Buckhorn Page 3

  “So you can just sit back, take life easy, and collect your money,” Alexis said.

  That comment brought a grin to her father’s florid face. He chuckled and said, “Someone has to do that job as well, my dear.” He went on to Buckhorn, “I appreciate you coming all this way to see me. Why don’t we go upstairs to my suite, and I’ll explain why I sent you that telegram.”

  “All right,” Buckhorn said. “Can I bring my beer with me?”

  “Of course.”

  Buckhorn nodded to Alexis and touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of you around here, Mr. Buckhorn,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  He followed Conroy toward the stairs. As they passed the table where Farley had collapsed, Buckhorn saw Conroy exchange a glance with the man in the black vest, who was still sitting there calmly nursing a glass of whiskey while an old man in a patched shirt used a mop to clean up the blood that had gotten on the floor from both bodies. The green felt on the table had a good-size bloodstain on it and probably would have to be replaced.

  Buckhorn’s mouth tightened as he and Conroy walked past the elderly swamper, whose hands trembled, probably from drink, as he worked the mop back and forth. His grandfather on his mother’s side had had that same job, back in Kansas.

  When they reached the second floor, Conroy led the way to a suite with a sumptuously furnished sitting room. An elegantly filigreed oil lamp burned on a table between two comfortable wing chairs. Conroy motioned for Buckhorn to have a seat.

  Buckhorn took off his hat and dropped it on the table, then set the mug of beer beside it. Then he settled down into one of the chairs.

  Conroy went to a gleaming mahogany sideboard and poured himself a drink.

  “Sure you don’t want something a little stronger?” he asked as he looked over his shoulder. “This is the finest Irish whiskey you’ll find in this part of the country.”

  “No, thanks,” Buckhorn replied with a shake of his head.

  “Ah, of course. My apologies. I had forgotten that your, ah, people are reputed to have a weakness for liquor.”

  “So are yours,” Buckhorn pointed out.

  Conroy frowned as if wondering whether he should take offense, but only for a second. Then he laughed and said, “An excellent point, Mr. Buckhorn, and one not without a great deal of truth. The Irish are drunkards and brawlers, no doubt about that. We love a good fight. It’s because of that attitude I’ve been able to rise to my current position when I started out in this country by driving railroad spikes for the Union Pacific. And it’s why I won’t let some bastard like Hugh Thornton take it all away from me. Cigar?”

  Buckhorn shook his head to that offer, too.

  Conroy carried his drink over and sat down in the other chair. “I won’t bandy words,” he went on. “I’ve been told that you’re very good with your gun, and now I’ve seen proof of that with my own eyes. Chet Farley was fast.”

  “Yeah. I’d heard of him. Never crossed trails with him until now, though.”

  “And you never will again.”

  “Not this side of hell, anyway.”

  Conroy laughed again and said, “None of us really know for certain where we’re going to end up, do we? Our life on this earth is all we can be sure of, so we’d do well to make the most of it. That’s how I’ve always tried to conduct myself.”

  Buckhorn didn’t want to talk philosophy with the man. He said, “You’re having trouble with Hugh Thornton, the owner of the Jim Dandy mine.”

  It wasn’t really a question, but Conroy nodded anyway.

  “Thornton doesn’t just own the Jim Dandy. He started the bank and the newspaper here in town, and he owns the other general store and one of the hotels.”

  “So you two are like a couple of bulls butting heads to see who’s going to be the big boss around here.”

  “Not just here. I have my sights set on a bigger prize, and I suspect Thornton does, too.”

  “Territorial governor?”

  Conroy shrugged and smiled. He said smoothly, “Or senator, when New Mexico becomes a state, as it’s bound to eventually. I’ve never believed that a man should rein in his ambition. Let it run wild and free. Aim for the stars. That’s the only way any real progress is made in this country.”

  Buckhorn didn’t care about progress. That was too far in the future for him. He asked, “What is it exactly you want me to do? Are you trying to hire me to kill Hugh Thornton?”

  Conroy’s jovial attitude vanished. He scowled and said, “I don’t hire murder done, Mr. Buckhorn.”

  “Good. I reckon we can keep talking, then.”

  Conroy regarded him intently through narrowed eyes, then commented, “I must say, you’re not an exact match for the reputation that precedes you.”

  “Everybody can change,” Buckhorn said with a shrug.

  “Can they? Can they, really?”

  Buckhorn supposed that was what he was going to find out.

  Before either of them could say anything else, a knock sounded on the door. Conroy smiled again and said, “I mentioned that I hire excellent people to run the various parts of my business. That’ll be another of them now.” He raised his voice and called, “Come in, Yancy.”

  The door opened and the man in the black vest stepped into the room. His hat was pulled down now instead of casually thumbed back, but he still had the same faintly mocking smile on his lips under the thin mustache. Conroy stood up as the newcomer closed the door, so Buckhorn did, too.

  Conroy said, “Joe—it’s all right if I call you ‘Joe’ isn’t it?—this is Yancy Madison. Yancy, Joe Buckhorn.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much,” Madison drawled. He held out his hand to Buckhorn. “Good to meet you, Buckhorn.”

  Buckhorn took the man’s hand and gripped it firmly, but instead of returning the greeting, he said, “What I’d like to know, Madison, is why you wanted Chet Farley dead.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Madison’s muscles tensed in response to what Buckhorn said. Buckhorn felt it in the man’s grip. Madison’s expression remained imperturbable, though. He gave a slight shake of his head as he let go of Buckhorn’s hand and said, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I reckon you do. After Farley shot that gambler, you kept prodding him, trying to make him even madder. You told him the fella hadn’t been cheating.”

  “He hadn’t been, at least not that I could see,” Madison said with a slight shrug.

  “You practically called him kill-crazy.”

  “Maybe he was.”

  “So you thought that if you could get him to draw on you or on your boss here”—Buckhorn inclined his head toward Dennis Conroy—“you’d have an excuse to gun him down. But then I interfered with that plan.”

  “If there was a plan—and I’m not saying there was—Chet wound up dead either way, so why would I care that you took a hand?”

  “I didn’t say you cared. And I’m not going to lose any sleep over killing Farley. I’ve heard enough about him to know that he’s not any more of a great loss to the world than, say, you or I would be. I’m just curious what he did to make you want to cut your losses and get rid of him.”

  “So you can avoid doing the same thing?”

  “Seems like that would be a good thing to know,” Buckhorn said. “Especially if we’re going to be working together.”

  Conroy had been standing there watching the outwardly civil but tense conversation. He asked, “Does that mean you’re accepting my offer, Joe? You’re going to work for me?”

  “I’m leaning that way,” Buckhorn said, “but I still haven’t made up my mind. I reckon it’ll depend on what Madison says, and on what you’re actually trying to do here, Conroy.”

  “You need to call him Mister Conroy,” Madison said.

  Without taking his eyes off Madison, Buckhorn said, “Sorry, Mr. Conroy. I meant no disrespect.”

  Conr
oy waved the pudgy hand holding his cigar and said, “Forget it. You said that Hugh Thornton and I are like a couple of old bulls, Joe. I’d say that description seems to apply to you and Yancy as well, the way you’re both acting. Why don’t we all sit down, have some drinks, and relax? We’re all on the same side, after all, or at least we should be.”

  “That sounds like a good idea to me,” Madison said. “How about you, Buckhorn? There’s no reason for us to get off on the wrong foot here.”

  After a couple of seconds, Buckhorn nodded and said, “All right. Nothing wrong with talking.”

  “That’s more like it,” Conroy said. “Whiskey, Yancy?”

  “Sure.”

  “Joe’s sticking to beer, so he’s already got his drink. Pull up that chair.”

  Madison moved a straight-backed chair closer to the chairs where Buckhorn and Conroy had been sitting and took the glass of whiskey Conroy held out to him. All three men sat down. Conroy crossed his legs and smiled.

  “I have to admit, I’m a little curious myself about what happened down there, Yancy,” he said. “With Farley, I mean.”

  “He lost his head and did something stupid. He was always hot tempered. Really, it was only a matter of time before he got himself killed.”

  “He was supposed to be a good man in your line of work,” Conroy said a frown.

  “Sure. But measured by the only thing that really counts . . . Buckhorn is better.”

  Buckhorn lifted his mug of beer in a mocking salute and said dryly, “Thanks.”

  “Just the facts. You’re still breathing.”

  “And I intend to keep on breathing for a while yet.” Buckhorn turned his head to look at Conroy. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. What is it you’re trying to do here?”

  “Crater City is a boomtown,” Conroy said. “You saw that with your own eyes when you rode in, I’m sure.”

  “Looks like the place is doing well, all right.”

  “It can do even better once there’s a railroad here. We have to bring in all our supplies and ship our ore out on freight wagons. Bring in a spur line that connects to the Southern Pacific, and overnight Crater City is one of the most prosperous, most important settlements in the entire territory.”

  “That’s what you’re planning to do?”

  “It is,” Conroy declared. “Unfortunately, Hugh Thornton has the same idea.”

  Buckhorn leaned back in his chair.

  “You’re talking about a railroad race,” he said. “Ultimately, a railroad war.”

  Conroy waved the cigar again and said, “It’s far from a war at this point. I don’t intend to let things go that far. I’m going to beat Thornton before it ever does. As it stands now, no actual construction is going on yet. I have a team of surveyors laying out the best route for my line to follow. Thornton is doing the same thing.”

  “But using a different route.”

  Conroy nodded.

  “That’s right. All things being equal, I’m confident that my men have chosen a better route than his have and that I’d prove successful in the end anyway, but Thornton’s not satisfied with a fair competition. His men have been harassing my survey team and making things more difficult for them, slowing them down. They’ve had equipment stolen and shots fired at them more than once. Men have been wounded.” Conroy put the cigar in his mouth, clamped his teeth on it, and added, “One man was killed.”

  “You’re certain Thornton’s behind it?”

  Madison said, “No one else would have any reason to go after Mr. Conroy’s surveyors like that. Thornton’s behind it, all right. No doubt about that.”

  Conroy leaned forward in his chair and said, “If Thornton gets a jump on me at this point, it might prove impossible to overcome as the process goes on. It’s like everything else in life—first past the post wins. If Thornton brings a rail line in before me and gets established, I won’t be able to compete with him.”

  Slowly, Buckhorn nodded. “So Madison’s job—and my job, if I go to work for you—will be to see to it that your surveyors are protected and can complete their work first.”

  Conroy clenched a fist and thumped it lightly on the arm of his chair. “Exactly!”

  Buckhorn said, “Why not just do to him what he’s trying to do to you?”

  “Use violence against his surveyors, you mean?” Conroy frowned and shook his head. “For one thing, it would be illegal, and for another, I’m not going to sink to his level.”

  “You’ve been hiring men who are good with their guns,” Buckhorn pointed out.

  “Fighting fire with fire—but only to protect my own men.” Conroy stuck a finger in the air. “Don’t get me wrong, Joe. If you’re guarding my survey team and someone attacks them, I expect you to go after the sons of bitches with everything you’ve got. Don’t hold back. Kill them if that’s what it comes to. My conscience will be clear because I know where the blame will truly lie—squarely at the feet of Hugh Thornton.”

  Buckhorn sat there for a long moment, then asked, “What else do you want done?”

  Conroy sat back and spread his hands innocently.

  “That’s it. I want a fair chance to bring my railroad in here and show everyone who the true power is in this part of the territory. Will you help me do that?”

  “We haven’t talked about money.”

  “The survey shouldn’t take more than another month. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars, with a bonus of another five hundred if my men complete their work before Thornton’s do. And in all likelihood there’ll be more work after that, while the line is actually being built, because I don’t expect Thornton to just give up.”

  Buckhorn glanced over at the other man in the room, then asked, “Who do I report to, you or Madison?”

  “Yancy is in charge of this part of the project. My door is always open to anyone who works for me—”

  “But I call the shots day to day,” Madison said.

  Annoyance flared for a second in Conroy’s eyes.

  “That’s what I was about to say,” he snapped. He threw back the little bit of whiskey left in his glass and asked, “How about it, Joe? Will you join us in this great enterprise?”

  Buckhorn drained the rest of his beer and set the empty mug back on the table next to his hat. Then he leaned forward and extended his hand.

  “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Conroy.”

  Conroy grasped his hand and pumped it enthusiastically as he said, “Excellent! I’m sure this will be a profitable arrangement for both of us.”

  “Welcome aboard, Buckhorn,” Madison said as he stood up and stuck out his hand, too.

  Buckhorn got to his feet, as did Conroy. Buckhorn shook again with Madison, and then Conroy said, “There’s something else I already told you that I should mention again. You drink free downstairs, Joe, and there’s not much else in Crater City you’ll have to pay for, either, as long as you work for me. You can keep your horse in my livery stable, and the restaurants in town will put your meals on my tab.” He paused. “If you should happen to be in need of female companionship . . .”

  “You’ve got an arrangement for that, too, I suppose.”

  Conroy laughed. “Indeed! You can pay a visit to Miss Quinn’s Boarding House for Young Ladies any time you wish. You’ll find that it’s a very clean, well-run establishment.”

  “You own it, too—or just run a tab?”

  Madison said, “You talk a little too free and easy, Joe, especially to a man who’s your boss now.”

  Conroy shook his head and said, “No, it’s all right, Yancy. Joe and I understand each other. Don’t we, Joe?”

  Buckhorn picked up his hat and put it on.

  “I’m just here to do a job,” he said. “I’m not looking to make friends.”

  Madison grunted and said, “With that sort of attitude, I don’t reckon you’ll have to worry too much about that.” He looked at Conroy. “Anything else, boss?”

  Conroy shook his head. “No, that’s all. You and Joe
will get together and work out what he’s supposed to do.”

  “Sure.” Madison left the room.

  “Don’t mind Yancy,” Conroy said to Buckhorn when the gunman was gone. “I know how it is with men like the two of you. Always sizing each other up, trying to get the other man’s measure. Just remember that you’re working together, and that Yancy is a bad man to cross.” His voice hardened slightly. “And so am I.”

  Buckhorn nodded and said, “I’m not likely to forget.”

  “Have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Unless you’re looking for something fancy, I recommend the Crater City Café. The food is excellent.”

  “That’s the second time tonight I’ve heard that about the café. I’ll give it a try.”

  “The Mission Hotel is the best place to stay in town. They’ll have a room for you there.”

  “You own it, too?”

  “I’m a silent partner,” Conroy admitted.

  “All right. Obliged to you. Where’s the livery?”

  “In the next block, on the other side of the street.”

  “Thanks.” Buckhorn turned to the door. Conroy went back to the sideboard to pour himself another drink.

  Yancy Madison was waiting out in the corridor, leaning against the wall near the stair landing as he rolled a cigarette. He straightened as Buckhorn approached.

  “You want to talk to me?” Buckhorn asked.

  “I told you before I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot, Buckhorn. Maybe we rubbed each other the wrong way a little, but that’s no reason we can’t work together.”

  He put the quirley in his mouth, scratched a match to life on the sole of his boot, and lit the smoke.

  “No reason at all that I can see.”

  “Good,” Madison said around the cigarette. “I’m staying at the Mission Hotel, too. Most of Mr. Conroy’s men do. We’ll have breakfast in the dining room there tomorrow morning and I’ll get you squared away with the job.”

  Buckhorn nodded and said, “All right.”

  Using his left hand, Madison took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke. “Just remember . . . Chet Farley was my friend. But if he had gotten too big for his britches . . . if he had his eye on my job, say . . . I would have done something about it, friends or not.”