Paid in Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  “If it’s that important to you, Obie, then I’ll do my best not to,” Buckhorn had said. “But is there something about Micah you’re not telling me?”

  “Besides the fact he’s a petty, sneaky, snake-mean little bastard I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw that cookstove over there, you mean?” Obie’s eyes swam with a mixture of remorse, anger, and maybe a hint of fear. “You don’t know how much it pains me to say that about the firstborn of Boss Gus. But it’s true. I fought admittin’ it for a long, long time . . . until there was no gettin’ around it anymore.”

  “Pamela said Micah lacks gentleness. That he’s stern and driven like his father.”

  “Paugh! Micah’s nothing like his father. Gus was stern and driven, true enough. Some called him ruthless, but that wasn’t really accurate. He was always pushin’ fierce-like to achieve the goal of makin’ the Circle D a success and couldn’t abide anybody who wasn’t willin’ to work as hard as he did. Miss Pamela became a lot like him after Gus was gone, bent on makin’ sure none of what he broke his hump for did any back-slidin’. But Micah ain’t like either of his parents. He is ruthless. And he only cares about keepin’ the Circle D big and successful for the sake of the personal power it gives him.”

  “Yet his mother can’t see it.”

  “She’s at that not-wantin’-to-admit-it place I was stuck in for so long.”

  “If she ever does realize it, it’ll be a crushing blow.”

  “You think I don’t know that? And if you ain’t able to bring Jeff back into the picture, it’ll hit her harder yet.”

  Buckhorn had frowned deeply at this.

  “Jesus, old man, you don’t hold back when it comes to heaping a heavy load on a fella, do you?”

  “They say the Good Lord don’t pile on more than a body can carry.”

  “Maybe not. I’m afraid me and the Good Lord haven’t paid a whole lot of attention to one another for quite a spell now.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Powder-burner,” was Obie’s solemn response. Then he added, “But here’s one more thing I want you to keep in mind about Micah. He ain’t got nowhere near your skill with a gun. But he ain’t no slouch, neither. And he’ll always have two or three of his boot-lickin’ compadres close by. He’ll try to force your hand if you give him an opening, but he’ll only do it if he figures he’s got the deck stacked against you. Remember that.”

  * * *

  The formative years spent on the reservation of his father’s tribe, in spite of the misery and mistreatment he had to endure due to his mixed blood, had at least taught Buckhorn skills he’d honed and found use for long after he struck out on his own. Tracking was one of these.

  As it turned out, however, finding and following the horse prints he’d come to investigate this afternoon hardly required any special knack. They were plain as could be.

  The grass covering the crest of the hogback, unlike the lush growth down in the meadow, was short and coarse due to almost always being in the shade. And the ground sprouting it had enough clay content to take and hold very clear-edged prints. By separating from Sarge and proceeding on foot, Buckhorn was able to walk carefully enough and lightly enough to avoid adding any spoor of his own.

  He found the tracks of four horses, just as described, ascending the elongated hump of ground from the north and retreating back the same way. Buckhorn could tell that the animals had stood mostly in one place for a time, probably while their riders gave the layout of the meadow a good looking over. They also moved back and forth for a few dozen yards in either direction, likely taking brief looks from other vantage points, before turning back the way they’d come.

  Buckhorn also spotted where the Circle D men had ridden up for their own look-see—first two sets of tracks that would have been Hank and Dave; then joined by a third when they returned with Micah. They’d trampled over some of the initial tracks at first, until they took note of them and then got more careful. After that, although they never went to the trouble of dismounting and finishing their examination on foot, like Buckhorn, they nevertheless showed reasonable caution so as not to disturb the ground unnecessarily.

  Once he’d given the hogback a good looking over, Buckhorn returned to where he’d left Sarge. He swung up into the saddle and rode the gray in a wide loop all around the perimeter of the meadow, looking for any additional sign that might be of interest.

  He spotted nothing. Having completed the loop and finding himself once again on the back side of the hogback, where the tracks of the original riders came and went out of the broken land to the north, Buckhorn toyed with the idea of seeing how far he could follow them in that direction.

  Hank and Dave had reported that they’d lost the sign fairly quickly in the rocks. Buckhorn was willing to bet he could stick with them a lot farther than that, but in the end there really was no point. He’d had no clear purpose for coming here in the first place, so it wasn’t surprising he didn’t feel like he’d accomplished much as a result, other than confirming the story Micah and his wranglers had told about finding unaccounted-for tracks at the spot where they were planning on pasturing a herd. And, given the history of cattle stealing already going on, the conclusion that these could be an indicator of more rustling being planned seemed hard to argue against.

  As he pondered these things, Buckhorn came to another conclusion that he had trouble arguing against, even though it soured him to admit it. He had had a reason for coming out here after all, he realized. He came because he was looking for a way to kill some time rather than face Pamela Danvers’s other problem, the one he’d agreed to focus on exclusively . . . the disappearance of her son Jeff.

  While the tracks on the hogback were quite clear, that was hardly the case for any tracks leading toward Jeff. What happened to him after he took off on his “honeymoon”? Why hadn’t he made any further contact with his mother? Was he still with Eve Riley, and if so, where might the two of them be?

  Answers to these questions seemed as elusive as wisps of smoke caught on the wind, and Buckhorn felt at a loss where to begin, how to start snatching smoke back out of the air.

  But you took the woman’s money, he reminded himself grimly. And her worry about her son’s life “hanging in the balance” was a big part of what drew you here to begin with, made you feel like this might be a chance to cut yourself a slice of that redemption you claim to care about these days. You damn well can’t run and hide from it now.

  A moment after these thoughts ran through his head, something turned up that he did have to duck and hide from—if he wanted to stay alive, that was. A rifle shot boomed from the northwest end of the hogback, where the trees grew the thickest and the hump of ground itself was rockier and more rugged. The wind-rip of the bullet cutting through the air was all too familiar and all too close.

  Buckhorn pitched himself from the saddle and went into a rolling scramble for cover. As he did so, he shouted “Sarge! Git!” Even if it meant giving up access to his own Winchester, he didn’t want to risk having another horse shot out from under him, especially the gray he had so quickly grown fond of. At his command, Sarge bolted obediently away and was soon obscured by some nearby trees.

  More bullets poured down, slicing the air and tearing into the ground, chasing Buckhorn as he clawed in behind the protection of an upthrust of ragged rocks. He bellied flat there, safe as long as he hugged close to the ground. But the bullets kept coming, whacking and ricocheting directly above his head now, spitting dirt and chunks of rock down on his back and shoulders.

  Buckhorn had his Colt drawn and gripped securely in his fist. He swore under his breath. He was pinned down again, a predicament similar to the one he’d been in yesterday back on the trail. Had it only been yesterday? Damn, he was getting sick of people shooting at him!

  Only this time he wasn’t pinned quite as tight as before, when he’d been caught in the wide open. Here, with reasonable risk, he had the options of shifting to alternative cover or even making an escape . . .
except for the fact that running wasn’t exactly his style.

  It was a single rifleman doing all the lead throwing. So far. That didn’t mean there might not be others, though, maneuvering to make a try for him from a better angle.

  But, for the time being, all Buckhorn had to focus on was the one shooter. He didn’t have him pinpointed beyond a puff of gunsmoke he’d caught a glimpse of as he sprang from the saddle, but at least that was something—enough for him to show the ambushing skunk that he intended to make a fight of it.

  Reaching around the slab of rock he was ducked behind, making no attempt at careful aim, Buckhorn triggered three rapid-fire rounds toward where he’d seen the gunsmoke. Then he dropped back again and immediately began replacing the spent shells.

  The burst of return fire quieted the rifleman briefly, but then he sent two more rounds pounding down. Okay, Buckhorn thought, the shooter liked to pour it on but seemed quick to let up when the lead was sailing back his way. Not necessarily unwise, but something Buckhorn might nevertheless be able to use to his advantage.

  He twisted part way around and looked behind him. About half a dozen yards from where he lay there was a thick growth of underbrush with a couple of pine trees and a stout cottonwood butted up close on the back side. If he could make it there, he would not only gain fresh cover but he’d have some room to move and maneuver. The rifleman would no longer know exactly where he was.

  Another slug tore into his rocky shield and spat dust and gravel down onto him. Buckhorn muttered another curse. This was getting old fast. It was time to make some changes.

  Once again reaching suddenly around the end of the rock slab, Buckhorn snapped off another trio of shots, loosely aimed at the thickened layer of gunsmoke hanging in the air. Then, pivoting on his rump, while the ambusher was hopefully ducked low in response to the bullets sizzling his way, he got his feet under him and lunged in the direction of the underbrush and trees. A diving roll took him to where he wanted to be—just as the rifleman, responding quicker than Buckhorn had anticipated, sent a pair of slugs ripping and slapping through the bushes just above his head.

  Buckhorn rolled again and then squirmed in behind the cottonwood.

  While his hands reloaded the Colt as unerringly as if they had eyes of their own, Buckhorn scanned the situation from his new vantage point. He had effectively evened the odds. In fact, given his experience and skill at gunplay, he most likely had tipped things in his favor.

  The rifle that had so busily been pumping lead at his pinned-down position had now abruptly gone silent, and Buckhorn couldn’t help suspecting that the shooter might be coming to the same conclusion. The main thrust of an ambush was meant to be one-sided, to strike and kill suddenly from concealment without ever giving the target much of a chance.

  When that failed and the situation was turned into the kind of confrontation the ambusher didn’t have the guts to stage in the first place, then the whole thing was knocked out of kilter. The ambusher was left with the choice of sticking it out and attempting to finish the job or giving up and fleeing with the intent of perhaps trying again another time.

  That might be the case here, Buckhorn thought. But, then again, it might not. Until he was sure, he had to take the precaution that the rifleman was still hanging around, waiting for another opening, determined to complete what he’d set out to do.

  Whichever way it went, Buckhorn was certainly not of a mind to just sit and wait to find out. He could be extremely patient when he had to. But given the choice—which he now had since he’d escaped from being pinned down—he’d far rather take the fight to an opponent than wait for it to be carried to him.

  He began to move. Silently, smoothly, making his way from one clump of cover to the next, he worked his way along the eastern slope of the hogback. Every dozen or so yards he paused to listen intently and to sweep his gaze in a wide arc out ahead, alert for any sign of the ambusher also being on the move.

  As a second choice, Buckhorn would have welcomed the sight of Sarge and his Winchester in the sheath strapped to the big gray’s saddle. The Colt was plenty reliable, but the rifle would provide some added punch and range, especially if the ambusher tried to make a break for it.

  Several minutes ticked by. Despite being swallowed by shade most of the time, Buckhorn was sweating freely. A steady trickle of moisture wormed down the back of his neck and formed a kind of gritty paste under his collar where the dust and rock fragments had spilled down earlier from the bullet strikes just above his head. He rolled his shoulders in discomfort and muttered another curse directed at the rifleman who’d sent those bullets his way.

  Up ahead, the gunsmoke haze marking the spot the rifleman was firing from had mostly dispersed now. But the spot remained a focal point for Buckhorn, even though the ambusher had in all likelihood shifted away from there. Nevertheless, Buckhorn continued to edge toward it.

  Until he heard the abrupt whicker of a horse responding to spurs being roughly put to it, followed by the hammering thud of hoofbeats breaking into motion and rapidly picking up speed.

  Buckhorn tensed, but only for a moment. He straightened partially out of his crouch, eyes straining to take in a broader view. His gaze swept across the spot where the smoke had been. Several yards beyond, he spotted traces of a boiling dust cloud kicked up by a running horse. No sign of animal or rider, just their dust. And the sound of the hoofbeats—fading fast now, headed away.

  Buckhorn emerged the rest of the way into a clearing. His right hand hovered clawlike over the grips of his Colt. But if there was nothing to see, there was nothing to shoot. Not even his Winchester would have done him any good on an invisible target.

  Buckhorn stood with his feet planted wide and his teeth bared in a grimace for a long moment, glaring after the diminishing swirls of dust. At length, he hacked up a mouthful of gritty phlegm and spat it to the ground. Then he turned and plodded off to go find Sarge.

  CHAPTER 18

  By the time Buckhorn rounded up the gray and made it back to Circle D headquarters, he barely had time to get cleaned up for dinner. He was grateful to find that while he was gone Obie had given his good jacket and pants a thorough brushing and had even put a fresh polish on his dress boots.

  “Hope you don’t mind me goin’ into your war bag,” the old handyman said. “You left it layin’ open on the chair and those things were right on top. So, since I had some time on my hands and seein’s how you like to dude up a bit, I figured I’d go ahead and take care of it for ya.”

  “Not a problem. I appreciate it,” Buckhorn told him.

  Which was true enough. But that didn’t keep Obie’s actions from adding to the pile of puzzles Buckhorn was already trying to make sense of.

  On his ride back from the hogback and the attempted ambush there, one thought above all others had kept running through his mind. The only person who’d known he was going out there on such short notice had been O’Binion. Had Obie sent the ambusher after him? If so, why? If not, what else could explain the rifleman’s presence and his attempt to plant a bullet in Buckhorn? Or did this most recent attack somehow fit in with the still unexplained earlier try back on the trail?

  At the washstand Obie steered him to, already set with a basin, soap, towel, and a pitcher of fresh water, Buckhorn scrubbed away the sweat and grit from his scrambling around on the hogback. When he rinsed off the suds with repeated palmfuls of water scooped to his face he wished he could also rinse clear some of the clutter starting to build up inside his head.

  He was usually very slow to put trust in anyone, even though he’d found himself leaning that way pretty easily with Obie. But then the question of who had known to send the latest ambusher after him came into play. And now, as the flip side to that, he had to ask himself why—if Obie had arranged the ambush attempt and as a result wouldn’t be expecting Buckhorn to make it back—would the old-timer go to all the trouble of brushing and laying out his dress duds?

  As he toweled dry, Buckhorn decided s
tubbornly that any doubts nagging him about the handyman weren’t yet sufficient to outweigh the more positive feelings he’d initially developed. Still, as was second nature to him anyway, he would remain guarded.

  In conjunction with that, he further decided he would not mention the hogback ambush to Obie or Pamela or anybody else. At least not yet. If anybody happened to let something slip, an indication of knowing about the incident, then that would not only give him something to pounce on but it might also provide a clue to making some of the other puzzle pieces fit.

  Whether or not those pieces would connect to the rustling or to Jeff’s disappearance Buckhorn had no way of knowing. But he had at least one tangible thread he could start pulling on first thing in the morning—following the trail of the fleeing ambusher to wherever it led from the hogback.

  By the time he’d finally caught up with Sarge, the impending darkness of evening and the limited time he had to get back to the Circle D made Buckhorn choose to hold off on immediately pursuing the trail.

  Buckhorn had no doubt he’d be able to pick up the trail of the ambusher in the morning. All he had to do in the meantime was get through the dinner in the main house and then wait for the rest of the night to pass.

  * * *

  “What do I have to do to get that damn half-breed shot!? Take care of it myself?”

  Micah Danvers slammed the edge of his fist down hard on top of the scarred, cigarette-scorched table in the rear corner of the Crooked Spur Saloon. The beer mugs, glasses, and a half-full whiskey bottle adorning the table bounced and wobbled precariously from the force of the blow.

  Dave Millard, seated across from Micah, reached quickly to steady the whiskey bottle.

  “Take it easy, Micah!” he cautioned. “Better hold it down.”