it off his chest right away, Boynton knew he’d spend a restless night fretting over it, and that would only make things worse when he did have to face the boss in the morning.
These troublesome thoughts, mingled with the more pleasant ones of the cute little barmaid who’d been flirting with him at the Lone Star Palace, Buffalo Peak’s other main saloon, where he’d killed some time before riding out, occupied Boynton’s mind as he loped southeast toward the Box T. The murkiness of evening was thickening, the air was starting to cool quickly now that the sun had gone down, and the scent of the prairie grasses in late spring filled his nostrils. It wasn’t as nice as the perfume of the cute little barmaid had been, but to a man who made his way working cattle out on the range it was still a good smell.
The sky was clear, and as it turned from murky gray to velvety black, a blanket of stars gradually began to glimmer. Lost in his thoughts and mildly awed by the unfolding of this heavenly display, Boynton was slow to notice the group of horsemen who topped the crest of a low hill off to the southeast.
The ramrod’s first reaction was to wonder what would bring out so many riders—there appeared to be at least two dozen of them—at an hour when most outfits would be finishing supper and getting ready to turn in. From there, his mind quickly jumped to suspicion. Was he looking at a pack of rustlers on their way to wide-loop somebody’s cattle?
None of the surrounding spreads had big enough crews to muster that many men all at once, though. Not that a couple of neighboring outfits couldn’t have thrown in together for some reason. But what could that reason be? And why at this odd hour?
His suspicion swelled and a chill ran through him, part anger and part anxiety. If that pack of hombres was up to no good, he could all of a sudden be in a bad predicament. If they decided to swoop down on him . . .
But then, as quickly and unexpectedly as they’d appeared, the whole pack wheeled around and dropped back out of sight behind the crest. One minute they were there, silhouetted motionlessly against a low array of just-emerging stars, then the next minute they were gone.
Boynton reined his horse to a halt and gawked in confusion. Was he seeing things? Had the shifting light and shadows that came at this time of night played some kind of trick on his eyes? Had he really seen what he thought he did—or was it some kind of illusion brought on by snapping too suddenly out of the snarl of thoughts and worries that had been filling his head?
But if it was an illusion, then why could he hear the fading sound of so many hoofbeats carried on the still air? His own horse was at a standstill, and the night all around was otherwise quiet. Except for the low rumble of those departing hooves . . . until they’d faded completely and then there was only the occasional soft blowing of his mount.
Damn it, there had been riders up there on that hill! But who were they and what were they up to? And why had they turned tail and taken off at—apparently—the mere sight of him?
For an instant, Boynton felt the urge to give chase. Run them down and try to get some answers. After all, if they were rustlers or owlhoots of some other stripe, then he owed it to his neighbors and friends to give warning, spread notice that something fishy and possibly dangerous was going on. It didn’t take long, however, for him to decide there were better ways to serve that purpose than to go charging off in reckless pursuit and possibly force the confrontation that had only just been avoided. Cleve Boynton didn’t lack for grit, but neither was he foolhardy.
Furthermore, while he surely was willing to sound a warning if there was a genuine threat, at the same time he didn’t want to end up looking like a fool by raising a false alarm and maybe stirring up a panic, only to have it turn out there was a logical explanation for those mysterious horsemen.
A frown pulled hard on Boynton’s face.
Those mysterious horsemen.
There was something more about them—something more than just their number and the odd hour and the way they’d turned and fled—that gnawed at a corner of the ramrod’s brain. Something elusive that bothered him apart from all the rest of his suspicions. He concentrated hard, straining almost physically to try and drag it out. In his mind’s eye he could see them again, a lumpy mass skylined so briefly up there on the crest, bunched together though spread out somewhat. Given the distance and the weak wash of stars behind them, individual features had been impossible to discern. Yet he’d been able to make out the distinct outlines—head and shoulder silhouettes thrusting up above the blur of their horses—of several of them.
Head and shoulder silhouettes posed briefly against the stars.
Not tall men. Spare and wiry, he somehow sensed. The largest of them only average-sized.
No hats.
Something peculiar about the shapes of some of the heads. A hint of bright color at the hairline of one or two? A sense of longish hair reaching down to the shoulders.
No hats . . . A sense of longish hair . . .
Suddenly a new chill streaked through Boynton, this one far deeper and colder than the previous time. The elusive thing that had been nagging at him all at once became clear.
Holy Christ.
He didn’t want to believe it, didn’t even want to think it. But in his gut, he knew. Knew with sickening clarity what he had just glimpsed.
A man who frowned on the practice of spurring horses too aggressively and was proud of always avoiding it himself, Boynton nevertheless did so now and sent his mount streaking for the Box T as fast as the startled beast could run.
CHAPTER 8
Buffalo Peak had two saloons, the Silver Spur and the Lone Star Palace, plus a nameless Mexican cantina just within the eastern town limits. A small room adjoining the dining hall of the Mallory Hotel also contained a modest bar. Clientele for the latter consisted mainly of hotel guests and town businessmen who stopped in evenings before going home, wanting someplace quiet to relax with a drink or two rather than visiting either of the saloons, where the cowboys looking to let off a little steam frequently got a mite rowdy. The cantina was a quiet, friendly place that attracted mostly Mexican vaqueros from the surrounding ranches.
Firestick’s standard routine, whenever he returned to town for late-duty rounds, was to first check each of the saloons to see if any signs of trouble were brewing. From there, he would walk the length of Trail Street, checking the businesses and shops on either side to make sure they were securely locked and that nothing appeared to have been disturbed. At the far end of the street, he would also look in on the little cantina. His Spanish was pretty limited, but the proprietors, Julio and Lucita Ramirez, were a nice, hardworking couple who always gave him a friendly welcome.
At that point, on most nights, when the jail was empty and there was no reason to stop by there, before finishing his rounds with a final check on the saloons, Firestick would double back to the hotel and pay Kate a call. Most times, when she knew he was scheduled for late duty, she would be waiting for him in her office, where they would visit and have a drink together—wine for Kate, bourbon for Firestick.
Occasionally, Kate would already be retired to her private apartment on the second floor and Firestick would join her there. Although they were two adults unbound by any other commitments and had every right to consort with one another as they saw fit, they nevertheless kept these visits as discreet as possible. Despite the attraction between them being recognized by a number of folks around town, they chose to play the whole thing pretty close to the vest.
This
