CHAPTER 39
As the last sliver of a boiling red sun was sinking behind the horizon, two things happened almost simultaneously in the town of Wagon Wheel. On the south end, coming up through Mexville, a rider arrived at a hard gallop. On the north end, in a weedy patch of ground out behind Clyburg’s blacksmith barn, Martin Goodwin slammed his sledgehammer down on the third section of pipe he was driving into the ground and from out of the hollow iron sleeve came a gurgling, bubbling spray of muddy brown water.
For several seconds, the small crowd of onlookers who’d wandered over to watch Goodwin conduct his well drilling stood in dumbfounded silence, as if neither comprehending nor believing what their eyes were seeing.
When the truth of what they were witnessing finally sank in and the spell suddenly broke, a celebratory cheer burst forth like the water itself surging up out of the ground. The joyous sound spread and grew louder until others came scurrying to see what was going on.
All the while, water sprang forth like a geyser— higher and higher, turning cold and clean and sweet to the taste. Before long, grown men were stomping around in the mud, scooping handfuls of the wonderful liquid to their mouths and splashing one another like a bunch of frolicking little kids.
It was this scene that the rider from the south, after gaining clearance to get past the guards posted at the barricades, came upon. He was one of the men who’d initially stayed behind in Mexville but it was obvious he had been riding hard for some time.
He paused to absorb the scene and a smile briefly touched his mouth then his expression turned serious again and his eyes returned to searching faces in the crowd. When his gaze locked on Buckhorn and Carl Orndecker standing together on the fringe of the splashing and carrying-on, he nudged his horse over to them.
“Tinto,” Carl said, recognizing the man. “Too many times in the past I have visited your neighborhood in search of something to drink.” Smiling, he spread his arms wide. “Now I welcome you to my part of town for a drink of something even better.”
“Sí, señor,” said Tinto. “It is a most wonderful thing taking place here.”
Over at the well, the sheriff and Goodwin were shouting for everybody to settle down, telling them to hurry up and bring any containers they wanted to fill before Goodwin capped the pipe for a while in order to rig a shutoff valve and spigot to gain better control over future discharge.
“But to the south, where I just came from,” Tinto continued, “things are not so good. It is very bad. The gunfighter armies of Don Pedro and Señor Wainwright have broken into a bloody battle at the Olomoso hacienda. Many men have been killed or wounded.”
“Is this battle still going on?” Buckhorn asked, suddenly oblivious to the frivolity taking place all around them.
“I did not get close enough to see with my own eyes,” Tinto reported earnestly. “I met one of the servants from the hacienda who had fled. He told me. He said both sides suffered terrible losses and the hacienda was in flames, total ruin threatening. The last he saw, the Wainwright men were riding off but promising to return and finish what they had started.”
Buckhorn and Carl exchanged looks.
Carl’s eyebrows lifted. “Whoa. I’d say this night is turning out better and better. Goodwin’s water has shown up but it sounds like Wainwright’s gun wolves aren’t going to. At least not any time soon. I’d say that’s a mighty good trade.”
“Sure sounds like it,” Buckhorn agreed. Then he said to Tinto, “This fella you ran into, this servant from the hacienda—you have reason to trust him pretty good? You think he’s telling it straight as far as what happened at Don Pedro’s hacienda?”
Tinto responded quickly and firmly. “Sí. He is the cousin to my first wife’s sister-in-law. He has long been in the service of Don Pedro and he was very frightened. I believe he was telling the truth.”
Buckhorn nodded. “That’s good. I’m curious, though. What made you decide to head down that way in the first place?”
“I heard the talk about Don Pedro hiring the man with the water stick. Like you, I got curious,” Tinto explained. “I know some vaqueros who work for Don Pedro. We get together to play cards from time to time but have not done so for quite a while. I decided to try my luck at playing cards with them and I thought I could ask about the man with the water stick at the same time.”
“That’s reasonable enough, I guess,” Buckhorn said. “I don’t want you to take offense but this is mighty serious business so we have to treat it that way. That means I have to ask my friend Carl about you, just to make sure. You understand?”
“Sí, I think so,” said Tinto, though he did not look as certain as his words.
Turning to Carl, Buckhorn said, “How about this fella? You know him well enough to trust what he’s telling us?”
“I know him mostly from my drinking trips down to Mexville. I guess that’s not the most solid basis for making judgment,” Carl admitted. “But, still, I got no reason not to trust Tinto. I see no reason for him to be feeding us a falsehood as far as what happened between Wainwright and Don Pedro.”
“No, neither do I. That makes you right about this night turning out better and better. That sets me to thinking on how we might be able to turn it even more to our favor.”
“How’s that?”
“Let’s rope in the sheriff and Justine and Goodwin,” answered Buckhorn, “and I’ll explain what I have in mind.”
* * *
Considering who he was talking to and all the wild schemes already in play, Sheriff Banning’s tone was only mildly incredulous as he said, “So we turn into the invaders? Take a force of men and ride out to hit the Flying W before Wainwright heads for Don Pedro’s again . . . That’s what you’re suggesting?”
“It’s a thought that crossed my mind,” Buckhorn replied. “I’m tossing it out to see what the rest of you think, that’s all.”
“I think it’s a damn good notion,” Carl chimed in with ill-concealed eagerness. “It’s bold and unexpected and it not only means hitting Wainwright when he’s already bloodied and weakened, it would save the damage that the town would be certain to suffer—no matter how good we got it blocked off—if we continue to wait for the Flying W gunnies to hit us here.”
Buckhorn, Banning, Carl, and Justine were huddled outside a far corner of the blacksmith barn, discussing the idea Buckhorn had put forth. Goodwin and Deputy Pomeroy remained over by the wellhead, maintaining some semblance of order as folks brought buckets and barrels to fill before Goodwin temporarily capped the water geyser.
“I think taking the fight to the Flying W would be a good idea, too,” Justine declared. “Like Carl said, we’ve done a good job of fortifying the town for an attack here. Why risk it if we don’t have to? We have enough able-bodied men to send a sufficient force out there and still leave an adequate number behind to guard the town in case of something unsuspected.”
“I don’t have an objection against hitting the Flying W, either,” said the sheriff. “In fact, the more I hear, the more I like it. I’m just playing devil’s advocate, that’s all, to make sure we think everything through before we go ahead and act too rashly.”
“I’m all for that,” Buckhorn said. “We want to take advantage of the situation, not trade one set of problems for another.”
“There’s another advantage that could possibly be seized by taking the Flying W ranch headquarters,” Justine said. “Everybody’s heard of the big safe Wainwright has in his office out there. Where he keeps not only money, supposedly, but also all the deeds and related paperwork to the land he’s gobbled up in the past year or so. I don’t know if it’s true or who’d be willing to admit it, but there’s even been talk that he holds markers on some of the businesses around town.
“My point is this—everybody knows damn well how a lot of that land was taken by force. Now that we have a sheriff again”—Justine’s eyes cut meaningfully to Banning—“and there’s the added leverage of the town possessing its own water supply, I bet we could get that whole paperwork pile reviewed by territorial legal authorities who’d find a good portion of it not legally binding. That would be one more blow to keeping Wainwright’s Silverado from ever coming about.”
“It damn sure would,” agreed her brother. “And it would provide some good people another chance to reclaim their land and move back in again.”
“I’ll do my part . . . meaning, what I should have done in the first place.” Banning met Justine’s gaze, though he spoke in a somewhat subdued voice. “I know some strings to pull that’ll bring in the right authorities. Once they show up and start digging, not much doubt they’ll turn up exactly the kind of things in question.”
“From my standpoint, that sorta ranks as frosting on the cake,” Buckhorn said. “First order of business is still to ride out there and deal with whatever’s left of Wainwright’s gunnies. We’ll want to hit ’em just before daybreak. I figure for sure you and me in the mix, Carl. Beyond that, the rest of you know the right townsmen to pick to go with us. You gonna be in on the raid, Sheriff, or you figure it best for you to stay and keep watch over things here?”
“Try keeping me out of that raid,” replied Banning, his voice coming back strong. “Pomeroy will stay and take charge of things here.”
“I figure it’s best for Goodwin to remain here, too,” Buckhorn said. “He’s better at spraying water than bullets.”
Banning nodded. “Sounds right. I’ll start selecting men and spreading word about the change in plans. Folks’ll probably squall when they hear things may take a different turn, but they’ll still have to stay bottled up with guards posted. That’s the most sensible thing, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely. There’s always the chance we’re working on bad information. Playing it safe all the way around is the only smart move.”
“There’s one more thing everybody needs to consider,” Banning said. His gaze touched each of the others and then he went on. “Not everybody in town was wholly in favor of making this stand against Wainwright. Once all the activity started, I can’t swear for certain that somebody didn’t slip away to warn him what we were setting up. By the same token, especially now that it’s getting dark, I can’t be any more certain that somebody won’t slip off to warn him of this change in plans.”
“Meaning he might be expecting us, be ready for us when we come knocking on his door,” Carl said.
Banning nodded. “About the size of it.”
Carl looked at Buckhorn. “That change anything?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” replied Buckhorn. “Let ’em be ready. We will be, too.”
A faint smile came and went on Banning’s mouth. “I’ll go start explaining to folks, then.” He started away then paused and turned back to Justine. “Not to impose, but it will probably go smoother if you come with me. Not everybody is convinced yet I’m not still working more in Wainwright’s interest than the town’s.”
Justine didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Whatever I can do to help.”
Watching them go, Carl said, “You think we’re witnessing a romance starting to blossom?”
Buckhorn gave him a look. “Can’t say I ever gave it much thought. If I did, the first thing that’d cross my mind was that your sister doesn’t seem particularly fond of the sheriff.”
“Oh, I think she’s kinda drawn to him in a physical way. A lot of women around town are. I mean, you’ve got to admit Paul Banning is a handsome fella. I can tell pretty certain that he’s been attracted to Justine for some time now.” Carl sighed. “She’s always been convinced—and I can’t argue too hard against it—that Thomas Wainwright was behind the accident that killed her husband. As long as Banning appeared to be in lockstep with Wainwright, there was never any chance Justine could look at him without wondering if he wasn’t in on what happened to Gerald, too. But things and people can always change, sometimes in mighty surprising ways.”
Buckhorn regarded him some more. “You know what? I sure hope you’re over being a drunk. If you turn out to be a drunk and a hopeless romantic, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand hanging around with you.”