Dunbar glanced at the bouncer. “That true, Josiah?”
The black man shrugged. “I don’t know where he was standing when Sally got shot, but I saw him take off after the shooter. It wasn’t him that killed her. It was some skinny fella out on the balcony.’
Dunbar handed Buck his pistol. “Get out of here, Mc-Cready.”
Buck hesitated only a moment, then holstered the Colt and slipped out the back door. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. He felt as though he’d stepped square into the middle of a muddy bog, without any notion where solid ground lay. Glumly he tramped back through the narrow alley to Front Street, merging with the crowd that had spilled off the saloon’s boardwalk in the wake of the shootings. Forty or more individuals stood in the street, their necks cranked back to ogle the International’s buckshot-torn upper doorway, as if the killer might still be lurking there among the splinters. Most of the crowd was speculating that a man was involved, maybe a gambler or some slick-haired money man from back East.
“Emotions outta control,” one man kept saying. “There’s a woman for ya, emotions outta control.”
Buck turned away. He finally began to understand what Jock had meant the other day when he said there was more involved here than a simple disagreement over cards. Buck had known that, but: he hadn’t really comprehended the depth of what he was getting himself into, the magnitude of what he’d been asked to accomplish, until tonight. It began to sink in now with the disquieting sensation of a slug of whiskey on an empty stomach. Three were dead, and two attempts had already been made on his own life. If he wasn’t careful, he could end up the same as Mase and Lotty and Sally. And if he failed, he could destroy the lives of quite a few others, people he cared about, perhaps even loved.
His hands trembling, Buck walked across the street to the Central Pacific depot and lost his supper in the weeds.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was after midnight before Buck made it back to his apartment above Chin Lo’s laundry, but he couldn’t sleep. He gathered the few belongings he would take with him—extra clothes in a valise, and his rifle a .50-70 single-shot Remington. His bedroll was already bundled and ready to go, wrapped inside a double layer of oilcloth for protection against the elements. His regular bullwhip lay on top of the bedroll like a coiled snake, while Mase’s fancy whip resided on top of the dresser. Buck eyed the two tightly-woven coils thoughtfully, then hung his old bullwhip on a wall coat rack and dropped Mase’s long black-snake onto his bedroll.
It was still dark when Buck walked up to the Box K the next morning. He’d thought everything was under control when he left last night, but he’d barely stepped through the door to Jock’s office the next morning when it all started to come apart. Everyone looked up when he entered—Jock from behind his desk, Walt and Dulce from where they stood next to the sideboard, and a trio of strangers huddled like refugees in the middle of the room, one of them a woman.
“You’re here,” Jock said brusquely.
Buck glanced deliberately at a wall clock above Jock’s desk, registering a quarter of four. “Early, too,” he replied.
Jock accepted the rebuttal without comment. Indicating the woman and her companions, he said: “This is Miss Gwendolyn Haywood. Thaddeus Collins is on her left, Paddy O’Rourke on her right:. Miss Haywood is the daughter of Robert Haywood, a senior vice-president with Weber, Forsyth, and McGowan.”
“Weber, Forsyth, and McGowan, Incorporated, of Philadelphia,” Walt emphasized, tipping his head conspiringly. “The parent company of Bannock Mining.” He gave Gwendolyn a guarded look. “Mister Haywood is the executive officer of BMC.”
“In other words,” Miss Haywood interjected, “Daddy is the man”—she glanced deliberately at Jock—“whom other men have to please if they hope to continue a relationship with Bannock Mining.” She stepped briskly forward to offer Buck the back of her gloved hand. “You must be our captain, Buchanan McCready.”
Buck accepted the proffered hand uncertainly. Protocol demanded a kiss, or at least a quick brush of his lips across her slim fingers, but he’d already deduced from Dulce’s taut demeanor that rudeness might be a more prudent option. “Ma’am,” he said, pumping her hand vigorously.
“You may call me Gwen,” she informed him, not bothering to mask her amusement. Then something she’d said exploded in Buck’s mind, and he dropped her hand.
“You said, our captain?”
“Miss Haywood may accompany the caravan as Bannock Mining’s representative,” Jock informed Buck in a strained tone. “I’ve wired their home office twice, but as of this morning I haven’t received anything to either confirm or deny what she’s telling me.”
“I’m afraid Mister Kavanaugh is uncomfortable with the rôle of the modern woman,” Gwen stated. “I believe he considers the female form too delicate for such an arduous adventure. He’s forgetting the deeds of the Molly Pitchers and the Joans of Arc throughout history.”
“Women travel the Montana Road all the time,” Jock replied flatly. “My own wife bullwhacked an outfit all the way from Leavenworth, Kansas, to Salt Lake City in ’Fifty-Nine, and did a fine job, too. What I find difficult to believe is that a senior vice president with a firm as prestigious as Weber, Forsyth, and McGowan would assign his own daughter to this kind of a task. There are dangers along the trail that even an executive officer must have heard of, not to mention the fact that his daughter would be traveling alone with a crew of muleskinners.”
Gwen laughed cheerfully. “I appreciate your concern, Mister Kavanaugh, but my father has learned to accept the headstrong nature of his only daughter. I’m sure you will, too, in time.”
Jock’s expression turned to granite. “Whether or not I accept anyone’s nature will be my decision, Miss Haywood. Make no mistake, this is a Kavanaugh train you’re asking permission to travel with. Whether you go or stay will be at my discretion. I don’t care who your father is.”
Gwen looked momentarily startled, but quickly recovered her composure. “Touché, Mister Kavanaugh. I acknowledge your authority and bow to your judgment … but not without a reminder that, lacking a representative, no matter what the reason, your prospects for a long-term contract with Bannock Mining will be seriously jeopardized.”
“But my authority won’t be, not for anyone’s contract.”
Gwen curtsied almost demurely, then slid back to stand with her two companions, although careful, Buck noted, to keep herself slightly in front of both men.
Buck studied Gwen curiously, as puzzled by her bravado as he was the incongruity of her claims. She was tall for a woman, slender and lithe. Locks of yellow-gold hair tumbled loosely about her shoulders, and a pale winter’s complexion vied with what was obviously a recently acquired ruddiness for control of her complexion. She had a sharp, narrow nose, ice-blue eyes, and carried herself with a regality born of privileged upbringing. Buck guessed she was a year or two younger than he was, but no more than that.
Her two companions were clearly of a lesser caste. Paddy O’Rourke looked more Mexican than Irish. He was small-boned and dark-featured, with sloping shoulders and piercing black eyes under woolly brows. He wore the rough clothing of a range man—corduroy trousers worn slick at the knees, low-heeled boots, a dark shirt under a soiled canvas vest, and a broad-brimmed hat that looked as if it had seen many a smoky campfire. A large-framed pistol resided on his right hip; a sturdy butcher knife in a buckskin sheath was carried on his left.
Standing behind Gwen’s other shoulder, Thaddeus Collins presented the almost haughty air of someone who viewed himself as several cuts above everyone else in the room, with the exception of the woman at his side. Like a bodyguard, Buck mused—or loyal dog. He was probably in his early thirties, which made him considerably older than Gwen but at least a decade younger than O’Rourke. He was as tall as she was, but not as slim. His dark hair was cut short, and he sported a wafer-thin mustache across his upper lip that looked more like soot than facial hair. His dress—a worn brown
suit, wrinkled white shirt, narrow tie, cheap shoes, and a medium-brimmed brown hat—reminded Buck of a man with more ambition than money. Buck couldn’t detect a sidearm, but figured he would have something lethal concealed about his person. Thaddeus Collins didn’t look like the kind of man who would leave his personal defense to the whims of fate.
“This puts Kavanaugh Freight in a delicate position,” Jock told Buck. “I won’t hold the train up waiting for a reply, no matter how much I’d like to have this issue with Miss Haywood resolved, but, at the same time, I’m loathe to send an inexperienced person on such an important assignment.”
“Is this the kink you mentioned last night?” Buck asked.
Jock nodded grimly. “I’d hoped to have my reply from Philadelphia by now, but, since I don’t, here’s how the situation stands … if Miss Haywood does accompany the caravan, she’ll furnish her own wagon, which I understand she’s already rented from Gilmer and Salisbury.”
“A mud wagon, I believe it’s called,” Gwen confirmed. “A quaint term for an even quainter vehicle. Sort of like a stripped-down stagecoach.”
That wasn’t a bad description, Buck thought. With its hard bench seats and full-length canvas sides that rolled up for ventilation, instead of wooden side panels, the mud wagon was the poorer cousin of the brightly painted, gild-trimmed Concord coaches of the East. It was a popular staging vehicle in the West, though, where practicality almost always won out over the fanciful, and where the high desert sun and blowing sand could strip gold trim to bare wood in a matter of days.
“It’ll be a well-maintained vehicle if it’s from Gilmer and Salisbury,” Jock said. “You’re lucky they’re letting you have it. Most of their coaches are on the road around the clock this time of year.”
Gwen smiled prettily. “Money has its charms, Mister Ka-vanaugh, but a letter of credit can buy you the world.”
Jock didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Paddy O’Rourke is her driver,” he told Buck, leaning back in his chair. “Thad Collins is her bodyguard. BMC will foot the bill for their food and gear, and Miss Haywood has purchased a pair of saddle horses for herself and Collins. Consider the lot of them a part of your cargo. I want them delivered safely to Montana, then returned here in the same condition.
“And you”—he gave the BMC trio a sweeping glance—“will conduct yourselves accordingly. I don’t know how you were raised in Philadelphia, Miss Haywood, but personal freedom has its limits on a wagon train. The wagon master’s word is law. You obey it without question.” His gaze shifted to Dulce. “That goes for you, too, young lady. On the road, Buck’s word is final.”
“Wait a minute,” Buck said. “Dulce ain’t going.”
“Dulce is going,” Jock returned flatly. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but I won’t have Miss Haywood, an unmarried woman and an executive’s daughter, traveling unchaperoned. Dulce will fill that position, and vice versa.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Buck said.
“It’s no more dangerous than following a wagon across the plains, like Mama did,” Dulce piped up. “Besides, Papa’s already said women travel the Montana Road all the time.”
“This is different,” Buck replied stubbornly.
Dulce’s expression softened. “I’m asking for your trust, Buck, as you asked for mine the other night. Do you remember?”
Buck glanced helplessly at Jock.
“You’re in charge, Buck,” Jock said quietly. “I’ve said they can go, but if you want to countermand that, I’ll honor your position. To tell you the truth, I’ve enough qualms about this whole fiasco to wonder at my own motives.”
Buck sighed, then shook his head. “Naw, let ’em come, as long as they remember who’s boss.”
Dulce smiled, and Gwen mocked a sloppy salute. Buck glanced at Paddy and Thad. The sulky-looking Irishman shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other, but Collins’s spine seemed to stiffen under Buck’s gaze.
“My charge is Miss Haywood,” he said stonily. “No one else.”
“Mister Collins will do as you bid, Mister McCready,” Gwen hastily intervened, then gave her companion an imploring look. “You will do as you’re told, won’t you, dear Thaddeus?”
Without any apparent loss of dignity, Collins bowed to Buck. “It would appear that I am at your service, after all.”
“Lord God,” Buck muttered.
“Mister Jepson has your paperwork at his desk,” Jock told Buck. “Why don’t you get it, then head on out to camp? Dulce will be along later with Miss Haywood and her quaint little mud wagon. I’ve got a man putting her stuff on board now.”
Buck nodded and shook Jock’s hand, and Jock mouthed: Take care of her, Buck.
“I won’t let you down, Mister Kavanaugh,” Buck promised, but in his gut he couldn’t help wondering if that was an oath he would be able to keep.
It was still dark when Buck exited the Box K office twenty minutes later, a leather folder tucked under one arm. Inside the folder were bills of lading, a letter of introduction from Jock, and a power-of-attorney contract between Buck and the Box K that allowed him to represent the company on the trail.
Pausing on the rear porch, he stared across the wagon yard to the lantern-lit entrance of the main stable, where a hostler was currying a long-legged black mule. Seeing the animal under someone else’s care caused Buck a twinge of guilt. Readying his mount was his responsibility, not the hostler’s. It was just one more mark of neglect, accrued while he’d stumbled around town looking for an elusive killer.
The rear door to Jock’s office opened and closed softly behind him, but Buck didn’t turn around. “Did you know about this the other night, when you asked me to trust you?” he asked Dulce.
“I knew it was a possibility.”
“So you lied to me?”
She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t think like that. I wasn’t sure, and I was afraid you’d stop it before the opportunity arose if I spoke too soon.”
“A lie’s a lie,” Buck insisted.
“Is it any more of a lie than what you’ve already withheld from Papa?”
“That’s different,” he said, but he knew she was right; he’d betrayed the truth with his silence. Yet he couldn’t summon up any remorse for his deception. There was more going on here than met the eye. Until he discovered exactly what it was, he wasn’t sure who he could trust.
“Mama and Papa came to Utah in Eighteen Fifty-Nine,” Dulce said quietly. “They were attacked by Indians along the North Platte River in Wyoming, and she stood at Papa’s side, loading and firing her own rifle. Before that, she chased off border ruffians in Missouri by refusing to allow them into her home to ransack it for food and ammunition. She once fished a water moccasin out from under her bed, killed it with a hoe, then cooked it for supper.
“Mama lived, Buck, and she had wonderful stories to tell because of it. She climbed mountains and forded rivers. She shot a buffalo. I still use its robe in winter. But I was so young when we came out here that I barely remember what a buffalo looks like. I’ve never climbed anything taller than Little Mountain, and that’s hardly a hill. It doesn’t even have trees. Do you realize there’s not one tree in Corinne? Not one!
“But I’m Papa’s daughter, you see? His precious survivor … all he has left of Mama. Since her death, he’s become so protective of me it feels as if I’m being smothered, and it’s only been recently, with you, that he’s relented enough to allow me some measure of freedom for courtship. But they’re such small measures, Buck, they only make me yearn for more.”
She smiled. “Montana! What images that conjures for the imagination! Grizzly bears and wild Indians, road agents and wicked, wicked mining camps. Why, just think.…”
“My God,” Buck interrupted, laughing. “Are you listening to yourself?”
For a moment, Dulce looked puzzled, then her expression changed to hurt. “Is it that funny, that you’d laugh, or is it just offensive to your sense of propriety?”
&nbs
p; “I’s not offensive, but … Dulce, there’s no mining camp in Montana wilder than Corinne is right now, and Shoshones and Utes both range within sight of the city regularly. You have your own rifle and your own horse that you can ride at will, within certain limits set by your father. Sensible limits, I ought to add, considering the nature of this town. Surely you have more freedom than most women. Look at Peewee’s wife, or Nate’s wife and daughters? I know you’ve got more freedom than they do.”
The injured expression remained. “Then you think I’m a spoiled child?”
He would have denied that even without his recent encounter with Gwen Haywood. “No, and I don’t blame you for wanting to see something new. After a winter holed up in Corinne, waiting for the roads to open, I’m half wild to get away myself. All right, Dulce, I’ll respect your wishes, and I’ll trust you, too.”
She leaned in to kiss him. “Thank you, Buck,” she said, her voice oddly choked.
He put an arm around her shoulders, strangely affected by the depth of her emotion. Then, stepping back, he said: “You need to get ready. We’ll be moving out in less than an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” she promised, then flashed him a brilliant smile. “You won’t regret this, Buck. I promise! It’ll be wonderful!”
CHAPTER NINE
Night was waning as Buck jogged his black mule over the rattling planks of the Bear River bridge. To the southeast, beyond the griddle-flat plain separating Corinne from the small Mormon farming community of Brigham City, the prickling of lantern light signified the stirring of life after a night’s repose. Directly east, thrusting up sharp as daggers into the pearled belly of the sky, the snow-mantled peaks of the Wellsville Mountains were already tinged with the glow of the coming sun. Another half hour and it would be light enough to roll, Buck thought, and suddenly he was grinning like a kid with a mouthful of taffy. Damn but it was going to feel good to be on the move again.
The Long Hitch Page 7
