But then, before Frank could come along to be bushwhacked, who had ridden up other than Howard Flynn himself, an even bigger enemy of Sandeen’s than The Drifter. Riley, or whoever the gunman really was, had spotted Flynn and had also known that Frank was nearby, heading in that direction. So he guns down Flynn, in hopes that Frank would come along and be caught by Flynn’s riders and blamed for the killing....
That was too much to believe, Frank realized. No one could have guaranteed that Buckston and the others would ride up just then and jump to all the wrong conclusions. More than likely, the bushwhacker had seized the opportunity to kill Flynn and planned to then drygulch Frank as well. But Frank had ruined that by coming along too soon and chasing him off. The shot with the Remington that had nicked Frank’s shoulder hadn’t been planned to be even more incriminating; it had just worked out that way when the gunman happened to pick up Flynn’s revolver.
In fact, just about everything had worked out perfectly for the killer, whether it had been planned that way or not. He had shot Flynn and Frank had been blamed for it, through pure bad luck. Once again, Fate seemed to enjoy making life difficult for Frank Morgan.
Only one thing hadn’t quite panned out for the gunman in the yellow slicker. Frank wasn’t either dead or a prisoner, waiting to be hanged for killing Flynn. He was still free. Slightly wounded, sure, but he could live with that. And as long as he was free, there was a chance he would find the killer and turn this whole crazy situation on its head....
All he had to do was avoid being captured or killed by the men hunting him. And it wouldn’t be just Flynn’s men who were after him, either. Once Sandeen heard that Frank was on the loose, he would send his own hired killers after the fugitive. Frank Morgan alive was still a threat and always would be. One way or another, Frank had to die.
So before it was over, there would be a whole legion of gunmen searching these hills for him. A devil’s legion, Frank thought as exhaustion finally claimed him and he drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Hunger pangs woke him during the middle of the night. He dug the jerky out of his saddlebag and gnawed on the tough, dried meat until it softened up enough for him to eat it. Getting a little food in his belly made him feel better, though he was far from satisfied. He slept again.
When he woke in the morning, the first thing he was aware of was the sunlight washing over the hillside beyond the mouth of the cave. The clouds of the day before were gone.
But that didn’t mean that today wouldn’t have some storms of its own, Frank thought as he stood up and stretched. If this day was anything like the several that had preceded it, it would bring its own particular brand of trouble.
Stormy was anxious to get out of the cave, and so was Frank. He told the horse to wait and stepped to the mouth of the cave, listening intently for the sound of voices or the thudding of hoofbeats. He heard nothing except the normal small noises made by the denizens of this rugged country going about their morning activities. Somewhere nearby a squirrel chattered and a bird sang.
In addition to listening, Frank looked over the part of the range he could see from his position. Nothing moved other than a couple of puffy clouds that drifted lazily through the blue sky. He was convinced that no manhunters were out there anywhere close.
Yet.
Turning away from the cave mouth, Frank kicked apart the faintly glowing embers of the fire he had built the night before. Then he caught hold of the Appaloosa’s reins and said, “Come on, big fella.”
They stepped out into the sunlight, and it felt awfully good to do so. Frank rolled his left shoulder and swung that arm around. He felt some stiffness and soreness in the shoulder, but it wasn’t too bad. Considering the close call he’d had, he felt grateful to be in as good a shape as he was.
Stormy drank some from a puddle that remained on the ground from the downpour the day before. Frank knelt and scooped up a little of the muddy water in his hand. He was parched, and muddy water was better than no water at all. Stormy began cropping at the grass. Frank was still hungry, but not that hungry.
As he looked around at the hills and the dark rim of the forbidding mesa several miles to the northeast, he realized that he didn’t know exactly where he was. He figured he could orient himself quickly enough, though, by using the Mogollon Rim as a landmark. If he headed west, which meant keeping the rim roughly behind him, sooner or later he would hit the Verde River.
The best thing for him to do now, he decided, was to get back to San Remo and try to slip into the settlement without anybody seeing him. He had to have some food, and an ally or two would help, too. If he could talk to Jasper Culverhouse or Mayor Donohue, he thought he could convince them that he was innocent of the murder of Howard Flynn, which they had probably heard about by now.
But whether or not he could reach San Remo without being spotted depended on how many men were out scouring the range for him. Probably all the Lazy F crew would join the hunt, and men from the other ranches in the area might come after him, too. Flynn had been pretty well liked by everybody except Ed Sandeen.
Another worry had begun to gnaw at Frank’s thoughts. With everybody on the Lazy F up in arms about what had happened to Flynn, the ranch headquarters might be deserted except for Laura and Acey-Deucy. Sandeen and his crew would never have a better opportunity to ride in and take over. Sandeen could even claim that he was doing it to “protect” Laura now that her uncle was dead and she was alone. Folks around here would know better, but it might be a convincing story to outsiders.
But Buckston wouldn’t take that lying down. Not the way he felt about the Lazy F . . . and about Laura Flynn. There would be gunplay for sure if Sandeen tried such a move.
Yes, Frank thought grimly as he swung up into the saddle and rode away from the cave that had been his temporary refuge, Howard Flynn’s death had lit the fuse on the powder keg that was the Mogollon country, and with the odds stacked against him the way they were, Frank didn’t see anyway he could prevent the explosion that would blow the whole range to Kingdom Come.
But he was sure as hell going to give it a try.
Chapter Nineteen
Jeff Buckston was all too aware of how close Laura Flynn was sitting beside him on the wagon seat. This was a tragic occasion, he reminded himself, and he shouldn’t be thinking about how from time to time her arm brushed his, and certainly not about how their knees bumped when the wagon jolted over a particularly rough spot in the trail.
After all, her uncle’s body was lying back there behind them in the wagon bed, only a couple of feet away.
It was a solemn procession that made its way from the Lazy F toward San Remo this morning. Buckston had left only a few men behind at the ranch, and they had protested at being forced to miss the boss’s funeral. Buckston wasn’t going to leave the spread completely unprotected, though, not as long as that skunk Sandeen was still drawing breath. Buckston was more convinced than ever that Morgan had been working for Sandeen all along, and now that The Drifter had murdered Howard Flynn, Sandeen would surely try to complete his land grab and take over the Lazy F.
He would succeed only over Jeff Buckston’s dead body, though. Buckston had made that vow to himself.
Even though the rain was gone and the sun was shining, the day still seemed gloomy to Buckston. How could it be otherwise when Laura was still sniffling from time to time and dabbing at her eyes with the lace handkerchief she clutched in her right hand?
She wore a dark gray dress and a hat of the same shade. It was a traveling outfit, but it was the nicest one she had, and the most fitting for a funeral as well. The day before, Buckston had sent a rider galloping to San Remo to deliver the news that Howard Flynn had been killed and to make arrangements with Pastor Homer McCrory for the service to be held at the Baptist church. That was where they were headed now. Flynn’s body rested in a black-draped coffin that Buckston and a few of the other hands had hammered together the night before. Jasper Culverhouse in San Remo might h
ave done a little better job, but Buckston felt like he owed it to Flynn to build the coffin himself.
Flynn would be buried in the graveyard behind the church. That was the way he had wanted it. He had been instrumental in starting the church in San Remo and had served as a deacon there at one time, although he hadn’t attended services very often in recent years. His wife and their two sons were already buried there.
“What are you going to do, Jeff?” Laura asked suddenly as Buckston handled the reins and kept the horses moving along the trail toward San Remo.
“Why, drive on into town and see that your uncle is laid to rest properly, I reckon,” he said with a frown.
“No, I mean after that. Mr. Morgan is still out there somewhere.”
Buckston’s frown darkened. “Don’t think I don’t know it,” he said in a hard voice. “I figure I’ll see you home after the service, and then some of the boys and I will get started lookin’ for Morgan. I promised you I’d bring him to justice, and I aim to do it.”
“You don’t plan to take all of the hands with you?”
“Can’t do that,” Buckston answered. “That’s what Sandeen’s countin’ on.”
“You’re still convinced that Ed Sandeen was behind Uncle Howard’s killing?”
They had talked this over the night before, in Flynn’s study. Buckston had explained to Laura that she was now the owner of the Lazy F and that she could give the crew any orders she chose to. She had protested that she didn’t know anything about running a ranch and asked Buckston to help her, to guide her in any decisions that she had to make. Buckston had hoped she would feel that way, but again, he didn’t want to take advantage of her, so he pressed her on the question of whether or not that was really what she wanted.
“Jeff, you have to help me,” she had said, her voice breaking a little from the strain. “Otherwise, there’s no way I can get through this.”
He had nodded curtly and said, “Yes, ma’am, you’re the boss.” She had started to protest about that, and he had held up a hand to stop her, saying again firmly, “You’re the boss.”
Now, as he kept the wagon moving, he said in answer to her question, “It had to be Sandeen’s doin’. Morgan’s been workin’ for him all along.”
“That just doesn’t seem right somehow. I don’t doubt what you saw, and I want you to catch Mr. Morgan and bring him to justice, but I just have a feeling that there’s more to all this than we know right now.”
“Maybe so, but the only way we’ll get any answers is by layin’ hands on Morgan. In the meantime, I’m not goin’ to leave you there at the ranch by yourself. I don’t trust Sandeen as far as I can throw the—” He stopped himself from saying what he was going to say. “The scoundrel,” he concluded instead.
He drove on, and a short time later the wagon and the riders who followed it came in sight of San Remo. Buckston sent the wagon rattling across the plank bridge over the Verde and turned south toward the church. Quite a few people were already gathered in front of the whitewashed frame building with its bell tower and steeple. Most of the settlement’s citizens had turned out to attend the service for Howard Flynn. Even though Flynn had occasionally rubbed a few folks the wrong way, he was still one of the most respected men in this part of the territory.
Buckston brought the wagon to a halt and pulled the brake lever. Then he stepped down from the seat and turned around to reach back up and help Laura. He didn’t own a suit, but he was dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ best and his boots were shined. The same could be said of the rest of the Lazy F cowboys.
When Caleb Glover dismounted, he went straight to join Mary Elizabeth Warren near the doors of the church. She took his hand and squeezed it and gave him a sad smile. She knew how fond he’d been of his boss.
Homer McCrory was waiting at the doors. He shook Laura’s hand and said, “You have my deepest sympathy, Miss Flynn. Your uncle was one of the finest men I knew.”
“Thank you, Mr. McCrory. I appreciate everything you and the rest of the people here in San Remo are doing for Uncle Howard.”
“It’s only fitting and proper,” McCrory assured her. He turned to Buckston and shook his hand as well. “Jeff. Are we ready to get under way?”
Buckston turned his head and glanced bleakly at the black-shrouded coffin in the back of the wagon. “I reckon so,” he said.
Half a dozen of the punchers lifted the coffin from the wagon and carried it into the church.
* * *
Down the street, Mitch Kite stood in the doorway of the Verde Saloon and watched the mourners file into the church. He wasn’t going to attend the funeral. He didn’t have anything in particular against Howard Flynn, but Flynn was Ed Sandeen’s enemy, and since Kite worked for Sandeen . . .
Kite supposed that Sandeen was mighty happy about this development. With Flynn dead, that pretty niece of his would inherit the ranch, Kite supposed. The Lazy F crew was a salty one—not as tough as Sandeen’s bunch of hired killers, of course, but still not men to tangle with lightly—but without Flynn to give them their marching orders, they wouldn’t be able to stop Sandeen from pushing his way in. One way or another, it wouldn’t be long before the Lazy F was part of the sprawling Saber spread.
But that wouldn’t be accomplished without bloodshed. It was entirely possible that even more gunmen would converge on San Remo and the surrounding area when Sandeen made his move. That meant the Verde Saloon would be doing a booming business, with a lot of money coming into the till. Of course, there would be some added danger, but Kite didn’t care about that. The reward would be worth the risk.
For the past six months, Kite had been skimming money from the saloon’s take, in addition to collecting the cut that Sandeen had promised him for running the place. Sandeen had no idea the embezzlement was going on. He had been too busy at first trying to court Laura Flynn to pay that much attention to how Kite was running the saloon, and after Laura had rejected him, Sandeen was distracted by his anger at her and his plans to take over the Lazy F. Kite had squirreled away a pretty good nut, and it would only get better over the next few months. Then, when he felt like he had enough loot, he would disappear some dark night and nobody in these parts would ever see him again. It was a nice plan, and it made Kite smile as he thought about it.
“What you grinnin’ about, Boss?” Speckler asked as he came up beside Kite. The bartender looked down the street, following the direction of Kite’s gaze, and saw the last of the mourners filing into the church. “That’s Old Man Flynn’s funeral goin’ on down there, I guess.”
“That’s right.”
Speckler sighed. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, as the old sayin’ goes. Reckon everything’s got to come to an end sooner or later.”
“Yes,” Kite said, thinking about the money he had hidden, “but every ending is the beginning for somebody else.”
“Every new beginning is some other beginning’s end.”
Kite glared over at Speckler, surprised by the comment. “I don’t pay you to philosophize,” he snapped. “Go wipe down the bar.”
“Yes, sir.” Speckler shuffled away.
Kite turned his gaze toward the hills between the river and the Mogollon Rim. The stranger in black who had ridden into San Remo during the storm the day before had ridden back out again, and Kite had a feeling the man was up there somewhere, searching for Frank Morgan. Morgan didn’t know it yet, but with a killer like that on his trail, there was a good chance he was already a dead man.
All it would take was a little time for the hunter to close in on his prey.
Assuming, of course, that none of the other men who would be hunting Morgan with vengeance on their minds found The Drifter first....
* * *
The funeral service was as fine as such a sorrowful thing could be. Even though talking in front of a bunch of people scared Buckston more than fighting Apaches or rustlers ever had, the foreman got up and said some words about what a good boss and a fine man Howard Flynn ha
d been. Vincente Delgado played a couple of hymns on his guitar, since the church’s pipe organ was broken. Delgado was a Catholic, not a Baptist, but that didn’t matter all that much at a moment like this when a pillar of the community was being laid to rest. Pastor McCrory got up and preached a short sermon, and while he was doing that, Laura leaned against Buckston’s shoulder and sobbed quietly. Buckston didn’t look at her, but kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. After a while, though, he couldn’t help but slip his arm around Laura’s shoulders and hug her a little, strictly to comfort her in this her time of grief, he told himself. Shoot, his own eyes were a little damp with tears. Howard Flynn really had been a good man and a good boss. Buckston had worked for him for almost ten years, about half of that time as the foreman of the Lazy F. It was the best riding job he’d ever had, and the spread was his home now, always would be.
Finally, the preacher wrapped things up. The pallbearers moved forward to pick up the coffin and carry it out through the back door of the church and on to the graveyard, which was only a few steps away. The mourners all followed, led by Laura and Buckston. She clutched his hand, and he laced his fingers tightly through hers.
The grave had been dug early that morning by Jasper Culverhouse and Vincente Delgado. It lay next to the spot where Flynn’s wife Martha was resting, with their two boys beyond her. The marble monument that had been brought from Phoenix when Martha Flynn died had both her name and Flynn’s name chiseled on it, along with their birth dates and her death date. All that remained to be added was Flynn’s date of death, and Culverhouse would handle that. The big monument was topped by a statue of an angel. It was the largest, most impressive marker in the entire cemetery, which was fitting considering Flynn’s status as the biggest cattleman and one of the earliest settlers in the region.
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