Firestick. William W. Johnstone

7

      Cleve Boynton was in no hurry to get back to the Box T.

      Oh, he was anxious enough to crawl into his bunk and grab himself a stretch of shut-eye at the end of a long day, that much was true. But the part that would have to come beforehand—him telling Boss Tolsvord about how Marshal Firestick had the Dunlaps and Woolsey locked up in jail and wasn’t planning on releasing them until he’d kept them for a spell and received a stiff fine—that was the part he was in no hurry for. Tolsvord was bound to holler like a scalded dog.

      Not that he’d be hollering at Boynton, exactly, but the ramrod would have to stand there and listen to it all the same. And the hardest part of all would be acting like he had a shred of sympathy for the three damn fools, when all the while he actually didn’t blame the marshal for throwing those bumbling clowns in the clink. He wouldn’t even mind too much if Firestick kept them there for good.

      Boynton couldn’t let on about such feelings, of course. And, while it was true the trio was half-assed, at best, when it came to doing any work around the ranch, they were still three sets of hands he’d have to get by without in the days to come. But Boynton could shift the rest of the crew around in order to manage that. All he really had to get past was breaking the news to Tolsvord.

      For the sake of putting off this unenviable yet inevitable task, Boynton had hung around town after leaving the jail, until dusk was starting to settle in. Since the Box T was a couple hours’ ride from Buffalo Peak, that meant it would be dark by the time he made it back. But that was no problem; he had a trusty horse under him, and they both knew the way well enough, even in the dark.

      For a little while, as he rode along, Boynton toyed with the hope that maybe he’d find Tolsvord turned in early so he could hold off telling him anything until tomorrow. But that was no good, not really. If he stalled and didn’t get 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