Fleming was a tall, rangy thirty-year-old with bushy, wheat-colored sideburns, blunt nose, and a somewhat weak chin. His eyes were a shade too close together beneath brows so pale and sparse they were almost invisible, making the eyes stand out in an oddly stark way. He carried himself with an insolent slouch matched by a mouth whose lower lip seemed perpetually curled with an insolence of its own.
In contrast, Mason was a rigidly erect individual, broad shouldered and solidly built though a dozen or more years older than Fleming. He was an even six feet tall, but his bearing and strong physique made him seem larger. He had curly black hair, a hooked beak for a nose, and seen-it-all-before dark eyes that often carried a bemused glint but could turn in an instant to flash with dangerous fury.
Both men wore fully packed shell belts around their waists and shiny revolvers on their hips, riding low and loose in well-oiled holsters.
“Well, however you choose to look at it,” Mason declared as his gaze made another sweep down the empty, abandoned street, “you might as well learn to like the view. Because it’s all we’re gonna be seein’ for the next two or three days.”
“There’s a dismal thought,” groaned Fleming. “You really figure it’ll be that long before those gun-hungry greasers show up?”
“Most likely,” said Mason. “We made considerably better time than I expected for gettin’ here—even with Hawkins packin’ a bullet in him. That puts us a couple days ahead of schedule. On top of that, there was always a window of a couple days for Estarde to meet us here. Him fightin’ his revolution and all, he don’t exactly run on a precise schedule.”
“Long as he don’t lag too far behind in his schedule and the damn revolution gets over without him.”
“That would be unfortunate.” Mason shrugged. “But if it came to that, really only a minor inconvenience. The way they brew up fresh revolutions down in Mexico, it’s only a few weeks between ’em. That means cases of guns are always in demand. For the uprising that’s currently takin’ place, or the next one due around the corner.”
Fleming grunted again. “Talk about your cockeyed optimism.”
“Maybe optimism. Maybe just realism.” Mason pushed away from the porch post and stood up straight. “Either way, it’s better than standing around pissin’ and moanin’ about it, the way you seem to favor. What’s so bad if we got to cool our heels here for a couple, three days? We’re finally shed of the army patrol that was blisterin’ our heels up in Arizona, we’ve got shelter and shade here, and we’ve got plenty of supplies to see us through. The hard part is done. Sittin’ and bidin’ our time for a bit don’t seem like such a hardship for the money we’ll be wrappin’ our hands around when we fork over those firearms.”
“Okay, okay,” said Fleming, making a placating gesture. “No need to get so hot under the collar, Vic.”
Any further exchange between the two was interrupted by the hollow clump of boot heels coming from inside the empty building at their backs. A moment later, a third man emerged from the old hotel. He was a stocky specimen somewhere between the ages of Fleming and Mason. He possessed sad eyes set deep in a weather-beaten face, and a wide mouth with thick lips. At the moment he wore neither a gunbelt nor a jacket or vest. He was carrying his hat in his hands. His face was beaded with sweat, more was dripping from his uncombed mass of hair, and his shirt was soaked.
Both Mason and Fleming turned to face him.
Fleming said, “Jesus Christ, Lefty, you look like you been put through the wringer.”
“You think it’s hot out here, try it inside. It’s like an oven, not even a breath of air moving,” replied Lefty Gramlich, the sweat-drenched man.
“How’s Hawkins holdin’ up?” Mason wanted to know. “You able to get him halfway comfortable?”
Lefty’s face clenched with anguish. “A little comfortable, I guess. For the time being. But . . . he’s getting worse, Vic. He’s a tough old buzzard, I don’t have to tell you that. The long ride down from Arizona was awful rough on him with that bullet in his leg. I thought we was keeping the wound dressed and cleaned pretty good. But when I changed his bandage just now, I saw it. Gangrene’s setting in.”
“Are you sure?”
“Gangrene rot has a stink you don’t ever forget once you’ve experienced it,” said Lefty woodenly. He’d been a medical aide during the war and had seen many horrors attached to the carnage and wounds of battle.
“Now that we’re settled in one spot,” said Fleming, “what about getting that bullet dug out?”
Lefty shook his head. “I ain’t good enough. That’s the main reason I never tried on the trail. It’s too deep, smashed and splintered into fragments on his big thigh bone. Something like that would require the hand of a skilled surgeon under better conditions. Besides, even if the fragments were dug out now, it’s too late to stop the infection.”
“And there’s no chance he can survive the infection?” Mason’s words were half statement, half question.
“None,” Lefty responded bluntly.
Mason gave it several seconds, then said, “What about takin’ the leg? What chance would that give him?”
Lefty averted his gaze and dug the toe of his boot into the warped, weathered boards of the porch deck. When he lifted his eyes again, he said, “Not much better. Under these conditions, maybe ten or fifteen percent more than doing nothing.”
“Jesus,” said Fleming, licking his lips. “How much suffering will the poor devil do? We’re packing plenty of tequila and whiskey. Enough to keep his pain pretty well dulled, right?”
“In the beginning,” Lefty allowed. “Toward the end . . . there ain’t enough whiskey in Texas.”
Mason had been silently staring off at nothing in particular ever since getting his answer on Hawkins’s chance for survival. Continuing to stare off, he said now, “I’ve rode with Clem Hawkins for a lot of years. During the war and since. Longer than any of the rest of you boys been with us. Never once knowed him to play me false or let me down. Leastways not until he took that bullet up in Arizona.” He turned slowly to face the other two. “For all those reasons and more, I can’t let my old friend check out the way you just described, Lefty. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?”
Both Lefty and Fleming averted their eyes, unable to meet his stony gaze.
“Where’s young Beaudine?” Mason asked.
“Down at the far end of town, keeping watch like you sent him to do,” answered Fleming.
Mason’s gaze cut in that direction for a moment, then came back. “Clem sorta took Beaudine under his wing when the kid first joined up with us. Beaudine has looked real fondly on Clem ever since.”
“Like an uncle, almost a second father,” Lefty agreed.
“I think the kid would have trouble understandin’ the thing I figure needs doin’. Be hard enough on him to come back and find out Clem passed sudden-like in his sleep. But he could handle that much, eventually. He don’t need to ever know more.”
The silence from Lefty and Fleming amounted to mute agreement.
Abruptly, Fleming said, “Maybe you’d better let me take care of it, Vic. You don’t have to—”
“No,” Mason cut him off. “He’s my old runnin’ pard. It should fall to me.” He extended his hand toward Lefty. “Lend me your knife. Won’t do for the kid to hear a gunshot. Stay out here and make sure he don’t come back unexpected-like.”
Lefty silently took the knife from his belt sheath and handed it over. Mason took it and started into the hotel. Half a step through the doorway, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “I appreciate your offer from a minute ago, Fleming, I want you to know that. But you’d better also know that when I come back out and for as long as we have to wait here, I don’t want to listen to no more bellyachin’ from you about how rough you think you got it.”
CHAPTER 35
By the time Jesus Marquez got back to Buffalo Peak and rejoined those gathered at the jail, a plan for going after the women and their abdu
ctors had been decided on. It wasn’t a plan everybody was happy with, but Firestick was adamant about holding to it and there was no budging him.
What it boiled down to was that only the marshal and Moosejaw would give chase. Two men could travel faster and be less detectable than a whole posse when they got ready to close in on their quarry, Firestick explained. He included himself in the pair of pursuers for obvious reasons, Kate being one of the abductees, and he chose Moosejaw to accompany him because the towering deputy was the best tracker in the territory, superior even to his former mountain men buddies.
Beartooth would stay behind to uphold the law in Buffalo Peak. Also, though it wasn’t spoken out loud, there was a matter of the personal issues he had hanging fire.
A handful of quick, quiet inquiries, done as discreetly as possible to avoid disrupting the festival, provided possible identities for the abductors as two recently arrived drifters going by the names of Josh and Charlie. Hans Greeble reported selling them a large stock of supplies from his general store, and Pete Roeback confirmed that they’d bought a packhorse from him to haul said supplies.
This didn’t prove anything solid, but if it was the same two men who’d ridden off with Kate and Cleo—which seemed more likely than not—then it implied two things that gave Firestick a small measure of relief: One, they were provisioned well enough so that the women wouldn’t be deprived of food or basic needs; and two, since the provisions were so plentiful, it seemed to indicate the abductors might be planning to keep the women with them for a time rather than being in a hurry to sell them off.
Armed with this information and their basic plan, Firestick and Moosejaw needed only to provision themselves before riding out. This was promptly seen to with aid once again from Greeble and Roeback. The latter furnished two sturdy horses for each man . . . Greeble gathered up a couple sacks of trail supplies for them to take along.
The final item was the thing Jesus had ridden back to the ranch to fetch especially for Firestick—his finely crafted Hawken rifle. The gun he had carried for so many years up in the mountains and the very weapon—accurate at legendary distances and delivering a .50-caliber slug with deadly force—that had figured prominently in him coming to be called “Firestick.” With luck and the right circumstances, a chance might present itself for Firestick to drop one of the men from far enough away so that he’d go down before he ever heard the shot that killed him. And then the second man would quickly follow.
At any rate, just having the Hawken along, lashed securely behind his saddle and primed to deliver hellfire retribution, made Firestick feel better.
* * *
Once Firestick and Moosejaw had ridden away, Jesus and Miguel left to go check on their horses and make final preparations for the rodeo. Seeing how forlorn Daisy looked following the departure of her man, Frank Moorehouse tried to help ease her mind by coaxing her to accompany him to the picnic, which was under way by then. And since Frenchy and Arthur had shown up to take Earl Sterling off Sam’s hands, they invited him to join them.
This left Beartooth and Victoria alone together for the first time since their rift over the pending duel had resulted in them barely speaking to one another except for the time they’d spent looking for Kate.
Refusing to revert to that kind of behavior, especially under the circumstances, Beartooth turned to Victoria as soon as the door closed behind Daisy and the others. He walked over to stand before her and took her hands in his.
“With all the trouble and uncertainty swirlin’ around,” he said, “this seems like a mighty poor time for us to sulk and steer clear of each other over a damn fool like Shaw. If we let something like that change the way we feel, then those feelin’s must not be very strong after all.”
“But they are!” Victoria insisted, her words coming in a rush. “It’s my feelings for you that made me so upset and angry at the thought of you being forced into that insane duel. Not angry at you—but desperate with fear over the thought of you getting hurt or killed.”
Beartooth’s mouth twisted disdainfully. “The day I can’t shade a struttin’ peacock like Rupert Shaw—”
“But anything can happen when two men aim and fire pistols at each other,” said Victoria, cutting him short. “And you musn’t take Rupert so lightly. He was, after all, a captain in the Queen’s Army and is widely regarded a crack shot. What’s more, I remember hearing stories when I was a girl growing up back in England about how duels could sometimes turn out in very unexpected ways.”
“This ain’t England,” Beartooth reminded her.
Suddenly recalling the conversation she and Firestick had had with Shaw following his accident and realizing Beartooth hadn’t yet heard about what happened, Victoria said, “Besides, there’s been a change. It’s no longer Rupert you’ll be facing on the so-called field of honor. It’s now scheduled to be Oberon Hadley.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Beartooth scowled. “I can’t say I’ve ever liked the looks of that big ox. But my beef is with Shaw, not him.”
Victoria quickly explained to him about Shaw’s injury from the horse fall and how, fulfilling his role as a second, Hadley was prepared to take Shaw’s place in the scheduled duel.
“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard of!” Beartooth exploded. “Two men declare they’re mad enough to fight each other but then, at the last minute, one of ’em skips aside and motions for some other fella to step in to do his fightin’ for him? We got a name for that kind of thing where I come from, and it’s chickensh—”
“Rupert can’t very well handle a gun with his arm broken. You understand that, don’t you? And knowing you, you’d take no satisfaction in beating a man who’s crippled.”
“So we wait until he’s healed. Ain’t like I’m in a particular hurry to kill him. I’m only in this at all because Shaw called me out. That don’t mean I’m willin’ to take the life of some other poor fool and let Shaw dance away safe and clear.”
Victoria’s brows pinched together anxiously. “But what if there was a way to see this through without anyone getting hurt or killed?”
“Me just walk away from it, you mean? Come on, Victoria, you can’t ask me to do that. It just ain’t in me to—”
Once again Victoria cut him short, saying, “No. There is a way that’s perfectly within the practices and rules of dueling and considered acceptably honorable by most.” She gave a little shake of her head. “It surprises me how much I remember about dueling lore. It was a passion that my uncle Edward loved talking about—not that he ever participated, mind you—and for a time I was enthralled by his tales. It’s all been rushing back through my mind, last night and this morning, ever since Rupert forced all of us to consider the wretched practice.
“At any rate, there is a term called ‘deloping.’ I remember giggling when I first heard it because I thought it sounded like a couple getting halfway through an elopement but then stopping and turning back and not going through with it after all. In the dueling world, of course, it’s nothing like that. Although I guess you could say it’s a means of calling something off—the bloodshed that might otherwise result.”
Beartooth gently squeezed her hands, which he was still holding. “If there’s a point to this, gal, I sorta wish you’d get to it. So far you’re not makin’ a whole lotta sense.”
“What deloping amounts to,” Victoria said, “is an act whereby both principals in a duel purposely shoot to miss their opponent. The mere exchange of gunfire is seen as a satisfactory response to the challenge originally issued, and the two principals may then walk away considering the matter resolved.”
Beartooth was speechless. Victoria gazed up at him, waiting for a response. Finally he gave her one. “With all due respect, darlin’, to your country and your uncle Edward and anybody who ever bravely stood and faced a bullet in a true duel . . . this delopin’ thing is an even more idiotic notion than somebody like Hadley steppin’ in as a second. Hell, why don’t the two fellas involved just face e
ach other and holler ‘Bang! Bang!’? It’d make about as much sense.”
“I’m not making a case for the sense in it,” Victoria told him. “The whole concept of dueling falls pretty short in that regard. I’m merely offering an acceptable way to handle Rupert’s stupid challenge without you or Hadley, either one, risking your lives over it. If Rupert himself were still involved, I wouldn’t even bother bringing this up. I doubt he’d ever consider it an option in the first place, and even if he did, I would not trust him to shoot clear.”
Beartooth let go of her hands and turned away. He rocked his head back and groaned. “How do I get myself into fixes like this?”
Victoria looked on quietly, feeling his frustration, not knowing what to say next.
Abruptly, Beartooth turned back to her. “But listen to me feel sorry for myself. Miss Kate and that other gal are ones with real problems—in the hands of those two varmints who made off with ’em for who knows what reason. And my two best friends are ridin’ straight into the teeth of possible danger to try and get ’em back. What I’ve got on my plate here don’t hold a candle to that.”
“But it’s still nothing to take lightly,” Victoria said. “And having concern over it hardly amounts to feeling sorry for yourself.”
Beartooth moved close to her again. “Maybe not. But it’s concern for another day—tomorrow. What I got to take care of today, what Firestick left me in charge to do, is look after this town. Word is bound to start spreadin’, if it ain’t on everybody’s tongues already, about those stolen women. I got to keep a lid on that, not let panic set in, try to keep the festival from fallin’ apart or let a bunch of rambunctious fools decide to form a vigilante group and join in on the chase.That’s where my attention has to be for right now.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “All I need to know is that you’ll be behind me in whatever I do.”
Victoria slipped her arms around his waist. “No. I won’t be behind you. I’ll be right at your side.”
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