gunnies’ place was a converted wood frame horse barn, a bit roomier and also a bit draftier. Judging by the number of mismatched joints he spotted as he walked in, Buckhorn reckoned that whatever ranch hands had done the converting did not count carpenter work among their top skills.
Still, it was clean and relatively tidy with a bit of fresh-cut wood odor lingering in the air here and there. Buckhorn had for sure slept in worse places. A hell of a lot worse.
He counted more than two dozen bunks arranged in three rows. A few were empty, a condition at least partially accountable to him. He picked one out for himself, claiming an available one near the far back corner. It had good firmness to the rope mattress, a clean-smelling pillow, and a sturdy footlocker with a hasp for attaching a lock if he wished. In the storage space were two extra blankets. He tossed his war bag in on top of them and closed the lid.
As Buckhorn sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on knees, he absently studied a spot on the floor between his feet. Numerous things churned inside his head.
Sitting there on the bed, he could hear the three men riding out, Blevins and Poudry still bitching and moaning, Sweetwater silently doing his job to scoot them on their way.
Buckhorn wondered about giving back the shotgun. He wondered about a lot of things where Blevins and Poudry were concerned. Some of what he thought he didn’t like very much. But then, there were a lot of things about the whole situation Andrew Haydon had sent him into the middle of that he didn’t care for very much.
Before Buckhorn got lost too deep in reverie, a prune-faced old black man came over and said that Sweetwater had asked him to introduce the newcomer around, show him the general layout of things, and otherwise keep him company until Sweetwater returned.
“My name is Tyrone. Since I’m the cook for this outfit—the general’s gun crew, I’m talkin’ about—it might be that you end up keepin’ me company if’n Leo takes too long getting back. In the kitchen, that is . . . on account I gotta start rustlin’ up some grub for these curly wolves before too much longer.”
Buckhorn shrugged. “No problem. I’ve peeled a potato or three in my day. Might as well start doing something around here to earn my keep.”
“Now there’s a rare outlook,” Tyrone said. “When it comes to this lazy outfit, that is. Mostly they jes’ sit around playin’ cards or cleanin’ their guns. Sometimes doing some target shootin’ so’s they can go back and clean their guns some more.”
“Man who does gun work for a living has to take good care of the tool of his trade,” Buckhorn pointed out.
“Yeah, and I keep my pots and pans clean, too,” Tyrone snorted. “But sooner or later I also gotta cook with ’em!”
Tyrone did a thorough job of taking him around, showing him the washup facilities, the grub shack, and where he could target shoot. He pointed the way to the outhouses, told him the meal routines, and introduced him to the rest of the gun hands milling about.
Some were playing cards at the big round table near the front of the bunkhouse, some were reading tattered old magazines, a few were just lying or sitting around smoking cigarettes or drinking coffee to pass the time. Their introductions to Buckhorn were acknowledged by brief eye contact, simple grunts, and a few gruff “hullos.” Nothing more elaborate or welcoming. He had crossed paths with a few men in the past, a couple others he knew by name. As a whole, they seemed to add up to a pack of reasonably seasoned veterans, though not exactly the cream of the crop.
As it turned out, he was in the grub shack kitchen with Tyrone by the time Sweetwater got back. Not peeling potatoes, just sitting off to one side making small talk.
“They seemed willing to tolerate me,” Buckhorn summed up for the gunman, “but at the same time I don’t get a warm feeling they’re ready to nominate me to head up the Saturday-night singalong.”
Sweetwater grinned. “Probably just as well. I got a feeling your singing voice is about as pleasant as a bullfrog’s.”
“My horse likes it fine,” Buckhorn countered. “Leastways he don’t buck me off when I take to singing out on the trail.”
“Well, before you get the urge to bust into song around me, consider yourself bucked outta here,” said Tyrone. “Move along, the both of you. I gotta have elbow room to work my cooking magic.”
Buckhorn and Sweetwater retreated to the bunkhouse. The lengthening shadows of evening fell over them as they passed between buildings.
“In case you’d like to know, I gave your two pals a right proper send-off,” Sweetwater said once they were inside and had moved on past the tableful of card players.
“Good riddance to bad garbage, is all I can say,” replied Buckhorn.
When they reached the bunk he’d selected for himself, Buckhorn stopped short. Laying in the middle of it was Blevins’s shotgun. Buckhorn cut his eyes over to Sweetwater.
“Seems to keep finding its way back to you,” said the young gunman, answering the unasked question. “Reckon that means you’re best suited for it.”
“Next you’re gonna tell me Blevins presented it to me as a gift.”
Sweetwater shrugged. “Let’s just say he’s all through with it.”
Buckhorn kept regarding him.
Changing subjects somewhat airily, Sweetwater said, “I stopped by the main house when I got back. Boy, is the old man in a tizzy now. Seems he got a report about some goings-on in town that really tied his tail in a knot. He wants me to take a couple men and ride in first thing in the morning to check up on what he heard. I told him I’d take you. That’d be enough.”
“What kind of report did Wainwright get?” Buckhorn said.
Sweetwater rolled his eyes. “Crazy talk about some fella who’s showed up with a magic stick or pointer of some kind who claims he can use it to locate underground water. Did you ever hear anything so loco? In spite of that, he’s got a whole passel of the town folks all stirred up, half believing he knows what he’s doing.”
“I’ve heard of his kind. They show up wherever there’s drought and misery, trying to make money off the hopes of the desperate.”
“You ever hear of any of ’em actually striking water?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“Well, we’ll see how far this one plans on taking his act. If it’s farther than Wainwright wants to allow—and that wouldn’t be none too far, I don’t reckon—we’ll have to see to it that he hits a dry hole.”
“First thing in the morning you say?”
“Uh-huh. We’ll have ourselves some supper here in a bit. After that, if you’re a card player and worth beans at it, I’ll tell you that sorry bunch over there is always good for some quick pocket jingle. Be a way to kill some time and make money doing it before it’s time to turn in. We can head out tomorrow after a good night’s sleep . . . since it won’t get interrupted by you roaming out after Blevins and Poudry.”
Buckhorn frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? Why the hell would I be roaming after that pair? I want ’em as far gone as possible with no desire to ever lay eyes on ’em again.”
Sweetwater smiled slyly. “But what you got even less of a desire for is them to get anywhere near that widow lady and her daughter again. And you know damn well, just as sure as I did, that’s where they would have beelined for as soon as I peeled off from ’em. That’s why you had every intention of slipping outta here tonight, the first chance you got, and catching up to make sure they’d never be able to follow through with their low-down plans.”
Buckhorn’s eyes went again to the shotgun on his bunk. “So you took care of ’em for me.”
“For you. For Widow Laudermilk. Hell, for the good of mankind. Don’t tell me the world’s any worse off with those two scraped off of it.”
“Wainwright know what you did?”
“Not by me telling him, but he’s a pretty shrewd ol’ rascal. Don’t ever sell him short on that. I got a hunch that he had a pretty fair hunch what those curs might try and what you’d probably do about it. You heard what he said about the bad treatment of vulnerable women and such. He meant that. Me, I feel the same. As you obviously do.” Sweetwater showed his teeth in a wide, crooked grin. “Hell, we’re all just a bunch of shiny knights galloping around the countryside slaying evildoers and saving damsels in distress.”
Buckhorn shook his head. “I think you must’ve taken a chaw of Blevins’s locoweed-laced tobacco before you saw him off. In any case, I reckon I’m obliged to you. At the very least, you saved me some lost sleep.”
“So you was gonna go after them rascals, wasn’t you?”
“It was on my mind,” Buckhorn admitted.
“I knew it. I saw it in your eyes when you handed me Blevins’s shotgun.” Sweetwater’s expression turned somber. “But listen. You feeling obliged for what I done ain’t necessary. I’ve never said a proper thanks to you for saving my bacon earlier today in that dry wash. I’d ’ve been a goner for sure, if you hadn’t come along when you did.”
“You already squared that,” Buckhorn reminded him, “when you had to shoot the old man off my back because I failed to take care of his son proper in the first place.”
Sweetwater shook his head. “No, I don’t see it as being that clean. You were spinning on the old man and had a good chance of putting him down on your own. I just lent a hand, that’s all. But the fix they had me in ahead of that—I had no chance. It was just a matter of time before they would’ve got me. I see it as me still being beholden to you.”
“You’re a stubborn cuss, aren’t you?” Buckhorn arched a brow. “I guess the only thing for it now is to agree to disagree. Otherwise we’ll end up arguing half the night away and all I’ll accomplish is wasting the sleep you gained me.”