Gwen shook her head incredulously, but there was no rancor in her reply. “I still maintain that your sense of duty is skewed, even abnormal, but my respect for it hasn’t diminished one whit.” She slipped her arm through his. “I shall look forward to the day of your … unhobbling. In the meantime, I suggest supper. The kitchen will be closing shortly, and I understand the cooks are rather impatient with late arrivals.”
Zeke expelled a great, gusty breath of disapproval as Buck hauled himself wearily into his saddle. He leaned forward to pat the mule’s neck in apology. “One more day, boy, that’s all we’ll need.” Straightening, he looked back down the line of wagons and hollered: “Streeetch out! Come on, boys, let’s go to Virginia City!”
No one cheered in the approaching dawn of this final day on the roads but there was an immediate jangling of chains, the creak of harness leather and running gears as the long caravan got under way. After sending Milo ahead on his spotted molly— Collins’s bay was tied behind the mud wagon at the rear of the train, a fitting position for a horse, Milo had declared as he switched his saddle to the Box K mule—Buck took his usual place at the head of the column. They were still some distance from the Virginia City road when Milo came back, reining in beside Zeke. “They’re going to beat us, boss,” he announced glumly. “I spotted them down the road and, dammit, they’re going to beat us.”
“By how much?”
“No more than an hour and maybe closer to half that, but they’ve got a good, solid road and they’re using it to their advantage.”
They caught sight of the Crowley and Luce outfit while crossing the Ruby. As Peewee’s wheelers came splashing up out of the icy waters, the muleskinner shouted and pointed toward the road. Buck waved in recognition. He’d already spotted the tail end of the C&L caravan rounding a bend half a mile ahead.
“We’re closer than I thought we’d be,” Milo admitted.
“We’re going to get even closer,” Buck vowed.
“They won’t let us pass.”
“When the time comes, I don’t intend to ask for permission,” Buck replied grimly. He twisted in his saddle and shouted for Peewee to pick up the pace. The muleskinner shot him a surly look, then unfurled his bullwhip and cracked it loudly above the backs of his flagging sixes, goading them into a shuffling jog. Soon the entire train was rattling along the Virginia City road at a good clip, the massive wheels throwing up rooster tails of gritty, half-baked mud. Buck and Milo loped ahead until, rounding a bend, they came in sight of Crowley’s and Luce’s wagon boss, Tim Lomax, sitting his mule alone in the middle of the road. The Box K riders pulled up a couple of hundred yards away but otherwise made no acknowledgement of the C&L captain.
“That bastard knows he cheated,” Milo muttered, returning Lomax’s stare.
“Sure he knows,” Buck said. “He knows that we know it, too, but he’ll deny everything when we get into Virginia City. Their Bannock rep will back him up and there won’t be a damn’ thing we can do about it. But maybe we won’t have to. We’ve got one more chance, something that didn’t even occur to me until this morning. There’s a place up the road where we might be able to slip around C and L, and, if we play it right, they won’t even know it until it’s too late.” He glanced at Milo. “We’re gonna have to be ready to jump when we get there, though, and at the same time we can’t let Lomax know we’re even thinking about jumping.”
“That sounds kind of chancy,” Milo said.
“Chancy as hell and it could lead to gunfire, but we’re still going to try it. Ride back and tell Peewee to move up quick as he can. Tell him I want him hugging C and L’s ass when we reach the bend where Lew Walker broke his leg a couple of years ago. He’ll know the place, and he’ll figure out why I want him there when he thinks about it.”
Milo nodded and took off, and Buck leaned back to rest his hand on his saddle’s skirting. He returned Lomax’s stare without malice, letting his thoughts skip ahead to the spot where Lew’s mule had slipped in the mud on the last run of the 1872 season, snapping Lew’s right leg cleanly just below the knee. The road there ran up over the brow of a hill, but there was a wide spot along the river where teamsters sometimes stopped for the night. A narrow, pot-holed trail wound through the trees connecting the campsite to the road at both ends. The flat was maybe three quarters of a mile long and wouldn’t normally be any faster than staying on the main road—unless Peewee really laid into his mules, forcing them into a run.
It would be reckless as hell, Buck knew, a risk to animals and cargo alike, but, if they were successful, they could force C&L to a standstill while the Box K took the lead.
Buck smiled lazily as he pictured it. The look on Lomax’s face, the catcalls of the Box K teamsters as they rolled past, the livid expressions of the C&L drivers—images as sweet as sugared strawberries. He and Milo would have to stand by with their rifles, of course. There was no telling how Lomax or his men would react if they didn’t, but Buck knew a cocked weapon could cool even the hottest temper, usually without a shot being fired. As long as he and Milo remained alert, he didn’t anticipate any trouble.
The Crowley and Luce train, along with Lomax, was long out of sight by the time Peewee got up to where Buck was waiting but it was still several hours to the place where he intended to make his move. There would be plenty of time.
Buck kept the train rolling steadily. The morning air grew warm as the sun climbed higher, the hottest it had been since they’d left the Snake. C&L didn’t break for its customary midday stop and neither did the Box K. The grade began to climb as they pushed on into the afternoon, and the cedar- and sage-covered hills began to pinch down on each side. The long meadow lay only a few miles ahead now, and Buck slowed Zeke to allow Peewee to come up even with him.
Milo was riding alongside Peewee’s leaders but reined in silently at Buck’s side. Sweat streaked the ramrod’s face and the stubble on his cheeks had turned reddish-gray from the grime of last night’s digging. Although Milo looked exhausted, it was the leaders and those mules immediately following them that caught Buck’s attention like a slap to the face. His jaw tightened with anger as he took in their debilitated condition. Jutting his chin toward the near number eight, its lower left leg pasted with dirt and blood, he said: “What the hell happened?”
“Stumbled and fell a few miles back. Two of Little Ed’s hitch have gone down, too, and one of Charlie’s mules is lame.”
“Why haven’t they been pulled out of harness?”
Milo fixed him with a steely gaze. “Because there hasn’t been time, Buck. Not if you want us on C and L’s ass when we reach that meadow.”
Buck’s nostrils flared and he quickly looked away rather than meet Peewee’s accusing look as the muleskinner rolled past. Nate’s hitch didn’t appear to be in any better shape, and Buck sucked in a deep breath as if in pain. His eyes traveled to the tall mountains rising in the east. Virginia City lay at their western base, so close now he thought he could make out the faint haze of chimney smoke above the nearest hills. The long meadow where Lew had broken his leg was less than a mile away. Victory could be theirs yet, and, with it, the Bannock Mining contract. Then he exhaled and said: “Slow ’em down.”
Milo stared at him as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Huh?”
“I said to slow ’em down, we’re going to stop. There’s a meadow up ahead.…”
“Where Lew Walker broke his leg?”
“Yeah. We’ll pull in there for the night, then go on into Virginia City tomorrow afternoon.”
Milo continued to stare as if still trying to figure out what Buck really meant. Finally he said: “Lord A’mighty, Buck, we can’t give up now!”
“The hell we can’t,” Buck replied softly. “I’ll be damned if I’ll cripple a mule for a dollar bill … not for Jock or any man.” Not even for a dead man, he thought sadly, remembering the promise he’d made at Mase’s graveside. He looked at Milo and nodded, his decision made. “Slow ’em down.”
Buck wasn’t sure what kind of reception to expect when they pulled into Virginia City late the next day, but he wasn’t surprised when the town’s citizens acted as if they hadn’t even heard of the five-hundred-mile race between the Box K and Crowley and Luce. Or if they had, they didn’t care. Virginia City wasn’t built on freighting the way Corinne was, the way Franklin wanted to be. It’s heart beat for gold rather than goods, and Buck doubted if anyone gave a damn one way or another where their supplies came from as long as they were there when needed.
He led the caravan to Fred Sweeny’s wagon yard, sprawled across the knob of a hill high above a town built on hills. Fred was standing on the loading dock as the long Box K hitches rolled through his gates. Peewee continued on to the rear of the big lot where there would be enough room to park their outfits while Buck rode over to talk to Sweeny.
“Made it, I see,” Fred said by way of greeting. He was a tall man with a full head of wavy gray hair and a hawk-like nose. His eyes were hooded beneath bushy brows and a neatly trimmed mustache shaded his upper lip. He watched critically as the wagons rumbled past, then glanced at Buck. He didn’t say anything, but Buck could tell he wasn’t happy.
“Something on your mind, Fred?”
“No, I guess not. There’s a gent named Haywood waiting for you in town. He’s with the company Jock was hoping to contract with. Of course., that’s just wishful thinking now for all of us, isn’t it?’’
“Where can I find him?” Buck asked, ignoring the receiving agent’s scorn.
“He’s staying at the Parker Hotel, but I understand he’s been doing business out of the old Wallace building on Main.”
Buck nodded. He knew the place. Riding into the wagon yard, he found Milo supervising the parking of the big rigs, lining them up at angles so that Sweeny’s yardmen could pick and choose which one they wanted to unload first. “Reckon you can handle things here?”
“Sure.” Milo gave him a questioning look. “Trouble?”
“No, just some loose ends to tie up. When you’ve got everything lined out, take the boys to Carlson’s for a drink. Tell the bartender to keep pouring until he’s emptied twenty dollars’ worth of booze. I’ll be along later to settle the bill.” He glanced at the mud wagon where Rossy was unhitching. “Where’s Gwen and Dulce?”
“They left us on Main Street.” Milo grinned crookedly. “It seems Miss Haywood’s father is in town. Did you know that?”
“Gwen mentioned the possibility.”
“She must’ve spotted him from the street. Last I saw of her, she looked like she was on her way to her own hanging. Dulce went along to read her the last rites.”
Buck cocked his head. “And you didn’t gallop to her rescue?”
“I gave up on Miss Haywood some time ago,” Milo admitted. “She’s pretty as a picture but more interested in the lead mule than someone from the middle of the hitch.”
“I’d say you made a wise decision,” Buck concurred, reining away. He went to the mud wagon where Arlen was coiling the slim leather drive lines for Rossy. “You ready?” he asked.
“You could change your mind,” Arlen suggested, without looking up.
“That ain’t likely.”
“He’s not a bad fella,” Rossy said tentatively, coming over with a collar over one shoulder, three more in his hands. “He could’ve escaped more than once if he’d wanted to. He’s had enough chances.”
“He’s got to go back to Corinne, Rossy. He was there the night Mase was murdered. He saw it happen.”
“But he didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe, but he was a part it, or was planning to be. I won’t turn my back on that.”
Rossy looked at Arlen and shook his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Buck scowled at Rossy’s defense of the scruffy outlaw, irritated and a little surprised that he would side with anyone involved in the death of a Box K man.
“It ain’t your fault,” Arlen told him. “Hell, I appreciate you speaking up. I didn’t expect it.”
“Go help your dad,” Buck told Rossy gruffly.
“Go on,” Arlen said, winking. “I’ll take care of this.” His smile disappeared when Rossy was gone. “Come on, McCready, let’s get this over with.”
They walked down the hill to the sheriffs office, Arlen on foot, Buck astride Zeke. Arlen waited on the boardwalk while Buck hitched his mule to a slim pine rail out front, then led the way inside. The sheriff was a short, stocky man with a no-nonsense cast to his face. He was sitting behind his desk when Buck and Arlen entered but quickly stood and pulled his pistol around on his belt where it would be easy to grab. “This Fleck?” he asked after Buck had shut the door.
“How’d you know that?” Buck asked.
“Word travels fast along the trail, Mister McCready.” He shook Buck’s hand. “I’m Elmer Poindexter. I knew Mase Campbell well. He was a good man.”
“Yeah, he was,” Buck said by rote, then tipped his head toward Arlen to change the subject. He spoke tersely, outlining the outlaw’s part in the mule raid first, then adding what he knew of Arlen’s involvement in Mase’s murder. When he finished, he added: “I was ready to hang him when I first got my hands on him, but.…” He shrugged. “I reckon I’ve changed my mind. He ain’t all bad, just easy to manipulate.”
Arlen gave him a amazed look, Poindexter seemed confused. “What are you saying, McCready?” the sheriff demanded.
“I’m saying I ain’t as mad about Mase’s death as I was right after it happened,” Buck replied, as vexed with his own admission as he was with the lawman for asking for it.
“Well, fortunately, the law doesn’t care how you feel about it,” Poindexter said. He took Fleck by the arm and spun him around and, after a quick but thorough search for weapons, pushed him toward a single cell at the rear of the room. To Buck, he added: “I’ve got some things to take care of this afternoon, but I want you back here bright and early tomorrow morning to fill out some paperwork I’ll have ready for you.”
“I’ll be here,” Buck promised. He started to turn away but stopped abruptly when Poindexter swung the cell door open. A figure emerged from the shadows at the rear of the iron-strapped compartment and Buck grunted with recognition, turning for the cell with murder in his eyes.
“Uhn-uh,” Poindexter said, putting a hand on Buck’s chest to stop him. “You leave him be. He’s in my charge.”
“I want to talk him,” Buck growled.
“I figured you would, but it won’t do any good. He isn’t cooperating.”
“I’m willing to beat the information I want out of him, if that’s what it takes.”
Poindexter glanced over his shoulder, barking: “Get away from the door, Kelso!”
“Hello, McCready,” Nick Kelso sang out mockingly. “So you finally made it in. Too bad you didn’t get here yesterday, you might’ve collected that BMC contract for Kavanaugh and made a name for yourself. Way it stands now you’re just another jackass working with jackasses.”
“What’s he doing here?” Buck demanded, brushing the lawman’s hand off his chest.
“He’s been charged with kidnapping for openers, but we’re going to slap a murder charge on him, too, for gunning down a sawed-off little Frenchman in one of our liveries. Anything you can add to that will just make my day brighter.”
“I want to know who hired him,” Buck said in smoldering tones. “I want to know who was behind Mase’s murder.”
“He doesn’t know, McCready,” Poindexter said gently. “I’ve already used everything but a pair of pliers to drag a name out of him, but he keeps insisting the man he killed the other day was the only contact he had. Says he shot him in self-defense, and as much as I hate to admit it, because I’d really like to see this bastard hang, his story has a ring of truth to it. It’d make sense that whoever fronted the money for Kelso’s shenanigans would want to eliminate any connection that could lead back to them. Now, and I’m just guessing, mind y
ou, I’d say whoever ordered Baptiste LeBry to hire Kelso had more than a passing interest in the outcome of this competition between the Box K and Crowley and Luce.”
Buck tore his eyes away from the killer, puzzled by the lawman’s remarks. “Hell, I know that.”
“I don’t think you do. I’m saying Herb Crowley and Anton Luce are small potatoes in this kettle of mischief. I’m not suggesting they’re squeaky clean, but I’m guessing it was someone higher up the flagpole that made the decision to murder Mase in order to stop the Box K.”
“Someone from outside their firm?”
“More than likely someone outside of muleskinning altogether at least far enough out that you won’t ever see any mule shit on their shoes. Might be someone connected with the Utah Northern Railroad or the transfer station in Ogden, or maybe some corporate man back East with ties to Utah you’d never guess existed. I just don’t think we’re ever going to know for sure.”
“I’ll guarantee you one thing, McCready,” Kelso piped up from his cell. “If I knew who it was that hired LeBry to bushwhack me, I’d use that information to buy myself a ticket out of this hole.”
“ Son-of-a-bitch,” Buck said quietly.
Nick was at the bars again, and now his attention turned to Fleck. “Hello, dumb-ass,” he taunted.
“I told you to get back!” Poindexter yelled. He shoved Fleck into the cell, then swung the door closed with a bang. “You two get along,” he added, turning the key in its lock.
Buck’s business with the sheriff was finished, but he lingered curiously as Arlen edged deeper into the cell. Arlen looked almost shocked by the appearance of his old partner and nemesis, and, with the iron door closed, Nick wasted little time in making his move. Coming up on Arlen’s left side, he leaned close to whisper into the smaller man’s ear. There was a smirk on his face when he stepped back.
Arlen didn’t immediately respond. He turned to Nick and smiled, then, stepping back for leverage, Arlen threw a punch into Nick Kelso’s face that looked powerful enough to cave in a wagon bed. Nick flew back with a strangled cry and slammed into the wall. His knees buckled and he slid to the floor and sat there. Blood streamed across his lips and chin from a broken nose and his eyes rolled without focus. Before he could regain his senses, Arlen came to stand above him.
The Long Hitch Page 30
