Buckhorn

by William W. Johnstone

  That order made a chill go through Buckhorn. Kegs of blasting powder used in the mine were stored in a sturdy building well away from everything else, and using the place as a jail actually wasn’t a bad idea. But if anything happened to cause it to blow up . . .

  Well, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to bury, that was for sure.

  Woodrow frowned in the light from the house and said, “Boss, that don’t hardly seem human, lockin’ a fella up with all that blastin’ powder.”

  “Buckhorn will be fine unless he tries something stupid,” Thornton insisted.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Buckhorn asked. “Turn me over to Conroy and Madison? If you do that, you’ll never get the truth about what really happened.”

  “I’m not sure you’d know the truth if it came up and spit in your face.” Thornton was impatient now, as the sharp motion of his hand demonstrated. “Get him out of here. I don’t want to look at him.”

  Woodrow had been leading the horse Buckhorn was riding. He pulled on the reins and turned the animal toward the magazine, sighing as he did so.

  “This ain’t my idea, Buckhorn.”

  “I know that. I sure wish somebody around here would actually listen to me, though. I didn’t shoot Alexis or the Garrett kid.”

  “I reckon you can keep sayin’ that as long as you want . . . but I ain’t sure anybody’s ever gonna believe you.”

  * * *

  The powder magazine was built of thick beams, and the door had a heavy padlock on it. Once Buckhorn was shoved in there and the door closed behind him, the darkness was absolute. With no chance of escape, he felt around, determined that there was a big enough space on the ground to sit down, and sank wearily onto it, his movements awkward because his hands were still tied behind his back. He leaned against the kegs of blasting powder stacked behind him.

  Not only had his plan to expose Dennis Conroy’s villainy failed, it had actually gotten him in more trouble and ruined his chances of forming an alliance with Hugh Thornton. Every hand was against him now, Buckhorn mused . . . and all because he had tried to do the right thing.

  Maybe the remnant of a conscience he’d discovered wasn’t such a good thing after all. Maybe he would have been better off if he had continued to not give a damn about anybody except himself.

  It was too late for that now, though. He had already dug himself a grave.

  But if that was where he ended up, he wouldn’t be the only one, he vowed as he closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.

  * * *

  The powder magazine was tightly constructed, but it was impossible to get rid of all the tiny cracks in the walls. A little sunlight filtered into the squat building when Buckhorn woke up the next morning.

  He had slumped over onto his side during the night, as much as he could in the cramped quarters, and wound up in a position that left his muscles stiff and aching. He struggled to his feet and tried to stretch some of the stiffness out of them, but tied the way he was, he wasn’t very successful at it.

  Then, figuring somebody was standing guard outside, he called, “Hey! I could use some coffee and something to eat!”

  “Shut your trap, ’breed,” a man snapped on the other side of the door. Buckhorn didn’t recognize the voice. “You’ll be doin’ good to get some water and a hunk of bread.”

  “I’ll take it,” Buckhorn muttered.

  The guard didn’t reply, although a short time later Buckhorn heard more voices outside. He couldn’t make out the words. Finally, a key rasped in the padlock, and the door swung open.

  The morning sunlight struck Buckhorn’s eyes like a blow. He squinted against the glare until his vision began to adjust. A voice ordered, “Come on outta there, but don’t try anything. You’re covered.”

  Buckhorn stepped out of the building, glad to be away from the kegs of blasting powder. Even though nothing had happened, being locked up that close to so much explosive potential was enough to put a man on edge, even one as icy nerved as Buckhorn.

  Four men toting shotguns surrounded him. Buckhorn smiled grimly at them and said, “You boys are making a mistake. If you open fire with those Greeners, you’ll blow yourselves to kingdom come right along with me.”

  A man stepped up with a revolver in his hand and said, “Those scatterguns are just in case you make a run for it. Try anything else funny, and I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  The man lifted his Colt to emphasize the point. He was tall and slender almost to the point of gauntness. His lean face had a gray tinge to it that matched the hair under his black hat. He wore a black vest over a gray wool shirt. His hollow, deep-set eyes revealed that he was in pain.

  “You’re Ernie Gratton,” Buckhorn guessed. “I’ve heard a lot about you, but we’ve never crossed trails until now.”

  “I’ve heard about you, too, Buckhorn,” Gratton said. “Can’t say as I’m surprised that you’d shoot a woman in the back and gun down a defenseless youngster.”

  “I never did either of those things,” Buckhorn snapped. “And you know it.”

  “I didn’t see you shoot Edward Garrett, but there’s nobody else who could’ve done it. I know you were right there when he got killed, because I saw you just a minute later when you shot Alexis Conroy.”

  Gratton told the lie with utter conviction. Buckhorn started to hate the gunman at that moment. He was more convinced than ever that Dennis Conroy had paid off Gratton to help frame him. Thornton had complete faith in Gratton, though, and Buckhorn wasn’t sure how he could shake it.

  Gratton inclined his head toward the big two-story log building and said, “Come on. The boss wants to talk to you.”

  “Talk?”

  “If you’re lucky.” Gratton shrugged. “If you’re not, he’s liable to find a tree and string you up on it. Makes no never mind to me which he does.”

  Buckhorn half turned and lifted his bound wrists.

  “How about cutting me loose?” he asked. “With this many guns around me, it’s not likely I’ll try anything, especially with my hands and arms so numb I can barely feel them.”

  Gratton considered the request for a second, then nodded to one of the other men. That man lowered his shotgun, took out a knife, and moved behind Buckhorn to saw through the rawhide thongs around his wrists. Buckhorn’s muscles twinged painfully as he brought his arms around in front of him again. He flexed his hands to get some feeling back into them.

  “Come on,” Gratton ordered. “Your fate’s waiting for you.”

  “Reckon it always has been,” Buckhorn said.

  CHAPTER 33

  Hugh Thornton was waiting on the porch again with the big dog sitting beside him. The dog growled and his hackles rose when he looked at Buckhorn.

  Or maybe he was looking at Gratton, Buckhorn told himself. Maybe the dog could sense what a liar the gray-faced gunman really was.

  Thornton told Gratton and the other guards, “Bring him inside,” then turned and stalked into the house.

  Buckhorn looked around as Gratton prodded him up the steps at gunpoint. The mine seemed to be operating as usual this morning. Men moved in and out of the tunnel. An ore car rumbled along the elevated rails, pushed by a couple of brawny miners. Evidently Thornton wasn’t going to let his worry and anger over Alexis’s shooting keep him from carrying on.

  They went into the comfortable front room. Thornton stood beside his desk. He looked at Buckhorn and said, “I’m going to give you one more chance. Tell me the truth about what happened, and I won’t hang you.”

  “You mean what you’ve already made up your mind is the truth?” Buckhorn asked. “Or what really happened?”

  Thornton’s mouth tightened. He said, “An attitude like that isn’t going to help you.”

  “If you want to help me, give me a gun and a horse and turn me loose to go after Yancy Madison. He’s the one responsible for what happened to Alexis. He may have even pulled the trigger himself, I don’t know about that.”

  Gratton said,
“Let me bend a gun barrel over his head, Mr. Thornton. That might knock some humility into him.”

  Thornton waved off that suggestion.

  “Let him be stubborn. He’ll change his tune when there’s a noose around his neck.”

  Buckhorn pointed out, “You don’t have the legal authority to hang me.”

  Thornton’s face twisted in rage. He said, “Legal authority be damned! The closest law is a hundred miles away. A man who’s strong enough makes his own law in these parts.” He took a step closer to Buckhorn. “And I’m strong enough to beat you to death with my bare hands, you cheap gunman!”

  “I wouldn’t try it,” Buckhorn said coolly. “Not unless you have your men tie me hand and foot first. Even then, I’m not sure you’ve got it in you, Thornton.”

  “You son of a—” Thornton choked off the oath and lunged at Buckhorn, swinging a knobby-knuckled fist.

  Ernie Gratton yelled, “Boss, no!” but he was too late to stop the attack Buckhorn had goaded Thornton into.

  Gratton sprang toward Buckhorn and chopped at his head with the gun. Buckhorn ducked out of the way of that blow and avoided the wild, looping punch from Thornton at the same time. He grabbed Thornton and swung him around so the mine owner was between him and the gunmen in the room.

  “Hold your fire!” Gratton shouted at the men who had lifted their shotguns.

  Buckhorn head-butted Thornton in the face, grabbed his shoulders, and spun him around while he was still too stunned to fight back. Buckhorn got his left arm around Thornton’s neck and pulled the man tight against him as a human shield.

  “Back off, Gratton!” Buckhorn ordered. “Try to rush me and I’ll snap his neck!”

  “You crazy redskin!” Gratton said. “You can’t pull a stunt like this and expect to get out of here alive. There are too many of us.”

  “Yeah, but only one of you pays the wages, and if he’s dead, the paydays stop.” Buckhorn’s eyes glittered like ice as he looked at the gray-faced gunman. “Except that’s not true for you, is it, Gratton? You’re collecting wages from two men—Thornton and Dennis Conroy.”

  “You’re a damned liar,” Gratton growled. “I never double-crossed a man in my life, once I took his money.”

  “Yeah, but your life’s not going to last that much longer, is it?” Buckhorn pressed relentlessly. “You got shot to pieces and the docs put you back together somehow, but they didn’t give you a long time, did they? You’re dying, and you figure to make as much as you can in the time you’ve got left, even if it means double-crossing Thornton. What is it, Gratton? You got a wife, a kid? Maybe a sainted old mother? You want to leave them enough money to get by on, and the code you used to live by can go to hell!”

  “No, you go to hell!” Gratton roared. His face darkened with fury. His gun started to come up. He was going to try a shot at Buckhorn, even though Thornton was in the line of fire.

  “Hold it right there, Gratton!” a new voice ordered. “I’ll blow you plumb to pieces if you don’t lower that gun.”

  All eyes in the room swung to the doorway, where Amos Woodrow stood with a Winchester in his hands. The rifle barrel was rock-steady in the old-timer’s grip.

  One of the other gunmen said, “Woodrow, you ain’t one of us. You’d better back off—”

  “All you damned gun-wolves can go to blazes for all I care!” Woodrow raged. “I work for Hugh Thornton, and I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to him if I can help it. Sure, you can gun me down, but I’ll kill Gratton first, and maybe one or two of you hombres, too!”

  “Buck . . . horn,” Thornton forced out past the tight grip Buckhorn had on his throat.

  Buckhorn eased that grip slightly and said, “What?”

  “Let . . . me go. I’ll tell everybody . . . to put down their guns . . . We’ll talk . . . like you wanted.”

  “Not good enough,” Buckhorn answered without hesitation. “I want all of them to get out—except Woodrow and Gratton. Woodrow, you keep Gratton covered.”

  “I don’t take orders from you, mister,” the old-timer said.

  “Do what . . . he says,” Thornton ordered. “Now!”

  “But boss—” Gratton began.

  “Now,” Thornton said again.

  Reluctantly, Gratton nodded to the other gunmen. A couple of them were muttering curses as they all filed out of the big room. Woodrow moved over to stay well out of their way, so none of them could make a grab for him.

  “Gratton, put your gun on that table over there,” Buckhorn said.

  “I’m damned if I will!”

  Woodrow gestured with the Winchester and said, “I can put a bullet through your arm, then.”

  Glaring murderously, Gratton moved over to the table and set the revolver down.

  “Now step away from it,” Buckhorn told him.

  When Gratton was out of easy reach of the gun, Buckhorn finally let go of Hugh Thornton and stepped back a little. The mine owner stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as he caught his breath, then turned to look at Buckhorn.

  “You said . . . you’ve got a story to tell. Let’s hear it.”

  “Boss, it’s gonna be a pack of lies,” Gratton protested.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Thornton said.

  “What made you decide to listen to me?” Buckhorn asked.

  “I like to think I can read a man’s character pretty well.” Thornton’s voice was stronger now. “Work in the mines for twenty years, where your life sometimes depends on being able to trust the man next to you, and you start being able to tell what kind of man he is. You’re a stubborn, arrogant son of a bitch, Buckhorn . . . but what you were saying somehow had the ring of truth about it.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, ever’ time I palavered with the gent,” Woodrow put in.

  Gratton said, “You’re both loco. He’s a cheap hired gun, and he’s half redskin! Man like that can’t open his mouth without lying.”

  “Why don’t we find out?” Thornton said. “Go ahead and talk, Buckhorn.”

  For the next ten minutes, that was what Buckhorn did. He started by repeating the theory he had discussed with Thornton before, that Dennis Conroy’s men were responsible for the rustling and raiding on the spreads south of the Mesteños so that Conroy would be able to carry out his land grab.

  “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t thought myself,” Thornton said impatiently. “I want to know what happened in Crater City last night.”

  “I’m getting to that,” Buckhorn said. “I wanted proof that Conroy knew what Madison was up to, and I figured Matthew Garrett was the way to get it.”

  He paused as he looked at Ernie Gratton. If he was right and Gratton was really working for Conroy now, then he would be risking a lot by explaining the plan he’d had. But he sensed that telling the truth was the only way to convince Thornton.

  “I had Edward Garrett print up a phony extra saying that his uncle was getting his senses back and would be able to tell who attacked him,” Buckhorn said.

  “Phony!” Gratton exclaimed. “You mean Matthew Garrett’s still in the same condition as he was after he got pistol-whipped?”

  “That’s right. But Conroy and Madison didn’t know that. They couldn’t afford to let Garrett recover enough to talk. I was counting on that when I moved Garrett to a safe place and waited for somebody to show up and try to kill him.”

  “What safe place?” Thornton asked.

  Buckhorn looked at Gratton and shook his head.

  “I’m not willing to go that far,” he said. “Not when Gratton might still run right back to Crater City and tell Conroy and Madison.”

  “Why, you—” Gratton began as he took a step toward Buckhorn.

  “Easy, there,” Woodrow warned. Thornton lifted a hand to stop Gratton, too.

  “Go on,” Thornton told Buckhorn.

  “I put Edward Garrett in the newspaper office next door, where folks could see him and think his uncle was alone.” Buckhorn’s mouth was a
grim line as he went on, “That was a bad mistake on my part. It didn’t occur to me that Conroy and Madison would consider Edward a threat and go after him, too.”

  “How did Alexis get mixed up in all this?” Thornton asked.

  “She showed up at the Garrett house. She said she just wanted to check on the old man, but I think she really wanted to find out if her father and Madison would try to kill him. Alexis is a mighty smart woman, but I reckon there’s still a part of her that doesn’t want to believe her father is really as big a crook as he is. She’d rather put all the blame on Madison.” Buckhorn paused, then played another of his hole cards. “Madison figures that sooner or later, he’s going to marry Alexis. If that ever happens, it won’t be long until Conroy has some sort of unfortunate accident, and Madison will take over everything.”

  Thornton made a disgusted noise and said, “You mentioned that before, but it’ll never happen. I can tell you that beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  Based on Buckhorn’s experience, Thornton probably didn’t know Alexis quite as well as he thought he did, or he would have had at least a little uncertainty. But with Alexis’s life hanging in a narrow balance as it currently was, that no longer mattered much.

  “I tried to get Alexis out of the Garrett house before all hell broke loose,” Buckhorn continued, “but just as she was leaving, somebody started shooting next door. I pushed her back into the house and told her to stay inside and lock the doors, then hurried over to the newspaper office and found Edward Garrett. He’d been wounded.”

  “Someone shot him before you got there?”

  “That’s right. Then I figured that they might go after Matthew at the same time, so I rushed back out into the street. That’s when Alexis came out of the Garrett place. I spotted somebody behind her but never got a good look at who it was. He fired a shot before I could stop him. I’m pretty sure he was aiming at me and Alexis just got in the way . . . but the bullet hit her in the back.” Buckhorn blew out a breath. “I never meant for that to happen, Thornton. I give you my word that I didn’t. It was just that everything went wrong that possibly could have.”