Ralph Compton Doomsday Rider Page 24

  But Fletcher knew Stark was capable of putting a bullet into his back, and it could be explained away later as a lucky shot from an Indian marksman.

  Earlier Stark had been shrewd enough to realize that they needed every rifle for the defense of the wagons, but now that threat had passed, Fletcher was fair game.

  The gunfighter loosened his Colts in their holsters, his eyes on Stark. If the man made any sudden move with his rifle he’d be ready . . . and to hell with Hickok.

  Shortly before midnight the women, including the countess and her maids, delivered food to the defenders. Estelle brought Fletcher a thick beef sandwich and a bottle of Bass Ale, Wild Bill Hickok’s favorite brew.

  The girl looked pale and drawn, the strain of the past days beginning to tell on her.

  “Stay close to the other women, Estelle,” Fletcher whispered, his gaze on Falcon Stark. “There are a lot of stray bullets flying around.”

  The girl grabbed at his meaning and nodded. “I caught him looking at me, Buck. I saw only hate in his eyes. He looked like a . . . a . . . demon.”

  Fletcher bit into his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments, then said, “If you can’t convince Grant, I don’t think either of us will get out of here alive. I believe your father will manufacture an incident and Bill Hickok will make his play. Maybe the teamsters will join him, and that will make for some long odds.”

  Fletcher’s face was bleak. “Estelle, I don’t know if I can shade Hickok, and I sure as hell don’t care to try unless I’m really put to it.”

  Estelle’s face was stiff, her eyes accusing. “Do you want me to back off, forget the whole thing?”

  “I don’t. We’ve come this far and we might as well let the cards fall where they may.” Fletcher forced a smile. “Hell, we’ve been in tighter spots than this and come through.”

  “No, we haven’t,” Estelle said.

  Head held high, she turned on her heel and walked back to the countess and her maids.

  Twenty-seven

  The butler who had been struck by an arrow died during the night, and a shot from the darkness drew blood from the cheek of one of the teamsters.

  But when the long night faded to a gray, snowy dawn, the Indians had gone, carrying their dead with them.

  The reason for their hasty retreat became apparent an hour later when a troop of Buffalo Soldiers led by a middle-aged white captain trotted up to the wagon circle.

  The officer sent half his troop to pursue the hostiles, and the remaining soldiers dismounted and formed a perimeter around the wagons, carbines at the ready.

  A fire was lit and soon the odors of coffee and frying bacon hung in the air as the surviving muleskinners hitched up their teams and hauled the wagons into column, this time the lead wagon pointing north.

  The cavalry captain, a man named Ward, was taking no chances. He would escort the president back to Fort Hays.

  Fletcher stepped to the fire and spread his cold hands to the flames. The cook who’d been stung by the bullet, looking ruffled and unhappy, handed him a cup of coffee, and Fletcher accepted it gratefully.

  Falcon Stark was standing with Grant, Ward, the other senator, and Count Vorishilov. Stark still held his .44.40 Winchester, and Fletcher noted that the hammer of the piece was eared back, ready to go.

  “I’m sorry our trip ended so badly, Count,” Grant was saying. “Perhaps our next hunt will provide better sport.”

  The Russian smiled. “Mr. President, I believe I’ve had all the sport I need for some time to come. In fact, I must admit I’m quite looking forward to getting back to the safer environs of St. Petersburg, where there are no Indians.”

  The men around the count laughed, and Fletcher was struck by the contrast between the tall, elegant aristocrat in his tailored uniform and Grant. The president wore a shabby army greatcoat in Confederate gray, and a battered old campaign hat. His boots were scuffed and down at heel and a long, green muffler looped carelessly around his neck. Fletcher reckoned you could buy Grant’s entire wardrobe for two dollars and get fifty cents’ change back.

  Now Grant was staring hard at him, his smile vanished, and when Fletcher returned his look, the president inclined his head, nodding to a spot near the lead wagon where there was no one around.

  Grant made a polite apology to the others and walked over to the wagon, and Fletcher followed, aware that Falcon Stark’s hostile eyes were burning into him every step of the way.

  The president took the cigar from between his teeth and studied Fletcher for a few long moments. Finally he shook his head slowly and said, keeping his voice low, “Major Fletcher, I’ve been hearing some very distressing reports about you and, quite frankly, I’m appalled.”

  “From Stark?”

  “Yes, from the senator and others. And I do read the newspapers, Major.”

  “I believe I know what you’ve heard, Mr. President,” Fletcher replied. He smiled, his face grim. “And it’s all a pack of damn lies.”

  “I’m sure that is the case,” Grant said, “but nonetheless, two cold-blooded murders, one committed during a jail-break, are serious charges indeed.” He fixed Fletcher with a cold stare, his blue eyes suddenly hard. “Major, I wish you to accompany me to Fort Hays, and there you will turn yourself over to the civilian authorities. I swear I will do everything in my power to help you.” He waved a hand toward the remounted Buffalo Soldiers, who were now deploying on each side of the wagon column. “Now, I’d rather not resort to force. But be assured, if need be I will.”

  “I’ll go along with you,” Fletcher said, the utter hopelessness of his situation dawning on him. “I don’t see that I have much choice.”

  Grant nodded. “You haven’t.” He extended his hands. “Now, your pistols, if you please.”

  Fletcher moved his hands slowly to his guns, but Estelle’s shrill, angry voice froze him in midmovement. Grant’s head snapped around in time to see the girl walking purposefully toward Falcon Stark.

  In Tennessee, the hill folk called what was about to happen a shiriking—the moment when an angry woman, in front of witnesses, confronts a man she believes has wronged her.

  Fletcher had heard of the shiriking, but now he was seeing and hearing it for the first time.

  “I’m alive, Father,” Estelle called out. “Your hired gunmen tried to kill me but they failed.” She turned, seeking Fletcher, and pointed at him. “And the only reason they failed was because of him, the man you wanted to blame for my death.”

  The blood slowly drained from Stark’s face and the man’s eyes were wild. “Estelle, what nonsense is this? Against my wishes you fled to Arizona with a dangerous lunatic and he’s poisoned your mind against me.”

  “The Chosen One is dead, Father, just like my child is dead. It was your hired gunmen who killed my baby, but the real murderer was you!”

  Stark took a step toward his daughter. “You poor, demented creature, what has the man standing over there, the convicted killer Buck Fletcher, done to you? You don’t know what you’re saying anymore.”

  Estelle stood her ground, her eyes blazing. “You sent that animal Wes Slaughter into the Tonto Basin after me. You wanted me dead so the disgrace of my marriage to the Chosen One and my pregnancy would not jeopardize your bid for the presidency.”

  The girl moved closer to Stark, her face a stiff, angry mask. “I was heavy with child when Slaughter made me ride a horse over some of the roughest country on God’s earth. I pleaded with him. I told him I could lose my child. And do you know what he did, Father? He laughed. He laughed in my face and told me that Senator Stark wanted the bastard in my belly dead anyway.”

  “This is an outrage!” Stark screamed. He looked around the circle of faces surrounding him, seeking support, but found none. He pointed a trembling finger at Fletcher. “You put her up to this, you damned outlaw and killer.”

  The others had crowded closer, their faces a mix of shock, disbelief, and horror, and Countess Vorishilov was clutching her throat
, her eyes wide, unable to comprehend what she was hearing.

  Then Grant did something that stunned Fletcher, something so remarkable and unexpected he would remember it for the rest of his life.

  “Major Fletcher,” the president snapped, his eyes on Stark, hostile and calculating, “is all this true?”

  Fletcher had never considered even the remote possibility that Grant, though a soldier’s soldier, would still consider him an officer and gentleman despite everything he’d been told. But it did not seem to enter Grant’s thinking that a former major in the United States Army, a man who had served his country honorably and well, would lie.

  “What Estelle says is true, sir,” Fletcher said. “Every word of it—and more.”

  “Then tell it to me, man,” Grant said. “Make your report, sir.”

  Fletcher knew Grant, and he was aware that the general had never cared for long-winded dispatches. In as few words as possible, he described what had transpired between his being sent to prison for a crime he did not commit, his visit to Stark’s home in Lexington, and the present.

  He left nothing out, including his imprisonment by General Crook and his killing of Wes Slaughter, the man who had set him up for the murder of the Wyoming sheriff. And when it was over he summed it up by saying, “I believe Falcon Stark is a murderer, a man corrupted by power, greed, and ambition, and such a man should never be allowed to become president of this nation.”

  Stark had listened to all this, his face growing paler with every word. Now, ashen, his half-mad eyes blazing, he took a couple of steps toward Grant.

  “He talks about me being a murderer! Look at her! Look at Estelle! She murdered my wife, the only woman I ever loved. She killed her! She took her from me. My darling died from the terrible disease she gave her, and where was the justice? Where was the justice there, Mr. President? Better Estelle had died.” He swung on the girl. “No, better by far if you’d never been born.”

  Stark walked toward Estelle, his rifle clutched in white-knuckled fists. “You killed my wife and I killed your child. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That almost evens the score. But now there’s this!”

  Falcon Stark began to raise his rifle, finally stepping over the fine line between sanity and madness. Estelle reached in the pocket of her mackinaw and came up with a .41-caliber derringer, the one Fletcher had seen in the sutler’s store at Fort Apache.

  Now he knew what had happened to his missing twenty dollars.

  The girl fired as Stark’s rifle swung level with his waist, and when the bullet hit, the man stumbled a single step backward. “Bitch!” he shrieked. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, and Fletcher heard Estelle’s gun click on a dud round.

  Fletcher drew and fired just as Stark pulled the trigger. The man’s bullet went wild, but he swung the Winchester back on Estelle, and Fletcher hammered three fast shots into him. Stark, snarling, his mouth twisted with hate, went down on his knees, then fell flat on his face.

  Where the hell was Hickok?

  Fletcher felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He let out a wild, despairing cry: “Bill!”

  He turned, trying to locate the gunfighter. But Hickok was not making a play. He stood with his hands spread wide, away from his guns. “It’s over, Buck!” Hickok yelled, his voice urgent. “Listen to me, it’s over.”

  It took Fletcher a few moments for the hammering of his heart to subside. Then his shoulders slumped and he holstered his Colt.

  Estelle ran into Fletcher’s arms and he held her close, hearing a thud as the derringer slipped from her hand and hit the hard, frozen ground.

  “It is over, isn’t it, Buck?” she asked, her tearstained face lifted to his own.

  Fletcher nodded, glancing over at the dead man. “It’s over. Falcon Stark was a tormented creature, and in the end his own hate and ambition drove him to madness.”

  “I can’t stop hating him, Buck,” Estelle said. “He was my father and he gave me life, but I’ll never stop hating him.”

  “That you can’t do, Estelle,” Fletcher said, his voice gentle. “Hate will eat you up from the inside like a cancer.” He kissed the girl on her forehead. “Let it go. Just try to let it go.”

  “I’m letting you go, Major Fletcher,” Grant said, one foot in the stirrup as he prepared to mount and follow the retreating wagons. “I promise you, I plan to order a full investigation of your case, including the actions of the prison warden and the circumstances leading to the death of that young lieutenant.”

  “His name was 2nd Lt. Elisha Simpson,” Fletcher said, a small elegy for a man he barely knew.

  Grant nodded. “I will clear your name, Major. That you may depend on.”

  Fletcher smiled. “Mr. President, I’m no longer a major. I’m just plain old Buck Fletcher.”

  Grant swung into the saddle and touched his hat brim. “Till we meet again . . . Major.”

  He followed the wagons and didn’t look back.

  Fletcher turned to Estelle, who was standing at her horse’s head, the reins in her hands.

  “Better get going,” he said. “The snow’s getting thicker and you could lose the wagons.”

  “Come with me, Buck,” Estelle said, her eyes urgent and pleading. “Once I’ve talked to my father’s lawyers and settled the estate, you can return with me to Arizona. I want you riding at my side when I continue the Chosen One’s work among the Apaches. Buck, you’ll help me spread the word. You’ll be my Doomsday Rider.”

  Fletcher grinned and shook his head. “Estelle, I’m not cut out to be a preacher. I’ve got places to go, a lot of places I’ve never seen before, and I’ve got things to do.”

  “Change your mind, Buck. Please come with me.” Estelle took Fletcher’s big, callused hand and raised it to her lips. “I think, given time, I could love you, Buck. I know I could.”

  Gently, Fletcher removed his hand from the girl’s grasp. He walked to the stirrup of Estelle’s horse and held it for her. “Time to go, Estelle. You can’t let those wagons get too far ahead of you.”

  The girl put her foot in the stirrup then swung into the saddle. She looked down at Fletcher. “If you change your mind, will you come after me?”

  “Maybe. Just don’t count on it too much.”

  “I’ll be looking for you, Buck. I’ll be watching my back trail every hour of every day. I owe you so much, I want to spend my lifetime repaying it.” She smiled. “One day I’ll turn my head and you’ll be there.”

  “Hasta luego, Estelle,” Fletcher said. He slapped the rump of the girl’s horse and stood there as she rode away.

  He kept his eyes on Estelle until she was swallowed up by distance and the falling curtain of the silent snow . . . and even after that, he continued to watch a long time longer.

  Twenty-eight

  Two weeks later, a long wind blowing at his back, Buck Fletcher crossed into the Colorado Territory and rode into the foothills of the Rockies.

  He crossed Chico Creek, and directly ahead of him soared the snow-covered bulk of Pike’s Peak. Fletcher stopped in the shelter of a stand of mixed aspen and Douglas fir and built himself a smoke.

  He had no clear idea where he was headed, but the supplies he’d gotten from President Grant were fast running out, and he’d soon have to make a decision.

  To the north was Denver, and as he smoked he figured that was as good a choice as any, though he did not much care for cities and their crowds and less for sleeping under a hotel roof.

  But Denver it would be.

  Fletcher tossed the butt of his cigarette into the snow, then left the trees and swung north, keeping Cherry Creek to his right. The peaks of the mountains to the west were covered in snow, and a few flakes drifted in the wind. It was bitter cold and he huddled in his mackinaw, his breath smoking in the frigid air.

  That night he camped in a stand of cottonwood on a bend of the creek, ate a hasty supper washed down with twice-boiled coffee, and was glad to seek the warmth of his blankets.

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sp; Around him the land lay empty and silent, but for the calling of the coyotes and the wind whispering through the branches of the cottonwoods. There was no moon because the sky was covered in cloud and the air smelled of pine and of dark-shadowed ravines and of loneliness.

  Fletcher rose before daybreak, drank the last of his coffee, and saddled up. He figured he was fifty miles from Denver, and behind the rocky escarpment to his west must lie the South Platte, and beyond the river, Bison Peak and the majestic, pine covered Tarryall Mountains.

  The night was being washed out by a gray dawn as he rode through a valley between two shallow hills and emerged once again onto the flat, the creek shining in the distance under a watery sun.

  Fletcher swung his horse to the west, closer to the mountains and the tree line. The snow was deeper there, and drifting some, but the slopes would provide more shelter from the wind.

  He rode across a patch of sandy, barren ground, studded here and there by shrubs of mountain mahogany, the place shielded from the worst of the snow by a rocky overhang, and headed once again into open country.

  The snow here was deeper, up to his horse’s knees, and the going was slower.

  Fletcher glanced to his left and saw a jutting outcropping of gray rock, surrounded by a jumble of massive boulders that must have tumbled down the slope in some cataclysm in ancient times. A few stunted spruce grew in the spaces between the rocks and here and there a tangle of blackberry bushes that would fruit in the early summer.

  He had chosen this route unwisely. The going was too heavy and it was tiring his horse. He swung the stud to the east, planning to ride back toward the creek where the wind would blow harder but the snow would be less deep. Above him, the clouds were building into towering ramparts, broken down in places like the colossal walls of a besieged city, and the snow was falling thicker.

  The wind tugged at Fletcher’s mackinaw, blowing the mane of his horse, and the only sound was the jangle of the bit and the soft footfalls of his mount in the snow.