Jim’s dead?”
“That’s right, he’s passed on, and without any family or other heirs, you were the only one he named in his will.”
“Jim’s gone,” Ben stated. “That’s sad news, I reckon, but knowin’ Jim, I expect he’s more’n ready for whatever was waitin’ for him. So you say this letter was what this was all about? Jim left me something in his will?” He paused to wonder what it could be. “I used to admire a saddle he used to have pretty much, maybe he remembered that. What did he leave me?”
“A saloon,” Spencer said.
Ben hesitated, not sure he had heard correctly. A long moment passed while he waited for Spencer to explain. “I thought you said a saloon,” he said.
“I did,” Spencer replied. “You are the new owner of the Lost Coyote Saloon in Buzzard’s Bluff, Texas. I’ve got the deed right here to prove you are the owner. Do you know where Buzzard’s Bluff is?”
“Well, sure, I know where Buzzard’s Bluff is, but I ain’t been there since they grew up a town there. It’s right where Buzzard’s Bluff strikes the Navasota River. The last time I was there, there wasn’t nothin’ but a tradin’ post and a fellow with a blacksmith shop.” He paused while he pictured it. “But that was four, maybe five years ago.”
“Evidently, it’s a lot bigger than that now,” Spencer said, as he pulled a legal folder from a desk drawer. It contained some papers for Ben to sign. “According to what I’ve seen, the saloon is operating at a profit.”
Just beginning to realize what was about to transpire, Ben balked. “I don’t know anything about runnin’ a saloon. I’m ridin’ with a Ranger company. That’s what I know how to do. Can I sell it, if I want to?”
“You can do whatever you want with it,” Spencer answered. “It’s yours. But if you want my advice, you might want to take a ride to Buzzard’s Bluff to see what you’ve got. I know that Mr. Vickers had been ill for quite some time, and the saloon is still doing well. So there’s evidently someone managing it.”
“I don’t know.” Ben was still very much against owning a saloon. “Maybe whoever that is that’s managing it would wanna buy it.”
“You do yourself a favor, go there, and look it over. Then decide. We’ll just sign these papers and you’ll be all set.”
“You want me to sign before we go over and let Captain Mitchell tell you I’m Ben Savage?”
“Yes,” Spencer said. “Hell, I believe you’re Ben Savage.”
* * *
It was going to take a while before he could realize that he had just walked into a lawyer’s office and a saloon literally fell on him. When he left Spencer’s office, he felt the need to visit just such an establishment as the one he had inherited. He thought about Jim Vickers, an older, experienced Ranger who had taken raw recruit Ben Savage under his wing. He had no idea that Jim had built a saloon after he retired from the Rangers. Now, he felt remiss for not keeping in touch. He had always thought a lot of Jim, but he was astonished to find that Jim thought so much of him that he would leave him an operating business. As soon as that thought entered his mind, another one struck him. How in the world could I manage a business? He stopped in the first saloon he came to.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked when Ben stepped up to the bar, while looking the barroom over. It was a small saloon and empty except for one customer sitting slumped over at a table.
His attention returning to the bartender then, Ben ordered a shot of corn whiskey. Nodding toward the man slumped in the chair, he said to the bartender, “Looks like you ain’t too busy this time of day.”
“We never are,” the bartender said. “Ol’ Charlie, there, is the only customer I’ve had before you this mornin’. He’s got a couple of pals that usually show up, but I ain’t seen ’em today. It’s got to where it don’t take but three or four shots before Charlie passes out. He’s had three this mornin’ and his head’s almost down all the way. When his chin rests on his chest, I usually wake him up and tell him it’s time to go home.”
“Don’t seem like you can make much money with business as slow as this,” Ben speculated aloud.
“I reckon not, if it was like this all day long,” the bartender replied, “but it’ll soon start in about an hour or so. You gonna have another’n?”
“I believe I will,” Ben answered. “Just one more. I ain’t much for drinkin’ in the mornin’, but this mornin’ I’m in the mood for a couple of shots of whiskey.”
“Is that right? What happened? Did your wife tell you she’s leavin’ or something?”
Ben chuckled and replied, “Nope, I ain’t got that kinda trouble. I just found out I own a saloon, and I don’t know the first damn thing about runnin’ one.”
“No foolin’?” the bartender asked. “Here in town?”
“Nope. Buzzard’s Bluff,” Ben answered.
“Buzzard’s Bluff? Where the hell is that?”
“About ninety miles northwest of here on the Navasota River, and I just made up my mind that I’m gonna head out that way this mornin’.” That said, he paid for his whiskey and left his second shot untouched. The bartender shook his head, amazed when Ben walked out the door, so he picked up the drink and downed it himself.
With his mind made up to ride to Buzzard’s Bluff right away, Ben went back by Randolph Mitchell’s office and told him he was going to take some time off to have a look at a piece of property he had been left in an old friend’s will. He didn’t tell him the property had a saloon on it that was his, as well. Mitchell was agreeable, “Take all the time you need,” he said. “I’ve been working you pretty hard for the last few weeks, so just come on back when you’re ready.”
“I ’preciate it, Capt’n,” Ben said. When he left Mitchell’s office, he got his horses and possibles ready to leave before noon. He planned to arrive in Buzzard’s Bluff at noon, two days later.
* * *
He had expected to ride forty-five miles a day, but both Cousin and his packhorse seemed to be willing to go farther. So he traveled about fifty-two miles, as close as he could figure, the first day. It shaved a little off the distance for the second day, so he crossed the river and arrived at the town of Buzzard’s Bluff a little before noon. Entering the south end of the town, built where Wolf Creek emptied into the Navasota, he pulled Cousin to a halt and took a look up the main street. It was hard to believe his eyes when he thought of the last time he had been there. In the length of the street, there were three two-story buildings. The first one was a hotel. He rode past to the next one which was obviously a saloon. However, when he stopped in front of it, he read THE GOLDEN RAIL on the sign. Competition, he thought. He didn’t linger for more than a few moments there, anxious to see his new property. He nudged Cousin and the big dun gelding walked him slowly up the main street while Ben looked at the stores and shops as he passed. When he came to the last two-story building in the center of the businesses, he stopped to read the sign, LOST COYOTE SALOON. Two large windows framed the batwing front door, and a porch ran the width of the front façade that was in need of some carpentry repairs at one end. While he watched, a couple of men that looked like ranch hands passed on either
