by Lauran Paine
Jack felt better, the dull throbbing in his side holding itself to a minimum so long as he remained still. “Yeah,” he came back sarcastically. “Chili beans an’ old dishtowels fer bandages…us married men got bandages around the house, anyway.”
“Now you just simmer down, old-timer, an’ keep your gun in your hand while I go out and harness up a buggy horse. We’ll take you home where Tess can take care of you all nice and proper, an’ stuff you with pie an’ potatoes.”
Jack’s profanity followed Buck out of the cabin but died as soon as the door closed. With a grimace of pain the marshal pulled himself to his feet, and, ignoring the cold little beads of sweat that popped out on his forehead, he staggered over to the window, lifted the rug, and rested his six-gun, cocked and ready, in the opening where he could watch Buck catch and harness his driving horse. If the night riders were still about and aimed on getting Buck, Jack grimly promised them six lethal surprises of lead.
With Jack’s saddle horse tied to the tailgate, they drove down through the cool dawn toward Colfax. They passed the lonely stage and scowled at it.
“Don’t make sense to me, Buck. Holdin’ up the stage isn’t anythin’ out o’ the ordinary, but what in hell we got shot at fer, I can’t figger out.”
Buck started visibly. “You still got that handkerchief?” Jack rummaged in his pants pocket and brought forth a bedraggled little piece of cloth. He looked at it quizzically and handed it to Buck. “It’s one o’ them things women carry. Y’know, it’s for show, not blow.”
Buck smoothed it out on his knee and studied the initials. C.J. He frowned and looked at the undulating hips of the horse after giving the handkerchief back to Jack, who studied it gravely, then pocketed it again.
“Might mean somethin’ later on, but right now it’s no help at all.”
Tess met them at the door with a worried, drawn face. She bustled ahead and opened Jack’s bed and helped him into it, then turned on her brother with flashing eyes. “Buck Carrel. What do you mean bringing my husband home half killed?”
“I didn’t do it, Tess. We….”
“You had no right taking him out in the middle of the night over a silly old stage robbery. His job is here in Colfax, anyway, an’, besides, what kind of people do you keep up at the Broken Bow? First it’s a fainting woman, then it’s killers in the dark. Buck Carrel, you’d better….”
“G’night Jack…er…I mean, g’mornin’, see ya later. Adiós Tess, dear.” He darted for the door and Buck wanted to laugh as the slipstream came back to him before the front door slammed. “Pie an’ potatoes an’ clean bandages an’ all that screechin’. T’hell with it. I’ll take the chili beans!”
Colfax was coming to life slowly, groggily. Buck rubbed his whisker-stubbled jaw and decided to eat at the Chinaman’s. He walked over and entered casually, squatted on the unbending bench in front of the counter, nodded to the slitted, beady black eyes that peeked out at him from a small window in the wall. “Make it two eggs an’ coffee, Sam.”
The beady eyes disappeared and a sound like a thousand bees, each with his rear end caught in a trap, emerged from the cooking end of the café. The door banged behind him and Buck turned casually and nodded to the big, well-dressed man who plumped down beside him. Colonel Rash was a broad-shouldered, frosty-eyed man in his late fifties; he was the owner of the Northwestern Stage Company.
“Say, Colonel, I don’t know whether you know it yet or not, but you got a stage settin’ out by my ranch on the road with no horses. Was stuck up last evenin’ an’ the strongbox was taken off.”
Rash swore a violent oath and jumped up. “Are you shore, Buck?”
Buck scratched his forehead solemnly and looked at the big man. “Well, dammit, considerin’ that I haven’t had any sleep for the last ten hours or so on account of that robbery, I’m about as sure as I can be.”
The colonel swung toward the door. “I’ll go tell Black Jack. This is another outrage that he’ll have to….”
“Hold on a minute, Colonel. Jack’s already been slightly shot over the damned robbery, an’ he can’t do nothin’ fer ya until he’s back on his feet.”
“Good Lord! Sheriff Wentworth’s out of town, too.” The big head came around with that peculiarly abstract look on its face that executives get when they’re making a quick decision. “Buck, you’re the new marshal an’ sheriff until one of the elected officers gets back on duty.” Buck opened his mouth wider than his eyes. “Don’t argue, Buck, as chairman of the board of founders of the town of Colfax, I hereby appoint you pro tem marshal.”
“What’s that, Colonel?”
It was wasted breath; Colonel Rash was gone in a feverish haste, his coattails streaming after him like banners. Buck turned back and regarded the greasy, lead-colored eggs with distaste, and shook his head mildly. “All I came in here for was breakfast.”
Before he finished eating, Colonel Rash and two other worried-looking merchants hustled in. The colonel wordlessly pinned a shiny new sheriff’s badge on Buck’s rumpled shirt, and stepped back with a broad smile.
“That makes it official, Buck. Congratulations.” He rubbed his hands together unctuously, and his eyes hardened. “Now then, Sheriff, there was three thousand dollars in that strongbox. Do your duty. If you want me, you’ll find me at the stage company’s office.”
The three men filed out. Buck watched them go, turned back, and looked into the grinning, bland face of Sam the Chinaman. “Sam, how’d ya like to be a deputy sheriff?”
Sam’s grin disappeared in a flash. “No thlankeee, please. Sam dlo all time cookkee nlice leggs flor all slame eatee blig bleakfos flor nlew sleriff. Dleputy all time get klill. No bleakfos. Nlo thlankeee.”
Buck sighed, paid his bill, and walked out into the sunlight of a warm new day. All he had to do was find four highwaymen, a mysterious and very beautiful girl, a strongbox with $3,000 in it—and keep from being killed while he was nosing around, before he could go back to the Broken Bow. He shrugged and took his jaundice-eyed buggy horse down to the livery barn. “Feed him good, Oscar. He might have to do me for a saddle horse before this day’s over.”
The liveryman nodded absently, whistled through his fingers, and turned Buck’s horse and buggy over to the watery-eyed man reeking of whiskey who came ambling up from the shadowy, cool interior of the barn. A second look and the liveryman’s eyes widened. “You the sheriff now, Buck?”
“Temporarily, I reckon, why?”
“What a relief. I’ve been wonderin’ what to do with that there horse. Wentworth’s out of town, an’….”
“What about the horse?” Buck turned and looked casually at a saddled and bridled bay mare standing sleepily in a tie stall. The rein ends were dangling about six inches under the bridle, evidently broken off short.
“The danged critter was standin’ in there when I come down this mornin’, an’ Hubert, that’s the hostler, says she come in here all by herself without no rider about ten or eleven o’clock last night.”
“Does Hubert know fer sure when she came in?” The liveryman shook his head promptly. “No, Hubert only knows two things, for sure…when to feed the horses, an’ when it’s safe to drink himself into a staggering stupor.”
Buck walked over and led the mare out to where he could look her over closely. There was a ragged piece of cloth in the gullet of the saddle. He removed it forcibly and palmed it. The bay mare was dog gentle as they walked around her. “Ever see her before, Oscar?”
“Nope. Not only never seen her before, but that there cross dot brand on her right stifle is a new one to me. She’s no local animal, I can tell you that for sure.”
“Mouth her?”
“Yeah. She’s smooth. Her age ain’t huntin’ her, though. Nice mare, like to get her for any livery string. ’Pears plumb gentle.” He picked up a cotton cord, ran it through the rein chain loops, tied a quick knot, twisted a stirrup, and swung aboard. “Nice mare.” He swung her down the lane of the barn, rode to the end, turne
d her, and started back. “Be a good rental critter, Buck. I’d like to….”
It happened so fast Buck hardly saw her fire. One treacherous side whip and Oscar was on his hands and knees looking up stupidly at the calm, indifferent bay mare. “Yeah. Make a fine animal in your livery string. Good fer old women and children. Let’s give her to old Doc Evart, the undertaker. He’s been complainin’ business ain’t so hot since the town fathers passed that ordinance forbidding guns in the city limits.”
Oscar got up red-faced, threw a venomous glance at the patiently waiting bay mare, and led her back to the tie stall. Buck was already down the plank sidewalk, his spurs ringing musically as he headed toward Colonel Rash’s office to talk to the stage driver, when he stopped dead still for a long moment. He sauntered over in front of the general store and began to roll a cigarette with detached casualness. He struck a match, exhaled a mighty cloud of bluish smoke, fished the scrap of cloth out of his shirt pocket that he had pulled from under the seating leather of the saddle, up near the gullet, and stared down at it.
It fitted together pretty well, in a way, but in another way it just didn’t figure at all. He pocketed the slip of cloth and continued on down to Rash’s office. “Colonel, where’s the driver who was on that stage last night?”
The stage line owner smiled and bobbed his head. “You happened along at an opportune moment, Buck…er, Sheriff, I meant to say. He’s in my office. Come on in. I was just going to talk to him myself.”
Chapter Three
The driver was a weathered, wiry man with faded blue eyes and a good-natured, stubborn set to his face. He nodded to the colonel and Buck, but didn’t get up. The colonel seated himself behind his highly polished desk with a flourish, motioning Buck to another chair. He was frowning importantly at the driver, who watched them both with alert, birdlike eyes.
Without taking his eyes off the driver, the colonel spoke. “This is one of my oldest drivers, Sheriff. Name of Cash Todd. Now then, Cash, tell us….”
“Let me handle it, Colonel.” Rash looked up quickly, a startled, indignant flash in his eyes. Buck rolled another cigarette and tossed the sack to the driver. “Cash, did ya see anythin’ before they jumped ya?”
Todd caught the tobacco sack and began to manufacture a cigarette. He struck the match with his left hand and inhaled deeply as he tossed back the sack. Buck pocketed it absently. “No, sir, nary a thing. All of a sudden there they was, four of ’em. Hard-eyed hombres, too. All strangers. Took the box, kilt one horse to stop me, an’ turned the others loose. Slickest piece of work I ever seen.”
“What happened to your passengers?”
Cash snorted in disgust. “They was a gal aboard, ridin’ from Powder River. She was to take the mornin’ coach outta Colfax, headin’ south. Said she was goin’ to Dallas. I dunno what happened to her. She must ‘a’ run off in the night. Scairt, more’n likely. Then there was a young feller who walked on into Colfax with me. I didn’t see him after we got here.”
“Did he tell you who he was, or where he was goin’?”
“Nope. We talked about the robbery as we was walkin’ to town, but that’s about all. Never even asked him where he was goin’, come to think of it.”
Buck ground out his cigarette and got up with a slow smile. “Well, I reckon that’s that, Colonel. Thanks, Cash. Adiós.”
Buck was in the livery barn, picking up the lines to his horse and sitting in the seat of his buggy when Colonel Rash came trotting up, puffing as if he had run a mile. “Where ya goin’, Buck?”
“Back to the ranch.”
“But what about the robbery? Ya can’t just up an’ ride off….”
“Aw, simmer down, Colonel. I got some chores to do, then I’ll be right back.”
“But every minute counts…that money might be going south to the border right now.” The pale blue eyes were alternating between a plea and a look of pompous indignation.
Buck nodded thoughtfully. “Yep, it might at that, but I still got a little checkin’ aroun’ to do at the Broken Bow, an’ I’m goin’ to do it.” He flicked the lines slightly and the horse began to move forward. He tossed a sardonic smile at the open-mouthed man behind him. “If I’m not back in a couple o’ hours, bring out a posse, will ya?”
He drove out of town with a sour look on his face.
The day was warm and clear, and, by the time Buck got to where the stage had been, it was gone. Only the dead horse remained, dragged off to the side of the road to ripen and grow mellow while the persistent solicitations of the buzzards and coyotes commemorated the event. Buck looked at the spot with a saturnine frown. He was still trying to fit some loose thoughts into an acceptable pattern when the horse stopped patiently at the little log barn. Buck clambered down stiffly and removed the harness, gave the horse a fond pat on the rump that started him off in search of feed, and pulled the buggy under the shade of the barn overhang.
The house looked even more dismal in the daylight. He swore with feeling and began to set the place to rights. Rancor arose within him as each minute passed, and, having finished arranging the furniture and cleaning up the place, he swore openly and bitterly as he mopped the slippery coal oil off the floor, where a large stain remained, which he wisely covered with a Navajo rug.
Composed again, but still irritated, Buck cooked a large noon meal and sat down at the kitchen table to muse over the sudden tempest he had been so suddenly projected into. He was still smoking and looking drowsily at the blank wall where an assortment of frying pans hung from a deer antler rack, when a movement caught his eye over toward the door. Somewhere a long way off a horse whinnied and was answered. He turned casually and looked toward the clear sunshine that came in through the open door. His eyes widened and the stubby cigarette burned slowly, perilously close to his fingers, unheeded. A big young man was standing in the doorway, broad-shouldered and steel-lipped. He had a gun in his fist that was pointing directly at Buck’s recently filled midriff. “Shuck that gun, mister!”
“Dammit all anyway. Now wait a minute. I’m a peaceable man….”
“Shuck it an’ shut up!”
Buck sighed in resignation and dropped his gun to the floor beside his chair. “Who in hell are you, anyway? This damned ranch’s gettin’ plumb crowded with strangers lately.”
The man moved into the room, still holding the gun, and kicked the door closed behind him. “Where’s that handkerchief?”
“What ya talkin’ about?”
There was a quiet moment before the grim-faced man spoke again and Buck unmistakenly heard the snap of his gun hammer. “You know what I’m talkin’ about. Where’s that damned handkerchief? The one that woman lost in here before she left last night. I seen you an’ another hombre lookin’ at it last night, an’ I Want it.” The broad shoulders rose and fell. “After I get it, you’ll be safe, but until I get it, somebody’s liable to get hurt.”
Buck nodded gently, his eyes narrowed and hard. “Then it was you that shot in here last night an’ made off with that girl?”
“That’s right, cowboy. Now, gimme that rag!”
“I don’t have it. It’s in the marshal’s office in Colfax.”
For a second, the wide eyes wavered under the thick, bushy black eyebrows, and then the hard, full mouth twisted downward. “You see the initials on it?”
Buck shrugged and lied with aplomb. “Saw some fancy signs on it, but ain’t sure what they were.”
For a long, silent moment the gunman looked hard at Buck and shifted his weight on his booted feet. There was a musical tinkle as his spurs rattled in the still room. “All right, pardner, if it’s in the marshal’s office, I’ll get it…but you won’t be around to know it.”
Buck didn’t wait for the last word to die out before he went into action. He had anticipated the invader’s intentions and made a wild jump for his gun. A thunderous roar filled the room and Buck’s right leg went violently sideways as a slug knocked the high heel off his boot. His own gun was in his han
d and he rolled as he shot. There was no attempt at accuracy—just a roaring, crashing, deafening exchange of bullets. The stranger backed abruptly away, spun, and made a wild charge for the door. Buck rose up swiftly and let go with his last shot. The door slammed violently under the savage impact of the slug as he got to his feet, awry and disheveled. He swore as he changed into his spare pair of boots.
Buck felt uncomfortable and naked when he slipped outside and furtively fed his horses and dodged back to the house. It was getting dark and he waited patiently for the shadows to become dense enough before risking the ride to Colfax. Feeding the horses was one thing. A bushwhacker wouldn’t have too good a chance at getting him then, but riding along the unprotected road was an invitation to murder. He loaded a second six-gun and rammed it into the waistband of his pants, shoved extra cartridges into the empty loops in his belt. He ate a bowl of cold chili beans and paced the cabin in fretful patience. Night came fast. The last of the spring twilight suddenly turned to darkness and a still, hushed foreboding settled over the Broken Bow.
Buck opened the door a crack and let his eyes become accustomed to the dingy blackness as he studied the range south, toward the county road from his barn. He knew he’d be safe in getting to the barn, saddling up, and riding out of the yard, but beyond that he had misgivings. Whoever the gunman was, and what ever was behind his trigger finger, didn’t matter right then. What mattered to Buck were his chances of arriving in Colfax on top of his horse.
He moved stealthily out of the house, and made it safely to the barn. The bay horse snorted softly in the darkness and rolled his eyes. Buck growled at him reassuringly as he dragged the saddle off its rack. Somewhere, outside, a rock rattled on the hard ground. Buck froze for a second, let the saddle drop, drew his gun, and crept to the partly opened door of the barn. Not fifty feet away he saw a phantom-like figure squat quickly out of sight in the tall grass. A saddle horse was standing a little way off, looking puzzled. Buck upped his gun, cocked it, and rested it against the doorjamb.
