“He owns the Devil’s Pitchfork ranch, south of here,” the counterman explained. “Has a powerful hate for Indians of all kinds. I don’t know for sure why he feels that way, but I’ve heard it said that his whole family, except for him, was wiped out when Indians attacked the wagon train they were traveling with, twenty years or more ago.”
Sam nodded. It was an old, familiar story. There had been plenty of senseless bloodshed on both sides during the long clash between red men and white on the frontier, and it had left a lot of hatred behind it. He wished things could have been otherwise, but no one could change history.
“If you’re just passin’ through, though, you shouldn’t have to worry about John Henry,” the counterman went on. “He don’t come into town much. He’s almost always out at the ranch.” He lowered his voice. “Which, to hear some folks tell it, is as much of a way station for hombres on the dodge as it is a real ranch.”
That was interesting, too, Sam thought. If outlaws frequented Boyd’s ranch, that could have some connection to the attack on him and Matt.
“I’m obliged to you for telling me.”
Harvey grinned.
“Just lookin’ out for my customers. It ain’t like I’ve got all that many of ’em. Tell you what, Jase was right about one thing ... that food’s gettin’ cold.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Sam said. He dug into the chicken and dumplings.
As he ate, he mulled over everything he had learned so far, which on the surface didn’t amount to a blasted thing. He had some minor suspicions about the two garrulous cowboys he had met outside but nothing really to tie them to the bushwhackers, and what he had heard about the Devil’s Pitchfork Ranch was intriguing.
Other than that, nothing.
Or maybe not quite nothing, he corrected himself. He had learned that the Buckingham Palace was the biggest and most popular saloon in Flat Rock, so that meant most of the people around here would pass through its batwings at one time or another.
If the bushwhackers were still around and on the lookout for him, that would be a good place for them to spot him.
And he
That amounted to just about the same thing as painting a target on his back, Sam realized ... but this wouldn’t be the first time he had done that.
Usually, though, he had Matt with him. This time he was alone in a strange town that might be full of enemies, for all he knew.
Didn’t matter. When he got through here, he told himself as he ate the chicken and dumplings, it would be time to pay a visit to Buckingham Palace.
The one in Flat Rock, Arizona Territory, not London.
Chapter 14
When he had finished the food and downed the last of the coffee, Sam paid Harvey for the meal, said so long, and left the cafe.
He looked along the street and spotted the saloon a couple of blocks up. It was a two-story adobe building that actually had two floors, not one and a false front. A narrow balcony ran along the front of the second floor.
The entrance was at the near corner. The sign that read BUCKINGHAM PALACE SALOON—BEER—LIQUOR— GAMES OF CHANCE—ENTERTAINMENT was so long it took up the front of the building and ran down the side, too.
Before heading for the saloon, Sam looked around for a livery stable. He found one on a side street and turned his horse over to a friendly, middle-aged Mexican who introduced himself as Pablo Garralaga.
“This is a fine horse, senor,” the stableman said. “I will take good care of him.”
“I’m sure you will,” Sam said. “How much?”
“Fifty cents per night, senor. This includes feed and the finest care. And I will repair that damage to your saddle for free. I am skilled at such things.”
Sam handed him two silver dollars, grateful that Garralaga hadn’t asked how his saddle had gotten shot up.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town, but that’ll get us started.”
“Gracias, senor.”
On the off chance that he might find out something else, Sam said, “Do you happen to know a couple of cowboys who’ve been in town about a week? One of them is tall and has a mustache, the other is shorter and has red hair.”
Garralaga rolled his eyes.
“Those two! The little one, he is not so bad, but the tall one, he never stops talking! Always with the questions, questions, questions! He makes me tired just to listen to him.”
“Then they’re keeping their horses here?”
“Si, senor. Over there.” Garralaga pointed to a pair of stalls near the front of the barn.
Sam strolled over and looked at the horses in apparently idle curiosity. One was a buckskin, the other a wiry paint.
Actually, he was looking at the hoofprints they had left in the dust of their stalls, checking to see if either track was similar to the ones he had found out at the ambush site.
