The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  “Those days are over, Nick,” he stated flatly. “If you ever talk to me like that again. I’ll break your neck.”

  Poindexter guffawed. “By God, I believe he means it, Kelso. I’d give that boy plenty of room, was I you.”

  Nick’s mouth hung open like a beached fish’s but he didn’t reply.

  “Fleck!” Buck called, and Arlen looked his way. “Find out what you can from him.”

  Arlen grinned and nodded, and the sheriff’s good humor disappeared. “No, you don’t. I won’t abide that kind of behavior in my jail, Fleck. That goes for you, too, McCready.” He blustered suddenly: “I mean it, by damn. Neither one of you wants to get on the bad side of me.”

  “All I want is to know who hired Kelso to kill Mase,” Buck replied calmly. “Maybe Fleck can find out what you couldn’t.”

  “You do not tell me my business, mister,” Poindexter said, but he had to lift his voice to be heard. Buck had already left the building.

  It was less than a block from the jail to the old Wallace building. Buck walked, leading Zeke, and tied the leggy black to the rail alongside Gwen’s chestnut and Dulce’s claybank.

  At one time the Wallace building had furnished both home and office to an attorney specializing in mining claims, according to the peeling gilt script across the front window, but whatever dreams lawyer Wallace might have entertained for a future in Virginia City must have withered a long time ago. What remained was a frame structure of weathered gray planking and dusty windows, its sills littered with dead flies, hinges squeaking from disuse. That the old building was about to be reborn was evident in the half dozen or so sweating laborers who scurried about the premises with hammers, saws, and plumb lines. The smell of cleaning ammonia was stout in the front room.

  A bald clerk with sleeve garters and ink-stained fingers met Buck at the front door and ushered him into a large., side-room office cluttered with unpacked boxes and wooden crates. A desk and filing cabinet had been wedged into one corner to accommodate BMC’s immediate business needs. The smell of ammonia was strong in here., too, but not unbearable with the window open.

  There were five others in the room when Buck arrived. A large man with bushy muttonchops whiskers sat behind the desk. Tim Lomax leaned casually against the rear wall next to the window overlooking the Ruby River gulch. Gwen and Dulce sat together on a small bench opposite Lomax, their expressions contrite. A third man stood at Gwen’s side, his face pale, his build more gaunt than slim, and his hands subtly trembling. The resemblance between him and Gwen was slight but noticeable, and Buck thought this must be the brother she’d mentioned.

  There was even less resemblance between the Haywood siblings and the man behind the desk, a cigar clamped between his jaws like a leg off some kind of prey. He was of average height but stoutly built. Sitting down, his resemblance to a bulldog was astounding. When he said—“You’re Buchanan Mc-Cready.”—in his deep, resonant voice, Buck wasn’t sure he would’ve argued with him even if his name had been something else.

  “You’re Robert Haywood?”

  “I am.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “Senior vice-president with Weber, Forsyth, and McGowan, of Philadelphia, and currently in charge of their Montana project.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding Buck inquisitively. “Mister Lomax tells me you gave C and L quite a run for its money.”

  “We did what we could.”

  “Couldn’t hang onto that lead, though?”

  Buck’s face turned warm, but he didn’t rise to Haywood’s bait. “That’s what I’ve been hearings,” he replied evenly.

  “I know what you’ve been hearing, Mister McCready. I’ve been hearing the same thing myself for the past several days. What I want to know is … why? You had C and L beat handily at the Malad Range. You’d proved your point, or more accurately, Jock Kavanaugh’s point, which is that the Franklin route will never be a viable option as long as wagons have to negotiate Marsh Valley. Once the Utah Northern lays tracks north of there, Corinne will be finished, but I don’t see that happening for a long time. It might not have happened at all if you hadn’t failed so miserably.”

  “Father, you’re not being fair,” Gwen said, but the elder Haywood held up his hand and his daughter fell dutifully silent.

  “What is your reply, Mister McCready?” Robert Haywood persisted.

  “We had a run of bad luck. It happens sometimes.”

  “Bad luck?” Haywood’s brows rose like miniature arbors. “I’d hardly characterize what my daughter so briefly reported as ‘bad luck,’ sir. One constant string of disasters would be a more valid description.”

  “Good luck or bad, it washes the same,” Buck replied, his pulse starting to throb in his temples.

  “You don’t seem particularly concerned that you came in second,” Haywood observed.

  Buck’s voice hardened. “We ran a good race. There aren’t many outfits that could’ve done what we did, and I’m damn’ proud of what we accomplished. It might look like second place to you, but I’ll lift my drink to every man in my crew tonight and mean every word of congratulations that I give them.”

  Haywood seemed unmoved by Buck’s response. “You stopped, sir. Yesterday, in the middle of the afternoon, you ordered your caravan stopped and your mules unharnessed. You didn’t even come in yourself to protest C and L’s victory. I call that odd behavior.”

  “Our mules were played out. Pushing them any harder would have jeopardized their health. A caravan doesn’t get very far with crippled stock.”

  “You were afraid to push them … mere miles from your destination … because you were concerned for their welfare? You do realize that with what Bannock Mining was offering., you could have replaced your entire herd with new stock?”

  “I reckon that’s true,” Buck replied, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt and wondering how much longer this would go on.

  “You reckon that’s true?” Haywood seemed to mock. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Lomax, still propped against the wall beside the window. “But you did want that contract, didn’t you, sir?”

  “You bet we did,” Lomax replied enthusiastically. “Crowley and Luce delivered as promised, Mister Haywood. The Box K didn’t. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Tell me, Mister Lomax, what is your knowledge of the obstacles thrown into the Box K’s path? Sabotage and mule raids are hardly the norm, are they?”

  Lomax stirred uncomfortably. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. We didn’t have anything to do with it, if that’s what you’re wondering about. Everybody has bad luck from time to time. I reckon this was just the Box K’s turn. But C and L delivered the goods. We said we’d be here first and we were. That’s what matters.”

  “Hmmm, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Haywood mused.

  “What’s that mean?” Lomax asked.

  Haywood stared thoughtfully into space for a moment, then leaned forward and stubbed his half-finished cigar out in an ashtray. “I don’t know what went on out there, Mister Lomax, nor do I particularly care. That’s a matter for Mister Kavanaugh and his attorneys to pursue if they so wish. But I do know that I like a man with the courage to do what’s right even in the face of certain criticism.”

  He glanced at Buck with a faint look of admiration. “And especially when BMC equipment is at stake.”

  A panicked look came into Lomax’s eyes. “You promised that contract to the firm that got here first. Mister Haywood. That’s Crowley and Luce, not the Box K.”

  “Actually Bannock Mining was careful to promise only consideration for the freighting company that delivered our goods in advance of the competition,” Haywood corrected the C&L wagon boss. “Award of the contract was implied, not guaranteed.”

  “Jesus,” Lomax breathed, looking stunned. “You’re double-crossing us.”

  The mien of predator that Buck had seen on the older man’s face earlier suddenly returned. “If you’d be so accommodating as to leave us, Mister Lomax, I’ll speak with y
our supervisors upon my return to Utah Territory. Meanwhile, consider the contract awarded to Kavanaugh Freight.”

  Dulce jumped to her feet with a cry of joy and Gwen’s eyes sparkled with delight. Robert Haywood’s words tumbled slowly in Buck’s brain, as if he needed to examine each one separately to be sure he hadn’t misunderstood. Lomax stormed out of the office, leaving the door ajar. The clerk who had escorted Buck in earlier peeked inside to make sure everything was all right, then quietly closed the door.

  Haywood looked at Buck. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, sir.”

  “For what?”

  “For the care you gave my daughter on the trail. I learned of her little ploy from a detective I hired in Ogden. It was he who traced her to Corinne. Mister Kavanaugh confirmed my worst fears well after you were on your way. My initial inclination was to immediately set off after her and drag her back to civilization, but I had a change of heart as my son and I made our own way north. I’d already spoken with people who knew you and Miss Kavanaugh, and I began to believe that Gwen would be in safe hands in your company. I was certain this could be a learning experience for her, as I’d hoped it would be for.…” His gaze traveled to his son, who lowered his eyes submissively. “At any rate, I would have changed my mind instantly if I’d known what was in store for the Box K, but, fortunately, it all worked out for the best.”

  He glanced at Gwen and Dulce. “I’ll have one of my men escort these young ladies to the Parker Hotel, where I’ve already secured rooms for them in anticipation of their arrival. I’ll be leaving Montana in two days with both of my children, but … ,” he spoke to Dulce, “you would certainly be welcome to accompany us, Miss Kavanaugh. Perhaps I could afford you the same protection southbound that Mister McCready provided for your northward journey.”

  Dulce glanced at Buck, then away. “Thank you, Mister Haywood,” she replied. “That would be most kind. I would like to return to Utah with you and Gwen, the sooner the better.”

  “Good, then it’s settled.” Haywood stood and Buck crossed the room to shake his hand above the desk. “We shall talk later, Mister McCready,” Haywood said. “We have the off-loading of equipment to arrange and I’m sure my daughter will want a final good bye, but, for the moment, I have much to accomplish and very little time left.”

  Buck nodded, recognizing the dismissal and frankly glad to have it. As he turned to leave, Gwen smiled and promised to send word as to where they could meet. “Perhaps for supper tonight,” she suggested.

  Buck assured her he wouldn’t be hard to find. He looked at Dulce but she pretended to be busy searching for something in the small cloth purse she was carrying, and that was all right, too, he decided.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Only Nate, Rossy, and Manuel were at the corrals when Buck returned to Sweeny’s, although Milo was on the loading dock smoking a cigarette and talking with one of Sweeny’s warehousemen. He came over when Buck rode up. “Everything taken care of, boss?”

  “More or less. How are the mules?”

  “Most of them are already on pasture. We put the lame animals in a separate corral where we can keep an eye on them, but I think they’ll be fine with some rest.”

  Buck was relieved. It was the same conclusion they’d come to last night after examining the stock along the Ruby River, but it was good to know that none of the animals had worsened on the final trek into town. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  Milo grinned. “You serious? I’d say they’re right where you told them to go … Carlson’s. They might scatter later, but right now everyone wants a share of that twenty dollars’ worth of booze you promised them.”

  “But not you?” Buck asked curiously.

  “Aw, hell, someone has to stay sober, and I didn’t know what your plans were.”

  Buck laughed. “Maybe we’d both better stay sober for a while. We’ve still got one more loose end to tie up.”

  Buck dug his valise out of the mess wagon, then rode back into town. A stall for Zeke cost him 50¢ for the night. After caring for the mule, he treated himself to a haircut and a fresh shave, then spent thirty minutes soaking off the grime of five hundred miles in a bathhouse next door to the barbershop. Leaving his trail clothes to be laundered and picked up later, he skinned into the blue suit he’d purchased for Mase’s funeral and stepped outside.

  Haywood’s clerk, the one with the ink-stained fingers and sleeve garters, was waiting for him on the boardwalk with a note from the BMC executive, inviting Buck to dine with him and his daughter that evening at the Parker Hotel’s small restaurant.

  “In about an hour,” the clerk instructed.

  “Tell him I’ll be there,” Buck said, shoving the note into a jacket pocket. He waited until the clerk had hurried off, then continued down the street to a doctor’s office. A small brass bell jingled above the door when he walked in, signaling the physician from a rear room. He eyed Buck silently for a moment, then said: “Gun shot, knife cut, or horse kick?”

  Most of the wounds Buck had received from Mitch’s bull-whip back at Fort Hall had already scabbed over and were nearly healed; only the deepest, the one in his left thigh, continued to weep. “I reckon cut would be closest,” he replied.

  “In here,” the doctor said, holding open the door to the back room.

  Buck limped out of the doctor’s office forty-five minutes later, his leg considerably sorer than it had been when he walked in but freshly cleaned and bandaged. In addition to a tin of salve, he carried with him the doctor’s conviction that, considering the original severity of the wound, it would probably heal just fine.

  “You won’t listen,” the doctor had said as he accepted the silver dollar Buck handed him for payment, “but stay off that leg for a few days. A week would be better.”

  Buck began an excuse that the physician quickly shushed. “It ain’t my limb,” he said grumpily, “and it won’t fall off if you don’t listen to what I say. It’ll just take longer to heal. Go on now, I’m late for my supper.”

  The sun had set while Buck was having his old stitches pulled, and the mountain air was turning cool as he made his way to the Parker Hotel. Dulce wasn’t seated at the quiet corner table Robert Haywood had already procured; she’d begged off with the excuse of a headache. Eddie wasn’t there, either, which didn’t surprise Buck nearly as much as Dulce’s absence.

  The conversation between Buck and Gwen seemed strained under the imposing presence of her father, but that was just as well, Buck reflected afterward. The memory of her hand slipping from his seemed to fade as quickly as the echo of her final, whispered good bye. If there had ever been any promise of a future between them, Buck had never detected it.

  He waited outside the hotel for half an hour, then went back in and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He had no enthusiasm for what he was about to do but was determined to see it through. Gwen had confided to him that Dulce’s room was across the hall from hers, facing the street. Buck could feel a lump forming in his throat when he stopped in front of her door. Before he could knock, a soft voice beckoned from the open door to the balcony. He followed it into the darkness.

  “I expected you earlier.”

  He nodded, then shrugged, the words he’d wanted to say deserting him like a band of cowards. “I’ve been.…”

  “Busy,” Dulce finished for him. She stood hatless in the shadows close to the wall, wearing a plain blue dress and a shawl over her shoulders. A breeze toyed with her red curls, lifting them off her shoulders, then letting them bounce back. She looked beautiful in the filtered moonlight, but there was no welcome on her face, no warmth in her voice.

  “There’s been a lot to do,” Buck said, annoyed that she’d bring up such an old source of contention. Dulce didn’t reply, and, after a moment’s awkward silence, Buck said: “I came to say good bye. You’ll be leaving with the Haywoods day after tomorrow, and I wasn’t sure if I’d see you before you left.”

  “How gallant,” she replied cynically.<
br />
  “I’m a muleskinner, Dulce,” Buck said. “It’s not just what I do, it’s what I am. I reckon I just wasn’t cut out to marry the boss’ daughter.”

  Dulce’s head came up sharply, her eyes wide with surprise, and Buck realized she hadn’t expected this, that she’d thought he would come crawling back. She’d wanted the decision to part to be hers, not his.

  “Do you have everything you need?” he asked.

  “I will someday.”

  “I mean for the return trip.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Buck sighed and moved to the railing. From here, he could see the northern tip of the Ruby range in the west, its flanks dark with pines all the way up to the snow line. “I always liked Montana,” he said absently.

  “I hate it. I want to go home. Do you even know what a home is? Have you ever had one?”

  “I had one, a long time ago.”

  “With your parents?”

  “Uhn-huh.”

  “But none since?”

  “Just what me and Mase made for ourselves,” he said, but the words were forced, spoken more out of habit than belief. He still hadn’t sorted out his feelings about Mase’s involvement in the Chihuahua massacre or his reputation among the women of the International.

  “Mase,” Dulce snorted derisively. “Has anyone told you the truth about him yet, about what he did to those poor men in Mexico?”

  “I’ve heard,” Buck said, turning, frowning. “I didn’t know you had, though.”

  “Everyone has. You’re the only one who didn’t know because no one wanted to tell you. No one wanted to shatter starry-eyed Buchanan McCready’s image of the great Mason Campbell. I swear, you looked up to him like he was some kind of hero.”

  “I reckon he was to me,” Buck replied softly. “Wasn’t anyone else coming after me when the Sioux killed my family.”