Buckhorn Read online

  “That sounds like a warning.”

  “Nope,” Madison said. “Just a word to the wise. You and me . . . we’re not friends. Not yet. Who knows what the future will bring?”

  With that, Madison headed down the stairs. Buckhorn stayed where he was, watched the gunman descend and then stroll over to the bar, where he started talking to Alexis Conroy. Madison was smiling and laughing again, the way most men probably did around Alexis.

  Buckhorn went down the stairs, too, but he headed for the batwings instead of the bar, intent on taking his horse to the livery and then getting something to eat. As he reached the batwings and started to push through them, he sensed eyes watching him and glanced back.

  They were watching him, all right.

  Green eyes that belonged to Alexis Conroy.

  And Yancy Madison had noticed the same thing and didn’t like it one bit.

  CHAPTER 5

  The livery stable was run by a tall, rawboned old man wearing overalls and a shapeless hat. He had only one eye. The left one was an empty socket squinted mostly shut. A scar angled across it from his forehead down onto his cheek.

  “Know how I got this?” he asked Buckhorn as he pointed to the scar and the missing eye.

  “I don’t have any idea.”

  “A Sioux dog soldier give it to me when I was drivin’ freight wagons up in Nebrasky. Hit me with a tomahawk about half a second ’fore I blew his belly apart with a load of buckshot.”

  “Sounds to me like you got the best end of that trade,” Buckhorn said.

  The old man glared at him for a moment, then chuckled.

  “Yeah, I reckon if you look at it like that, you’re right. I’m just sayin’, I ain’t ever cared much for redskins since then, and that goes for ’breeds, too.”

  “Doesn’t matter how you feel about me. Just take good care of my horse.”

  The liveryman patted the shoulder of the big roan Buckhorn was riding these days. He nodded and said, “I do have a soft spot for good horseflesh, and this looks like a fine critter. He’ll be took good care of, you don’t have to worry about that. I’d feel that way even if you wasn’t workin’ for Mr. Conroy.”

  “Is he a good man to work for?”

  The liveryman scowled again and said, “Don’t go tryin’ to get me to talk bad about the boss. He pays a reasonable wage and don’t bother me none about the way I do things around here. That’s all I ask of a man I work for.”

  “Sounds fair enough,” Buckhorn said. “I’ll be staying at the Mission Hotel if you need to find me.”

  “Crater City ain’t all that big—yet. Reckon I can hunt you up if I need to, but I ain’t expectin’ to need to.”

  Buckhorn nodded and left the stable, leaving his rifle and warbag there for the moment. He saw the hotel on the other side of the street but turned toward the café instead. Given Conroy’s status as part owner of the hotel, they’d have a room for him there whenever he was ready for it, so there was no hurry about checking in.

  The wagon that had dropped the miners off at the Irish Rose earlier was parked in front of the café, which was a homey-looking establishment with big, brightly lit windows that had curtains pushed to the sides. Buckhorn went inside.

  A counter with stools in front of it ran along the wall to his right. The rest of the room was filled with round tables covered by blue-and-white-checked tablecloths. A little vase with wildflowers in it sat in the middle of each table.

  About a dozen people were eating, four at the counter and the rest at tables. The old man named Woodrow sat alone at one of the tables, an empty plate in front of him, a coffee cup in his hand. He lifted the cup when he saw Buckhorn, who took that as an invitation to come over and join him.

  “Howdy again,” Woodrow said as Buckhorn walked up to the table and pulled out one of the empty chairs.

  “You mind?”

  “Shoot, no. Actually, maybe I better not say shoot to you. From what I hear, you’re liable to do it.”

  Buckhorn chuckled as he sat down.

  “Word of what happened in the saloon has gotten around town, eh?” he asked. “I sort of figured as much from the way people were looking at me from the corners of their eyes when I walked in.”

  “It don’t take much for a fella to get a reputation in a place like this. Folks like to gossip.”

  “Are they at least getting the facts right? Chet Farley was about to shoot Dennis Conroy when I dropped him.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say. Yancy Madison was there, wasn’t he?”

  “He was,” Buckhorn said.

  “Then if you hadn’t killed Farley, Madison would have. That varmint’s plumb slick on the draw.” Woodrow eyed Buckhorn speculatively. “Can’t help but wonder how the two of you would stack up against each other.”

  “Probably won’t ever find out,” Buckhorn said. “We’re both working for Conroy now, so we’re on the same side. Reckon that puts me on the opposite side from you, though, since you work for Hugh Thornton.”

  “Don’t go gettin’ no ideas. I ain’t no gun-wolf. I steer clear o’ trouble.”

  “Honestly, I’m glad to hear that.” Buckhorn looked around. “What’s good to eat here?”

  “Can’t go wrong with steak and all the trimmin’s.” Woodrow looked at the aproned man behind the counter and called, “Olaf! One of the specials for my friend here.” He pointed a gnarled thumb at Buckhorn.

  “Yah,” the Swede said, nodding. He turned and called the order through a window that opened into the kitchen.

  “Hope that’s all right with you,” Woodrow said to Buckhorn.

  “I trust your opinion.”

  Olaf brought over a cup of coffee and set it on the table in front of Buckhorn, then asked, “You are one of Mr. Thornton’s men?”

  “No. I work for Dennis Conroy.”

  Olaf shrugged and said, “That is fine, too. Just so I know. I will put the meal on his tab.”

  When the Swede had gone back to the counter, Buckhorn sipped the coffee, which was good, then said to the old-timer, “This is an odd town.”

  “How do you reckon that?”

  “Conroy and Thornton are at each other’s throats, but Thornton’s men were drinking in Conroy’s saloon. From the sound of what Olaf said, both of them run tabs here, too.”

  Woodrow nodded solemnly and said, “That’s true. One side’s money spends just as well as the other side’s.”

  “Usually when two men are vying for control of a town, everybody else has to choose up sides.”

  “You won’t find much of that here,” Woodrow said. “From what I can see, Conroy takes a heap of pleasure out of Thornton’s men spendin’ money in his saloon. Conroy reads the newspaper Thornton owns, I expect. Wouldn’t surprise me none to find out that Conroy has some money in Thornton’s bank. And when one of the stores runs short of anything, they’ll go across the street and buy it from the other fella.”

  Buckhorn shook his head. “Like I said, that’s just odd.”

  “No, what it comes down to is that both those ol’ boys are penny-pinchin’ skinflints, and they ain’t gonna turn down a lick of profit, no matter where it comes from. I reckon that attitude sorta spilled over to ever’body else in town.”

  “Well, it’s interesting,” Buckhorn said. “I’ve never run across anything quite like it before.” He took another sip of his coffee. “But I’m glad it’s worked out that way, because it allows the two of us to sit here and talk without trying to shoot each other.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorta glad of that, too,” Woodrow said.

  Olaf brought over a plate heaped with steak, potatoes, gravy, corn on the cob, greens, and a couple of big, fluffy biscuits. It had been a long time since Buckhorn had eaten, so he dug in.

  Between bites, he asked, “How will you know when those men you brought into town are ready to go back to the mine?”

  “Oh, I’ll mosey back down to the Irish Rose in a little while. If they’re ready to go before that, they know wher
e to find me.”

  “They were paying a lot of attention to Conroy’s daughter, the one who runs the saloon.”

  “Well, what hombre in his right mind wouldn’t?” Woodrow asked. “Miss Alexis, she’s pert’ near the prettiest gal in this whole corner of the territory. Shoot, she may be the prettiest gal in the whole dang territory!” He shook his head. “And there I go, sayin’ shoot again.”

  “Don’t worry, I can control the impulse,” Buckhorn assured him. “I suppose Miss Conroy takes her father’s side in the dispute with Thornton.”

  “That’s just it . . . as far as I know, nobody’s ever heard her say one way or the other. Sure, ever’body figures she’s on her pa’s side . . . but I don’t reckon anybody’s ever heard her come right out and say it.”

  Buckhorn nodded as he chewed a bite of the steak, which was tender and flavorful. He was learning quite a bit about how things stood in Crater City, and it was always good for a man to know as much as he could about what he was getting into.

  “Something else I’m curious about . . . why is this settlement called Crater City?”

  “Did you come in from the east?”

  “I did.”

  “And you didn’t see the crater east o’ town when you was ridin’ in?” Woodrow sounded surprised.

  Buckhorn shook his head.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I guess it was already dark.”

  “Well, you’ll have to go out and take a look at it in the daylight. It’s a big ol’ hole in the ground, ’bout two hundred yards across and ten or twelve feet deep. Over the years, the sides have sorta caved in a mite in places, but you can tell the hole was cut pretty sharp when it happened. Nobody knows what done it, neither, but whatever it was, it had to be a hell of a long time ago. It’s filled in some, and there’s mesquite and other brush growin’ in it.” Woodrow shook his head. “What it looks to me is like somethin’ mighty big fell from really high and landed there, but that’s just loco. Such things ain’t possible.”

  “But that’s what gave the town its name.”

  “Yep. O’ course, if Conroy or Thornton had got here first, they prob’ly would’ve tried to talk folks into namin’ it after them, but the settlement was already here before they showed up. It growed up around an old Spanish mission that used to be here. Folks took to callin’ it Craterville after the mission was gone, but when the town got bigger they changed the name to Crater City.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, then Woodrow scraped his chair back.

  “Guess I best head back down to the saloon,” he said. “Enjoyed talkin’ to you, Joe.”

  “I enjoyed it, too,” Buckhorn said. “Can I get an honest opinion on something from you, Woodrow?”

  “Sure,” the old-timer answered without hesitation. “I’m in the habit o’ speakin’ my mind.”

  “This competition between Conroy and Thornton . . . do you think it’s going to blow up one of these days?”

  Woodrow said, “I think it’s only a matter of time until it blows sky-high, like a whole shed full o’ dynamite—and when it does, it’s gonna be devil take the hindmost!”

  CHAPTER 6

  The clerk in the hotel must have been alerted to the fact that the place was going to have a new guest, because as soon as Buckhorn walked in carrying his warbag and rifle, the man greeted him by name and held a key out across the desk.

  “We have one of the best rooms in the house waiting for you, Mr. Buckhorn,” he said. “Number eleven. Turn right at the top of the stairs and follow the balcony around to the front of the hotel. Your room overlooks the street.”

  Buckhorn tucked the Winchester under his arm and took the key. He said, “Some places don’t cotton to guests with skin as red as mine.”

  “At the Mission Hotel, sir, all you need is for Mr. Conroy to vouch for you and you’re more than welcome.”

  Buckhorn grunted. As usual, money carried more weight than just about anything else in the world.

  He carried his gear upstairs and let himself into the room, where he found a lamp already lit. The room was comfortably furnished with a four-poster bed, a dresser with a mirror on it, and a couple of chairs. A woven Navajo rug was on the floor next to the bed. Yellow curtains covered the windows.

  Buckhorn leaned his rifle against the wall in a corner and set the warbag on one of the chairs. He eyed the bed with its thick comforter and thought about turning in. He had ridden quite a few miles today, and he was tired.

  But at the same time, a certain restlessness gripped him. He knew that if he went to bed now, sleep would be a long time coming. He decided he might as well put that time to better use.

  He went out and locked the door behind him, then took a matchstick from his vest pocket, wedged it between the door and the jamb, low down, and snapped it off, leaving the tiny bit of wood in the narrow gap. He had learned that trick a long time ago. It was a surefire way of letting him know if anybody had gotten into his room while he was gone—or if somebody might be waiting in there to ambush him when he got back.

  The clerk at the desk looked up attentively as Buckhorn approached. He asked, “Something else I can do for you, Mr. Buckhorn?”

  “Tell me how to find a place called Miss Quinn’s—”

  “Yes, I know the place you’re looking for,” the clerk broke in before Buckhorn could say the rest of the whorehouse’s name. Even though he worked for Dennis Conroy, he couldn’t stop a look of disapproval from pursing his lips slightly. “It’s on the western edge of town. There are a row of pine trees in front of it. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

  “Thanks.” Buckhorn started to turn toward the lobby entrance, then paused, looked back at the clerk, and raised an eyebrow. “How do they feel about redskins, do you know?”

  “I wouldn’t have any idea, sir,” the man said coolly. “If they’re like most, ah, ladies who follow that profession, the only colors they really care about are gold, silver, and green.”

  “I reckon I’ll have that in common with them, then,” Buckhorn said.

  He left the hotel and walked toward the western side of Crater City. The settlement wasn’t so big that he would need his horse. The hour was late enough now that the faint music coming from the Irish Rose and a few other saloons and cantinas were the only sounds in the night air.

  When he reached the outskirts of town, he had no trouble spotting the big, two-story log house that stood behind a row of pines, as the hotel clerk had said. A verandah ran along the front, and a lamp burned beside the door. It wasn’t a red light; its glow was yellow, warm and welcoming instead. Buckhorn was pretty sure he was in the right place, though.

  He was even more certain when he tugged the bell rope hanging next to the door and it was opened a moment later by a stout, middle-aged, decorously dressed woman with her graying brown hair pulled up in a modest bun on her head. She looked like somebody’s maiden aunt or housekeeper, but Buckhorn saw the devils lurking in her eyes as she smiled at him and said, “Mr. Buckhorn, isn’t it? I was told that you might be paying us a visit.”

  “You’d be Miss Quinn?”

  “That’s right. Ida Belle Quinn. And before you ask, sir, that is my real name. I see no need to conceal my true identity. That would imply that what I do is shameful, and I don’t feel that it is.”

  “We’re in agreement, then, Miss Quinn,” Buckhorn said. He reached up and took his hat off politely. “May I ask who told you about me?”

  “That’s not important.” She held out a hand. “Please, come in. I’ll take your hat. Make yourself comfortable in the parlor.”

  Buckhorn stepped into the foyer and handed her the bowler. He walked through a doorway into a parlor that might have belonged in the home of a well-to-do businessman. There was nothing sinful or decadent about it.

  “Several of the young ladies will be right down, Mr. Buckhorn,” Miss Quinn said as she followed him into the room. “You can have your pick as to which one you’d like to spend some time with. If yo
u’d like a drink while you’re waiting . . .”

  Buckhorn shook his head and told her, “No, thanks.”

  Miss Quinn bustled out. Buckhorn sat down in an overstuffed armchair. The madam hadn’t raised any objection about him having Indian blood, so it appeared the hotel clerk had been right: the color of a man’s money meant more here than the color of his skin did.

  Of course, in this case it was Dennis Conroy’s money . . .

  Miss Quinn returned a few minutes later with a blonde, a brunette, and a Chinese girl. All three of them wore silk dressing gowns that gaped open enough to reveal that they didn’t have much on underneath.

  The blonde was the oldest of the trio, probably around twenty-five. The brunette and the Chinese girl were about five years younger than that. All of them were attractive, although the blonde was starting to show some of the hard look around her mouth and eyes that meant she had been a soiled dove for a while. The other two were newer to the business.

  “This is Sandra, Rachel, and Nancy,” Miss Quinn said. Rachel, the brunette, and Nancy, which more than likely wasn’t the Chinese girl’s real name, gave Buckhorn big smiles and tried to look sultry and seductive.

  The blonde, Sandra, just regarded him with a faint, cool smile on her face, as if she didn’t give a damn whether he was interested in her or not.

  If that was a ploy on her part, it was a good one, because when Buckhorn stood up and walked toward them, it was Sandra he stopped in front of. He reached up, lightly touched her chin. She didn’t pull away from him, but she didn’t simper and smile coyly, either. The others would have.

  “You,” Buckhorn said. “You look like you’d be a challenge to a man.”

  “There’s one way for you to find out,” she told him. Her voice had a slightly husky tone to it. Buckhorn smiled.

  He nodded to Miss Quinn and said, “I believe I’ll get to know Sandra a little better.”

  The other two soiled doves pouted and looked disappointed. Buckhorn ignored them and linked his arm with Sandra’s as they walked out of the parlor and headed for the stairs leading to the second floor.