In the West, it wasn’t uncommon for a man to put his past behind him and become something different. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Buckhorn, Menlo sensed, was the same man he’d always been but something within him had changed. For the better, if only slightly.
But only slightly would do just fine for the situation at hand. Considering the circumstances Menlo had encouraged him to thrust himself into, it wouldn’t do for Buckhorn’s dangerous edge to be blunted too much. Not if he wanted to make it back out alive.
* * *
Pamela Danvers stood on the open front porch of her house and gazed out at the rain lashing down on the grounds and buildings of the Circle D ranch headquarters. Occasional cold drops would spray in and reach her under the roof overhang, but she appeared not to notice. Her expression was intense, almost as dark and turbulent as the angry sky.
Everything was in motion, she tried telling herself. So much of what had been plaguing her of late, the pressures that had been building up around her, had been placed in competent hands and were now being directly addressed. Complete with the buy-in and participation of Ranger Menlo, Micah’s plan for confronting and trapping the rustlers (that traitorous damn Dan Riley!) seemed to hold real promise for success. And Joe Buckhorn was locked solely on finding out what had become of Jeff and hopefully bringing him back home safe.
Hopefully.
That was the trouble. Too much of it depended on hope. And undermining Pamela’s ability to remain positive and hopeful were doubts she could not ignore. Dan Riley and his gang had been getting away with their rustling raids and other outlaw acts for a long time now. What was the likelihood that this time—even with an assist from a Texas Ranger—would be any different? And as competent and fierce as Joe Buckhorn had proven to be, were those the proper skills for getting to the bottom of Jeff’s disappearance?
Moreover, beyond the simple doubts, lay the down-deep, personal truths that were even harder to try and face up to.
Her son Micah had serious character flaws. On some level, Pamela had known it for a long time, but she had looked away, ignored it, and when she couldn’t do that she had convinced herself that in time, with maturity, he would change, would come around to finally being the man you’d expect a son of Gus Danvers to be.
But his attitude and actions lately had only served to demonstrate a seething, disturbed side that seemed bent on pulling him farther away from her. Even if Micah succeeded in playing a major role when it came to finally putting a stop to the rustling, would it change him for the better or only make him more arrogant and demanding? There was no way of knowing the answer for certain, yet Pamela had a sinking feeling that she did know.
And what of precious, gentle Jeff? Also very unlike his father, but not in such a distressing, threatening way. No matter how hard Pamela tried rejecting the thought, there was no denying that the length of time he’d been missing without contacting her was not a promising sign. The sinking feeling she had where Micah was concerned was even deeper and more agonizing when it came to Jeff and any potential for his safe return.
The single thread of hope she did manage to cling to was the one connected to Buckhorn. Whether or not his skills were the proper or ideal ones, Pamela somehow felt—no, knew—that the best chance for the safe return of her son rested with the intense, hawk-faced man. Maintaining this belief, this knowledge, would see her through.
It had to.
* * *
From his cabin window, Obie watched Pamela as she stood on the porch of the main house. Even through the rain, he could make out the forlorn look on her face and it pained him to see that.
Obie hated seeing Pamela hurt or unhappy. He wished he could take her in his arms and protect her from every unpleasant thing for the rest of her days. He knew that could never be, of course—no one could be shielded from all the harsh things to be found in life.
And the chances of him ever being wrapped in an embrace with Pamela the way he had longed for since practically the first moment he laid eyes on her was an equally impossible fantasy. On his best day, he’d never been worthy of someone like Pamela. And especially now, now that he’d become just an old cripple, a shell of his former self, it made him disgusted with himself to even think such thoughts.
Yet the longing would always be there. It was something he’d grown to accept, to live with, and to settle for just being near Pamela.
But the part about not seeing her hurt, that he would never give up on. Not as long as there was a breath in his body and there was anything, even the most minimal contribution, he could do to prevent it.
Right now, as far as Obie could see, that meant floating his stick with Buckhorn. The powder-burner. There was a strength about the big ugly cuss that made Obie think of Gus Danvers . . . and, to a somewhat lesser extent, Dan Riley.
Buckhorn’s bold plan to infiltrate (the ranger’s twenty-dollar word) Dan’s alleged “gang” appealed to Obie on several counts. First and foremost, what he hoped it would reveal was that Dan wasn’t behind the rustling and other outlawry he was thought by many to be responsible for. Even though Dan’s elusive and suspicious ways over the past couple years made it hard not to think he must be up to something shady, Obie remained stubborn in his belief there must be other reasons behind his behavior.
If Dan Riley was guilty of anything, Obie feared, it would turn out to be some involvement in the disappearance of Jeff Danvers. And maybe Eve, too, considering nobody seemed to have seen her, either, not since Jeff had gone missing with the announced intent of the two of them stealing off together. A young buck shows up meaning to claim the daughter of a hard, stubborn man like Dan Riley, a man with reason to harbor ill feelings against the upstart and his whole family, tempers flare . . .
That scenario, with various unpleasant endings, had been running through Obie’s head for days now. It was the only explanation he could think of for young Jeff going away and staying away and not contacting his mother.
And now Buckhorn was putting himself in a position to either find an answer to the disappearances—along with the rustling and other suspected misdeeds—or at least lay to rest whether or not any of it had gone along the lines of Obie’s nightmare version. And then, of course, there would be the nagging little detail of the powder-burner making it out alive in order to report his findings.
Unfortunately, however all of that played out, perhaps the biggest threat to Pamela’s future happiness would still remain . . . Micah. As he’d told Buckhorn, Obie had recognized long ago there was something twisted and wrong inside the boy. He kept hoping that the offspring of the two people he revered most in the world would somehow, some day grow out of it, come to his senses and earn the right to take over the reins of the Circle D.
His hopes for that ever taking place were diminishing more each day. He had a hunch that Pamela was finally starting to realize the shortcomings in Micah, too, but he had doubts as to what or how far she’d be willing to go to face that reality full on. Especially lacking the safe return of Jeff. Losing both of her sons—one to misadventure, the other to a black twistedness inside him—would be devastating to Pamela, to any mother. And no matter how badly Obie wanted to protect Pamela from such devastation, he feared it was an impossible task.
“What I want is for things to be good—as good as they ever can be with Boss Gus gone—at the Circle D again.”
Those had been Obie’s words to Buckhorn only a short time ago. They’d been as sincere as any words he’d ever spoken. He’d told them to the powder-burner because, for some reason he didn’t fully understand, he had a strong sense that if anybody could help make that happen, it would be Buckhorn. Today, in the gloom of the storm, with his gaze locked on Miss Pamela’s lovely face wearing its forlorn expression, his feeling about that wasn’t so strong.
Yet, even still, he insisted to himself, if anybody could . . .
CHAPTER 30
“Gotta tell you, Joey, I don’t like this very much. Matter of fact, I
don’t like it worth a damn. I’m surprised at you and your father both for going along with such a thing.”
“Maybe you ought to at least hear him out before you make up your mind that you’re right and everybody else is wrong.”
“What more do I need to hear? You already told me he’s a hired gun working for Pamela Danvers. That makes it plain enough he’s somebody working against me.”
The man doing the talking was none other than the elusive Dan Riley. Ordinarily he would have come across as a taller, blockier version of his older brother. At present, however, he was recovering from a gunshot wound. Sitting on the edge of an old cot, torso bared except for the thick wrapping of bandages around his middle, he was pale and weak looking. The slackness of his flesh indicated recent and rapid weight loss, and his frequent pauses to catch his breath further suggested that he still had a ways to go before he’d be completely healed.
Once the storm drained itself to a point where the gray cloud cover was starting to break up and only spitting infrequent spatters of cold drops, Buckhorn and Joey had emerged from under their protective rock ledge. With Joey again leading the way, they’d proceeded on across the broken land, much of it now pocked with puddles of brownish water and smeared with streaks of a sand/mud mix where the rock base was less solid. In addition to the ground evidence deposited by its passing, the storm had also left behind a gusty breeze that had a chilling bite to it until the clouds cleared the rest of the way and allowed the sun to emerge fully.
The shadows of late afternoon had begun stretching long in this wash of sunlight when the riders abruptly came to the edge of a jagged rim and found themselves looking down on a small, bowl-like valley ringed by pine and cottonwood trees with a mix of shaggy brush and faded grass spread across its bottom. On the far side, tucked back in where some long fingers of rock extended out horizontally from a high, wide cliff, stood a sun-bleached old house and a handful of outbuildings.
“There’s our destination,” Joey had said. “All that’s left to show for the gut-bustin’ work some stubborn fool put into trying to make a go of a hardscrabble farm in this lousy soil. Failed and gone so long ago nobody even remembers his name.”
“That’s where Dan Riley is holed up?”
“If you want to put it that way. It’s where we’ll find him, yeah.”
“How do we get down there off these high rocks?”
“Only a couple passable cuts that lead in or out.” Joey jabbed a thumb. “Nearest one is over this way. Follow me.”
Less than fifty yards down into a narrow, twisting, gradually descending gap between deeply seamed rock walls was where they’d gotten jumped. More accurately put, it was where Buckhorn had gotten jumped.
The faint sound of two whirling lassos cutting the air on either side of the gap was the only warning. A moment later the twin loops had sailed out, at a perfectly timed interval from one another, then dropped down over Buckhorn’s head and shoulders. They were immediately yanked tight so that his arms were pinned to his sides, preventing him from reaching for his Colt. An instant later, a man stepped out of a rock crevice directly in front of Buckhorn and pointed a sawed-off shotgun at him.
“Stop tryin’ to jerk free, mister, or I’ll stop you permanent-like. You’re captured. Accept it. You ain’t smart enough to see that, you’ll just make it harder on yourself.”
The man with the shotgun had stepped out between Sarge and the rear end of Joey’s horse. The girl twisted around in her saddle, looking back, as the shotgunner spoke. There was a look of mild concern on her face—but not for herself. She clearly was under no threat from this turn of events.
“What the hell’s the big idea?” Buckhorn had demanded of her.
“Just a precaution,” Joey was quick to explain. “The entrances to this valley are closely guarded. Nobody from the outside gets in without being challenged. These men know me, but not you. They’re making sure I brought you here willingly.”
“So, did you?” said the shotgunner. He was a tall black man, shirtless, wearing just a fringed buckskin vest above the waist. His exposed dark skin rippled and bulged with smooth, powerful muscles. A single bandolier loaded partly with shotgun shells and partly with .45 cartridges was draped across his wide chest. A Colt .45 that could have been a twin to Buckhorn’s, if not for more ornate grips, was holstered low on his right hip. On the outside of his left leg, where his denim trousers were stuffed into high-top moccasins, the bone handle of a Bowie knife thrust up from its sheath sewn inside the leather.
All in all, it was a rather showy display to convey the image of a fighting man. But Buckhorn’s instincts quickly concluded it was more than show. It told the truth.
As the black man’s inquiry into Joey’s willingness for bringing a visitor had hung momentarily in the air, the two men who’d thrown the lassos slipped down on either side of Buckhorn. One was a lean, typical wrangler type, not too far past twenty, clad in dusty denims and boots, packing a sidearm. The second lassoer had the distinction of being half again as wide through the shoulders, deep chested, yet still narrow waisted with a fancy black leather gunbelt buckled around it. Above his chaps and jeans he was clad in a panel-front shirt that was also a cut above standard wrangler wear.
Not waiting for Joey’s answer, the burly gent in the panel shirt had reached to relieve Buckhorn of his Colt and then stepped back, looking up at the hogtied captive with a taunting glint in his eye.
After what seemed like an inordinately long pause, Joey said, “Yes, I brought this man to see Uncle Dan. He has some important information to deliver and he’s looking for a job. You can loosen those ropes on him.”
“The ropes stay. And we got all the help we need,” the black man said.
“As we just made plenty clear,” added Panel Shirt, spinning Buckhorn’s Colt possessively.
“I think that’s for Uncle Dan to decide,” Joey had reminded them in a flat tone. “And I’ve got a hunch he wouldn’t like hearing he was kept longer than necessary from getting the information I mentioned while you jaw-jackers wasted time pretendin’ you had a say in the matter.”
The black man gave her the narrow eye, but Joey held her ground without flinching. Buckhorn had barely been able to suppress a wry grin, thinking that, when it came to glaring, the big hombre’s size and muscles and weaponry still didn’t necessarily make him a match against Joey.
“All right,” the shotgunner grunted. Then, to the two wranglers, he added, “But strip his gunbelt off and cinch those ropes good and tight. They stay on the ugly cuss until Dan says otherwise.”
“What about my hat?” Buckhorn wanted to know, jerking his chin to indicate his bowler lying on the floor of the arroyo, where it had fallen after being dislodged by the lassos.
“Never mind. You’re better off without a stupid-lookin’ thing like that on your head anyway,” said Panel Shirt.
“Grab his damn hat,” said the black man. “Don’t you recognize high style when you see it? Besides, we don’t want him catchin’ a cold due to our carelessness, do we? Wouldn’t be neighborly.”
From there to the cluster of buildings across the valley there hadn’t been any more talk. Once the five of them reined up in front of the patched-over old farmhouse, Joey and the black man had dismounted and gone inside. Buckhorn and the two lassoers stayed in their saddles. Buckhorn could feel eyes on them from inside some of the other buildings.
Whenever the captive’s gaze fell on Panel Shirt, the burly lassoer would twirl his commandeered Colt and flash another taunting grin. Buckhorn promised himself that, no matter what else, before he was done here he was going to introduce that grin to his fist. More than once.
It hadn’t taken long before the black man reemerged from the house and motioned for Buckhorn to be taken down off his horse. The lassoers did so, none too gently. Then, leaving the ropes in place, the black man told the others to wait where they were and he pushed Buckhorn—again none too gently—on into the house. Once inside, they’d made th
eir way to a room at the back where an obviously wounded Dan Riley was waiting, seated on the edge of his cot expressing his displeasure to his niece for her judgment.
Without waiting for an invitation, Buckhorn jumped right in on the conversation by saying to Riley, “You’re about a day and a half wrong on what you think is so plain. I was workin’ for the Widow Danvers and I was fixin’ to head out against you. That all changed when I got fired.”
The black man dug his fingers under the ropes still cinched around Buckhorn and gave a hard jerk.
“You speak when you’re spoken to, bub.”
“There’s no need for that kind of treatment,” Joey objected. Then, focusing directly on her uncle, she said, “Those ropes don’t even belong on him. He’s not some horse or mule. His name is Joe Buckhorn. I brought him here, I vouch for him. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
Riley couldn’t hold up under her withering look, especially not in his weakened condition. He released a gusty sigh and motioned to the black man.
“Go ahead, Ulysses. Take the ropes off him.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I said so, didn’t I? Do it.”
“You’ve got him stripped of his gun,” Joey said pointedly. “What more do you want?”
“Where is his gun?” Riley wanted to know.
“Perlong’s got it,” Ulysses said. “Outside.”
Riley nodded and said, “Good. That’s a fine place for it.” He cut his gaze to Joey. “We’ll not be giving that back to him just yet.”
“Fine by me,” said Buckhorn. “When it’s time, I’m sorta lookin’ forward to retrieving it from Mr. Perlong my own self.”
Ulysses made no attempt to simply untie the ropes knotted around Buckhorn. Instead he leaned over and pulled the Bowie knife from its moccasin sheath. He stepped around directly in front of Buckhorn and, with a wide smile, held the long, gleaming blade up for him to get a good look at. Buckhorn smiled right back, until the black man’s faltered and then turned into an attempt at a face-saving sneer. It took barely a touch of the razor-sharp blade to part the ropes. They loosened and fell away.
Paid in Blood Page 18
