Stovepipe’s craggy face had taken on a grim cast.
“Sounds like that bunch from the Devil’s Pitchfork has come to town,” he said. “And I reckon they’re just about ready to raise hell and shove a chunk under the corner.”
Chapter 15
The uproar made nearly everybody in the saloon turn toward the windows. The only ones who ignored it were the men at the poker tables who were intent on their cards.
A moment later, a man slapped the batwings aside and stalked into the Buckingham, followed by half a dozen more men. They were all rugged-looking, hard-bitten hombres in range clothes, Sam noted. A holstered revolver hung at the hip of each man.
Stovepipe Stewart leaned closer to Sam and said, “Yep, that’s the Devil’s Pitchfork bunch, some of ’em, anyway. John Henry Boyd’s gun crew. Fella in the lead is Pete Lowry. Tough hombre. All of ’em are.”
Sam had gotten that impression. Pete Lowry was a broad-shouldered man with a jutting shelf of a jaw that gave him a pugnacious appearance.
Lowry strode to the bar and thumped a fist on the hardwood to get the attention of one of the bartenders. It was really a wasted gesture, because nearly every eye in the place was on the newcomers already, and both bartenders were there to fill their orders.
“Whiskey for me and the boys!” Lowry snapped. “The good stuff, too, not that homemade swill.”
“All we have is good stuff, Mr. Lowry,” the nearest bartender said. “Lady Augusta don’t go in for that panther piss.”
Lowry’s hand shot across the bar and grabbed the bartender’s shirtfront. He jerked the man forward and roared, “Are you arguin’ with me?”
Sam stiffened. He didn’t like to see anyone being manhandled like that.
Stovepipe must have noticed the reaction, because he put a hand lightly on Sam’s arm and said, “Hold your horses, son. You don’t want to get on Lowry’s bad side. He’s not somebody you need for an enemy.”
Sam forced himself to relax. Stovepipe was right. Anyway, it was none of his business what Lowry did, Sam told himself.
The bartender said, “No, sir, I’m not arguin’ at all. I’ll get you that whiskey, the finest we got, right away.”
Lowry let go of him and nodded curtly.
“That’s more like it. Pour it up, apron. After what happened last night, we need those drinks.”
Sam wondered what had happened the night before. He didn’t have to think about it for long, because as soon as Pete Lowry had knocked back the slug of whiskey the bartender put in front of him, he turned around and addressed the room in a loud voice.
“A bunch of damned savages raided the ranch last night,” he said. “Killed two punchers and took off with fifty head of cattle. By God, there’s gonna be a whole new Navajo war here in the Four Corners!”
Lowry’s words shook Sam, although he managed not to show it. He had a hard time believing that Caballo Rojo or any of his people would have attacked the Devil’s Pitchfork ranch. Even the proddy Juan Pablo just wanted to be left alone. None of them would go out of their way to draw attention to themselves by raiding a ranch and killing white cowboys. Sam would have staked his life on it.
Lowry seemed convinced of what he was saying, though. Several of the other ranch hands joined in, loudly and profanely insisting that the Navajo had gone on the warpath.
As Sam listened to Lowry and the other cowboys rant, he thought about what Noah Reilly had said earlier about people in this area still being nervous about the Navajo. This was going to make them even more so.
“A new Injun war,” Stovepipe Stewart mused. “What do you think about that, Sam?”
“I think it’s loco,” Sam answered honestly and without hesitation. “If there are any Navajo still out there looking for trouble, there aren’t enough of them to fight a war. I don’t think they’d be foolish enough to risk that by raiding a ranch and killing some punchers.”
He spoke a little too loudly. A man who stood not too far away at the bar overheard him and called, “Hey, Pete! This fella says you’re lyin’. And from the looks of him, he might be a redskin, too!”
“Uh-oh,” Wilbur said. “This ain’t good.”
Lowry swung around with a belligerent glare on his face.
“Who called me a liar?” he demanded. His angry gaze landed on Sam. “I’ll bet it was you!”
Sam didn’t see any point in lying, and it went against his nature anyway. He said, “I never claimed you were lying. I just said I thought it was unlikely any Navajo would be foolish enough to attack your ranch.”
Lowry stomped toward him.
“Then how do you explain those missin’ cows and two of my friends bein’ dead?”
“I’m sorry about your friends,” Sam said. “But maybe the cattle were stolen by rustlers.”
“On unshod ponies? And those two fellas had arrows stuck in ’em! Navajo arrows!”
“Anyone can ride unshod ponies,” Sam said. “And white men can use bows and arrows, too. It wouldn’t be the first time whites have tried to blame the trouble they caused on Indians.”
Lowry stopped in front of Sam, looked him up and down, and sneered.
“You don’t talk like a redskin, but you sure look like one,” he said. “Half-breed, ain’t you?”
“I’m half Cheyenne,” Sam said for what seemed like the dozenth time since he’d ridden into Flat Rock.
“No wonder you’re defendin’ those filthy savages. You’re just like ’em.”
