“Try keeping me out of that raid,” replied Banning, his voice coming back strong. “Pomeroy will stay and take charge of things here.”
“I figure it’s best for Goodwin to remain here, too,” Buckhorn said. “He’s better at spraying water than bullets.”
Banning nodded. “Sounds right. I’ll start selecting men and spreading word about the change in plans. Folks’ll probably squall when they hear things may take a different turn, but they’ll still have to stay bottled up with guards posted. That’s the most sensible thing, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely. There’s always the chance we’re working on bad information. Playing it safe all the way around is the only smart move.”
“There’s one more thing everybody needs to consider,” Banning said. His gaze touched each of the others and then he went on. “Not everybody in town was wholly in favor of making this stand against Wainwright. Once all the activity started, I can’t swear for certain that somebody didn’t slip away to warn him what we were setting up. By the same token, especially now that it’s getting dark, I can’t be any more certain that somebody won’t slip off to warn him of this change in plans.”
“Meaning he might be expecting us, be ready for us when we come knocking on his door,” Carl said.
Banning nodded. “About the size of it.”
Carl looked at Buckhorn. “That change anything?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” replied Buckhorn. “Let ’em be ready. We will be, too.”
A faint smile came and went on Banning’s mouth. “I’ll go start explaining to folks, then.” He started away then paused and turned back to Justine. “Not to impose, but it will probably go smoother if you come with me. Not everybody is convinced yet I’m not still working more in Wainwright’s interest than the town’s.”
Justine didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Whatever I can do to help.”
Watching them go, Carl said, “You think we’re witnessing a romance starting to blossom?”
Buckhorn gave him a look. “Can’t say I ever gave it much thought. If I did, the first thing that’d cross my mind was that your sister doesn’t seem particularly fond of the sheriff.”
“Oh, I think she’s kinda drawn to him in a physical way. A lot of women around town are. I mean, you’ve got to admit Paul Banning is a handsome fella. I can tell pretty certain that he’s been attracted to Justine for some time now.” Carl sighed. “She’s always been convinced—and I can’t argue too hard against it—that Thomas Wainwright was behind the accident that killed her husband. As long as Banning appeared to be in lockstep with Wainwright, there was never any chance Justine could look at him without wondering if he wasn’t in on what happened to Gerald, too. But things and people can always change, sometimes in mighty surprising ways.”
Buckhorn regarded him some more. “You know what? I sure hope you’re over being a drunk. If you turn out to be a drunk and a hopeless romantic, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand hanging around with you.”
CHAPTER 40
Approaching the Flying W in the predawn darkness, they caught faint whiffs of the smoke before they could actually see anything. Only after the sky began to lighten were they able to spot the first smudged black curls rising up in the distance. Even then, it wasn’t until they’d reined their horses and gazed down from the crest of the long, low slope overlooking the main house and outbuildings of the ranch headquarters that they begin to realize the full effect of what the smoke was part of.
The fire appeared to have been isolated to the main house. Its thick adobe frame had held up for the most part, but the roof was collapsed and all doors and windows were broken and outlined in thick smears of soot. A few flames still licked visibly through some of the openings. Apart from the fire, though no less devastating, were the dozens of slaughtered longhorn carcasses scattered over the grassy open area between the slope and the ranch buildings. In the corral area could be seen the motionless lumps of several horses apparently having met the same fate.
The scene held no sign of any living thing.
“Good God,” Carl Orndecker muttered thickly at the sight.
“Kinda hate to think God had a hand in any of this,” Paul Banning responded.
“Not God, not necessarily the Devil neither,” Buckhorn said. “Seen too many times that mankind is capable of this kind of waste and butchery all on its own.”
The three men sat their saddles in the midst of a roughly formed line of other horsemen, fifteen in all—the force Banning had assembled to confront what was left of Wainwright’s army of gunfighters. At the moment, it didn’t look like there was a whole lot left to confront.
“Mankind in the shape of who?” Banning asked.
Buckhorn rubbed a row of knuckles along his jawline. “My first thought would be maybe Don Pedro’s men. Could be they weren’t so tore up in that skirmish at their own hacienda as we were led to believe. Could be they decided not to wait for Wainwright’s boys to return to them like he supposedly promised. Could be they decided, like us, to hit the Flying W while everybody was laid low and still licking their wounds, only they didn’t wait for dawn to do it.”
“All that fits up to a point, even the slaughter of the livestock,” Carl said. “If you’re gonna raid a place and inflict damage on your enemy, you might as well do it thorough. That would explain all the dead animals, but where are the bodies of Wainwright’s men? The attackers sure as hell wouldn’t have stuck around to give them a nice, tidy burial and I can’t think of any logical reason to carry them off. So where are they?”
“That’s a good question. On top of plenty of others,” Buckhorn said. “I guess we all know there’s only one way to find out.”
“I was afraid somebody would get around to that,” muttered one of the men farther down the line.
“But we don’t go down throwing caution to the wind,” Banning said in a loud enough voice for everybody to hear. “Just because it looks deserted and safe don’t mean there can’t be some trickery going on. Like a handful of ambushers in hiding maybe. You men on the right side swing out wide, keep a few yards’ distance between you, and come in along behind that row of bunkhouses.” Motioning to those on his left, he added, “You fellas over here do the same, go in along those sheds and holding pens and come in along that side of the house.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got in mind for us to wait here and see what they flush out, do you?” Carl said dryly.
Banning gave him a look. “I figured the three of us would ride in right up the middle.”
Carl heaved a sigh and then nudged his horse forward. “Yeah, I sorta figured that’s what you’d figure.”
* * *
“Now don’t none of you rascals go gettin’ itchy trigger fingers,” spoke a disembodied voice once Buckhorn, Banning, and Carl had made it down to within the cluster of buildings. “Just hold your fire and stay calm, on account there ain’t nobody left here lookin’ for no trouble.” Having thus spoken, the form of Tyrone, the wrinkled old cook who’d shown Buckhorn around on the first day of his brief turn as a Flying W employee, eased out of the shadowy doorway of the grub shack.
“It’s okay. I know him,” Buckhorn was quick to say.
“They’s a couple more in here with me,” said Tyrone. “You might want to let those boys movin’ around outside know, too.”
“There are some people in here, but they’re all friendly so far,” the sheriff called out. “Keep a sharp lookout but don’t be trigger happy.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Tyrone said. “But there ain’t no so far to it. Like I said, we’re all that’s left and we ain’t lookin’ for no trouble.”
“Why don’t you have whoever else is in there come out,” suggested Buckhorn.
Tyrone spoke over his shoulder and a moment later two more people emerged from the grub shack. It was Consuela and Armando, the married couple who served as maid and manservant to the Wainwrights. Consuela was sobbing almost uncontrollably a
nd Armando looked badly shaken up, as well.
“Reckon I wasn’t totally accurate,” said Tyrone. “They’s two more men in the near bunkhouse. They’re bad wounded, maybe dead by now. They wasn’t the last I checked, but close to it. Either way, they ain’t gonna be no trouble to you.”
“I’ll check,” Carl said, moving toward the bunkhouse.
Buckhorn pinned the old cook with a hard stare. “Where’s everybody else, Tyrone? What happened here?”
Tyrone met his gaze and came back with straight answers, no embellishment. The events he related were direct and uncomplicated, though nothing along the lines of what had been expected.
Thomas Wainwright had tucked tail and run. Shortly after returning from the fight at the Olomoso hacienda—his forces badly shot up, many not returning at all and several of those who did arrived in sorry shape—the former general had gotten word from town about the water strike and also about a mob forming with plans to descend on the Flying W.
Believing that Don Pedro’s pack of gunnies had not suffered as badly as his own in the hacienda skirmish and suspecting his ex-partner might already be mounting a retaliatory attack, Wainwright was hit hard by the report out of Wagon Wheel and especially the possibility of an additional threat on the way from there.
Already demoralized by betrayal and the heavy toll taken on his gunmen, the man with dreams of a personal empire had collapsed in defeat. Alternating between furious rants of rage and wailing lamentations about how the fates had conspired against him, Wainwright urged his wife and servants to pack up smaller household items of value that could be readily turned into cash while he cleaned out the money from his office safe.
This done, he’d soaked the interior of the main house with coal oil even as he ordered the slaughter of all livestock on the property and in the nearby fields, his purpose clearly being to leave behind as little as possible that would be of use or value to whomever occupied the place next.
Loading his wife and the items they’d selected to take along onto a sturdy wagon, Wainwright had thrown the first torch that turned his lavish home into an inferno, then pointed the team toward Mexico and whipped them to a hard pace. Accompanying the wagon on horseback were Leo Sweetwater and two other gunmen who’d returned from the hacienda skirmish unscathed.
The remaining handful of men, mostly wranglers, had been summarily dismissed and told they were welcome to anything that was left, including the outlying cattle they could round up and sell for whatever price they could get. Tyrone and the two house servants were not addressed at all except for tearful farewells from Lusita.
“What about her?” Buckhorn said. “Did she leave willingly with Wainwright?”
Tyrone gave a firm shake of his head. “No, sir. You could tell she didn’t want to go with him at all, but she was too terrified of the way he was actin’ to do anything but what he said.”
Carl returned from the bunkhouse where he’d gone to check on the wounded men. He shook his slowly. “One’s already gone. The other one’s nearly bled out and don’t have much longer. Not a damn thing we can do for him.”
“How long has Wainwright been gone?” Banning said to Tyrone.
“Don’t have a watch, but that wagon rolled out ’bout midnight I reckon.”
“And the rest of the men? The wranglers?”
“Not long after. Less than an hour. Didn’t sound to me like they was figurin’ to go after no outlyin’ cattle, neither. They was arguin’ amongst themselves. Sounded like they’d put enough work into this outfit already and wanted to nothin’ more to do with it.”
The rest of the townsmen who’d circled out wide to the edges of the property were drifting back in closer.
Banning looked at Buckhorn and Carl. “Well, where does that leave us? What we came here to do wasn’t exactly legal to begin with, but if Wainwright has made tracks into Mexico, I for one sure have no basis for going after him.”
“Seems like Don Pedro would make the best candidate for that little chore anyway,” Carl said. “From a position of already being on that side of the border and from having a daughter caught in a situation it sounds like she don’t want to be in.”
Before Buckhorn could add anything, Tyrone took a step forward and held out a folded piece of paper. “Matter of fact, Wainwright scratched down a few things that might help you make up your minds. Told me to give this to whoever showed up first.”
Buckhorn took the paper and shook it open. After first giving it a quick skim, he cleared his throat and then read it aloud. “Don Pedro—you might still be walking around, but you’re a dead man, you treacherous dog. You won’t know when or where, but I will return to make you that way.
“Buckhorn—same for you.
“Banning—you’re not worth the trouble.
“To the dirt scratchers of Whitestone County who only ever had the guts to stand up against me after I was already betrayed and beaten down, to hell with you all. I hope your new well is poison and you all die.
“To anyone wondering about my dear wife, she claims she no longer loves me and does not want to remain at my side, but I say she will stay until or unless I decide otherwise. Meantime, should anyone attempt to come after her—or me—she will receive the first bullet at the first sign of trouble. Keep that in mind and keep in mind also that . . . Silverado will rise again!”
Buckhorn lifted his eyes and scanned the faces of those around him. To a man they looked a little stunned and more than a little concerned.
In a hoarse voice, Carl said, “If there was ever any doubt that Thomas Wainwright is stark raving mad, nobody needs look any farther than the words written there.”
“And his madness,” Buckhorn added, “only assures the grave danger that his wife, Lusita, is in.”
CHAPTER 41
Leo Sweetwater was troubled and feeling increasingly more so by the hour.
The young gunfighter prided himself on always keeping a cool head, no matter the situation, and one of the ways he did this was to clearly see things as being black or white in accordance to his own values. Never any shades of gray.
The key, of course, was that Leo’s values were pretty simple and straightforward, unencumbered by the boundaries of the law or religion or any other such influence. For Leo, it was as basic as hiring his gun out to somebody and then doing whatever it was that somebody directed him to do.
But all of a sudden, he’d run up against a situation with complications.
First off, he didn’t like a quitter—somebody who’d cut and run at the first sign of serious resistance. That’s surely what Thomas Wainwright had done. He’d gotten his ass burned in the conflict with Don Pedro and then, receiving the bad news from town on top of that, had folded and lit a shuck with only hollow words left behind as far as putting up any more of a fight.
Sweetwater didn’t like being around anybody who showed that much yellow. It made him feel squirmy and uncomfortable inside, like he was afraid it might rub off on him.
Besides that, going on the run with Wainwright also meant running from the personal matter still left unsettled between him and Buckhorn. The man who’d emptied his guns, handcuffed him to his saddle horn, then shooed him on his way like a minor annoyance. Since it came at the direction of his employer, riding off without settling that score wasn’t really the same as turning away on his own, Sweetwater told himself. It didn’t mean showing his own streak of yellow . . . but it felt awful damned close.
There’d certainly been times when he’d terminated his employment from previous men who hired him. Sometimes the job was finished, sometimes it just got stale and came to a mutual parting of the ways. Sweetwater considered doing this with Wainwright, once the latter revealed his true color and announced his intent to run off for Mexico, but before he could speak up, Wainwright had specifically asked him to stay on. Practically pleaded. It was in that moment Sweetwater had seen the deeper torment in the man, something more than defeat and fear exposed.
Something had bro
ken inside the old general. He’d become unhinged in the attempt to cope with the realization that his dream of Silverado was crushed and was never going to happen. There could be no mutual parting of the ways under those circumstances and, somehow, Sweetwater had not been able to force the break.
Finally, there was the woman. Lusita. Mrs. Wainwright. In his months at the Flying W, Sweetwater had certainly been aware of her. What red-blooded male could help but be?
He had drawn the line and held it firm right there. By his values, he didn’t lust after another man’s wife and for sure not the wife of the man he’d hired out to. He froze shut any such yearnings in himself and let it be known to those around him that the crude remarks and explicit fantasies they tended to regale one another with when he wasn’t on hand were to be stifled when he was within earshot. He wasn’t a prude, not by any means, but letting those kinds of thoughts go running in directions they didn’t belong only clouded a body’s brain and left a trail for potential trouble that plain wasn’t worth it.
With the change in their circumstances, all of that had changed, too. It was clear Lusita didn’t want to be part of any of it. Equally clear, she no longer wanted much to do with Wainwright, either.
His treatment of her wasn’t doing anything to help Sweetwater keep to his values. The feelings a body could hold in check for the wife of a man who was kind and loving to her was one thing. A wife who was abused and taken for granted by her man was something else.
What was more, in addition to the way Lusita was being treated by her husband and the conflicted feelings it stirred in Sweetwater himself, the young gunman also had a keen awareness of how the other two men traveling with them looked at her. What else might be contained in the ill-concealed yearning that shone in their eyes, he could only guess. But it wasn’t good.
The two men—Brazos Kent and Abe Tarvel by name—were two of the crudest, most foul-mouthed gunnies to have signed into the ranks of Wainwright’s now defunct army. Their only saving graces were a shared propensity for ruthlessness and lightning speed with a gun. There’d been no indication back at the ranch of them being prior friends, but they were sure showing signs of getting chummy with one another and it was becoming more apparent with each passing mile.
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