Buckhorn

by William W. Johnstone

  “That sounded like one o’ them buffalo rifles!” Woodrow said.

  “That’s what it was.”

  “I never knew no angel to fire a buffalo gun!”

  “You do now, or you’re fixing to, anyway. Now come on!”

  Buckhorn couldn’t tell where the heavy caliber round had gone, but he would have been willing to bet it had landed somewhere in the front ranks of their pursuers. As Woodrow clasped Thornton’s wrist and swung up behind the mine owner, more shots began to ring out from the canyon. They were the sharper cracks of Winchesters, but after a moment the boom of the buffalo rifle rolled over the plains again.

  Buckhorn and Thornton pushed their horses into a run again. The animals weren’t capable of much anymore, but they gave the effort everything they had.

  He looked back again and saw that a couple of the pursuers had spurred ahead of the others. Their horses must have been the strongest of the bunch, because they had run a long way, too, and still had some speed left. The men closed in, guiding their mounts with their knees as they raised Winchesters to their shoulders. If they sprayed enough lead with those repeaters, they might just be able to knock Buckhorn, Thornton, and Woodrow off their horses.

  Another boom rolled out from the buffalo gun, and one of the killers closing in suddenly flew backward out of his saddle like he’d reached the end of a rope. Buckhorn knew the heavy slug had knocked the gunman off his horse. That was some nice shooting from the canyon, especially since the person wielding the buffalo gun had to avoid hitting the three riders in front.

  Buckhorn had to wonder, briefly, if it might be worth hanging around until Lorna McChesney was old enough to marry. But he discarded the idea quickly. She could make some other man a hell of a mate—if he could keep up with her, that is.

  After seeing his companion get shot out of the saddle, the other man who had pulled ahead of the rest of the gun-wolves peeled off and turned back to rejoin the others. He felt there was more strength in numbers, Buckhorn supposed.

  The horses carrying him, Thornton, and Woodrow could barely manage a staggering trot by the time they entered the mouth of Gunsight Canyon. Buckhorn and Thornton reined over to some boulders that would give them cover and dismounted just in time for the horses to collapse. The animals rolled onto their sides and lay there with their sweat-covered flanks heaving. They might survive, but if they did they probably wouldn’t be much good for anything ever again.

  That was all right. They had done their job. They deserved to be looked after and allowed to rest now.

  From behind a boulder on the other side of the canyon, Lorna waved her straw hat at him and called, “Hey, Mr. Buckhorn! Over here!”

  Buckhorn returned the wave. He saw that Jasper Calvert was with Lorna, resting the barrel of a Winchester on a slab of rock and firing at the men out on the flats. Tim and Finn Calvert were behind rocks on this side of the canyon, along with Charlie Dowd.

  In a low, crouching run, Dowd hurried over to the boulders where Buckhorn, Thornton, and Woodrow were. He grinned and said, “We came up here to the canyon to keep an eye on things because we thought Madison might try to cause more trouble for these folks. Didn’t expect to see a horse race.”

  “I’m glad you figured out the wrong people were losing that race,” Buckhorn said.

  “Oh, yeah, once I spied you fellas through some field glasses, it didn’t take much to figure out who that other bunch was. What in blazes is goin’ on?”

  Quickly, Buckhorn filled Dowd in on the situation. The gunman let out a low whistle.

  “So you’ve got evidence that’ll send Conroy and Madison to prison, eh?” he said. “Well, I got to admit I’d rather see ’em sent to Boot Hill, but I reckon we’ll take what we can get, right, boss?”

  “That’s right,” Thornton said. “Joe’s determined to do this legally so maybe those folks between here and Fletcher’s Crossing can get their ranches back.”

  Dowd nodded and said, “I’d like to see that happen, all right. After spendin’ some time with the Calverts and Miss McChesney and her pa, I know they deserve to have what’s rightfully theirs.”

  “We need some horses,” Buckhorn said. “Ours are played out, for good, and I still have to get that evidence to El Paso.”

  Dowd leaned his head to indicate something deeper in the canyon and said, “You can take three of ours. They’re pretty fresh. We’re not going anywhere. I plan on squattin’ right here and keepin’ Gunsight Canyon closed today.”

  For the first time in a good long while, Buckhorn felt relief wash through him. Dowd, Lorna, and the Calvert boys could hold off Conroy’s men all day if they had to. By that time, Buckhorn would be on a train bound for El Paso, with that book of Edgar Allan Poe’s poems snugged away safely in his pocket.

  “I’m obliged to you, Charlie,” he said, “and the rest of the folks in these parts will be, too, once Conroy’s not running roughshod over them anymore.”

  “I reckon we all did our part, but none of this would be happening if it wasn’t for you, Joe.”

  “Charlie’s right,” Thornton said. “You were the one who kept stirring up the hornet’s nest and finally figured out how to defeat Conroy and Madison once and for all.”

  “We haven’t done it yet,” Buckhorn said as the Calvert brothers continued firing their rifles. Lorna’s buffalo gun boomed again. “And there’s no time to waste.”

  * * *

  It was midday by the time Buckhorn, Hugh Thornton, and Amos Woodrow, riding borrowed C Cross horses, came in sight of Fletcher’s Crossing. The settlement wasn’t very big, maybe half a dozen businesses and twice that many houses centered around a small depot and water tank next to the Southern Pacific tracks. The place was a flag stop, not a regular stop on the SP’s route, but it had a telegraph office in the depot. Buckhorn saw the posts and wires. The stationmaster could send a message to the next stop west, letting the folks there know that the next eastbound would need to stop and pick up a passenger at Fletcher’s Crossing.

  Hugh Thornton could wire Santa Fe, too, and find out if there had been any action as a result of the message he had sent to the territorial governor.

  “Got any idea when the next eastbound will come through?” Buckhorn asked his companions as their horses jogged toward the settlement.

  “No, but there’s a westbound headed in now,” Woodrow said. The old-timer pointed to a plume of smoke rising from the diamond-shaped stack of a locomotive as it approached the station. The shrill cry of the train’s whistle floated through the hot air.

  “A westbound doesn’t do us any good,” Buckhorn said.

  “There ought to be a train going the other direction later in the day,” Thornton said. “Or first thing in the morning at the latest.”

  Buckhorn didn’t like the idea of having to wait here overnight. He had no doubt that the defenders in Gunsight Canyon would be able to hold off Conroy’s men, but it was possible Conroy could send other killers the long way around, through Mulehead Pass. If they rode hard, they could be here by nightfall.

  There was no point in borrowing trouble ahead of time, though. They rode toward the station where the westbound train had rolled to a stop. It was taking on water.

  “Somebody must’ve wanted to get on or off here,” Woodrow commented. “Trains don’t stop here without a reason.”

  They crossed the tracks ahead of the locomotive and circled the depot building to dismount and tie their horses at the hitch rack in front. As they walked into the station’s main room, Buckhorn spotted the blue-uniformed conductor from the train talking to a man in a suit who was probably the stationmaster.

  A third man was with them, a burly individual with a high-crowned hat jammed down on a thatch of rust-colored hair. A mustache of the same shade adorned his rugged face.

  And pinned to the man’s vest was something that made Buckhorn catch his breath.

  A lawman’s badge.

  The man must have felt Buckhorn’s eyes on him, because he glanced
over, met Buckhorn’s gaze, and abruptly stiffened. His hand went to the stag-butted revolver on his hip as he called, “Hold it right there, Buckhorn! You’re wanted for murder!”

  CHAPTER 41

  Buckhorn didn’t like it when people drew on him, even lawmen. His first instinct was to reach for his own gun.

  He managed to control that impulse, though, even as Thornton said in a low, urgent voice, “Hold on, Joe. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Don’t intend to,” Buckhorn growled, “but that star-packer better follow the same advice.”

  The redheaded lawman marched toward Buckhorn with the revolver thrust out in front of him. He rumbled in a deep voice, “You’re Joe Buckhorn, and don’t bother tryin’ to deny it. I’ve got a good description of you, and except for the hat, you match it perfectly.”

  “I haven’t denied anything,” Buckhorn snapped. “Who are you, mister?”

  “Name’s Oliver Stockbridge. I’m a United States marshal.” With his free hand, Stockbridge tapped the badge pinned to his vest. “That there’s my bona fides.”

  “Marshal Stockbridge, my name is Hugh Thornton,” the mine owner said. “No matter what you’ve been told, I can assure you that you’re wrong about Mr. Buckhorn.”

  “Thornton, eh?” the lawman said with a frown. “Mister, you’re the reason I’m here.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. The territorial governor sent a wire to the chief marshal for this district, askin’ that somebody be sent to look into a whole passel of trouble at a place called Crater City. I’m the fella who got the job, since I was already close by in El Paso. The chief said I should look you up, that you’d give me the whole story.” Stockbridge glared at Buckhorn. “But then before I left, a notice came in about this half-breed bein’ wanted for murder. Said he killed a newspaperman and gunned down a young woman, too. You ain’t travelin’ with fit company, Mr. Thornton.”

  Woodrow said, “And you ain’t got the sense God give a jackrabbit! Didn’t you hear Mr. Thornton just tell you that Joe ain’t no murderer?”

  “You best watch your mouth, you old pelican. You go around abusin’ the law, and you’ll regret it.”

  Buckhorn said, “Having that gun pointed at me is starting to make me a mite antsy.”

  “Marshal, please listen to me,” Thornton said. “I’ll vouch for Mr. Buckhorn. We can explain everything, and you’ll see that he’s been framed by the real evildoers in this affair. We have concrete evidence of their guilt.”

  Stockbridge frowned as he considered Thornton’s request. Finally, he said, “All right, I reckon I’ll listen, but not while a wanted fugitive and a known gunslinger is packin’ iron. Buckhorn, pass over that hogleg, and do it mighty careful-like.”

  Buckhorn didn’t like giving up his gun, but that seemed like the quickest way to settle this. He reached across his body with his left hand, withdrew the revolver from its holster, and held it out to Stockbridge butt-first.

  “That’s more like it,” the lawman said as he took the gun. He pouched his own iron and went on, “Let’s go somewhere and hash this all out.”

  The stationmaster and the conductor from the train had been observing the conversation with great interest. The stationmaster said, “You can use my office, Marshal.”

  “Obliged to you, Mr. Brennan. Come on, you fellas. Buckhorn, don’t try nothin’ tricky.”

  “Don’t worry,” Buckhorn said. “The time for tricks is over.”

  * * *

  Marshal Oliver Stockbridge was obstinate. Or, as Amos Woodrow put it in a moment of exasperated impatience, “The dang muleheadedest hombre I ever run into!”

  Stockbridge finally agreed, though, that the telegrams hidden inside the volume of poetry constituted strong evidence that Dennis Conroy was mixed up with some widespread rustling.

  “Him bein’ tied in with Nickerson is proof enough of that, I reckon,” Stockbridge declared. “That fella’s crooked as a rattler all coiled up to strike, even if nobody’s been able to prove it in court yet.” He tapped the telegrams spread out on the stationmaster’s desk. “This might just be enough to put Nickerson behind bars, too.”

  “So you understand now what’s really been going on around Crater City?” Thornton asked.

  “I’m gettin’ a glimmerin’.” Stockbridge looked at Buckhorn. “None o’ this proves that Buckhorn didn’t shoot the folks he’s accused of shootin’.”

  “Except why would I have any reason to?” Buckhorn demanded. “I was working with Edward Garrett to expose Conroy and his top gunman Yancy Madison. And Alexis Conroy steered clear of her father’s schemes. She didn’t know anything and wasn’t a threat to anybody, least of all me.”

  “Joe’s right about that, Marshal,” Thornton said. “I can vouch for Miss Conroy as well.” He passed a hand over his weary, haggard face. “In fact, she and I are . . . well, romantically involved. In fact, I’m quite worried about her, and I’d like to get back to Crater City to find out if she . . . if she’s still alive.”

  “Ain’t nobody stoppin’ you,” Stockbridge pointed out. “In fact, I reckon we all ought to start up yonder. Best way to get to the bottom of all this is to round up the whole bunch of you who are mixed up in it. Then we’ll get some answers.”

  Buckhorn said, “If you confront Conroy and Madison with that evidence, there’s a good chance they’ll put up a fight rather than let you arrest them.”

  Stockbridge put his hand on his gun, narrowed his eyes, and asked, “Is that gonna bother you, Buckhorn?”

  “Not one damned bit. But I wouldn’t mind having my gun back in case there’s a ruckus.”

  “Not yet,” Stockbridge snapped. “Not while you’re still officially under suspicion of murder.”

  “Like I said,” Woodrow exclaimed, “the dang muleheadedest—”

  Stockbridge pointed a finger at him and said, “That’ll be enough outta you. Now, let’s find a livery stable and get some fresh horses. I want to make it to Crater City by nightfall.”

  * * *

  They took the time to grab a quick meal before leaving Fletcher’s Crossing, too, but by early afternoon they were on their way north toward the Mesteños.

  Buckhorn didn’t figure the fight would still be going on at Gunsight Canyon, but that depended on just how stubborn Conroy’s men were. If they were still squatting on the other side of the canyon, that could make getting through to Crater City difficult.

  As the four riders approached the passage through the mountains, Buckhorn didn’t hear any gunfire. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful as they entered the canyon.

  That silence worried Buckhorn, in fact. Maybe Conroy’s gun-wolves had succeeded in wiping out the defenders. Lorna, the Calvert boys, and Charlie Dowd might be lying dead in there, and the hired killers could have set up an ambush and be waiting to slaughter anybody who came along.

  Buckhorn felt relief wash through him as they approached the northern end of the canyon and he heard Lorna call his name. She came out from behind some rocks, cradling the deadly buffalo gun in her arms.

  “We didn’t expect to see you back so soon, Mr. Buckhorn,” she said. “Thought you was headed to El Paso to fetch the law.”

  “The law came to me,” Buckhorn said dryly as he nodded toward Stockbridge.

  “Howdy, Marshal,” Lorna greeted the lawman. “You gonna help Mr. Buckhorn round up Conroy and the rest of his no-good bunch?”

  “That remains to be seen, young lady,” Stockbridge replied. “You’re acquainted with this man?”

  “Mr. Buckhorn? I hope to smile I am. He saved the Calvert ranch, the C Cross, and he promised he’d do what he could to help me and my pa get our spread back, too.”

  “Just like I told you,” Buckhorn said pointedly.

  Stockbridge scowled and said, “The law’s got to have proof, not just what somebody claims is the truth. But I got to admit, your story’s startin’ to sound a mite better, Buckhorn. This young lady don’t seem like the sort who’d lie.”
>
  “Hell, no,” Lorna said.

  “Where are the others?” Buckhorn asked her.

  “Jasper and Finn are keepin’ watch. Tim and Mr. Dowd rode out to do some scoutin’ a while back. Conroy’s men pulled out, and Tim and Mr. Dowd figured to make sure they were really gone and not just tryin’ to pull some trick.”

  “We’re on our way to Crater City. We’ll probably run into them.”

  “If you do, tell ’em that me and the boys will stick right here until somebody tells us different,” Lorna vowed.

  “All right. I’m obliged to you for your help earlier.”

  “You’re the one tryin’ to set things right around here, Mr. Buckhorn. The rest of us are just pitchin’ in the best we can.”

  Buckhorn, Thornton, Woodrow, and Stockbridge rode on, leaving the canyon and its young defenders behind. Stockbridge frowned over at Buckhorn and said, “Folks around here seem to think you’re some sort of saint.”

  Buckhorn let out a short bark of laughter.

  “I don’t reckon they do,” he said. “And anybody who does is sure on the wrong trail.”

  “But you are tryin’ to set things right, like the gal said.”

  Buckhorn shrugged.

  “That’s what I don’t understand,” Stockbridge went on. “I’ve heard of you, Buckhorn—and nothin’ good, either. You’ve got a reputation as a fast gun. A hired gun. The sort who’ll do anything if the pay’s right, whether it’s legal or not.”

  “That’s always been about the size of it,” Buckhorn admitted.

  “So what changed you into a square shooter?”

  “A man can get tired of leading his life a certain way. He can see that maybe he needs to do things differently and try that.”

  Stockbridge shook his head and said, “I never knew anybody in your line of work to do that.”

  Woodrow said, “Maybe there ain’t been a hired gun like Buckhorn before.”

  “Damn it, don’t make me out to be more than I am,” Buckhorn snapped. “Mainly I just want to see Conroy and Madison get what’s coming to them. Let’s leave it at that.” He snorted. “Keep talking like you were and we’re all going to be singing psalms before you know it.”