Lusita looked ready to question him more about that, but they both heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, coming fast.
“Get over there in the rocks!” Buckhorn ordered. “Stay down.”
Lusita hurried over to some low, broken boulders and ducked down behind them. Buckhorn watched until he was satisfied she was safely in place, then turned back to the sound of the approaching rider.
Drawing his Colt again, he moved to the rear of the wagon and crouched behind one of its back wheels. The pounding hooves drew closer, slowed, and then stopped just inside the murkiness where the nighttime sky’s illumination could not penetrate.
Everything was very quiet for a minute . . . until Sweetwater’s voice called, “General? Kent? Tarvel?”
Buckhorn let the silence play out for several beats, then responded, “You’re talking to ghosts, Leo. They gave me no choice . . . but I’m willing to give you one.”
“I’ll be damned. Is that you, Buckhorn?”
“None other.”
“I should’ve known. I figured if we had a worry about anybody showing up to bite our heels it’d be you.”
“Glad I didn’t disappoint.”
“What about the girl? Wainwright’s wife.”
“She’s safe.”
“I should’ve known that, too. Something else you can be counted on for.”
“I can be counted on for keeping my word, too. Takes us back to that choice I said I’d give you. You ride off into the night and we can call this over and done with. You won’t have to bite the same dust the rest of ’em did.”
“That’s real big of you. What if I ain’t in the mood for riding off or dust biting, either one?”
“I don’t recall giving a third choice.”
“Then let’s say I’m the one giving it. Goes something along the lines of you being the next dust biter.”
“Don’t be a fool. You don’t owe Wainwright anything more.”
“This ain’t about Wainwright. It’s what started taking shape the minute you showed up and gunned ol’ Dandy Jack. It was building up between me and him first, but then you stepped in. I told you in no uncertain terms the first day we rode out together to the Flying W that I was top gun for the brand. We both knew right then and there that sooner or later we was gonna have to find out if I could back that up against you. It was just a matter of when.”
“And you’re saying this is when.”
“I’m sorta demanding it.”
“You’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“Only if it turns out I ain’t as good as I think I am.”
“I hate to see it come to that. If you push it, I’ll push back.”
“I’m pushing. I figure to ride up there, slowlike, to where we can see each other plain. I’ll get down and we’ll walk it off. You’ll have the chance to shoot me out of the saddle, if you’re of a mind to, and make the outcome certain for yourself. I know that ain’t your way . . . so here I come.”
Once again the sound of a horse’s hooves filled the silence. The clop of the hooves was slow, unhurried. Gradually, the forms of Sweetwater and his horse emerged from the murkiness and took on clearer, sharper definition as they grew closer. Buckhorn rose behind the wagon wheel, came around the end of the wagon, and began walking slowly toward the incoming rider. Sweetwater halted his horse, climbed down out of the saddle, and began walking, too.
“Whenever it feels right,” Buckhorn said in a raspy voice, “go ahead and make your move for doing what you’re so hell-bent on doing.”
Seconds later, Sweetwater’s hands dove for his guns. Both of them. And both came up with simultaneous blinding speed.
Buckhorn’s Colt flashed from its holster within the same shaved heartbeat of time. Three shots split apart the still night. Two bullets ripped through flesh. Both men fell to the ground.
Buckhorn hit hard, dust puffing up into his nostrils, grit crunching between his teeth. Fiery pain raced up and down his right side, telling him he’d taken a fairly serious hit. But he wasn’t dead. Not yet, by damn, and he meant to keep it that way.
He knew his shot had hit Sweetwater. He’d seen him go down. Uncertain the young gunman was down for good, Buckhorn gripped his .45, squirmed on the ground, half-rolled onto his left side, and tried to push himself to where he could determine how things stood.
He pushed and pushed for what seemed like a long time, not making any headway. Everything around him was pulsing in and out of blurriness and clarity and he couldn’t seem to get all of the grit spat out of his mouth.
Suddenly, Lusita was kneeling beside him, her hands pressing gently but firmly against him. “Stay still. Lay back, quit struggling. You’re hit in the side, through the ribs. I think you can make it if you hold still and let me stop the bleeding. You don’t have to worry about Sweetwater. He’s dead. Your shot was truer . . .”
CHAPTER 48
For the second time in only a handful of hours, Buckhorn found himself being ministered to for a gunshot wound. The damage was more serious and the young woman tending it less competent. Not that Lusita’s shortcomings in the nurse department were due to any lack of intensity or well meaning; she simply didn’t have the experience.
Sweetwater’s bullet had passed between two of Buckhorn’s ribs, meaning no lead stayed inside him. During its visit, the slug had torn up plenty of meat, cracked a couple bones, and left rather messily. Apart from the pain, stopping the blood flow at the exit hole proved to be the biggest challenge.
Finally, he sent Lusita to fetch a tobacco plug from Tarvel’s body, took a big cut of it, and chewed it into a softened gob. Using that and a tight bandage they were able to stop the stubborn leakage.
That wasn’t the end of it. Buckhorn knew enough about gunshot wounds to know that his blood loss and injuries—counting the leg wound from earlier—would take a toll on him pretty quickly, especially once they were on the move.
And move they must—for the sake of his injuries and for the sake of their overall safety. It might be days before any more travelers came this way and, when they did, it was a fifty-fifty chance they could be another gang of banditos or scavengers of some other sort who’d hesitate only slightly before slitting their throats and leaving them with the rest of the dead for the sake of their horses, saddles, guns, and the riches they would find in the wagon.
With luck, if Buckhorn’s injuries didn’t slow them too much, they could reach Wagon Wheel in two days. Neither Lusita nor Buckhorn knew of anywhere else in between; at least none where they were likely to find safe haven or the kind of medical attention he would increasingly need.
After quick discussion and agreement, they set about preparing their departure. Lusita assured him she was an accomplished horsewoman but had no experience at driving a wagon and team. With his wounds, Buckhorn figured he was better off sticking with Sarge rather than trying to wrestle the reins himself, so heading out on horseback was their choice.
They had no discussion of burying the dead. Given the matters of time and physical limitations, it was understood as something that simply could not be seen to.
Lusita selected Sweetwater’s horse to ride and Buckhorn picked Kent’s to serve as their packhorse, on which they loaded provisions, key among them being all the water they could gather and combine from various canteens and water skins. Additionally, Lusita added a small bag of her most prized personal possessions from the wagon.
She also took time to strip her husband’s corpse of the money belt he’d worn securely strapped around his waist.
“Money was never part of why I became Mrs. Thomas Wainwright,” she announced fiercely and defensively to Buckhorn. “But given all that has happened and all I have recently learned, I am going after everything I can get out of being the only heir to what is left of Wainwright holdings. I started out as a bargaining chip between Thomas and my father. I’ll be damned if I will settle for merely being that from here on out. Before I am through, my scheming, manipulative father will be ca
lled to account, also!”
“I believe you, lady,” Buckhorn told her. “Damned if I don’t.”
* * *
They rode out before sunrise.
Buckhorn set Sarge to a steady, moderate pace. At first, he felt fairly comfortable in the saddle, rocking to the familiar gait of the big gray. Gradually, the pain in his side increased while at the same time he felt himself growing weaker.
The sun came up and the day’s heat started to build. At the peak of the sizzling afternoon, they laid up for rest, but only for two or three hours during the worst of it. The horses were unsaddled, watered out of Buckhorn’s hat, and then picketed in some scrub graze.
Lusita checked Buckhorn’s wounds and found the one on his side to be leaking badly again. She methodically redressed it. Before applying the fresh bandage, she doused the tobacco cud with some brandy she’d brought along from the wagon. She tried to get Buckhorn to drink some of it, for the pain, but he refused.
He did drink lots of water, though, and encouraged her to do the same. They had plenty so it was best to keep themselves as saturated as possible, rather than sip it sparingly. For nourishment, they ate jerky and split a jar of canned peaches.
* * *
In the middle of the night, when the deep chill of the sunless hours gripped the stark land in sharp contrast to the heat of the days, Buckhorn started to shiver. It didn’t take long before his trembling became so violent that Lusita, looking on, feared it might cause him to spill from his saddle.
Against his protests, she finally called a halt in the heart of a shallow gully where they were protected from a low, cold wind that moaned across the land. She insisted he lie down against one side of the gully where she wrapped him in layers of bedroll blankets.
The blankets did nothing to diminish the shivering. Droplets of clammy sweat stood out on his face and ran down his neck.
Lusita was forced to leave him like that long enough to tend to the horses. Returning, she scraped together fuel and built a close fire for the heat and for the illumination to examine Buckhorn’s wound. It was bleeding once more and his shivering continued.
She set a pot of coffee to cooking, and while it brewed, she redressed the wound. After that, she liberally laced a cup of coffee with brandy and forced him to drink it. Then another . . . but nothing diminished the chills or the shivering, or slowed the clammy sweat.
She heaped on more blankets.
Buckhorn maintained his senses throughout, though there were times he became a bit foggy and thick-tongued. “I’m tougher than this, damn it. I’ve got through worse than this. Just let me sweat this out and I’ll be fit as a fiddle.”
But he continued to sweat and shiver with no signs of improvement.
In the weakening light of the dying fire, Lusita checked his wound again and found no evidence of it bleeding. At least that was a good sign, she told herself.
She leaned wearily against the gully wall, beginning to feel her own exhaustion, not to mention a nagging hint of desperation. She, too, was getting cold even inside her heavy coat. The fire was fading fast and she’d already scrounged all of the fuel to be found anywhere close by.
It was then a thought struck her. A rather bold one, in more ways than one. She regarded Buckhorn, still trembling despite all the blankets she’d spread over him. She considered the chill of the night seeping deeper into her and the fact that sunrise was still two or three hours away, then longer still until the morning’s heat would build appreciably.
She knew a way for her to endure those hours more comfortably but also to put forth another effort toward countering Buckhorn’s suffering. Yes, it was bold. Shocking even. Anyone with proper morals would surely say so.
Yet all the while Lusita was telling herself these things, her hands were busy unfastening her clothing.
* * *
In the glow of early dawn, Buckhorn awakened. He was no longer chilled or shivering. And in his arms, snuggled close to him under a mound of blankets, was a nearly naked young woman. He recognized her, of course. Lusita. Achingly lovely, hauntingly beautiful Lusita. Under the blankets. Mostly naked. With him.
Buckhorn couldn’t resist. He leaned to kiss her. Her eyes fluttered open, but she said or did nothing to resist. Their lips met and it was the first of many long, hungry kisses as their bodies pressed together with equal urgency.
CHAPTER 49
They reached Wagon Wheel early on the third morning after the shoot-out at Verdugo Pass. Their arrival spurred an instant flurry of interest and activity. At first they were bombarded by questions fired from all sides . . . until a cooler head in the form of Justine York quieted everybody down and reminded them that the returning pair had just gone through an ordeal that warranted an opportunity to get cleaned up, rested, and fed before being pawed at and too aggressively interrogated. Not to mention the medical attention Buckhorn clearly needed.
Lusita was whisked off to the Traveler’s Rest, where she was provided a bath, fresh clothes, and a meal from the Good Eats Café. She was also offered a bed to rest in. Declining the latter, she asked that her father be sent for, and then requested to be reunited with Buckhorn as soon as the doctor was finished with him.
In the doctor’s office, Buckhorn already had plenty of company. The sheriff, Carl Orndecker, and Martin Goodwin were present as the string bean of a medic went through a procedure of examining, cleaning, and treating the wounds. That involved the application of salves and a good deal of fresh bandaging along with a small bottle of pain medicine to be used as needed.
Whatever was in the bottle smelled god-awful and anybody strong enough to get past the stink and actually take a swallow ought to rate as healthy enough not to need it. It didn’t smell so bad, however, that it ruined the taste of the plate of food sent over by the Good Eats or the two cold beers Goodwin fetched from the Watering Hole saloon.
The conversation that took place during Buckhorn’s time in the doctor’s office actually did a pretty good job of bringing everybody up to date on what had transpired while Buckhorn was away, both in Whiteside County and out on the trail. When Sheriff Banning heard about the shoot-out at Verdugo Pass, he promptly sent a party of volunteers to go retrieve the bodies and whatever else was left.
In Wagon Wheel, Goodwin’s well had set in motion a surge of civic pride and entrepreneurial excitement like nobody could have imagined. Existing businesses were talking about expanding and a few telegrams had been received from others inquiring about relocating there. Plans were already underway to build a reservoir basin north of town, connected to the well by a feeder canal.
All of this was gone over once again in the presence of Lusita. When informed by the sheriff that the contents of her husband’s safe, which had survived the fire, had been confiscated and was being held for a full legal review of the deeds and property claims it contained, Lusita understood completely and stated her willingness to cooperate in every way.
She further stated her intentions to rebuild and revive the Flying W, albeit under a new name. From whatever livestock could be salvaged, she planned to nurture it into her own land and cattle company. But only, she assured everyone, with property and holdings that had been acquired by fair and reasonable means.
When Lusita’s father arrived, there was much rejoicing. Laughter and tears mixed freely. So much praise and gratitude was heaped on Lusita’s rescuer by the old don that Buckhorn had to retreat to the edge of the crowd and make sure he stayed out of sight in order to keep from triggering more of the same.
Lusita responded with special warmth at the sight of Consuela and Armando, her former house servants, and even Tyrone, the old grub shack cook. All had been staying at Don Pedro’s hacienda which, though damaged during the battle between hired guns, remained mostly still functional. The old Wagon Wheel was in the past.
Lusita also showed warmth toward the reunion with her father and he, most assuredly, in return. Looking on, however, Buckhorn couldn’t help but note what appeared to be an ic
y glint in the corner of Lusita’s shining eyes as she smiled and hugged Don Pedro.
He remembered vividly her words that night back on the trail. “I started out as a bargaining chip between Thomas and my father—I’ll be damned if I will settle for merely being that from here on out. Before I am through, my scheming, manipulative father will be called to account also!”
Yes, Don Pedro was very glad to have his daughter back safe. But maybe, just maybe, Buckhorn thought, the old rascal would be well advised to keep a sharp lookout over his shoulder from here on out.
* * *
Before Lusita left to go back with her father and those who’d come with him, she and Buckhorn managed a moment alone together.
“I’ll never forget you,” she whispered as they stood close.
“Same here,” Buckhorn assured her.
“And yet I know it is best for us to part this way. The special, wonderful moment we had that morning in the little canyon—”
“It was just that. A special, wonderful moment. One I hope we’ll both treasure for the rest of our time. I know I will. We already talked about this on the trail. A moment is all it was, all it ever can be.”
“But . . .”
“No buts. We’re from two different worlds and there’s no sense trying to fool ourselves otherwise.”
Lusita gazed up at him. “My course is firm. I know what lies ahead for me. But what about you?”
Buckhorn smiled somewhat wistfully. “Oh, I reckon I’ll hang around here for a while. Heal up a little more. Contact the man who sent me here and report that I’ve finished what he sent me to do. Then, before long, I’ll drift on again. To the next job or whatever I find on the trail ahead of me.”
“In many ways that sounds lonely and rather sad. And yet, for you, it somehow fits. For you, I cannot imagine anything else.”
Buckhorn grinned. “Me neither. Leastways not yet. Maybe someday that whatever I find on the trail ahead will give me the answer.”
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