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  But having them move in for an up-close look at their handiwork and thus provide him the chance to demonstrate just how alive he still was would definitely suit him better.

  CHAPTER 5

  “I think he’s dead. Don’t you figure he must be dead?” Billy Crandall asked as he crouched low in a rocky seam, feeling his legs start to cramp. “Ain’t a blamed thing moved down there in a half hour or more. He’s got to be dead.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” drawled Red Grainley, also crouched in the jagged rocks a few yards away. “He’s half Injun, remember. Those red devils can be mighty sneaky.”

  “Well, they can’t out-sneaky a bullet, can they?” Billy insisted. “I’m pretty sure I hit him at least twice when he went flyin’ outta that saddle. He never moved after that.”

  “We never saw him move. There’s a difference. He fell outta sight behind the horse, but that don’t mean he’s dead. He ain’t never seen us at all, but that don’t make us dead, does it?”

  “He ain’t ever poked his head up to try and look for us.”

  “Same difference. We ain’t seen him move, he ain’t seen us move. Don’t necessarily make any of us dead.”

  “We each pumped over a dozen rounds of lead at him. There’s the difference. And, like I also said, I’m—”

  “I know, I know. You’re pretty sure you maybe hit him a time or two. Well, I didn’t see no sign of it.”

  “You callin’ me a liar?” Billy demanded, hackles clearly raised.

  “Calm the hell down, kid. Let’s fight one fight at a time, okay?” Red said wearily. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was doubtin’ your word. All I’m sayin’ is that I, for one, ain’t in no hurry to sashay down there on the chance that redskin is dead. That leaves the chance he might still be alive, too, and if we get in a hurry to expose ourselves to him, then it could turn out mighty bad for us.”

  Nobody said anything more right away. Then, after a few beats, Billy muttered, “I guess you’re right. We got to be careful and smart about this. But I’m gettin’ awful tired of just squattin’ here like a hen on an egg, especially with that hot wind blowin’ sand against the side of my face until it’s about scraped raw.”

  “Nerves, kid,” Red told him. “If that redskin down there is still alive, that’s what he’s countin’ on . . . wearin’ down our nerves.”

  “Well, for my part, I don’t mind sayin’ he’s doin’ a damn good job of it.”

  * * *

  Buckhorn could hear the men up in the rocks talking, though he could only make out a few intermittent words. Enough to know they were growing impatient, and that was good for him.

  In slow, careful movements, he dipped his fingers in some of the sticky blood seeping from the steeldust’s wound and smeared it strategically onto himself. If the men came to examine whether or not he was dead, the blood would help give them some initial visual assurance, put them a little more at ease if they moved in for a closer examination . . . at which point Buckhorn was poised to show them the last thing they wanted to see—or ever would see in their miserable lives.

  On the other hand, if they just came close enough to pump some additional rounds into him to guarantee their work . . . well, then it would turn out differently. But that was the risk he was setting himself up for. All he could do now was let the string play out.

  * * *

  Several more minutes passed, until this time it was Red Grainley who allowed the waiting to get to him.

  “Nuts to this. Maybe you’re right, kid,” he said. “Us just squattin’ here like a couple of layin’ hens is gettin’ us nowhere. Especially if that stinkin’ redskin has been layin’ down there dead all this time.”

  “You sayin’ we’re gonna go make sure?”

  “We ain’t gonna just ride away and leave it to chance. I won’t be no part of playin’ it that way.”

  “No. No, a-course not.” But all of a sudden Billy didn’t sound quite so confident anymore.

  “We’ll work our way down slow. Keep our rifles ready and keep a space between us, same as we got now,” Red said. “If there’s some kind of trickery waitin’ for us, we’ll be too far apart for him to get us both without one of us havin’ the chance to even the score.”

  Billy licked his lips and nodded.

  “Right. Like I said before . . . careful and smart.”

  They began working their way down the rocky spine, each keeping to their side of the peak, staying several yards apart from one another. Expressions grim, rifles raised and ready, eyes locked on the fallen horse, alert for any sign of movement from the man hidden behind it. The only sounds were the puff of their anxious, labored breathing and the scuff of their boots against the rocks and the gusts of sand-rattling wind.

  As Red and Billy reached the point where the rocks began to taper off before spreading out to the flat openness where the horse lay, they moved a little wider apart for a ways. Then, gradually, when they had almost reached the fallen animal, they converged somewhat, coming in at slight angles from either end.

  The sprawled man came into the sight of each of them. His body was twisted in a rather awkward way, one shoulder and arm jammed tight—almost under—the back of the steeldust. Its rider lay totally still, his bowler hat spilled a few feet from his head, shiny black hair fanned out on the sandy ground. Behind his splayed legs, the Winchester he’d yanked free instinctively now lay partly dusted over by the wind. Bright scarlet blood was streaked across the man’s reddish-bronze cheek and splashed thickly over one shoulder.

  “I told you I blasted him. I knew I did,” said Billy in a kind of hushed awe at his own perceived accomplishment.

  “You sure did, kid. You blasted him good.”

  Now Billy sneered and said, “Shame a good horse had to get killed, too.”

  At which point a deep, seemingly disembodied voice responded, “Yeah. The horse didn’t like it much, either.”

  As poised and ready as the two riflemen thought they were, the unexpected voice froze them for a moment.

  That was all the time Buckhorn needed to roll back from the way he had his gun arm jammed tight against the steeldust and bring into play the Colt he held gripped in his fist.

  Swinging his arm according to where their voices had indicated them to be, he fired first on Red, then on Billy. Two .45 rounds pumped into each, all four triggered in the span of scarcely more than a second. All four scored chest hits that sent puffs of dust and spurts of blood erupting outward on impact.

  The two ambushers crumpled at the knees and toppled backward, hitting the ground dead without making a sound or coming anywhere close to getting off a shot of their own.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Nope. Same for this one. I don’t recognize him, either.”

  Thad Tolliver straightened from the stooped-over position he had assumed in order to examine the faces of the two dead men tied facedown over the back of the bay horse. He put both hands to the small of his back, bracing it as he straightened up.

  Tolliver was a big man, closing in on fifty, tall and thick through the chest and shoulders, running to a bit more of the same in his gut. He had sand-colored hair, mutton-chop sideburns, and a broad, open face that seemed inclined toward friendliness but looked like it could flush with anger almost as easily. It wasn’t a face made for hiding his feelings.

  Tolliver aimed that face at Joe Buckhorn now and said, “You have no idea who they are, either. That right?”

  “Never saw ’em before in my life, not until they tried to bushwhack me,” Buckhorn said. “Just like I told your deputy.”

  The deputy he referred to, one Harold Scanlon, a gangling young man with bristly, prematurely white hair and a perpetually earnest expression on his narrow face, shook his head in exasperation.

  “I might have seen these jaspers around town a time or two,” Scanlon said. “But not very often and not any time recent, I don’t think. Either way, I got no idea as to names or where they come from.”

  “Don’t worry abo
ut it. Maybe something more will come to you,” the sheriff told him.

  The three men were talking in a narrow, bare alley behind the sheriff’s office in the town of Barkley. Scanlon, who was manning the office when Buckhorn showed up leading the corpse-laden horse, had first sent somebody to fetch the sheriff and then suggested they move around here to the back rather than stay out front on the street. It was full dark. Light pouring out of the office’s open back door, aided by a pair of lanterns hung on upright posts, gave the scene a reasonable amount of illumination.

  “We can hardly remember, let alone keep track of every cowpoke who drifts in and out of town,” Tolliver said. “Especially the ones who don’t make themselves memorable by causing any trouble.”

  “Well this pair sure showed themselves capable of making trouble—leastways they tried,” Buckhorn pointed out. “You’re gonna do some follow-up asking around about them, aren’t you?”

  Tolliver gave him a look.

  “You trying to tell me how to do my job?”

  “Not necessarily,” Buckhorn said. “But I think I’ve got the right to take an interest. I couldn’t hear everything they said back and forth to each other up in the rocks, but I heard enough to know they were layin’ for me in particular—not just anybody who happened along. Their whole purpose was to kill me. If it wasn’t robbery or revenge, that means somebody must have sent ’em. Hired ’em. And there’s a good chance that anybody who’d pay once and have it fail, might very likely pay for another try. So you can see why I’d be more than a little interested in some background on these two.”

  Tolliver paused, considered what Buckhorn had said, then replied, “I guess that makes sense. But it also follows that a fella like you could have hombres gunnin’ for you from just about anywhere, right? I mean, for reasons that have nothing to do with your coming here.”

  “True enough, as far as it goes,” said Buckhorn. “But my sense was that these varmints were waitin’ for me, not so much comin’ after me.” He shrugged. “But that’s just a hunch. All the more reason, though, to see if you can come up with some idea where they’re from, how they might fit in.”

  “You search the bodies for identification or anything?” Tolliver asked.

  Buckhorn shook his head.

  “Didn’t take the time. As it was, roundin’ up their horses and getting them loaded onto one had me plenty pressed for makin’ sure I could find the town before it got too dark.”

  The sheriff turned to his deputy and said, “All right, Harold, here’s what I want you to do. Take these bodies over to Schmidt, the undertaker. Don’t stop and talk to anybody on the way, don’t answer no questions, don’t speculate on nothing you’ve heard here, you understand? If Schmidt is still eating supper, tell him I said it can wait. Mine got interrupted, his can, too. You stick around while he’s shucking these bodies down. Collect everything he takes off them, from their pockets and so forth. Make note of any tattoos or other marks on either of the dead men. Then bring the whole works, along with their saddlebags, back here. Got all that?”

  “Got it, Sheriff.”

  Tolliver scrunched his face thoughtfully and added, “Come to think on it, if I ain’t here when you get back, check over at the Hotel Alamo dining room. Me and Mr. Buckhorn might be over there.”

  “Got it,” Scanlon said again.

  The young deputy led the horse out of the alley and disappeared.

  Tolliver turned back to Buckhorn, saying, “I got my supper interrupted, like I said. And since you’re fresh in off the trail, I figure you haven’t eaten in a while yourself. So, if you’d care to join me, we can kill two birds with one stone—you having your supper and me finishing mine. As a bonus, the Hotel Alamo serves some of the best vittles around. What’s more, since we’re conducting official business, I’ll turn the price of the meals in for the county to pick up the tab.”

  The irony of how much time he was spending lately in the cordial company of law enforcement officials wasn’t lost on Buckhorn. While he’d only once ever officially been a wanted man, and that was some years back up in Colorado Territory, his line of work had gained him a certain notoriety over time that naturally caused lawmen in the know to eye him warily whenever he came around. And he did the same in reverse. As a result, he made it a point to try to keep as clear of badge-toters as he could.

  But now, right on the heels of the time spent in Forbes with Marshal Dahlquist, here he was rubbing elbows with Sheriff Tolliver as soon as he arrived in Barkley—a lawman who’d not only just seen two dead bodies delivered to his doorstep by Buckhorn, but who also had full knowledge that Buckhorn’s whole purpose in coming here was to hire out his gun.

  The offer of a good meal was nonetheless inviting, and the reason Buckhorn was inclined toward turning it down had nothing to do with Tolliver’s badge. The thing was, since he had arrived in town much later than expected, there was another matter he felt needed tending to first.

  “That’s a mighty temptin’ offer and don’t think I’m not grateful, Sheriff,” he said to Tolliver. “But I know you’re well aware of what brings me to your town and, since I got sort of delayed getting here, I figure I’d better—”

  “I’m way ahead of you, Buckhorn,” Tolliver cut him off, smiling as he did so. “What you’re saying is that, before you do anything else, you feel obligated to check in with Mrs. Danvers and let her know you’ve arrived, right? You’re probably about to ask me for directions to her ranch. Well, I can do better than that. You see, in anticipation of you showing up and her wanting to meet with you as soon as possible, she came into town and is staying right at the Alamo. As a matter of fact, that means we could kill three birds with one stone. You and me could have our supper and I could have somebody from the hotel staff send for Mrs. Danvers so that—”

  Now it was Buckhorn’s turn to do some interrupting.

  “Wait a minute. You keep saying ‘she’ and ‘Mrs.’ In Forbes, when I agreed to take this job, I was exchanging telegrams with a ‘P. Danvers.’ I figured it was a man. You saying I’m hiring my gun out to a woman?”

  Tolliver’s smile widened.

  “Oh, yeah. Pamela Danvers—the Widow Danvers, that is—she’s a woman all right. One hell of a woman.”

  CHAPTER 7

  One look at Pamela Danvers as she entered the Hotel Alamo dining room made it quickly evident why Sheriff Tolliver had used the words he did to describe her. She was indeed quite a woman, the kind who made an immediate and powerful impact on any man with red blood pumping through his veins.

  Buckhorn quickly sensed about her a confident and comfortable awareness of herself, therefore making any added affectations or pretenses totally unnecessary. Simply put, she was strikingly beautiful; she knew it, accepted it, and left everyone else to deal with that fact as they wished.

  Average height, lustrous dark hair, the kind of figure that no choice of apparel could keep from revealing to be voluptuous, and flashing, intelligent, challenging eyes of a distinct lavender hue. Faint lines at the corners of those eyes hinted at the maturity of her years—around fifty, Buckhorn judged—yet somehow that only added to her grace and allure.

  As she passed through the room toward where the two men awaited, all eyes—men and women alike—followed her.

  When she neared their table, Tolliver and Buckhorn rose.

  She smiled and greeted the sheriff simply with, “Thad.” Then she extended her right hand and said, “And you must be Mr. Buckhorn. I am Pamela Danvers.”

  On the infrequent occasions he’d had reason to do so, Buckhorn always found it rather awkward to shake hands with a woman. It felt no less so now, except in this case he discovered the hand he took in his gripped back with surprising firmness and strength.

  Tolliver stepped around and held a chair for Mrs. Danvers to seat herself. She then quickly motioned the two of them back into their own chairs.

  “I see you both are taking your supper,” she said, noting the meals that had just arrived for the two
men. “I ate earlier, so please don’t let me stop you from enjoying the excellent fare here. Coming from a ranching family, I assure you I’ve carried on more than one dinner conversation where the words were spoken around mouthfuls of good food.”

  “I had my supper interrupted,” the sheriff tried to explain, “and Buckhorn here, having been on the trail, hadn’t eaten at all yet. So, since we weren’t sure how long before you’d be coming down, we—”

  “It’s all right, Thad. I understand. Just go ahead and eat.” Then, after looking around, the Danvers woman added, “Although, before we actually get into any serious discussion, I have to wonder out loud is right here in public the best place for us to talk?”

  “We can go somewhere else if you insist. But I figure here is convenient and as good as any,” Tolliver answered, having already covered the same ground with Buckhorn. “It isn’t very crowded this evening and I asked for this corner table, away from what few other diners there are. If the place starts to fill up, we can always move. But, for now, nobody will overhear anything we have to say. They already know most of it anyway. And anything new that comes out of this, they’re likely to find out soon enough.”

  “Very well. I guess you’re right.”

  When a waitress came over to inquire if she wanted anything, Mrs. Danvers ordered some tea. After the waitress departed, Mrs. Danvers said to Tolliver and Buckhorn, “Once I’ve had my tea and you gentlemen have finished eating, perhaps you’ll join me in an after-dinner drink. I usually have some brandy or wine of an evening, a habit my late husband and I developed and one I’ve continued since Gus’s passing.”

  “Certainly sounds inviting,” Tolliver said. “But I’ll have some follow-up matters to take care of on account of those bodies Buckhorn brought in, and then my normal late rounds to do after that. So I’d better pass.”

  “Mr. Buckhorn?”

  “First of all, how about just calling me Buckhorn—or Joe, if you’d rather? Pretty rare for a half-breed to get called ‘mister.’ As for the drink, I’d be honored to join you. I don’t know about brandy, but wine would be good. Saw whiskey get the better of my father—yet another Indian who couldn’t handle his firewater—so I tend to give hard liquor in general a pretty wide berth. Some wine or a cold beer now and then is about it.”