Bloodthirsty Page 9

  Buckhorn gave Conway a cold stare and then slowly shifted his gaze to Banning. “I don’t know how long you’re gonna be able to keep me here, Sheriff, without somebody pressing official charges. But, when you do get around to letting me out, you might as well keep that cell key handy because there’s a good chance I’ll be giving you cause to lock me right back up again after I hunt down this little weasel and wring his scrawny damn neck.”

  “That was a threat! Everybody heard it, right?” Conway said excitedly. “He threatened me with serious bodily harm. He practically said he was gonna kill me!”

  Before anybody could say anything more, the front door opened and Deputy Pomeroy stuck his head in. “I think you’re gonna want to come out here for this, Sheriff. Thomas Wainwright is riding in with a handful of gun toughs.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “What the hell is going on around here, Banning? Somebody’s turning the county into a shooting gallery for my riders and you and your deputies are hanging around here instead of hauling your lazy asses out and doing something about it.” Having reined his horse to a sharp halt in front of the sheriff’s office, Wainwright remained in the saddle and began issuing his questions as soon as Sheriff Banning stepped out the door. Like most men, Wainwright presented a larger, taller, more imposing figure on horseback. He knew this, of course, and played to it whenever possible.

  Even standing on the ground, however, although he was only of average height and stature, Wainwright still made an imposing impression. It was in his bearing, his attitude, the way he pinned other people with a direct, steady look from dark, almost black, eyes that shone like chips of wet coal from under a ledge of thick brows. His neatly trimmed beard and hair were almost as dark as his eyes and he spoke with a deep, assured voice that sounded custom made to give commands.

  Paul Banning was one of the few men in Whitestone County who showed signs of being able to hold his own with Wainwright and even stand toe-to-toe when the situation required it. Still, you didn’t have to look too hard to find those who felt he nevertheless deferred a little too easily and often to the former general, leaving an opening for suspicions that he might even be taking payoffs to turn away on certain occasions when the long arm of the law should have reached a little farther and squeezed a little harder.

  In response to Wainwright’s current abrupt demands, Banning put on a good show to the once rumbling, grumbling crowd that had grown silent when the rancher spoke. Quickly demonstrating his authority and holding his ground, Banning said, “First thing in the morning, me and one of my deputies are gonna ride out to where your three men were found and give the scene a thorough investigation when we won’t have to worry about darkness crowding in on us. That would’ve been the case today if we’d ’ve tried to make it out there after we questioned the riders who brought ’em in. As it was, it’s a good thing we stuck around because now there’s been another shooting involving one of the other men who worked for you.”

  “Worked for—past tense,” said Wainwright. “That means he’s dead, too. You’re talking, of course, about Jack Draper.”

  Banning jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I got the other fella who was involved in the shoot-out inside, and I’m interrogating him. I’m hearing conflicting reports about who prodded who and who drew first.”

  “I heard some of the details on my way in,” Wainwright said. “A couple men rode out to meet us.”

  One of those who’d been taking Draper’s side of the shooting spoke up. “Dandy Jack got snookered, General. If not, that breed never woulda been able to outdraw him like he done.”

  “That flat ain’t true,” somebody from the other side countered. “It was a fair fight and Jack just plain got beat to the draw.”

  The rumble of opposing voices started in again, low at first but quickly picking up volume and intensity.

  A new voice, not seeming to speak loud yet somehow possessing a tone that demanded to be heard, shut down the rumbling once more. “Dandy Jack Draper was an old fool. A blowhard and a has-been. It was past his time to die. If the breed hadn’t taken care of it, somebody else would have—and soon.”

  The speaker was a clean-cut young man mounted directly to one side of Wainwright. Early twenties, trim though solid-looking, handsome features pinched slightly by a blade-narrow face. He wore black leather chaps, a black leather vest studded with silver conchos, and a flat-crowned black Stetson with more of the silver discs comprising its hatband. Around his waist was buckled a twin-holster gunbelt also of black leather, six-guns leathered butt-forward and angled slightly outward for a backhanded speed draw with either hand.

  Despite the speaker’s youth and blatant denigration of Dandy Jack, those in the crowd who’d been so strongly championing the fallen gunman only moments ago remained awkwardly quiet as far as making any objection to this new appraisal of the deceased.

  “While Mr. Sweetwater’s remarks might seem rather blunt,” Wainwright said into the silence, “that doesn’t make them inaccurate. From what I’ve heard of this evening’s incident and what I know of Mr. Draper’s temperament, I have no trouble believing that he played at least an equal part in bringing about the shooting at the Silver Dollar that resulted in his demise. I regret my poor decision to hire Draper’s services in the first place and am relieved that no innocent bystanders were harmed in the exchange of gunfire. Given that, I’m satisfied to consider the matter closed.”

  Banning frowned. “You’ll be pressing no charges then?”

  “Regarding the incident with Draper? No, I don’t see where anyone has any call for that.” As he said these words, Wainwright’s eyes swept over the faces of the men in the crowd—the same men who so recently had been shouting for revenge for Dandy Jack—his look clearly conveying that their thinking had best be in line with his. “Of course,” he added, “if something new comes to light, that might change my appraisal.

  “As far as the three riders who were found gunned down out on the range, that is an entirely different matter. I expect every effort put into hunting down their killer or killers and swift and sure justice being meted out. In the meantime, pending notification of any known kin who may have different wishes, I will have the bodies of the victims brought to my property and buried there with a full ceremony and religious services.”

  A ripple of approval went through the Flying W members of the crowd, offsetting the somewhat disconcerted expressions many of them had still been wearing due to the previous dismissal of Dandy Jack’s fate.

  “Now,” said Wainwright. “I know it’s getting mighty late, but I reckon the slain bodies of my boys who were brought in earlier are at the undertaker, correct? I want to make a stop there, pay my respects, and set in motion the arrangements I just outlined. Then my men—all of my men—and I will be taking leave of your town for a respectable length of time, Sheriff. Nobody who works for me celebrates with whiskey and loose women in the hours after three of our own have met their fate.”

  “That’s understandable enough,” Banning said. “You can rest assured, first thing in the morning me and my deputies will launch an investigation into the gunning of your men. We’ll run down the culprits behind it and see ’em swing.”

  Wainwright gave a crisp nod. “I’ll hold you to that. And you’re advised to know that I will be checking in regularly on your progress.” He started to wheel away but then checked his horse and turned back to the sheriff. “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “This individual who shot Dandy Jack . . . I understand he’s an Indian.”

  “A half-breed, actually. Name of Buckhorn.”

  “You know my history with Indians,” Wainwright said stonily. “Even still, under the circumstances I am not going to make an issue about the misfortune of this man’s heritage or skin color. But you also well know how bothersome those red devils can be. Full blood or any lesser percentage makes little difference. That has been my experience. If you allow this individual to remain in town after tonight, yo
u’re bound to have trouble on account of him. Heed my warning. There may even be those among my crew who have a more charitable feeling toward Jack than I’ve expressed. I just want the record clear that, should any further trouble occur because of this redskin’s presence in these parts, I will have no association with it.”

  Banning’s expression stayed blank. “Yes, sir. You’ve made yourself clear.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Well. You heard the man,” Sheriff Banning said as he unlocked the door to Buckhorn’s cell and swung it wide. “No charges. You’re free to go.”

  Through the bars to his cell and the front door the sheriff had obligingly left open when he went out for his confab with Wainwright, Buckhorn as well as the others left inside had indeed heard the ensuing exchange.

  “Free to go,” Buckhorn echoed, one brow arched somewhat skeptically as he exited the cell with less enthusiasm than might be expected. “Just like that, eh?”

  Banning frowned. “What more do you want? I had fifty-fifty testimony as to who prodded the shoot-out between you and Dandy Jack. Now, with nobody willing to press charges or push the matter any harder, I got even less than that. So why should I be the one to push it, especially when I’ve got three murder investigations squalling for my attention?”

  “If you’d listen to me,” Conway reminded him, “you’d stop and consider that this breed and those murders ain’t necessarily two separate things.”

  “Dang, I almost forgot,” Buckhorn muttered. “Keep that cell key handy, Sheriff. You’re gonna need it again. Won’t take me but a minute for the neck wringing I aim to get out of the way.”

  He took a step toward Conway but the weasel slipped away and out the open door. “You keep away from me, you gun-happy redskin. I’ll find somebody who’ll listen to what I have to say. I ain’t done with you!”

  “Let him go. He’s not worth the trouble,” said Banning.

  “What if he catches up with Wainwright and stirs him up? Gets him to change his mind about Buckhorn?” Justine said.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Wainwright ain’t the kind to change his mind. Especially not for the likes of Conway.”

  “And even more especially,” Buckhorn added, “because Wainwright already figures I’m as good as taken care of.”

  Justine looked thoroughly confused. “What is that supposed to mean? Quit talking in damn riddles!”

  “Not a matter of talking in riddles,” Buckhorn told her. “It’s a matter of reading between the lines. You heard Wainwright say he saw no reason for anybody to press charges over the shoot-out between Dandy Jack and me, right? Then he made it a point to right away tack on—in front of a whole passel of his men, mind you—that he couldn’t be responsible in case there was somebody who felt a closer tie to Jack and decided to cause trouble for me on their own if I stuck around too long.”

  “In other words,” Hampton said, “practically encouraging somebody to go after you as long as they did it in a way that left him out of it.”

  “Is that right, Paul? Is that how you took his meaning also?” Justine asked of the sheriff.

  “I only know what he said. I can’t read Wainwright’s mind,” Banning responded testily. “Besides, what would you have me do? Put Buckhorn back behind bars for his own protection?”

  “I do a pretty good job of protecting myself, thanks,” Buckhorn said. “Which reminds me, I’d like to have back the guns and bowie knife your deputies stripped me of when they locked me up earlier.”

  From a lockbox at the base of the office’s gun rack, Banning withdrew the requested weapons and handed them to Buckhorn. “You won’t be needing to use these anytime soon if you were to move on. Say tomorrow, the earlier the better. Since you said you were just passing through anyway, that shouldn’t present a problem.”

  Buckhorn grinned as he buckled on his gunbelt. “You running me out of town, Sheriff?”

  “No. I got no legal basis to do so. But if I had my ’druthers, seeing you hit the trail out of here would be pretty high on the list.”

  “Paul, that’s a dreadful thing to say,” Justine protested. “Whatever Buckhorn’s past, the only trouble he’s caused here in Wagon Wheel has been when others forced it on him.”

  “I won’t argue that. But any trouble that comes the way of a fella like Buckhorn usually ends up in gunplay. If it was always between him and somebody like Dandy Jack, that’d be one thing. Wouldn’t bother me a bit. But there are a lot of other folks in Wagon Wheel who ain’t gun wolves, to use Hampton’s term. Bullets start flying around on a regular basis, it’s just a matter of time before some poor innocent catches a slug. The thought of that does bother me.”

  Justine suddenly looked uncertain.

  Buckhorn seemed a little uneasy himself. “Look. Something like that is the last thing I’d want to see happen. I don’t mind drifting on. It’s mostly what I do. But the notion of being hurried on my way doesn’t suit me worth a damn.” He cut his gaze to the sheriff. “I got a hotel room booked for tonight and one more. Call it pure stubbornness, but I’m not inclined to break that arrangement. After that, I reckon I can find it in me to pick a direction out of here.”

  Banning didn’t try to hide the fact he wasn’t crazy about having Buckhorn around for that long. But all he said was, “Hope you pick a good one.”

  “Before I turn in tonight, though,” Buckhorn said, “I got a couple more things I’m curious about.”

  “Such as?”

  “I couldn’t get a full look through the open door. My angle was partly cut off. But when Wainwright first rode up, there were a couple other fellas did some talking. One of ’em was kinda young-sounding and he spouted some unkind remarks about Dandy Jack. I believe Wainwright called him Mr. Sweetwater afterwards. What do you know about him?”

  “Sweetwater’s his name, just like Wainwright said. Leo Sweetwater.” Banning’s mouth tugged down at the corners, indicating he didn’t think much of the subject. “And, yeah, he’s a young one. Hardly into his twenties. Wears a two-gun rig and packs a snotty attitude that’s always primed, just begging for somebody to say or do something out of line that’ll give him an excuse to pull on ’em. Why? You know the whelp?”

  “I’ve heard of him. Nothing good. I’d say you got him pegged. So he’s Wainwright’s top gun, is that it?”

  “That’s the way it shakes out.”

  “He come aboard before or after Dandy Jack?”

  “After. He’s only been on the scene about six months.”

  “So he replaced Jack at the head of the list?”

  “That’s the way he acts. The way Wainwright treats him.” Banning made a face. “Hell, I can’t say for sure the pecking order as far as who rates where on the Flying W crew.”

  Buckhorn nodded. “It fits. It’d explain why Jack was so proddy in the Silver Dollar. He was aware of his status slipping in the ranks of Wainwright’s gunnies, saw going against me as a way to make a statement, bolster himself back up.”

  “Those who make their way with a gun have a lot of peculiarities.”

  Buckhorn’s mouth twisted wryly. “Yeah, I reckon peculiar is one word for it.” His expression turned thoughtful again. “Wainwright also made a comment about his history with Indians. That naturally caught my attention, too. I figure it might play another part in my chances of making it out of Whitestone County in one piece.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Banning said. “But the thing about Wainwright and Indians traces back to when he first settled in these parts after the war. He came with the start of a herd and a wife and baby son. There were still a fair amount of Indians around, mostly Apaches out of Mexico. Some say Wainwright hated ’em and fought ’em right from the start, others claim he tried to get along with ’em. Either way, there came the day when a small war party hit the house while he was away and wiped out his family.

  “For a long time after that, he let his ranch go to hell and did nothing but hunt and kill Indians . . . until he’d driven every trace
of a redskin from Whitestone County for a hundred miles and wider. From there, he went back to building his ranch, concentrated on it just as fiercely as he’d concentrated on killing Indians, and built it up to what it is today.”

  “That’s a sad and tragic tale,” Justine said quietly. “It could even be an impressive one if Wainwright didn’t also see fit to apply the same brand of ruthlessness to everything and everybody else he comes up against.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Buckhorn’s claim about his previously booked hotel room was partly a convenient excuse for not being rushed out of town and also partly a ruse. An old Texas Ranger he’d previously had some dealings with had taught him the wisdom of not being where you were expected to be upon first arriving in a strange town, especially when there was reason to suspect you might be in for trouble.

  So, while another turn in the comfortable bed at the Traveler’s Rest would have been most welcome, it wasn’t to be.

  After parting company with everyone at the sheriff’s office, Buckhorn went straight to the hotel and up to his room. In case anyone was watching from the street below, he did a little fussing around with the lantern on to make it look like he was getting ready to turn in. Before blowing out the light, he even employed the old trick of lumping up his pillows under the blanket to give anyone entering the room a quick-glance impression there was a body snuggled there.

  Then he waited.

  After a quarter hour, he got up and relocated.

  On stocking feet, carrying his boots and a spare blanket from the bottom drawer of the dresser, Buckhorn crept down the hallway, out the second floor’s rear exit, onto a cramped landing and down the outside steps to the ground. He ducked in under the stairway and found a soft patch of weeds over which he spread his blanket.

  Obscured by a crosshatch pattern of shadows thrown by the steps and an even denser shadow spilled by a tall rain barrel, Buckhorn hunkered in for the night. He pulled his boots back on and tugged a corner of the blanket over one shoulder and under his chin. The night air was chilly, but he’d endured far worse. He slowed his breathing, became part of the shadows, and slipped into the kind of vigilant sleep that managed to be restful and restorative yet kept him balanced on a razor’s edge of alertness that could tip to full awake at the slightest wrong sound or disturbance.