CHAPTER 34
“Yeah, I know the fella you’re talking about,” Sheriff Banning said. “The way he started drawing a crowd by yesterday afternoon, I couldn’t hardly miss him.”
“So what did you do about it?” Sweetwater wanted to know.
The sheriff frowned. “What do you mean, what did I do about it? What was I supposed to do about it? Wasn’t like he was breaking any laws or anything.”
“Wouldn’t you call it disturbing the peace, stirring up a bunch of people that way?”
Banning’s frown deepened. “Wasn’t like he was stirring ’em up in a bad way, like a riot or anything. Basically, they were just flocked around, curiouslike, watching him parade around poking his stick this way and that.”
“And the stick is the thing that’s supposed to lead him to the water he’s promising?”
“I don’t know that he’s ‘promising’ to find water. But, yeah, the stick is the thing that’s supposed to lead him to it if there’s any there.”
Sweetwater leaned forward in his chair, eager, insistent. “There’s the thing. Right there! Flimflamming folks like that—there’s some kind of legal word for it, but I can’t remember what it is. Ain’t that something you can act on? He’s getting their hopes all built up and then, when he’s got ’em practically panting like a dog, he’ll be asking for money to finish finding the water. The water that ain’t there, as anybody with a lick of sense already knows. Once this trickster gets some money gathered up, he won’t be there neither. He’ll be gone like the last drop of rain. That’s the flimflam!”
Banning arched a brow skeptically, leaning back in the chair behind his office’s narrow, cluttered desk. Sweetwater, along with Buckhorn, was seated before the desk. The sheriff had poured coffee for everybody.
Just about the worst he’d ever tasted, Buckhorn judged.
The holding cells were empty. Outside, the main street of Wagon Wheel was coming alive in a wash of morning sun that was already hot and promising to grow steadily hotter as the day progressed.
“Well now,” said the sheriff, “I appreciate you riding all the way into town to warn me about the ways of a flimflam artist, Mr. Sweetwater. But I’ve gotta say, I’m a little surprised by your deep concern.” His eyes cut to Buckhorn. “And I’m even more surprised at the allegiances you seem to have taken up, mister.”
“Never mind about his allegiances or my concern,” Sweetwater snapped. “What your concern oughta be is knowing that General Wainwright don’t like this nonsense about people getting all het up over a new water source.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You figure it out.”
“Look, just because Wainwright owns most of the land in every direction, he don’t own the water that might be down in the earth and he don’t own this town.”
Sweetwater stood up. “Apparently you’re forgetting what he does own around here. When we get back to the ranch, I’ll have to remind him how forgetful you seem to ’ve gotten lately. In the meantime, me and Buckhorn are gonna take a stroll around town. Might be fun to see the show this dinker or dipper or whatever he calls himself puts on.”
“Be careful about starting anything, Sweetwater. I’ve cut you plenty of slack in the past, but folks have been suffering and worrying about the drought for quite a spell now. The hope they’ve raised over this dowser maybe coming up with something is pretty high. They won’t stand for anybody giving him a hard time.”
Sweetwater paused in the doorway and shot a hard look back over his shoulder. “That sounds to me like the makings of a mob, Sheriff. If they rile up over me and my pal asking a few questions out of simple curiosity, I sure hope you or one of your deputies are around to save our hides. Elsewise, keeping in mind your advice not to start anything, if there’s any trouble—strictly as a matter of self-defense, you understand—we might have to end it.”
* * *
Martin Goodwin paused in the lobby of the Traveler’s Rest Hotel as he contemplated the brilliant sunlight pouring into the street beyond the open front door. His face scrunched in a sour expression barely an improvement over the pale, haggard, bloodshot-eyed way it had looked a few minutes before. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “My head already feels like it’s going to explode. All that bright sunlight out there will set off the fuse for certain.”
Standing beside the worse-for-wear dowser, Carl Orndecker, looking fresh and rested, urged, “Aw, go on. It’s like taking the plunge into a pool of chilly water. Absorb the shock all at once and then the worst of it is over. Your eyes will water a little bit at first and then you’ll be fine.”
“I feel about a million miles from fine.”
“You think you invented the hangover or something?” Carl said. “You had one night of moderately heavy drinking and got three or four hours of sleep. Hell, that’s nothing. I’ve been on benders that lasted for weeks and came out of ’em alive. You’ll be surprised how quick you snap back once you make up your mind to move on past it.”
“I’m not sure there’s any snap back in me.”
“Oh, sure there is. There’d better be. If we didn’t generate enough notice with our little act last night, we may have to go back tonight and do it all over again.”
Goodwin gave him a sidelong glance with eyes as big around as silver dollars.
“Careful,” Carl said, barely suppressing a chuckle.
“You open those eyes too wide, you’re liable to bleed to death out of ’em.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“Just as well. You don’t want to be laughing when you go through those doors. Your public is out there waiting for you and they’ll expect you to look serious when you set about your business.”
“What do you mean, my public?” Goodwin said.
“I mean the folks who’ve taken such a big interest in what you’re doing. The ones who sort of collected around and began looking on yesterday . . . after they came to understand what it was you were up to. There’s six or eight of ’em out there already, waiting to watch you go at it again today.”
Goodwin groaned again. “You’re just full of good news.”
* * *
Looking out through the front window of the Sun Ledger building, Justine York was relieved to see her brother and Martin Goodwin emerging from the Traveler’s Rest Hotel. Goodwin was carrying the leather case that contained his divining rod and other bits of paraphernalia.
Milling nearby was a small crowd of citizens who could only be waiting to see the dowser resume his attempts to find some indication of underground water. Justine was relieved to see this also.
All of these indicators meant the roughly assembled plan they had put together with Buckhorn seemed to be showing promising results. One of her biggest concerns had been that her brother could go on a pretend drinking spree with Goodwin and stop short of having it turn into the real thing.
She didn’t know everything that had transpired in the nameless Mexville cantina last night, but the fact that both men were up and about this morning was a good sign . . . although Goodwin did look a little green around the gills, now that she watched him move into the sunlight.
The townsfolk showing interest and apparent belief in the possibility there just might be an alternative water source somewhere close by, fell right in line with how they hoped their plan would work.
Justine stepped out onto busy Front Street, leaving a note on the door of the newspaper office saying she would return in fifteen minutes. She was headed to the telegraph office to see if she’d gotten a reply to any of her inquiries as to the state of the latest revolution brewing in Mexico. If she succeeded in establishing communication with someone who had their finger on the pulse of the situation, they could consider that another piece of the plan in place.
She’d taken only a few steps when she saw Buckhorn and Leo Sweetwater leaving the sheriff’s office and coming down the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street. She knew this was all part of the ruse, but seeing them like that—striding side by side, all friendly-looking—made a chill run through her.
God, they were banking so much on Buckhorn, the way he was the solid core to everything. If he decided to betray them in any way, perhaps get caught up by the wildly ambitious dream of Thomas Wainwright, it would be absolutely devastating.
She gave her head a little shake. No, Buckhorn would never do that. No matter how relaxed and natural he looked at the moment, walking alongside Sweetwater.
Buckhorn’s whole purpose for being here was to crush Wainwright.
Nothing could ever swerve him from that . . . could it?