Leave it to Sally to light the fuse.
Buck asked, “What happened to that poor family?”
“Sally give ’um a big poke of food and money enough to buy clothes and a wagon and horses. You knew she was rich, didn’t you?”
“Sally? Rich?”
“Folks is. Her daddy owns a lot of factories and such back east. Her momma has money too. Stratton and Potter and Richards just might have grabbed ahold of a puma’s tail this time. I hear Wiley Potter was all upset about what Stratton done today. He sent word to Sally to go on back to her little house and forget what happened. Sally told him, through Miss Flora, that she would forget only when pigs fly.”
Deputy Rogers walked up, a grim look on his face. “Buck West! You go see Mr. Richards over to the office. And you, Sam, is fired. Them words come from Mr. Stratton. He’s done found out about you helpin’ them dirt farmers over in the flats. Git your gear and be out of town by sundown.” He looked at Buck. “Move, West!”
Buck silently stared the big deputy down. With a curse, Rogers wheeled around and stalked away.
“What dirt farmers, Sam?”
“It’s a big country, Buck. They’s room for lots of folks. The Big Three don’t object to farmers comin’ in, but only if they agree to the terms set up by Potter and Stratton and Richards. If they don’t, they git burnt out and run off the land. I don’t hold none with the likes of that. A young couple with two little kids moved in last year. Just after I joined up. Started homesteadin’. Richards sent some of his hardcases in. When the man got his back up, Long shot him dead. Becky—that’s the widder woman’s name—stayed on the place, workin’ it herself. I kinda helped along from time to time. I was raised on a farm in Minnesota. Guess they heard about my helpin’ out.”
Buck looked hard at the man. Could he trust him, or was this a set-up? He decided to play along, test Sam. “You stick around. I’m going to see Richards. When I’m through, we’ll take a ride out to the Widow Becky’s place. OK?”
“All right, Buck. I’ll be at the livery.”
Buck walked to the PSR offices. Richards was waiting for him. He pointed to saddlebags on the counter. “No test this time, Buck. The corporation is buying more land. Those bags contain gold dust and the contracts. Man named Gilmore is waiting for you in Challis. Get the papers signed, give him the dust, and get back here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Buck picked up the saddlebags and walked to the stable. Sam was waiting for him, talking with the little boy Buck had given the gold piece to. Sam grinned at Buck.
“This here is Ben. This stable is his home. His pa was kilt in a cave-in a couple of years ago. He ain’t got no ma. He’s a good boy. Keeps his mouth shut. And he don’t like none of the Big Three. Stratton took a whip to him last year. Marked him up pretty good. Richards kicked him off the boardwalk later on. Bust a rib. He’s all right, Buck.”
“You go to school, Ben? Buck asked.
“No, sir. Mister Rosten won’t let me. Says I gotta work here all the time.”
Ben looked to be about nine years old.
Buck nodded. He mentally added Rosten’s name to his list of sorry people. “You seen an old Indian around? Wears a derby hat?”
“Hunts-Long. Yes, sir. When he’s in town he camps down by the creek yonder.” Ben pointed.
“You go tell Hunts-Long I said it’s time. Get the word out. He’ll know what you mean.” Buck gave the boy some coins. Ben took off.
“We can’t be seen leaving town together, Sam. Where do you want to meet?”
“Crick just south of town, ’bout four mile. I’ll meet you there in a couple of hours.”
Buck nodded. “If you playin’ a game, Sam, workin’ for the other side, you’ll never live to see the game finished.”
“I believe you, Buck. Or Smoke. No games. I’m done with that. See you at the crick.”
Buck watched the cowboy ride out. He wondered if he was going to have to kill him.
13
Buck took his time saddling Drifter. He watched the old Flathead, Hunts-Long, ride out. He was conscious of Little Ben looking at him.
“You know Miss Flora, boy?”
“Yes, sir. Down to the Pink House.”
“After I’m gone, you walk down there and tell Miss Sally Reynolds I said to keep her head down. She’ll know what I mean. You got that?”
“Yes, sir. Mister Buck? Sam’s a nice feller. He ain’t no real gunhand. He got backed into it.”
“How’s that, Ben?”
“Story is—I heard some men talkin’—a deputy over in Montana Territory pushed Sam hard one day. Sam tried to get out of it, but the deputy drew on him. Sam was faster. Kilt the man and had to take the hoot-owl trail.” The boy grinned. “Sam’s sweet on Miz Becky.”
“Sam told me he was from Minnesota.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I heard, too. Sam wants to go back to farmin’, way I heared it.”
