Ralph Compton Showdown At Two-Bit Creek Page 21

  The little man’s knuckles were white on the rifle. Desperately, Fletcher said, “Bob, during the war I saw thirty-pound cannonballs deflected by tree branches no bigger around than your little finger. One time I saw a rifled ball from my own battery fly half a mile straight up in the air after hitting a chestnut tree twig. It happens.”

  Birmingham Bob scowled. “This is all very interesting, but now I really must shoot you.”

  “You’re a methodical man, Bob,” Fletcher said quickly, forcing a grin. “But not so methodical that you remembered to ear back the hammers on that rifle of yours.”

  Birmingham Bob experienced only a minute fraction of a second of doubt, and the tiny, almost imperceptible downward shift of his eyes toward his gun took even less. But it was all Fletcher needed.

  He drew and fired.

  Despite his wounds and his weakness, everything was on the line, and he had never in his life pulled a Colt faster. The flashing speed of the draw caught Birmingham Bob completely by surprise.

  The bullet crashed into the little man’s chest and slammed him back on his heels. Both barrels of the double rifle went off at the same instant, but the muzzle of the gun was slightly high, and the rounds whined through the air inches above Fletcher’s head.

  Fletcher fired again, and this time his bullet ricocheted off the rifle’s engraved sidelock and ranged upward, slamming into Bob’s face just under his right cheekbone.

  The Englishman gasped and fell on his back in the snow, his eyes wild.

  His gun cocked and ready, Fletcher stood over the fallen man, swaying slightly on his feet as pain from his side beat at him mercilessly.

  Birmingham Bob was looking up at him, blood running down his cheek and chin from his shattered face, but the eyes remained mean and defiant.

  “You’re fast, Buck,” he said. “Very fast with a Colt. But I tell you something, Higgy Conroy will kill you. You’re nowhere as fast as he is.”

  “As it happens, he wasn’t,” Fletcher said. “He didn’t even come close.”

  Bob’s eyes widened as he took this in. Then his mouth twisted, and he snarled, “Fletcher, for all your high-and-mighty talk and uppity ways, you’re no better than me. Now, go to hell.”

  Fletcher nodded, a slight smile touching his lips. “Keep a spot warm for me, Bob.”

  But Birmingham Bob was beyond replying.

  He was dead.

  Fletcher nodded. “For a methodical man, Bob, you sure played hob.”

  He reloaded his Colt and shoved it back into the leather. Then, systematically, Fletcher went through the packs on the donkey. He found nothing of interest. Kneeling in the snow, he searched Bob’s pockets and then discovered what he’d hoped to find.

  A letter.

  Bob, as was his style, had kept the letter. For him, it was what amounted to a contract, and, as Fletcher had expected, he would not part with it.

  It was addressed to the little Englishman in care of a hotel in Denver. Written in a fine, copperplate hand, it read:Dear Mr. Spooner,

  As per our conversation at your hotel on the 23rd of June, please hasten with all possible speed to Buffalo City in the Dakota Territory.

  Check into the Cattleman’s Hotel, and let me know of your arrival. I will arrange for a good horse to be brought to you.

  The agreement we made in Denver still stands. I will pay you $500 on the death of my husband, then $200 a head for others I may name.

  Your request for $5 a day expenses is quite agreeable.

  I wish this matter to be settled quickly, efficiently and methodically, and my name to be kept out of it. It is for all these reasons that I have chosen you.

  The PP Connected foreman, Mr. Higman Conroy (I believe you two are acquainted),

  told me you are the very best there is, and, after meeting you in person, I have no reason to doubt his word or, indeed, the veracity of my own judgment.

  In closing, let me say that your chosen disguise as an eccentric landscape painter is just too deliciously droll.

  Warmest regards,

  Judith Tyrone (Mrs.)

  P.S. Please destroy this letter after reading.

  For a few moments, Fletcher was too stunned to move. The woman he’d dared to think loved him, whom perhaps he could love in return, was a cold-blooded killer. The proof was right here in his hands.

  A gusting wind blew cold across the snow and fluttered a corner of the letter as Fletcher read it again. He shook his head. This was no forgery. Birmingham Bob, a methodical man, should have destroyed the letter, but he’d kept it with him, maybe as insurance, maybe as a future source of blackmail.

  Savannah and Matt Baker had told him they had no proof that Judith was behind all this killing. Now they would have all the proof they needed.

  For an instant, Fletcher thought about tearing the letter into a hundred pieces and letting the wind scatter it forever. But he knew he could not.

  In a certain way, Birmingham Bob had been right. Like the Englishman, he was indeed a man who hired his gun to the highest bidder.

  But there was a big difference.

  Unlike Bob, the men he’d killed had been named gunmen, belted, armed and ready, and their wounds had all been in the front.

  What Judith and this man had planned was not a contest between armed men, but murder.

  Fletcher stared at the letter for a long time. Then he folded it up carefully and placed it in the pocket of his mackinaw.

  There was no question of burying Birmingham Bob in the frozen ground. In any case, Fletcher had no shovel.

  He dragged the little Englishman to the rocks and found enough loose boulders to cover him and keep the coyotes away from his body.

  The Alexander Henry rifle was a fine weapon, but in Bob’s hands it had done more than its share of killing. Fletcher smashed it against the rocks again and again until it was just a mess of tangled metal and splintered walnut. These pieces he laid on the grave.

  Quickly, gasping now and then as waves of pain hit him, Fletcher unstaked the grulla gelding and let him loose. He would probably find his way back to the Lazy R. If he did, it would be a message Judith Tyrone would understand.

  He did the same for the donkey, but, unlike the grulla, the animal stubbornly refused to budge from where it stood.

  Fletcher nodded. “So be it, burro. Stay right here and freeze to death for all I care.”

  He swung into the saddle and headed north, toward the Two-Bit. The burro fell in behind, his short legs working fast to keep up with Fletcher’s big sorrel.

  Fletcher reined in, turned in the saddle and waved at the donkey irritably. “Go home. Get lost.”

  The burro ignored him, standing splaylegged a few yards behind Fletcher’s horse. As burros invariably do, the little animal sought to impress him by making a great display of his fine manners and good breeding—but he steadfastly refused to move away.

  The gunfighter shook his head. “For some reason, it seems like every stray critter in the territory wants to attach itself to me.”

  Behind him the burro nodded his long, homely head.

  And Fletcher grinned.

  Chapter 22

  The cabin on Two-Bit was a hive of activity when Fletcher rode up and stepped out of the leather. Matt Baker and a couple of men, punchers by the look of them, were carrying armfuls of firewood, and Savannah stood earnestly talking to a dark-haired young woman.

  The girl was Amy Prescott.

  Savannah ran to Fletcher and threw her arms around his neck. “Buck,” she said, “thank God you’re safe.”

  “It was close,” Fletcher said, smiling. “I was lucky.”

  Savannah’s eyes suddenly reddened. She sobbed softly, and then her lips sought his. Surprised, Fletcher returned her kiss, confused and more than a little embarrassed.

  “I missed you, Buck,” Savannah whispered, her lips still clinging to his. “I missed you so much.”

  Fletcher stood there feeling big and clumsy and awkward, trying hard for words he could
n’t find.

  He was saved by the speckled pup. The little dog charged toward him on three legs, yipping his happiness, and Fletcher gently disentangled himself from Savannah and kneeled and rubbed the pup’s ears.

  Matt Baker dropped the firewood he was carrying and stuck out his hand. “Welcome back, Buck. I’m glad you made it.” He studied Fletcher shrewdly. “Want to tell us about it?”

  “Not much to tell. I—”

  “Oh, Buck!”

  Savannah, looking fresh and lovely in a white shirt and split canvas riding skirt, ran to the burro and hugged the little animal’s head close. “He’s beautiful.” She looked up at Fletcher. “Oh, Buck, can we keep him?”

  Fletcher heard that “we” and wondered at it.

  “Sure you can keep him,” he said, shifting the emphasis as he tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “He’s pretty much made up his mind that he’s not going anyplace.”

  He glanced at Amy Prescott. The girl was looking at him with eyes that were not hostile but not welcoming either.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Fletcher,” she said, her voice cool.

  Fletcher touched the brim of his hat, matching her formality. “You too, Miss Prescott.”

  It seemed the girl still didn’t trust him. He really couldn’t blame her.

  The gunfighter looked around him. The two punchers he’d seen earlier were PP Connected hands, and now another stepped around the side of the cabin, his head swathed in a thick bandage. It seemed like Amy Prescott and the surviving men of her outfit had been through the wars.

  But the three cowboys still looked salty and tough, and Fletcher knew they were no pushovers.

  He turned to Baker. “Matt, mind telling me what’s going on here?”

  “It’s simple enough, I reckon,” Baker replied. “We found Amy and her men in the hills. There was another one, but we buried him yesterday. With Judith Tyrone’s gunmen on the prowl, we figured this would be the safest place.”

  Baker looked at Fletcher quizzically. “Now, you going to tell us what happened to you, or are you going to keep it all to yourself?”

  Fletcher nodded. “You others gather around,” he said. “You should all hear this.”

  Briefly, without embellishment, Fletcher told of his showdown with Higgy Conroy and his gunmen and his run-in with Birmingham Bob Spooner.

  “After it was over, I found this in Bob’s pocket,” he said, his eyes bleak, handing Judith Tyrone’s letter to Baker. “I guess it will interest you.”

  Baker read the letter and handed it to Savannah without comment. The girl read it and in turn handed it to Amy Prescott.

  “It’s proof of a sort,” Savannah said. “But it may not stand up in court. Letters can be forged. I think a good lawyer could shred this to pieces, especially since the two men who could testify to the authenticity of this letter are dead.”

  Baker nodded. “Maybe so. But I believe this is something we should let Deputy Marshal Graham decide.”

  “Where is Graham?” Fletcher asked, his confidence in the man’s ability slight.

  “Probably in Deadwood, and probably right now in Nuttall and Mann’s Number 10 Saloon. It’s his unofficial headquarters.”

  Baker glanced up at the sky, noting the sun’s position. “I’m going to ride into Deadwood and get him. I’ll bring him here before nightfall.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t want to come?” Fletcher suggested mildly.

  Baker grinned. “Like I said, I’ll bring him here before nightfall, even if I have to hogtie him.”

  Fletcher’s shoulders slumped, defeat hanging heavy on him. “After what Savannah said about the letter, it may not do any good. But I guess it’s worth a try.”

  Baker left to saddle his horse, and Fletcher took Savannah’s arm and pulled her aside. “I just want you to know that when this is all over, I’m riding on out of here,” he said harshly, trying to end the girl’s all-too-apparent interest in him.

  Savannah’s expression did not change. “Fine. Then I’m going with you.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’ll be riding far and fast, and where I’m going is no place for a woman.”

  “And where are you going?” Savannah asked, her determined eyes revealing that she would not give an inch.

  “Somewhere,” Fletcher said, faltering. God, she was beautiful! “I mean, a place where there’s work for a man like me.” He thought for a few moments, then smiled slightly. “A place an uncivilized hombre like me can civilize with his gun.”

  Savannah nodded. “So be it. I’m still coming with you. We’ll civilize together.”

  “You’re not, Savannah. This is something I have to do alone. There’s no place for you in my life.”

  The girl shook her head. “We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we, Mr. Fletcher?”

  She turned on her heel and stalked away from him, leaving Fletcher openmouthed and flatfooted ... and feeling more than a little foolish.

  His frustrated male helplessness in the face of a strong and determined woman grew even worse when he saw Savannah and Amy, their heads together, whispering earnestly as they smiled and stole knowing glances at him.

  “Women,” Fletcher said to himself, shaking his head. They were a mystery.

  After Matt Baker rode out, Buck Fletcher led his horse around the back of the cabin to the barn. The three PP Connected hands were stacking firewood against the coming of the heavy winter snows and generally making themselves useful around the place. Savannah and Amy had finally whispered their way inside, taking the pup with them.

  The day was bright and cold, the sky clear of cloud, and the breeze had stilled. Inside the cabin, Fletcher heard Savannah singing softly. One of the PP Connected hands said something, and another laughed.

  It was a peaceful scene, yet he felt uneasy. It was the feeling a man has when he’s being intently watched by someone at a distance.

  Fletcher shook his head. It was all in his overwrought imagination. Yet the uneasiness persisted, refusing to let him go, and it was a worrisome thing. At last he gave in to it, unable to step away from his troubled instincts.

  The ache in Fletcher’s side was unrelenting, and he was tiring fast. But he swung into the saddle and rode around the cabin, passing the tree where he’d once sat and read his books.

  He skirted along the bottom of the ridge towering behind the cabin and rode west and then south in a wide arc. The pines on the hills around him were still, and the land was hushed under its white mantle of snow.

  Fletcher rode into a narrow stream, its bubbling water still unfrozen, and briefly let his horse drink as he looked around at the surrounding hills. He rode out of the stream and up a shallow rise crested by a stand of aspen, broken up here and there by the darker green of spruce and juniper.

  As the sorrel picked his way through the trees, Fletcher heard only the soft footfalls of the horse, muffled by pine needles, and the creak of his saddle leather.

  He cleared the trees and rode down the other side of the rise, his horse kicking through some deeper snow, and then swung east, back toward the cabin. So far he’d seen nothing.

  The day had grown colder, and Fletcher’s breath steamed in the air. He reined up in the shade of a large pine and pulled off his gloves, blowing on his cupped hands to keep the circulation going. Slowly and awkwardly, he built himself a smoke and lit his cigarette. Annoyed at being halted, the sorrel tossed his head and snorted, crow-hopping a little, anxious to be going again.

  Fletcher finished his smoke and dropped the cold butt into the snow. He kneed the horse into a walk and rode through the gap between a pair of saddleback hills and then took the slope of another, higher rise, its craggy incline broken up here and there by deep, V-shaped citadels of gray rock.

  Tall lodgepole pines marched along the entire length of the hill, and Fletcher rode into them, his mountain-bred horse carefully picking his way among the slender gray trunks. Beyond the downward slope of the hill the
re lay a wide stretch of open grassland, now snow-covered, and then the cabin and, close behind it, the ridge.

  Nothing moved up here. The branches of the lodgepoles were still, as though the trees were dozing in the watery sunlight.

  Fletcher reined up the sorrel and tested the air. He smelled smoke. Cigarette smoke. Its sharp, musky aroma hung on the hill now that there was no wind to disperse it.

  Stiffly, Fletcher stepped out of the saddle and pulled his Winchester from the boot. He cranked a round into the chamber, then walked forward on cat feet, farther into the pines.

  The smell was stronger now. Closer.

  Being fond of tobacco himself, Fletcher was aware that cigarette smoking was a recent import from Mexico, where the vaqueros were much addicted to it. So far, at a time when most men chewed or smoked a pipe or cigars, the habit hadn’t traveled much beyond the Canadian. That could mean that the man who’d smoked among these pines was a Texan. And if he was, he was a long way from home, and up here for no honest reason.

  Fletcher stopped and studied some horse droppings at the base of a pine. He pushed them with his toe. They were still fresh. The man who’d ridden this horse was gone, and not long before.

  A few minutes searching, and Fletcher found the place where the man had stood. Several cigarette butts littered the ground, telling Fletcher that he’d lingered up here, hidden by the trees, for a long while. From this high vantage spot, the spy had enjoyed an unobstructed view of the cabin, and he must know that Amy Prescott and her hands were there.

  Fletcher swore. He’d also seen Matt Baker ride away. But Matt would have to look out for himself.

  Unless his hunch was wrong, Fletcher figured an attack would be made on the cabin very soon, just as soon as the Texan, if that’s what he was, rode back and reported to Judith Tyrone.

  Judith was smart. She would figure that, with all of her enemies gathered together in one place, now was the time to strike and get rid of them once and for all.

  Fletcher found his horse, swung into the saddle and rode down to the cabin. He was hurting bad, and the ride had tired him.