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BUCKLETT'S PURSUIT
A Western Novel
By JIM WORKMAN
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2013 Jim Workman
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4817-0589-9
Chapter One
The three men urged the weary mounts forward, topping a rise to survey the clapboarded town below. A river flowing beside the town was a welcome sight. Both men and beasts had been pushing relentlessly since leaving the Red River Crossing. Wind, dust and tumbleweeds had been constant companions to the dry, dusty travelers.
Will glanced at the two men beside him. It felt right to be in their company, right and good. It would have never occurred to him to put voice to these thoughts, nor was it necessary. He knew without being told that both Dain and Booger Red held him in the same regard.
Will tugged at the ties holding his battered Confederate Cavalry hat. He brought his forearm across his face, only managing to displace the coating of dust. "Is that Tascosa, Booger Red?" He asked.
"Huh, that it," Booger Red managed to say against the strong wind. He remembered the frontier town from some years back when he had accompanied Salas Bucklett on one of his trips out west.
"Think Pa might still be here, Will?" Dain asked with hope in his voice.
"Don't know," Will answered. "Let's go find out. Besides, if we don't get these horses to water soon, we may find our backsides meeting some tumbleweed."
Slowly, they clucked the horses forward. As they approached town, the pace of the horses quickened with the animals' instinct that water, food, and rest awaited them.
Unpainted, clapboard building lined the single dust-swirling street. By the time they pulled up in front of the livery stable at the edge of town, a few windows began emitting a soft, orange glow. Somewhere, a well pulley strained under a rhythmic squeak. A dog yapped, the sound dying in the quiet solitude. A few cow ponies stood hip-shot at the hitching rail in front of the town's only saloon.
Opening one of the double doors of the stable, Dain gave a hello for the hostler. A short, wiry stubble of an old cow puncher came limping from the interior of the barn.
"Been drawing water for the trough out back. Saw ya'll on the ridge-line up there. Figure ya'd want to wash the dust out of ya craw." He gave them a quizzical look. "It'll be four bits a hoss; all the oats, hay, and water them can hold. Two bits a man to bunk in the loft. Water in the trough out back so ya can wash up, ya wants more ya'll draw it yourself. Ya'll pay in advance." He thrust out a weathered old punchers palm.
Dain counted out some money for the old man. "There's some extra there for rubbing them down. They've come a good ways and are a mite wore down."
Slightly offended, the old man scowled, "They'll get no better treatment in the great state of Texas. I know good hoss flesh when I see it. I ain't blind. And I'll tell ya another thing: don't even think about calling me Limpy. Name's Shorty. I've been known to take offense at anything else. Last man to call me Limpy had to unbuckle his belt from around his neck for a long time to come."
Shorty's audience looked at him in silence. Each was willing to take him at his word. The wiry strength they saw was there in spite of age. His life of hard work held him in good stead. He would not be a man to be dismissed lightly if riled.
"Okay, Shorty. No problem here," Will said, suppressing a grin. "Now, would you mind going to the trouble of pointing out where we might get a bite of grub?"
"Bess's Café is the best there is between Abilene and Santa Fe. She lies on a feed bag heavy for a cowpoke. She's just up the street on the other side," he pointed out. "She'll welcome you, too." He paused with a small gleam in his eyes. "But you can't go there."
"Why is that?" Will asked?
"She's closed. Closes at sundown, but she'll be open early for breakfast. And she got grits, biscuits and such." Shorty raised his eyebrows. "If you want to eat tonight, you'll have to get it at the saloon. The beef could be a mite tough at times, but the beans are good. Mexican beans, they is."
"Might not want to go there though," he nodded toward Booger Red. "Some folks ain't too partial to Indians around here. Especially since Black Kettle's young bucks been raising hell, raiding and stealin' horses over in the Nations. Those heathens were a-murdering women, kidnapping young'uns and all. Damn sure raising cane since Chivington massacred that bunch up at Sand Creek."
"Booger Red is our friend. Where we go, he goes," Will stated. "It's as simple as that."
"Your problem," Shorty shrugged.
The wind had lost very little of its strength as the three men pushed open the weathered double doors to the saloon. A dust-laden strong, gust slapped the door out of Will's hand and slammed it against the wall. Gritty dust and wind filled the saloon; playing cards went flying around the room as well as a few hats.
"Shut the darn door," someone yelled. "Where the hell was you born, in a damn barn?"
Men scrambled to pick up their cards and hats which had blown to the floor, while the other occupants turned to stare angrily at the annoying intruders.
"Howdy folks," Will said by way of an apology. "Didn't mean to barge in on you boys unannounced, so to speak, but Shorty down at the livery stable was saying how a traveler might get a decent meal and something to wash the dust on down a man's gullet?"
Will really didn't expect a friendly response, nor did he receive any answer to his greeting. However, the tension seemed to ease somewhat, and after a few moments mumbling conversation returned to near normal. Still, the three drew a few curious scowls as they seated themselves at one of the empty plank tables.
Will lowered his six-foot plus frame onto a cane bottom straight back, which groaned under his solid, rock-hard frame, he suddenly became aware the rickety chair threaten to collapse with any excess movement. The table, assembled from rough hewn timbers, also wobbled shockingly as they seated themselves.
The bartender wiped his short, stubby hands on an apron hanging from his thick waist as he approached their table. His walk resembled nothing less than a constipated duck. The expression on his face revealed a like nature.
"We don't allow Indians to stinks up the place," he sneered. Swinging his beady eyes around the table, they came to rest on Booger Red. "He'll have to go outside."
Dain lifted his head. His ice blue eyes penetrated the bartender's massive bulk, causing him to step back from the table.
"Barkeep, from the smell of this place, I bet I could move a whole Cheyenne tribe in here complete with horses, dogs and the like, and it would be a hell of a great improvement," Dain said frigidly.
Will, knowing his brother was building a head full of stream, decided to interrupt. "I'm sure you would like to keep your establishment, such as it is, in its present state of repair," Will stated. "I'll be right friendly and give you some advice. It would be downright foolish for you to refuse to feed us," Will continued as though he were explaining to a child. "It's our upbringing to be real sociable, except when we're hungry, of course. Then our dispositions could be compared to an irritated razorback hog. Truthfully, we're mighty hungry right now. We've been hungry ever since we left Arkansas. You might want to see that we have a pot of hot, black coffee, and three cups while we're waiting for those steak and beans. And I'm sure, you being a reasonable person; you won't keep us waiting too long for our food."
There was a flurry of snickers and light laughter as the scowling bartender went to the stove and returned with coffee and cups.
"You were going to ask about Pa?" Dain asked impatiently.
"Take it easy," Will answer, looking around the room. "There is a time and place for everything. Most folks like to hear themselves talk, especially without being asked."
Each of the coal oil wall lamps hanging on the walls gave off a soft, orange glow. Occupied tables and chairs were scattered throughout the room. Toward the rear of the room five men sat at one of the tables. Two of the men were no doubt storekeepers. The others were obviously cowhands, with wide-brimmed, sweat-stained hats, thorn-scarred chaps and much faded shirts and vest long overdue for the washtub. A fifth man, straddling a straight back chair with his back to the wall, kept glancing toward Will's table. Will couldn't help but notice the Union Blue Cavalry hat pulled low over his eyes. Will had no doubt he was taking note of Will's Confederate clothes. Probably can't let the war die, Will thought. Most people wanted to forget, but there were still a few diehards that couldn't let go for one reason or another.
Shorty came into the saloon just as the bartender placed three heaping plates of food before the three hungry men. Shorty gave a nod in greeting and went on to the bar.
The steaks might have been a little tough as Shorty had said, but they were so hungry they didn't notice. The beans were hot, hot, and hotter. Will was sure his teeth were going to fall out since the beans were burning away his gums. Dain was certain his nose hairs were burning and would never grow back. Booger Red, more accustomed to fiery food, thought they were damn good; yep, damn good.
The card game suddenly broke up and the two cowhands ambled over to the bar. They were talking to Shorty, in what sounded like a disagreement over something or other, when the front door flew open. Dust and wind again filled the saloon.
The newcomer slammed the doors with a few choice words of vicious frustration. He glanced around the saloon, his gaze lingering momentarily on Will, Dain and Booger Red. He stepped up to the bar, and was soon joined by the man wearing the Union Cavalry hat. Will immediately noticed that men both were sporting tied down holsters. The bartender sat drinks before them, and they began speaking in low tones, occasionally throwing sidewise glances toward Will and his partners. They were leaving little doubt who they were discussing. The last thing Will wanted was trouble.
Booger Red finished his meal, gave a healthy burp and stated he was going to spread his blankets in the loft at the livery after checking their horses. Will and Dain moved up to the bar and ordered whiskey. The barkeep reached under the bar and brought forth a half-filled bottle of amber liquid. He blew the dust out of a couple of glasses, set them on the bar and turned back to the far end of the bar.
All heads turned toward the door as another man entered with a blast of cold wind. Quickly closing the door, he said, "Howdy, boys. Gonna be frost on the pumpkin in the morning. It's getting down right frigid out tonight." Backing up to the potbellied stove, he glanced around the room and along the bar. His eyes lingered more than a moment on the two men at the end of the bar, and came to rest on Will and Dain. He didn't miss the Henry rifle which Dain had placed on the bar.
"You men strangers in town?" he asked, but his tone was more of a statement than a question.
Will noticing the badge on the man's chest, said, "That depends; I've known this gent beside me for quite a spell. We're slightly acquainted with Shorty here, and we paid our particular howdy to the friendly barkeep, although, I didn't catch his name." Will turned his back to the bar giving the man a level look. "We don't look for trouble, but we don't shuck around it either."
"Well now," he began his voice amiable. "That's a right pretty speech, and if you stick with it, we'll get along just fine. My name's Langley; I'm the city marshal here. Run a quiet town, and want not trouble of any kind from anyone. If there is, they answer to me." He paused for a moment, rubbing his backside. "Hey, Pete," he called, "give me some of that creek water you call whiskey. I've got my rear end thawed; now I'd like to warm my gut."
"We're not looking for trouble," Dain stated. "We're looking for a man."
Suddenly, without exception, all conversation came to a stop. Dain had the undivided attention of everyone in the saloon.
"We're looking for our pa, Salas Bucklett," Dain explained. "I'm Dain Bucklett and this big fellow's my brother, Will Bucklett. We've come a far piece from the hill country of Arkansas to find him. We're thinking; in fact we're pretty sure, Pa was here sometime back. We're hoping we might have some luck picking up his trail here in Tascosa."
"Don't recall anyone by that name," Langley said. "How about you, Shorty?"
Shorty shook his head.
"What about any of you other men?" Langley asked, looking around the room.
"Can't say as I have," one of the cowhands answered, shaking his head. "You, Hank?" he asked, looking at his partner.
"Nope, not unless he looks' like a cow's butt. That's all I've seen. Even see 'em in my dreams." Hank muttered.
"It would most likely be about a month or so back," Will inform them. "A tall, slim fellow, about our size, carries a scar on the right side of his chin, sort of graying at the temples, packs a walrus mustache."
"Say, Marshal," Shorty began, snapping his fingers. "You remember about three to four weeks ago? There was that bunch which same riding in here with the highfalutin' woman? She rode sidesaddle and looked like she just stepped out of a storybook. You remember, don't ya, Marshal?"
"They were only riding through and just stopping for supplies," the marshal recalled. "They rode on out to the north. They were only here for a few hours."
"Something funny about that bunch anyway," Shorty murmured.
"How was that?" Will asked.
"Let's see, as I recall, there were four which rode in, but there were five of them which rode out of town," Shorty answered. "There were three men and then that there lady woman. They separated; one gent and the woman went to Spred's store where they most likely supplied up. The man rode ramrod straight and wore a fancy, black flock coat. I talked to Spred later and he was telling me that there female was one fine lady. But mighty cold, so much so icicles would have dropped off her nose in a summer rain storm. He was saying the gent was a right touchy bastard, giving orders like he was use to having them followed with no questions asked."
"What was so all fired funny about that, Shorty?" Will asked, getting impatient.
"Well, it seemed a little bit peculiar to me," Shorty continued. "Those other two men, seedy looking pokes, they was, sort of stayed out of sight down behind the stables by the old barnyard, which burned down a while back. They didn't go to the saloon, café or in anywhere else, as I recollect. Then when the man and woman left Spred's they rode right straight out of town, due north." Shorty's hands waved this way and that as he continued to explain. "Couple of minutes later, here goes the other two rangy hombres riding like the devil was prodding their coattails. Only now, there were three riders. One of them was a leading the third mans horse, and I couldn't swear to it, but I do believe his partner had a six-gun in his paw. They were moving out mighty fast, so I didn't get a good gander at the tall man's face, but he sat tall in the saddle. His hair might have been graying somewhat. He did have bushy whiskers, best I could tell."
There was silence for a minute as Shorty took a long swig of his beer.
"You never mentioned all this to me, Shorty," the marshal said, as though he felt short-changed.
"Well, no shot were fired," Shorty said in defense. "Didn't seem all that important to me at the time."
Snyder, one of the ranch hands who had been listening intently, said, "I wouldn't want to put you boys on the wrong trail, but some weeks back the boss sent me in to pick up the mail. While I was visiting in Spred's, there was a man there who you might be looking for. Best I can recollect, he sounds like your man. Don't mean to get your hopes up, but the description fits like a glove."
"How long ago did you say that was?" Will turned to Snyder.
"Right after the big sandstorm we had through here which tried to blow New Mexico over to the Kansas Territory, whenever that was," Snyder said.
"That'd be about three, four week, or so ago," volunteered Langley.
"Time matches," Dain concluded.
The sound of coins falling to the bar broke the conversation. The two strangers at the far end of the bar were leaving. Will and Dain studied the two men carefully until the door closed behind them.
Langley noticed Will's interest in the two, and said, "You might want to watch those two hombres. Unless I miss my guess, they're pure poison. They've been hanging around town for some time now. They've been camping down on the Canadian. Ain't done nothing wrong yet, so I got no cause to run 'em out of town, but I'm keeping my eyes on them. They say they're waiting to join up with a trail herd that's supposed to be coming up. But I ain't heard of drive being rounded up, and I'd of most likely got the word by now. But a drive this time of year it being so late? I really doubt it. They could be up to no good."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from BUCKLETT'S PURSUIT by JIM WORKMAN Copyright © 2013 by Jim Workman. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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