Читать книгу Buzzard's Bluff - William W. Johnstone - Страница 11

CHAPTER 6

He surprised himself the next morning, waking up close to his usual time of five-thirty, even though he had gone to bed later than normal. He guessed it was because he had spent more time on a horse, in a hurry to get someplace else for so many years. He climbed into his clothes, pulled his boots on, and picked up his gun belt, then he hesitated. As a reputable businessman now, would it be proper for him to wear a Colt six-gun? Undecided, he put the weapon back on the chair and opened the door. Even though he had a hankering to try breakfast at the hotel, since his supper had been so good, he thought it might be better if he had breakfast in the saloon. He didn’t want to start off his first morning by insulting Annie Grey, his cook. So he stepped out into the back hall, but he stopped before closing his door. The long hall was still dark at this time of day, one window the only light. He just didn’t feel right. It had been too many years, so he went back inside his room, picked up his gun belt, and slapped it around his hips. Feeling dressed now, he went back into the hallway and started toward the kitchen.

It seemed awfully quiet, and it occurred to him that he didn’t hear a sound inside the saloon save that of his boots on the hardwood floor as he strode toward the kitchen door. At five-thirty, there should be sounds of Annie in the kitchen, but he heard no such sounds. Thinking he must have forgotten to wind his watch, he pulled it out, held it up to the window, and gave it another look. It was still running. He walked into the kitchen to find no one there, and the room almost as dark as the hallway. The big iron stove still felt warm from the night before, so he figured he might as well get it going again while there were still some live ashes left. Looking around the stove, he spotted a basket of kindling, next to a stack of firewood close to the outside door.

In a short time, he had a fire going and the stove began to heat up. Satisfied with that, he picked up the big gray coffeepot on the edge of the stove and walked out the back door to the pump. He was in the process of filling the pot with water when he became aware of someone standing behind him in the doorway. When he turned to see who it was, he found himself confronted by an obviously surprised Annie Grey. “Good mornin’,” he greeted her. “I was startin’ to worry about you.”

“Why?” she asked, still astonished to find him stumbling around her kitchen at this early hour.

“’Cause it’s gettin’ pretty late and you weren’t here, so I figured I’d best get a fire goin’ in your stove.”

“Why?” she asked again, waiting for an answer that made sense to her. When he failed to answer right away, she asked, “Have you been wanderin’ around the saloon all night?” He said that he had just gotten up. She realized then what his problem was. “I ain’t late,” she said. “I reckon you’ll have to get used to a new schedule.” Then she thought to say, “Unless you change it—you bein’ the owner and all. But ain’t nobody gets up early in the saloon ’cause they stay up so late before closin’. Rachel don’t usually open up till eight-thirty or nine. There ain’t no need to because there ain’t no customers that early, except one or two drunks and they’ll sleep on the porch till the doors open.”

“I reckon I just never thought about it like that,” Ben confessed. “I thought you’d already be out here rustlin’ up breakfast, and I was sleepin’ late.”

She smiled at him and admitted that she was a little earlier than usual this morning, primarily because she wanted to be sure not to be late on the first morning the new owner was there. “I usually have something cooked up around seven-thirty. That’s the time when Rachel usually has her breakfast. But hand me that coffeepot and I’ll fix you up with something in a jiffy. You’ll have to wait a little while for the biscuits to bake, but I’ll fry you up some eggs and bacon. All right?”

“I don’t wanna trouble you,” he said. “I can wait for your usual breakfast time.”

“No trouble a-tall,” she said, “just have to wait for my pan to get hot. Shouldn’t take too long, since you’ve already got my stove going.”

He had to wonder if their breakfast hour played any part in Jim Vickers’s keeping a room in the hotel and eating breakfast in the hotel dining room. He felt sure the hotel dining room opened by six o’clock every morning. “If you’re sure it won’t upset your routine, I’d be obliged.” A thought occurred to him then. “Don’t often find a saloon that offers fresh eggs. Where do you get ’em?”

“Same place we get the bacon,” Annie answered, “my husband, Johnny. I brought four dozen fresh eggs with me this morning.”

By the time the coffee was ready, the stove was plenty hot enough to cook his eggs and bacon. Ben sat at the table and talked to Annie while she prepared her kitchen for the day after she set his breakfast before him. He figured it a good time to get to know her, so he wasn’t in a hurry, although he planned to go to the stable to take Cousin to the blacksmith for shoes. As the clock on the wall inched up closer to six-thirty, she seemed to be concerned, for she took frequent glances at it. He soon realized what caused her apparent nervousness when he heard the back door open and a man walked in shortly before seven. Seeing Ben seated at the kitchen table, the man hesitated before coming on in. When he stood there for a long moment, Annie said, “Oh, come on in, Johnny, and say hello to the new owner.” Back to Ben, she said, “This is my husband. He usually eats his breakfast here. I hope that ain’t a problem. Johnny, this is Mr. Ben Savage.” Looking at Ben again, she said, “Rachel knows Johnny eats here in the morning. Half the time, she shows up for breakfast before he finishes, but if it’s a problem . . .”

“It ain’t a problem for me, unless he expects me to cook it for him,” Ben interrupted. “Come on in, Johnny, and sit down. Your wife and Rachel are tryin’ to break me in as a co-owner of the Lost Coyote. Right now, everything depends on whether or not those biscuits are fit to eat. And I think she was just fixin’ to take’em outta the oven when you came in. So you can help me judge ’em.”

Johnny laughed good-naturedly. “Well, I can already tell you I guarantee ’em to be the best you’ll find in the whole state of Texas.” He could tell from the first that he was going to like Ben Savage, having expected someone completely different. When Annie had told him about the reactions of the man when threatened by one of the Double-D riders, he had pictured a deadly steely-eyed gunman. He had wondered if the Lost Coyote was going to be competing with the Golden Rail for all the troublemakers that chanced to drift through town. After talking to Ben for a little while, he was convinced that the new owner was focused more on not losing the present business attitude.

By the time they were eating hot biscuits, Rachel appeared. “Looks like I’m late for the party,” she said upon finding Ben and Johnny still at the table. “Morning, Johnny. I see you’ve met the new owner.” He returned her greeting. “Morning, Ben,” she said then. “You were looking so sleepy by the time we closed last night, I thought we wouldn’t see you until noon.”

“He had a fire in the stove and was making a pot of coffee when I got here this morning,” Annie informed her.

“I’m gonna have to reset the clock inside my head,” Ben said, “so I ain’t in Annie’s way every mornin’.” Annie was quick to state that he was welcome to fire up her stove and start the coffee every morning, if he wanted to. “Right now, I reckon I’ll walk up to the stable and take my horse to the blacksmith. I understand he’s good at shoein’ horses.”

“That he is,” Johnny remarked. “Jim Bowden, he’ll treat you right.”

* * *

“Mornin’,” Bowden offered cautiously when Ben walked up to his shop, leading Cousin. Like Johnny Grey and everyone else in Buzzard’s Bluff, Bowden had heard about the confrontation in the Lost Coyote and had formed the same picture as Johnny had. The size and intimidating bearing of the man seemed to enhance that image.

“Mornin’,” Ben returned. “I think Cousin, here, is about ready for some new shoes. Accordin’ to what Johnny Grey says, you’ll do a good job at a fair price. Is that about right?”

Bowden laughed. “I reckon it is, if Johnny says so. Jim Bowden’s my name, and I’d be glad to take a look at him.”

“Ben Savage,” he said and shook Bowden’s hand. “’Preciate it.”

Bowden took Cousin’s reins and led him back behind his forge and proceeded to take a look at the dun gelding’s hooves. “You’re right,” he told Ben, “he’s about ready for some new shoes, but his hooves look to be in good shape. Looks like you take good care of him.”

“He always takes good care of me,” Ben said, “so I reckon I owe him that.”

Bowden began the work of removing Cousin’s shoes and fitting him with the proper shoe to fit his hoof. As far as Ben could tell, Bowden was a careful farrier, taking about fifteen to twenty minutes on each hoof. While he worked, he asked Ben how he thought he’d like the little town of Buzzard’s Bluff. Ben said he didn’t know, but he liked what he had seen so far. “Well, from what I’ve heard,” Bowden said, “you’re plannin’ to operate that saloon pretty much the same way Jim Vickers did. Is that right?”

“Don’t see any reason to change anything,” Ben answered. “Looks to me like Rachel has been takin’ care of business.”

He fully expected to hear Bowden compliment Rachel, just as everyone else had so far, but he didn’t. Instead, he fell silent for a moment, staring beyond Ben, then muttering, “Uh-oh.”

Ben turned to see what had captured his attention and saw a pair of riders walking their horses toward the Lost Coyote. He continued watching them until they pulled up at the hitching rail in front of the saloon. “You know those fellows?” Ben asked.

“I know who they are,” Bowden said. “They ride for the Double-D ranch. At least, I know who one of ’em is. That one on the right is Ed Hatcher. He shot a man down in the Golden Rail about six months ago in a fight over a card game. I don’t know the name of the fellow with him.” He paused to give Ben an intense look. “He’s the fellow that was with the one you shot yesterday.”

That tweaked Ben’s interest right away. “This Ed Hatcher, how come he’s not in jail?”

“Mack Bragg would have arrested Hatcher,” Bowden said. “But the fellow he shot went for his gun, too, and Hatcher outdrew him. Everybody in the Golden Rail said it was a fair fight, that Hatcher was just too fast for the other fellow. But Mickey Dupree, the bartender at the Golden Rail told me that Hatcher baited that fellow till he had to face him, or crawl outta the saloon like a yellow dog. Maybe it’s a good thing you ain’t at the saloon.”

It didn’t take much thinking to figure out the reason the two Double-D riders came to pay a visit to the Lost Coyote this early in the morning. “You mind takin’ my horse back to the stable when you finish shoein’ him? And I’ll come back and settle up in a little while.”

“You goin’ over there?” Bowden blurted, fairly astonished.

“I expect I’d better,” Ben said. “I don’t want ’em causing Rachel any trouble.” When Bowden started shaking his head in disbelief, Ben said, “I’ll come back to pay you. If I don’t, you’ll have my horse. Fair enough?”

“Mister, you’re crazy!” Bowden exclaimed. “That Hatcher fellow is a professional killer.”

“Whaddaya sayin’ I oughta do,” Ben asked, slightly perturbed, “hide out here and let ’em raise hell with my people in the saloon? I’ll be back to pay you.” He started toward the saloon, striding as fast as he could without breaking into a trot.

When he reached the door of the saloon, he stopped to take a look before walking inside. As he had anticipated, the man called Hatcher was hassling Rachel and Tiny. He could hear Rachel repeating several times that Mr. Savage was not in the saloon. When he heard Hatcher say he was going to search the entire saloon if she didn’t produce him, Ben figured it was time to put a stop to it. Seeing a young boy walking past the saloon, he stepped away from the door and called to the boy, “What’s your name, son?” When the boy told him, Ben asked, “You wanna make a nickel, Sammy?” The boy said he did, so Ben reached in his pocket and pulled out some change and gave the boy a nickel. “Run down the street and tell the sheriff he’s needed at the Lost Coyote. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir,” Sammy said and took off running.

Stepping back up on the porch, Ben pushed on through the batwing doors, his Colt six-gun in hand. “Something I can help you fellows with?” he asked. Surprised, they both spun around. Hatcher started to reach for his .44 but stopped short when he saw the weapon already in Ben’s hand.

“Well, ain’t you the brave one?” Hatcher taunted. “Why didn’t you just shoot us in the back and be done with it?”

“I considered it,” Ben answered. “Now, suppose you tell me what you’re lookin’ for me for. Have you got a complaint about this saloon, or about somebody who works here? We’re always ready to help you with any complaints, but I don’t allow anybody to harass the employees or the owners.”

Both men were speechless for a moment, unprepared to hear this type response. Then Hatcher’s partner blurted, “You shot Bob Wills down in here yesterday!”

“Was that his name?” Ben asked the man with Hatcher. “I didn’t catch yours, you left in such a hurry. That’s a fact, though. I shot Bob because he tried to shoot me in the back after I told you to leave. We’ve got a rule here in the Lost Coyote—no back shootin’. That’s why I won’t shoot you in the back, if you turn around and walk on outta here now. But we ain’t got no rule against shootin’ you in the front, if you make a move toward those guns.”

“Who the hell are you, mister?” Hatcher finally demanded. It occurred to him that he might be calling out somebody with a reputation. “I’m wonderin’ if Bob Wills had a fair chance when you shot him.”

“I reckon that depends on how you look at it,” Ben said. “When Bob came back in and was fixin’ to shoot me in the back, it mighta been unfair for me to turn around and shoot him first. To tell you the truth, I thought he and this other fellow with you today were already on their way outta town and nobody hurt. But he came sneakin’ back in here like the yellow dog he was. I expect you never got the true story of how he got himself killed. So, now that you know, you’ll most likely ride on outta town peaceful-like and no harm done. I’ll even buy you a drink to show you there’s no hard feelin’s, and you can go back to the Double-D and tell ’em you took care of everything.”

Hatcher was not sure if he was talking to a lunatic or being japed by a fast talker. Whichever, he decided, there was no doubt in his mind, the man was trying to talk his way out of a gunfight between the two of them. Marty was not sure how fast this fellow was, but he said that he had turned around and shot Bob Wills before Bob got off a shot. That was something to consider, but he still could not discard the idea that the big man was trying to avoid facing him man to man. And that could be nothing less than outright cowardice. He decided to do what he had ridden in with Marty Jackson to do. “I’m tired of hearin’ you runnin’ off at the mouth. It’s time for you to own up to what you did. I’m callin’ you out to stand up for killin’ Bob Wills. So holster that six-gun, and we’ll settle this thing man to man.”

Ben slowly shook his head to exhibit his impatience before he replied. “Now, Hatcher, I believe that’s your name, ain’t it?” Hatcher did not answer but continued to glare at the big man holding the Colt on him. Ben continued. “Not only have you come after me for defending myself against Bob Wills, but now you’re insultin’ me by insinuatin’ that I’d be dumb enough to holster my pistol when I’ve already got it ready to blow a hole in you.” He glanced briefly in Tiny’s direction and said, “Tiny, take that shotgun from under the counter and hold it on Mr. Hatcher’s friend, there, in case he’s got a case of stupidity, too.” Tiny quickly drew the shotgun out, having already anticipated a need for it.

Almost to the point of exploding, due to the situation he had fallen into, Ed Hatcher could only snarl insults in reply. “You yellow devil,” he charged. “You ain’t got the guts to face me man to man. Walk out in the street and we’ll see who comes out on top. You’re too yellow, ain’t you?”

“Is that what this is all about?” Ben asked. “If I say I’m afraid to face you in a gunfight, that’ll satisfy you, and you and your friend, here, will ride on outta town? Why, hell, I’ll do that to keep from killin’ you. I’m afraid to face you. How’s that? Your friend heard me say it, so you two can get back on your horses and never come back to the Lost Coyote. And that oughta make everybody happy.”

Eaten up with frustration and the knowledge that he was being made a fool of, Hatcher fumed for a full minute before he could speak. “Dead man!” he finally managed. “You’re a dead man. Sure as the sun comes up in the mornin’, I swear I’ll kill your sorry ass.”

“Well, now you’ve done it,” Ben said. “Before, you just challenged me to a duel and that’s all right. But now you’ve threatened to murder me, so I’m afraid I’m gonna have to arrest you and your partner for threatenin’ my life in front of these witnesses.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his badge. “Under my authority as a Texas Ranger, I place both of you under arrest for threatening my life.”

“Wait a minute!” Marty Jackson blurted. “You didn’t say nothin’ about bein’ a Ranger. And, anyway, I didn’t say I was gonna kill you!”

“Don’t matter,” Ben responded. “You brought him back here for that purpose. You’re under arrest for aidin’ and abettin’ ol’ Hatcher, here.”

Marty looked at Hatcher, frantically looking for help. “Maybe we oughta just go on back to the ranch, Ed, if he’ll let us go like he said at first.”

“He ain’t no Ranger,” Hatcher said. “He’s just tryin’ to get outta facin’ me. He knows I can beat him.” Back to Ben, he said, “You’re gonna slip up sometime, and when you do, it’ll be me that puts a bullet in your brain.”

“What’s the trouble here?” Mack Bragg called out, surprising the two ranch hands standing before Ben. His .44 drawn, he walked up behind Hatcher and Jackson and pulled the pistols from each one’s holster. “You havin’ some trouble here, Rachel?” Ben, still holding his six-gun on Hatcher, let her answer the question.

“Those two came here with the idea of killing Ben,” she said. “That one,” she pointed to Hatcher, “challenged Ben to a gunfight and Ben told him he wasn’t interested. So then he threatened to kill him, anyway, and Ben put him under arrest—both of them.”

Bragg looked at Ben, who smiled and confirmed what she said with a nod. “You arrested them?” he asked. When Ben nodded again, Bragg said, “I thought you retired from the Rangers.”

“I have,” Ben said, “but it ain’t official till I notify Captain Mitchell. I thought it would be better than shootin’ ’em. Maybe a night or two in jail would be good for ’em—let ’em know we don’t like gunfightin’ in Buzzard’s Bluff.” Bragg didn’t look like he was especially tickled with the idea. “I’ll help you herd ’em over to the jail,” Ben offered.

“You’ll sure as hell hear from Mr. Dalton if you throw us in jail, Sheriff,” Hatcher warned. “He’s gonna be mad as hell.”

“That’s what I was thinkin’, too,” Ben remarked. “Might give us a good chance to talk to him about some of the trouble I hear his hands are causin’ here in town.”

“That’ll be the day,” Bragg replied and shrugged. “But I reckon you and Rachel have just cause to complain about these two making threats and disturbin’ the peace. So let’s walk ’em down to the jailhouse. Maybe after a day or two they can get some sense into their heads.”

“What if I don’t wanna go to your damn jailhouse?” Hatcher protested. “You gonna shoot me?”

“That’s as good an answer as any,” Bragg said. “Sure would make it a lot less trouble for me. Is that the way you want it?” He looked at Jackson. “How ’bout you? Is that the way you want it, too?” He cocked the hammer back on the Colt .44 he was holding.

“No, sir!” Jackson exclaimed immediately. “That ain’t the way I want it! I’ll go to jail!”

“Shut up, Marty!” Hatcher barked. “He ain’t gonna shoot you. He’s just tryin’ to scare you.”

“Are you ready to walk down to the jail now?” Ben asked Hatcher.

“I ain’t walkin’ nowhere,” Hatcher said. “You want me in that jail, you’re gonna have to carry me.”

Ben couldn’t help thinking about the last cowhand from the Double-D who took that stance. He ended up shooting him and that’s what started all this trouble. “If you and Tiny keep ’em covered for a minute, I’ll be right back,” he said to the sheriff. He went out the front door and returned shortly with a coil of rope. “I figured every good cowhand had a coil of rope on his saddle.” He made a loop in one end of the rope, then walked up to face Hatcher, who gave him a smirk for his efforts. “Hold your arms straight out to the sides, like you’ve got wings. Like this,” he demonstrated, holding his arms straight out to the side. With a defiant sneer, Hatcher clamped his arms down tight against his sides. Ben instantly dropped the loop over Hatcher’s shoulders and drew it up tight, trapping Hatcher’s arms against his sides. He then wrapped the rope around and around the surprised man until he had his upper body bound securely. Hatcher stood there helpless and furious when he realized how easily Ben had tricked him into cooperating. “All right, let’s get along, little doggie,” Ben said and led him toward the door with the other end of the rope.

The sheriff prodded Jackson in the back with his Colt and said, “Get movin’.” And they followed Ben and Hatcher to the door before Hatcher realized he could still refuse to cooperate, so he dropped to the floor.

Ben took a strong grip on the rope and managed to drag Hatcher through the door to the porch. He let him sit there for a few moments, long enough to untie one of the horses from the hitching rail. He led the horse up to the edge of the porch so he could tie the end of his rope to the saddle horn. He smiled at Hatcher and said, “You’re a pretty big fellow, but my money’s on the horse. Come on, boy,” he said to the horse and led him out into the street, dragging Hatcher off the porch. He thought he heard his prisoner let out a “yow” just before he heard him hit the boardwalk in front of the porch. If he had to guess, he would have bet the “yow” might have been a splinter Hatcher picked up on his slide across the porch.

The defiant cowhand maintained his determination until about halfway down the street to the jail. But after bumping and scraping across the roughest ruts Ben could find to lead him over, he started yelling. “All right! All right! I’ll walk to the damn jail. Stop the damn horse.”

With an air of casual patience, Ben helped Hatcher to his feet. Then he untied the rope from the saddle horn and led him the rest of the way to the jail. Bragg and Jackson followed along behind them. Bragg, his gun in hand, watched while Ben removed the rope trapping Hatcher’s arms to his sides. Then he put him in the cell with Jackson. That done, he joined Ben in the office to talk about their punishment. It was blatantly apparent that the sheriff wasn’t too happy about Ben’s actions, which had resulted in an arrest. On the other hand, he could hardly find fault with Ben’s handling of Hatcher because it prevented a shooting. However, knowing Ed Hatcher and his passion for violence, he could not imagine this arrest to be the end of the trouble over Ben’s shooting of Bob Wills.

“I reckon I can hold ’em in jail for a couple of days, then turn ’em loose and tell ’em to get outta town,” Bragg speculated. “That’s what I usually do with anybody makin’ too big a fuss in one of the saloons, as long as it doesn’t lead to a shootin’. And that’s all this has boiled down to so far.” He paused to think about that for a few seconds. “I don’t have any idea what Daniel Dalton’s liable to say about this. I’ll tell you the truth, Ben, it ain’t beneath Dalton to send a few more men in here to settle up with you for killin’ one of his hands. And he ain’t gonna be too happy with me for puttin’ two of ’em in jail.”

“Reckon we’ll just have to wait and see,” Ben responded. “You want me to lead their horses up to the stable for you? I gotta pick mine up from the blacksmith, so I’m headin’ that way.”