Bushedwhacked Groom (2 page)

Shit, he thought ruefully, this might well be his last excursion for ninety days to six months.

He spurred Gypsy and rode on, across plateaus and
into valleys, passing magnificent stone dikes, rushing
streams and pristine meadows, mountains green with aspen, balsam and firs. The day had warmed slightly,
and he spotted mule deer munching on weeds, horned
larks flitting through the purple and pink wildflowers, a
hawk circling overhead. The sun was bright, the sweet
scent of nectar intoxicating, the rush of his heartbeat
making him forget his troubles for a moment and just
feel grateful to be alive.

Closer to the ghost town, he spotted evidence of the
abandoned gold and silver mines in the area: a
broken-down train trestle zigzagging across a moun
tain pass; an abandoned sluice sagging on its sup
ports; a crumbling stamping mill slouched in a distant
valley. Beyond the next pass, Mariposa itself was just as
he remembered it, a long line of deserted shacks, dust
and tumbleweed, yucca plants spiking through the
splintered boardwalks, shattered windows rattling on weather-beaten facades and old doors creaking in the wind. He stared at the gray, sagging saloon, the roof
less abandoned church with steeple still proudly in
tact, the old schoolhouse that stood battered but
brave. The wind whistled a low dirge. He sighed. Once
upon a time this place had been full of life and hustle
and bustle. Whenever he passed through, he won
dered what it would have been like to have lived here
a century ago. Hell, in so many ways he was a man of
another age, a man of the Old West, just like his grand
dad. Maybe he belonged in a place like this, a place
where time didn’t seem to exist. There was a time, he
reflected ironically, when women were women, when
they honored and obeyed their men and shared their
old-fashioned values. Was it too much to hope for to
find a woman who respected her man—and herself?

Evidently it was, and he’d be spending a good spell in the calaboose contemplating this very injustice.

After he rode out of town and turned east, the land
scape grew increasingly craggy as he approached
Reklaw Gorge, the old
Cheyenne
burial ground and
outlaw hideout. The place was rumored to be
haunted. Lucky recalled that the ghostly legends had
gained new momentum five years earlier when a
young university professor had disappeared from a
stagecoach dispatched on an outing from the now-defunct Broken Buck Dude Ranch. Lucky remem
bered reading about the bizarre event in the
Buck
Hollow Rag.
Even though Jessica Garrett’s three com
panions and the driver had reappeared a few days
later, bringing back with them a journal purportedly
written by the professor herself and claiming she was
now happily living in the late 1880s, the woman’s par
ents had been appalled to hear that their daughter had
supposedly vanished into thin air. Not to mention the
fact that all four stagecoach survivors had come back
dazed and crazy. Why, they’d even claimed outlaws had attacked them and kidnapped Professor Garrett.
All four men had been committed to a psych ward for
observation, and several families had sued the Broken
Buck for negligence, forcing the dude ranch into
bankruptcy.

Lucky chuckled at the memory. The whole episode had been crazy as hell as far as he was concerned. But
then, sometimes strange things happened here in the
hills of
Colorado
.

Indeed, as Lucky nudged Gypsy onto a ridge over
looking Reklaw Gorge, he caught a curious sight on the
first step of the zigzag dike stretching beneath him.
There on an outcropping of volcanic rock was perched
the relic of an old stagecoach. He drew closer and dis
mounted, staring over the rim at the heap of wood and cast iron. Funny, he’d ridden this way before but had
never seen this strange conveyance.

The carriage was obviously old as the hills, a faded
yellow, its shell riddled with bullet holes and the
washed-out letters
l.l.
inscribed on its doors,
l.l.
Damn! Could this be a reference to Lila Lullaby, the in
famous
Colorado
City
cathouse madam, another legend in these parts? Lucky was amazed. Could this
actually be the celebrated old “parlor wagon” the
whore had used to fetch her girls out to service the
miners? The one the dude ranch had later bought and
renovated for taking guests on excursions? The very ve
hicle from which the young professoress had disap
peared? Had the ranch proprietor, Woody Lynch,
abandoned it here sometime after his enterprise had
failed?

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Lucky muttered.

Now intensely curious, he lowered himself onto the
ledge to have a closer look at the rattletrap conveyance.
One wagon wheel was missing, and three others stood
rusty and askew. Through one partially opened door he
caught a glimpse of moth-eaten, burgundy velvet up
holstery, and holes in the roof and floor. A musty, aged
smell emanated from the interior.

Lucky could only shake his head. Had Woody Lynch
really put the stagecoach here, or was this somebody
else’s idea of a joke?

He was closing the door when he flinched at the sound of hoofbeats approaching from above. He
scrambled back onto the ridge, only to watch a
stranger gallop toward him from the south. Reverting
to instinct, Lucky drew out his pistol. As the rider grew
closer, he caught a better look. Dressed in jeans, a
sheepskin coat and a beige Stetson, he appeared to be
in his late twenties and was pudgy, with a potbelly and
a round baby face. A harmless enough looking char
acter, definitely not the sheriff or anyone else Lucky
knew from these parts. Still, under the circumstances
he should exercise some caution.

Twenty yards from Lucky, the stranger pulled his
mount to a halt and grimaced comically at Lucky’s pis
tol. “Hey, mister, that’s a pretty unfriendly greeting,” he
began in a high-pitched voice.

Lucky stood his ground, waving his Colt menacingly.
“Who are you and what are you doing out here?”

The man gulped. “Cool down, will you, neighbor?
I’m Grover Singleton, and I’m here visiting with my
folks at their ranch south of Buck Hollow.”

“Singleton?” Lucky asked with a frown. “Never heard
of any Singletons in these parts.”

“My family hasn’t lived here very long.” The man ex
tended a hand in pleading. “Look, mister, would you
mind lowering that gun? You’re making me nervous as
hell.”

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing way out
here.”

As the man’s brown horse snorted, Grover Singleton
glanced around in bewilderment. “Well, I went for a
ride and got lost. Then I spotted your horse and hoped
I’d found someone who could steer me back in the
right direction.”

Lucky gave a laugh. “Since I’ve never heard of your
people, that’s unlikely. Don’t you have a cell phone?”

“Nope.” He grinned sheepishly. “Truth to tell, I ain’t
that fond of modern technology.”

Lucky had to smile, for he’d clearly met a kindred
spirit. “Me neither. I like to get away from civilization,
not bring it closer.”

“Amen.” The stranger cleared his throat. “Still, if I
don’t return to the ranch soon, my folks are bound to
worry. Can you at least tell me how to get back to Buck
Hollow so I can call them from there?”

Lucky shook his head ruefully and shoved his pistol
into his waist. This numbskull was no threat. “Sure. Why
not?”

The man grinned in obvious relief and dismounted.
Stepping closer to Lucky, he eyed him curiously. “When
I rode up I saw you climbing up from that gorge. Any
reason?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah. Come have a look at this,
stranger.”

Lucky pointed out the broken-down stagecoach to his companion, then answered Grover’s many ques
tions, relating his own theories about the Broken Buck
Dude Ranch and how the stagecoach might have gotten stranded here. Grover appeared fascinated, chuckling over the account of the female professor who had
supposedly been abducted across time by an outlaw
gang. By the time ten minutes of jawboning had
passed, Lucky found he was actually enjoying Grover’s
company.

Afterward he gave Grover directions for getting back
to Buck Hollow. “Head southwest toward that high mountain peak,” he directed, pointing off into the dis
tance. “That’s
Broken
Buck
Mountain
. The town lies directly beneath it.”

Grover was gazing off at the mountain. “Thanks;
sounds pretty easy.”

“It is. Anything else I can do for you?”

He shook his head. “No, but let me give you a ten for
your trouble.”

“Naw, no problem.”

But the man was already reaching inside his jacket—
only to pull out a black revolver.

“What?” Lucky cried, backing away.

Watching Lucky reach for his own gun, the other
man yelled, “Freeze, mister! Don’t even think about it!”

Lucky gulped, his fingers paused in midair as he
eyed his adversary in mingled shock and disbelief. A
dramatic change had come over Grover Singleton’s
features; a mask of surly anger had replaced the jovial
facade. Even his voice had gone low and was full of
menace. And his steely automatic was pointed at
Lucky with deadly intent.

“Pitch that weapon into the gorge right now or I’ll drop you where you stand,” the man ordered.

“What the hell—”

“I said drop it! Careful-like. Use two fingers.”

Lucky stared.

“Ya think I don’t know how to use this gun?” Grover
asked, striding forward aggressively. “I’ll have you know
I’m a county deputy from
Colorado Springs
.”

At that Lucky snorted a laugh. “A baby-face like you is a lawman?”

Grover fired a shot that whizzed past Lucky’s cheek
and practically shattered his left eardrum.

“Well, you don’t have to get so testy about it,” Lucky
retorted with a grimace.

“Your weapon!”

Gingerly Lucky retrieved his grandfather’s Colt, then
pitched it over the embankment. He rubbed his smart
ing ear. “What the hell burr do you got up your ass,
mister?”

“The burr is, you tried to kill my sister,” Grover practi
cally spat back.

“Your sister?” Lucky was amazed.

“Yeah. Misti Childers.”

“Misti? You’re her brother? I didn’t even know she
had one.”

“Our parents divorced when we were young, and my
ma remarried and raised me in
Colorado Springs
.
When Misti called me this morning to tell me what you
did, I came straight out here to track down and kill the
low-down coward who’d scared the wits out of my
baby sister.”

Lucky’s face heated with anger. “Did your baby sister
tell you what she was doing? That I found her in a
cheap motel room, screwing my best—”

“Shut up!” A muscle jerked in Grover’s cheek. “I don’t
care if she was screwing in a light bulb. Nothin’ excuses
attempted murder.”

“0h, yeah? In these parts when a woman cheats on
her man it excuses a lot more.”

Grover waved his weapon. “You got a lot of bluster for a man about to meet his maker.”

Damn, this was serious! Lucky thought. He’d gone
from a potential ninety days in lockup to a looming
death penalty. Lucky sized up his opponent, deciding
the man looked entirely too nervous to be predictable.
Grover’s jaw was twitching, his hand quivering on his
weapon. If Lucky tried to jump him, he might well get shot for his troubles. “Look, can’t we work this out?”