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  The third man was older, leaner, quieter-looking with washed-out blue eyes that might have harbored danger at some past point in his life but nowadays looked just plain wore out.

  “Looks like you’re tucked into a right nice setup there,” said the young rider apparently in charge of doing the talking.

  Buckhorn shrugged. “It’s home, for tonight, anyway. Listen, my coffeepot’s about drained. But I got the makings for another if you fellas are in want of a cup.”

  The offer was extended only for the sake of appearing neighborly, the gesture of a man with nothing to hide. Buckhorn had a pretty good hunch it wouldn’t be accepted and was relieved to find out he was right.

  The talker said, “Appreciate it, but we’re running a little late as it is and got to keep a move on.”

  “Damn shame for a body to ever turn down a cup of coffee,” the man with the tired eyes muttered.

  “You’ll live, Harlan,” the talker told him. “Ain’t much longer before we’re back to the bunkhouse and then we all know you’ll crawl into your nightly bottle without a whisker’s thought of no damn coffee.”

  The Mexican snickered loudly.

  “We rode over when we saw your fire,” the talker went on, cutting his eyes back to Buckhorn. “Just wondering if you knew you were on Flying W range?”

  Buckhorn shook his head. “No, can’t say as I did. Decent looking rangeland, though, so I’ll allow as to how I’m not surprised it belongs to somebody. But to me, it’s just ground I’m riding over.”

  “Just like you said, it’s only home for tonight. So all you’re doing is passing through, that it?”

  “That’s all.”

  The talker nodded. “That’s fine, then. General Wainwright don’t hold nothing against passers-through, but just for something to keep in mind, he plumb hates squatters.”

  “I’ll do that. Lock it right tight in mind.”

  “Hey, mister,” the Mexican said, gesturing. “The way you are all duded up. The tie and hat and all. You look like maybe you are a drummer of some kind. Maybe whiskey? If so, maybe you have a bottle you can sell me for my amigo Harlan . . . in order to help him overcome his great sadness at not having time to stop for a cup of coffee.”

  “Keep it up, Chico, you damn greaser.” The threat issued by the one called Harlan was weak as the faded blueness in his tired eyes.

  Chico cackled with glee.

  “Knock it off, the both of you,” the talker said.

  “Just for the record,” Buckhorn said, holding up one hand, palm out, “I’m no drummer. I got no trade or no wares to sell. Like I said, I’m just a drifter.”

  “That’s real good. Tomorrow morning you do just that. Drift.” The talker paused, scowling thoughtfully. “Chico does raise an interesting question, though. For a common drifter, you do dress awful dandified. What’s with that, anyway?”

  “I’m afraid that what you see is the luck of the draw,” Buckhorn offered by way of explanation. “Beggars can’t be choosers, like the saying goes, and a poor man given hand-me-downs can’t be fussy about what he ends up wearing.”

  “I still think he’s a whiskey drummer, Vance. Probably afraid to admit it on account of he thinks we might try to steal his product,” insisted Chico. “Either that or he’s a preacher of some kind. Hey, let’s put him to a test. We can make him recite Bible verses to see if he knows—”

  “How the hell are any of us gonna know if what he’s spouting is garbage or accurate?” Vance cut him off. “We ain’t got time to play silly games. Just forget it.”

  If Vance would have followed his own advice and they’d just ridden off then and there, everything would have been fine. But he took the time to hang one more thoughtful scowl on Buckhorn and then said, “Hey, wait a minute. You ain’t just a duded-up drifter. You got the look of a stinkin’ Injun, or at least a half-breed. That’s what you are, ain’t you?”

  “By God, you’re right,” Harlan said, finally showing something more than weary indifference. “In the twilight it was hard to tell at first. But he’s a breed! Everybody knows that the only thing worse than a full-blooded redskin is a sneakin’ low-down breed!”

  Buckhorn felt the old familiar heat of rage climb up his neck and rush over his face. He fought hard to hold it in check. “So what does that change?” he said in a barely controlled voice. “You’ve got places to go and I’ll be away from here by morning. No harm’ll be done.”

  “The hell there won’t!” Vance roared. “Flying W land will have been contaminated by a stinking half-breed. The only thing General Wainwright hates worse than squatters is Injuns. He’d hand us our heads if he found out we ran across you and just left you alone.”

  “Believe me. He—and you—will be a lot sorrier if you don’t.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Vance asked with a sneer.

  Buckhorn stood up. “It means I lied before when I said I had no wares to sell, no trade. You see, the trade I practice, the product I have for sale, is this gun on my hip.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Harlan said. “Who ever heard of a half-breed gunslinger?”

  “Several did,” Buckhorn told him. “Unfortunately for most of them, it was the last lesson they learned in their lives.”

  “What a crock!”

  “I don’t know, amigos,” Chico said nervously. “I am looking at this hombre’s eyes. They are black and soulless.”

  “Of course they’re soulless,” Harlan said. “He’s a heathen Injun! They have no souls.”

  “All the same. I think he is not bluffing.”

  “He’s got nothing else but a bluff, and a mighty lame one at that,” Vance said. “In case nobody but me can count, it’s our three guns against his one.”

  Buckhorn smiled icily. “Like I said before, it’s the luck of the draw . . . and I’m real sorry you fellas turned up such lousy odds.” He had a hunch it would be Harlan who’d go for his gun first. When he saw the spark of long-dormant danger flare again in those pale eyes, he knew he was right.

  But not even the flash of that spark was quicker than Buckhorn’s hand streaking for his own Colt.

  CHAPTER 9

  Following the shoot-out with the Flying W riders, Buckhorn struck his camp and took steps to remove himself and all traces of anything that might connect him to the three dead bodies left behind.

  To confuse his back trail, he rode over the tracks the trio had left on their approach to his camp. When these eventually led him to a stretch of broken ground not friendly to taking on sign, he swerved away and reset his own course.

  He swung down south for a spell and then angled north again, aiming for Wagon Wheel. His intent was to ride in from a direction quite different from that of anyone coming from the scene of the shoot-out. A couple hours before daybreak, he stopped to spread his bedroll and grab some shut-eye in a cold camp. He planned to arrive in town when it was full daylight and the direction he came from was sure to be noticed.

  * * *

  Tired and irritable, Buckhorn rode into Wagon Wheel midmorning. The town had the look of a typical Southwest border town. Since it was Whitestone County, Arizona Territory, it was predominantly American in the style of its structures and the business names plastered on the buildings lining Front Street. On the south end, however, where the string of buildings extended and became a nameless, rather shabby village commonly referred to as Mexville, Spanish touches were more in evidence.

  A fair amount of activity was taking place in the business district and, as he’d counted on, a number of faces turned to note his arrival.

  Two businesses along the street advertising themselves to be hotels caught Buckhorn’s attention. The first one he came to appeared to be simple and unpretentious, quiet-looking. TRAVELERS’ REST HOTEL, its sign proclaimed. He reckoned it would do for his needs.

  “I know it’s a little early to be checking in,” Buckhorn told the balding, bespectacled little man at the front desk, “but I’ve been traveling most of the n
ight and I need a bath, a meal, and a bed to stretch out on for a good long snooze.”

  “The bath and the bed we sure got,” the desk clerk said. “Unfortunately, we don’t serve meals here except for having a pot of coffee available in the lobby most any hour. My missus puts out a tray of muffins in the morning and a tray of cookies in the evening. But that’s about it. Just a couple doors up the street, there’s a nice little restaurant that serves good food. The Good Eats Café, in fact, is what it’s called. Nothing fancy, about like our place here, but it’s good stick-to-your-ribs vittles at a fair price.”

  “Can’t ask for more than that,” Buckhorn said. “I probably oughta scrape some of this trail dust off and change duds, though, before I plop down to eat in public amongst other folks. How long before you could have a bath ready?” He watched the clerk’s eyes, expecting there might be a hitch on account of him being a half-breed, but there wasn’t even the slightest hesitation.

  “We got a tub in the back room that the missus fills and heats up each morning,” the clerk explained. “It’s fresh and ready right now, not even been used yet today. If that suits you, you can hop in right away. If you’re hankering for more privacy, though, and would rather bathe in your own room—”

  “Hold it right there.” Buckhorn held up a hand, stopping him. “The tub in the back room will suit me right down to the ground. Just tell me what I’ll owe you for that and a night’s stay—no, on second thought, might as well make it a couple nights. I’ll need a place to stable my horse, too.”

  “We can take care of you all the way around, mister,” the clerk assured him. “You came to the right place.”

  * * *

  By the time Buckhorn made his way up the street to the Good Eats Café, after claiming his room at the hotel and then soaking, scrubbing, and donning fresh clothes, the noon hour was in full swing and the eatery was packed. It obviously was a popular place.

  Since he didn’t care for rubbing elbows with a bunch of strangers while taking his meals, ordinarily he would have waited, finding a way to kill some time until he could return when the place was less crowded. But on this occasion he had reason to alter his normal habit.

  As a leadup to eventually locking horns with Thomas Wainwright, Buckhorn had decided it would be beneficial to first spend some time getting a feel for the lay of the land, gaining some sense of the mood of the townspeople. What better way to get a start on that than to have a leisurely lunch in the midst of this throng and listen to what was going on around him?

  He allowed himself to be ushered to a place at one of the tables and ordered the lunch special of ham, mashed potatoes, peas, and a tall glass of cold buttermilk. His plate came heaped high and included a slab of cornbread.

  Everything was delicious. Even the buttermilk was some of the best he’d ever tasted. It was no chore at all to take his time, savoring every bite, while inconspicuously watching and listening to those on all sides.

  Much of the talk he picked up on centered around the scarcity of good water for the area. Seemed like it had been an especially hot, dry summer and if the coming winter didn’t provide a good measure of moisture, things were going to be mighty tough on surrounding ranchers and farmers, even the town itself.

  Buckhorn listened, barely able to hold back a wry smile. That complaint was common on most days. If he ever spent time in a ranching and farming community and didn’t hear the residents lamenting about dry conditions, he didn’t know what the hell he would do.

  It was only when he heard somebody bitterly mutter something about “that damn Wainwright makes sure he’s got plenty for himself, though, don’t he?” that Buckhorn’s ears perked up.

  He identified the speaker as a beefy, jug-eared hombre in a sweat-stained blue work shirt sitting a couple tables over with a group of other men who all looked to be laborer types, though not of the cowpuncher mold. As soon as the fellow had uttered those words, he and a couple of the others looked around somewhat uneasily, as if concerned about who might have overheard the comment.

  According to Haydon, in addition to sheer intimidation, Wainwright was taking over much of the land to acquire control of key water rights. Haydon had been a little slim on exact details, but he’d provided enough for Buckhorn to already have in mind that it was an aspect of the situation he needed to explore further once he’d arrived.

  Catching the remark of the beefy man and then seeing the anxious way he and his friends had acted afterwards—not to mention all the other talk of the dry conditions and how much tension everybody seemed to be under as a result—only emphasized that it was something worth digging into a little deeper.

  The beefy man and his friends were pushing back their chairs and shuffling toward the door just as the coffee and piece of apple pie Buckhorn had ordered for dessert arrived.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the stout German lady waiting on him. From what he’d gathered, she was one of two spinster sisters who owned and operated the restaurant. “That burly fellow there, the second to the last one going out the door”—he gestured—“looks mighty familiar to me, somebody I think I used to work with down in El Paso. I wasn’t sure enough to go over and say anything, though. Do you happen to know if his name is Grable?”

  “Oh, I am afraid it is mistaken you are, sir.” The negative response came with a look of genuine regret. “That gentleman’s name is Hampton.”

  “Whew,” Buckhorn said, managing a sheepish expression. “I’m glad I didn’t end up embarrassing myself then.”

  The pie and coffee were as good as everything that had preceded them. Buckhorn took his time downing each, even accepting a refill on the coffee.

  The lunch crowd had thinned considerably. He toyed with the notion of lingering long enough for the place to quiet down to the point where he might have a chance to strike up some small talk with one or both of its proprietors. But with just the two of them running the whole show, they stayed active, bustling about to clear and reset tables, do dishes, and start making preparations for the next round of meals.

  In the end, Buckhorn decided they really weren’t good prospects for what he had in mind. Number one, they were too busy; number two, neither of them seemed the overly chatty type. Toward that end, it occurred to him the talkative clerk back at his hotel had the makings of a far better candidate. Upon first encountering the bespectacled little man—Fletchler was how he’d gotten around to introducing himself—Buckhorn’s priorities had been different. With that now changed, he’d have to make a point of looking up Mr. Fletchler again.

  CHAPTER 10

  Buckhorn stepped out on the street. The air was hotter and heavier and seemed to be carrying a tang of dust that hadn’t been there before. Activity up and down the main drag appeared to have slowed somewhat, either as a result of things not yet having picked back up from the lunch break or the onset of the siesta period commonly practiced below the border.

  His intent had been to return to his newly acquired hotel bed and partake of that very thing as soon as he’d bathed and had a meal. With the latter two items taken care of, however, he felt revitalized and no longer inclined toward losing time to a nap.

  He could accomplish more by making the rounds of the local saloons and seeing what he could pick up in the way of small talk and gossip, but it was probably too early for that, especially during the afternoon lull. The best alternative seemed to be looking up Mr. Fletchler. Buckhorn wondered what he might learn if he could get the hotel proprietor’s chin wagging loosely.

  He had just started back toward the hotel when a lone wagon came rolling down the street. Nothing seemed remarkable about the wagon except perhaps the slowness with which it was moving. It was pulled by a thick-chested, big-rumped white horse and driven by an average-sized, middle-aged man with his face set in an intense expression.

  The way the driver swayed and teetered in his seat made Buckhorn pause and watch as the wagon passed by. It looked like the fellow could hardly hold himself in an upright sitting positi
on, as if he might be injured or very ill.

  As Buckhorn watched, the wagon reached the first building on the corner of the next block. Its slow-plodding horse stopped directly in front of the business located there. It appeared that the animal knew its destination and had reached it.

  A moment later, as if suddenly realizing where they were, the driver belatedly hauled back on the reins. He leaned into it so far as to nearly topple backwards off the seat and into the crowded wagon bed. When he straightened up and reached to set the wheel brake, he nearly toppled off that way.

  It was then Buckhorn recognized the true condition of the wagon driver. The man was so drunk he could barely function.

  Buckhorn’s mouth twisted with disgust. He had no use for stinking drunks. His earliest memories were of one such stumbling, staggering, foul-tempered fool—his own father—and he was left with no charitable feelings toward anyone who tipped up a bottle with regularity. It sucked away all their dignity in a quest for the sorry substitution of mind-numbing inebriation.

  Buckhorn once again turned toward his hotel, stopping when a woman emerged from the building in front of which the wagon and its drunken driver had halted. Even from three-quarters of a block away, it was plain to see she was one of Wagon Wheel’s more fetching citizens.

  Thirtyish, with a mane of thick chestnut hair and flashing eyes, she planted her fists on her hips. Her sassy mouth spewed epithets that could best any wrangler crew around as she threw a salty tirade against the drunk who’d pulled up before her establishment.

  Bombarded by her words, the driver was attempting, with a good deal of fumbling awkwardness and inaccuracy, to climb down from the wagon seat. It was clear to Buckhorn that this stood little or no chance of ending well. It crossed his mind to assist in some way, but he was too far away and then suddenly it was too late.

  The driver’s foot thrust determinedly downward, found no purchase except for empty air, and he spilled out and down with a desperate squawk. Despite her caustic words, the woman nevertheless lunged to break the man’s fall, which resulted in the two of them sprawling to the dusty boardwalk.