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  They were still trying to get untangled and make it back to their feet when Buckhorn reached them. Whatever injuries the woman may have suffered, it was quickly evident that the wind hadn’t been knocked out of her nor was her voice box damaged.

  “Stupid-assed, weak-willed damn fool. Of all the times to go on a bender . . . I should have known it was just a matter of time and when I’d count on you the most is when you’d piss away my trust and all the ground you had gained!”

  “I’m sorry, Justy. You gotta believe I am sooo sorry,” the drunk kept begging.

  The worthless lament of every drunk in the world, Buckhorn thought as he leaned over and lifted this particular one off the chestnut-haired woman. “Take it easy, fella,” he said as he stood the man more or less upright and leaned him against a post. “Just hang on tight and stay right there.”

  Next he reached for the woman, who had jackknifed to a sitting position. She tipped her head back, gazing up at him for a moment before putting her hands in his and allowing him to pull her to her feet.

  “You okay?” Buckhorn said. “You took quite a spill and got sorta buried there for a minute.”

  “I’m okay,” the woman responded as she brushed dust from her arms and clothes. She was clad in baggy-legged trousers and a charcoal gray shirt tucked into a rather ornate belt. The trousers might be loose-fitting in the legs, but there was nothing baggy about the way they hugged the swell of her hips. Same for the way her shirt was strained in front by the swell of high, firm breasts. Add in a finely chiseled face and a pair of bright, intelligent blue eyes and Buckhorn certainly had no call to argue that she was okay and then some.

  “The one you oughta be worried about,” the woman went on, “is that jackass over there holding up the post. If he didn’t already break something in the fall, I might just go ahead and do it for him!”

  “I’ll make it up to you, Justy. God, I’m sorry,” the drunk moaned.

  “Oh, you’re sorry all right. That’s for damn sure.”

  “Well, as long as everybody’s okay . . .” Buckhorn said, edging back a step.

  The girl turned to face him. She pinned him with those blue eyes, maybe the bluest he’d ever seen. “Wait a minute. I don’t blame you for not wanting to stick around and get caught in the middle of this, but at least give me a chance to say thanks.”

  “That’s not necessary. I saw the fall. Just wanted to make sure nobody got hurt, that’s all.”

  “Well, it was decent of you. And I am grateful.” She continued to regard him. “You’re a stranger in town, aren’t you?”

  “Just got in this morning.”

  She thrust out an ink-stained hand. “I’m Justine York. I run the newspaper hereabouts. There’s plenty of folks to be found who wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire because I print the truth. Not everybody is willing to face up to it.”

  Buckhorn took the offered hand. “My name’s Joe. Joe Buckhorn.” As they shook, he took a better look at the building they were standing in front of. The lettering on the glass of the big front window proclaimed THE SUN LEDGER and then in smaller print below that, THE TRUE VOICE OF SOUTHERN ARIZONA.

  “For what it’s worth, this jackass”—Justine jerked a thumb to indicate the drunk still hanging on the post—“is Carl Orndecker. Among other things, he works for me. If I had any brains, I’d bring that arrangement to a screeching halt right now.”

  “Your call to make. Keep the horse, though. He marched up and stopped right where he was supposed to.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Her gaze shifted past Buckhorn and her eyes narrowed. “Oh, great. We go from horses right back to jackasses again.”

  Buckhorn turned to see what she was looking at. Diagonally across the street was a somewhat drab-looking saloon called the Watering Hole. Four men, lanky types, all with wide, toothy grins plastered across their whiskered mugs, had just emerged from the batwing doors and were sauntering toward where Buckhorn and the York woman stood talking.

  “Well, well, well,” drawled a member of the foursome who was stepping out a ways ahead of the others. “Looks like the bold, crusading newspaper gal has got herself in kind of a pickle.”

  Buckhorn glanced up and down the street. It was still nearly empty of other activity, but here and there a face was peeking furtively out a doorway or window.

  “The only pickle you need to worry about, Conway,” Justine replied, “is the kind you keep your insides fermented in. Why don’t you and your three pals turn around and go on back to your elbow-bending so’s none of that precious fermentation you already got stoked goes to waste. There’s nothing going on here that you fellows need concern yourselves with.”

  “How can we be sure of that less’n we double-check to make sure there ain’t some kind of trick being played? You see, we ain’t the kind of hombres who just stand by and let a gal get hoo-hawed, no matter how brave and tough-talking she puts herself out to be.”

  “That didn’t make a lick of sense. What the hell are you talking about?” Justine demanded.

  “Consider it from our standpoint,” Conway said, gesturing. “We look out the window of our saloon over yonder and what do we see? We see the brave employee and protector of our newspaper crusader lady pull up obviously bad hurt, hardly able to cling to his wagon seat. I mean, it’s got to be that this poor man has been attacked and wounded in some low-down way, right? It couldn’t be that he simply got snockered all to hell-and-gone like he has a hunnert times before, could it? ’Cause everybody knows he’s swore off ever doing that kind of thing again.

  “So, right when we’re about to rush out and see what we can do to help this dreadful turn of events, we see none other than the brave newspaper crusader lady hurry out her very own self to aid the wounded man. And, even though we see it right with our own eyes, we know it can’t be. But yes, the wounded man did it. He fell splat! and landed right on the brave newspaper crusader lady. Left with no choice, we finally had to believe the horrible truth we had just witnessed—that Carl Orndecker had fallen off the wagon yet again! ”

  By the time he’d finished his elaborately taunting spiel, Conway had made his way across the street and was coming around the rear end of the wagon. His teeth were bared in a wide, lopsided sneer and the other three men walking in his wake were snickering and giggling like a pack of schoolboys at the show he was putting on.

  Justine once again planted her fists on her hips and raked a fierce glare over the four idiots.

  “All right. You’ve poked your fun. You’ve had your cheap laughs,” she told them all. “Now get out of here and go mind your own business.”

  “But brave newspaper crusader lady,” Conway said, “how can we abandon you to such dire circumstances? At a time when your staunch defender and protector, Orndecker, is so unfortunately incapacitated, what do we see but you being accosted by this heathen red devil!” With great flourish, he waved his arm in the direction of Buckhorn. “How can we not make such an outrageous threat our business?”

  “All right. That’s enough,” Orndecker suddenly growled, pushing himself away from the post and turning to face Conway and the other three. He lurched unsteadily with the effort but managed to stay upright, feet planted wide, albeit teetering somewhat in his stance. “You four heard what the lady said. In case you didn’t, now I’m telling you this ain’t none of your concern, so beat it.”

  Conway laughed right in his face. “And what if we don’t?” he challenged. “You gonna stagger over here and fall on all four of us?”

  The men backing Conway thought this was hilarious and broke into a fresh round of howling laughter. Orndecker took another unsteady step toward them. At the same time, his right hand, curled clawlike, reached down and scraped at the side of his hip.

  “Lookee there.” One of Conway’s buddies pointed as his shoulders shook with laughter. “The drunken ol’ fool is reaching for the gun he ain’t allowed to carry no more.”

  “It’s a good thing for us they took
it away from him,” one of the others said, “or we’d really be in trouble.”

  Orndecker slowly raised his empty hand and then dropped his eyes to stare down at it, as if confused by the fact it held nothing. This fueled even more laughter.

  Buckhorn squared his shoulders and turned to face the cackling hyenas, edging partly in front of Justine. “I’m having a hard time making up my mind,” he said in a flat, commanding tone, “what annoys me the most about you boys. I can’t decide if it’s those girlielike little giggles you keep spitting out or if it’s the plain fact that I have to look at so much butt ugliness crammed together right after I ate me a fine meal.”

  The laughter went abruptly silent and the faces of the four men gawked in stunned disbelief at what they’d just heard.

  “What did you just say?” Conway asked in a strained voice, genuinely not believing his ears.

  “Don’t matter so much what I said just then. That was only to get your attention.” Buckhorn’s tone remained flat and calm as his eyes touched on each of the faces staring at him before returning to settle on Conway’s. “What I’m about to say now is what you need to pay attention to. You’ve been advised twice to unstick your noses from where they don’t belong and scamper on back to where you came from, without another peep. I’m not gonna advise you a third time. But if I have to, I’m damn sure ready to send you scampering.”

  Conway’s eyes blazed. “Mister, you just—”

  Before Conway could squeak out another word, Buckhorn’s Colt was in his fist and extended at arm’s length, the muzzle aimed unwaveringly.

  “I know what I just,” Buckhorn said through gritted teeth. “I made it plain I was sick of looking at your ugly faces and hearing what was coming out of your braying mouths. Now how damn dumb are you? Between the four of you, have you got enough brains to take a hint? To leave these people alone and get the hell out of my sight? Or do you insist on turning this into a real serious situation?”

  The four men seemed to wilt as one. Shoulders sagged, eyes were averted, chins that had been shoved aggressively forward suddenly drooped.

  In the tense quiet that clamped over the scene, Buckhorn became peripherally aware of a flurry of activity from farther up the street. The patter of running feet, the low, guttural bark of commands. He had a pretty good hunch what that signaled.

  A second later, his hunch was confirmed by the crack of a gunshot that shattered the silence and condensed the tension all into one tight ball.

  “Hold it! Everybody freeze right where you are!”

  The four tormentors froze as ordered, but only after flinching wildly at the sound of the gunshot. Buckhorn remained still, except for slowly turning his head to look in the direction of the voice shouting orders.

  Three men were making their way down the street. One strode right down its center, the other two flanked him, their boots clomping on the narrow boardwalks. The man in the middle was tall, broad through the chest and gut, clad in high-top black boots, a flared-open black frock coat, brocade vest with a star pinned on it, and a flat-crowned, narrow-brimmed black Stetson. He had a square, ruddy face framed by gray-flecked muttonchop sideburns that made his head look too wide for the hat. In one gloved hand he held a long-barreled Remington revolver aimed skyward. A wisp of smoke from the warning shot curled out of the muzzle.

  The two on the boardwalks were dressed similarly, except for plain black vests under their coats and cheeks shaved clean of sideburns. They were leaner and younger and each wielded a double-barreled scattergun like he knew how to use it.

  The man in the street—obviously the sheriff and just as obviously the one in charge—slowed and shortened his stride but kept on coming. Barely moving his slash of a mouth, he said, “You with the hogleg. Drop it. Now.”

  Buckhorn held the sheriff’s eyes for a moment and then, slowly, deliberately, lowered his Colt until it rested against his thigh. “I don’t toss my iron to the dirt for nobody, especially when I haven’t done a damn thing wrong. This’ll have to do.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “He’s telling the truth, Sheriff,” Justine was quick to speak up. “This man has done nothing wrong. He was only trying to help Carl and me when those obnoxious fools came over looking to make trouble.”

  “That’s a lie!” Conway objected. “We was just poking some fun at ol’ Carl on account of he fell off the wagon again. Literally, Sheriff. He fell off his wagon! If the drunken old bastard is gonna carry on in public that way, I say he deserves to get made fun of.”

  The sheriff came to a halt directly between Buckhorn and Conway. He looked from one to the other, poised with his right arm raised and bent at the elbow, still pointing the revolver skyward.

  Over his shoulder, the sheriff spoke to the deputy on Buckhorn’s side of the street. “Pomeroy, aim that street-sweeper of yours in the general direction of Mr. I-Don’t-Toss-Down-My-Iron and, if he lifts that Colt so much as an inch, use it. Make sure Mrs. York is in the clear.”

  The deputy addressed as Pomeroy did as he’d been told. Buckhorn could feel the cold black eyes of the shotgun’s muzzles staring hard at him.

  The sheriff turned and stepped over in front of Conway, pressing his face to within inches of the loudmouth’s. He still held his Remington in that curious way, pointing skyward. “Did you just call Mrs. York a liar?” the lawman demanded.

  Beads of sweat as big as cherries popped out on Conway’s forehead as he stammered to find the right words. “No! W-what she said wasn’t right . . . That is to say I don’t agree with her . . . But I never meant to—”

  The barrel of the Remington suddenly came down in a hard, slashing blow across the side of Conway’s head. The stammering man was knocked sprawling, a bright red welt appearing instantly and then blood oozing from it in a matter of moments. The sheriff took another step to loom over the fallen man and Conway’s pals backed away like he was a spreading fire.

  The sheriff sneered down at a barely conscious Conway. “You get something straight. A single wisp of hair off Justine York’s head is worth more than ten of you on the best day you ever had.” The lawman lifted his eyes and raked them over the other three. “That goes for the lot of you! Because you ride for the Flying W, me and my boys might’ve cut you some slack a time or two when you’ve come to town. But that only goes in the saloons and whorehouses and even then it only goes so far. I catch any of you ever again bothering decent citizens of my town, I’ll lock up your no-account hides and throw away the key. Understand? Now drag this piece of garbage out of the middle of the street and then the bunch of you get the hell out of my sight!”

  The sheriff watched until the foursome had disappeared back through the batwing doors of the Watering Hole. Finally holstering his pistol, he then turned to face the others.

  It was at that moment that Carl Orndecker, who had returned to leaning on the post in order to hold himself upright, suddenly doubled over and spewed a thick stream of vomit into the street underneath the wagon he’d driven up in.

  “Oh, Carl!” Justine exclaimed, half in disgust and half in what sounded like pity.

  The deputy who’d been holding his shotgun on Buckhorn looked ready to be sick himself at the sight. He had to turn away, in the process abandoning his duty when it came to keeping Buckhorn covered.

  Out in the street, the sheriff, who’d begun walking over, stopped short and adopted his own expression of disgust. “For the love of Christ,” he muttered.

  “He can’t help it,” Justine said defensively. “When a body’s sick, it’s sick! No matter what anybody thinks, he doesn’t like this any better than the rest of us.”

  “Well, can you at least get him out of sight or something?” urged the sheriff. “Don’t he have a room in back of your shop?”

  Orndecker appeared to be done throwing up. He remained doubled over, though, groaning weakly, using the back of his hand to wipe at his mouth and the strings of snot hanging from his nose. Justine pulled a handkerchief from her trouser pocket and
went to him.

  Something came over Buckhorn. Much as he loathed slobbering drunks, watching the caring woman go to the aid of the man who was making a fool of himself—and her, too, in a roundabout way—conjured images of himself as a young boy. All the times he’d helped his drunken father, hating it, hating him, yet feeling obligated because no one else would.

  “Let me give you a hand,” he said to Justine. Then he paused, cutting a glance over to the sheriff. “If I’m allowed to move, that is, without getting shotgunned.”

  The sheriff tipped his head in a single faint nod. “Go ahead. Anything to get that disgrace off the street. But hear this. You come around to see me before the afternoon is out, so’s we can have us a real thorough talk about obeying the law and obeying me while you’re in these parts. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

  * * *

  As the sheriff had indicated, there was a small room in the back of the newspaper office. A cot, a chair and writing desk, and dresser with a mirror and washbasin on top identified it as somebody’s living quarters, the somebody being Carl Orndecker. With Justine leading the way and one of Orndecker’s arms slung over his shoulder, Buckhorn half-dragged, half-carried the man back.

  “Let me put a towel down, in case he throws up some more, before you put him on the cot,” Justine said.

  Once she’d taken care of that, Buckhorn lowered Orndecker down. He stepped back as Justine fussed over their patient a minute more, getting him rolled onto his side so he wouldn’t choke to death on his own vomit, taking the washbasin and placing it on the floor beside him in hopes he’d try to hit it if more came up. Each measure was one that Buckhorn recognized and remembered all too well from his childhood days.

  When she’d finished, Justine straightened up and turned to Buckhorn, saying somewhat breathlessly, “The part I didn’t mention outside is that, in addition to helping me with odd jobs around here, Carl is my brother. He wasn’t always like this.”