Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

Estelle introduced herself and then Fletcher, but the captain’s brow was furrowed in thought.

“Are you by any chance related to Senator Falcon Stark?” he asked finally.

“He’s my father,” Estelle replied, her voice cold.

“Ah,” Ferrell said, apparently content to say no more as he tasted the coffee the cook had poured for him.

“Have you met him, Captain?” Fletcher asked, speaking for the first time.

“Indeed,” Ferrell said. “The senator is out on the plains right now with President Grant, Senator John Gray and his wife, and last, but certainly not least, Count and Countess Boris Vorishilov, straight from the Russian imperial court.” The officer smiled. “I’d say that was a very distinguished company.”

“How large an escort?” Fletcher asked.

It was a soldier’s question and Ferrell was eager to answer it. “None. The president said he didn’t want a clanking cavalry troop—his very words—scaring away the buffalo. He told the colonel there were four hunters in the party, including himself, all superbly armed and good enough shots to beat off any Indian attack.”

The captain grinned. “And besides, they have about a dozen servants with them, maybe half that many skinners—and Wild Bill.”

Fletcher nodded. “Bill can make a difference.” He paused, then asked, “How long do they plan to be out?”

“Two weeks, maybe three. I’d say it depends on how quickly Hickok can locate a buffalo herd, how long the snow holds off, and how badly they’re slowed by their wagons. That’s the best-equipped hunting party I’ve ever seen. The five wagons are packed with fine linens, crystal and silverware, to say nothing of cases of wine, champagne, bourbon, and cigars. They’ve even got silver candelabras. It’s the Russian count more so than the others who loves to travel in style.”

“Indians?”

Captain Ferrell shrugged. “Normally the Sioux and Cheyenne like to hole up somewhere snug in the winter. But a week ago four buffalo hunters were ambushed and scalped about sixty miles south of here down on the Santa Fe Trail at the bend of the Arkansas River. With Indians you never can tell. When you least expect them, that’s when you’ll find them, or rather, that’s when they’ll find you.”

“And Senator Stark, where does he figure in all this?” Fletcher asked.

“The trip was his idea.” He turned to Estelle. “I’m sure you know your father plans to run for president. I believe this is his way of winning hearts and minds—mainly the support of the president and another very influential Republican senator.”

The food came, and while Fletcher and Estelle ate they talked to the soldier of other things, mainly the harsh winter weather on the plains, the much-anticipated arrival of the spring cattle herds, and the dearth of decent officers’ quarters at Fort Hays.

When they’d finished eating, Fletcher built a smoke and poured more coffee for himself and Estelle.

“Do you intend to join your father, Miss Stark?” Captain Ferrell asked.

Estelle nodded, saying nothing, and Fletcher stepped into the conversation. “I think we’ll stay at a hotel here tonight and move out at first light tomorrow.”

“The best hotel in town, and that’s not saying much, is the Cattleman’s Haven at the eastern end of town. At least the beds are clean and free of unwanted guests.”

Estelle caught Fletcher’s eye and they both rose. The girl extended her hand and Ferrell bowed over it gallantly.

“You’ve been a great help, Captain,” she said.

Fletcher dropped money on the table, then asked the soldier, “What direction did the president and Senator Stark take?”

“Due south from right where you stand. Hickok says he plans to scout all the way to the Santa Fe Trail, then swing west well before he reaches the Cimarron.”

Fletcher nodded. “Much obliged, Captain.”

He and Estelle took their leave of the officer and stepped out of the restaurant and back into the rowdy street.

They were untying their horses when a commotion at the end of town toward the stock pens attracted their attention.

Five riders, buffalo hunters by the look of them, were surrounded by a cheering, laughing crowd, and the man in front was brandishing a bloody scalp above his head.

“Boys, we caught the damned savages camped at Twin Butte Creek and we had at ’em,” the buffalo hunter yelled. “By God, when we lit into them with our Sharps they didn’t know what hit them.”

The hunters stopped at a saloon and were carried inside shoulder-high by the crowd, the man with the scalp still waving it as he ducked his head under the door.

“Buck,” Estelle whispered, her face pale, “how horrible.”

Fletcher nodded, lips a tight, grim line under his mustache. “I got a feeling there’s going to be hell to pay out there on the long grass,” he said. “That was a woman’s scalp.”

Twenty-one

Buck Fletcher lay on top of his bed in his room at the Cattleman’s Haven Hotel, a strange, echoing restlessness tugging at him.

Earlier he had seen Estelle settled in the room next to his. The girl was completely exhausted and badly needed sleep.

“I’ll wake you at first light,” Fletcher had told her. “Best you try to get some shut-eye and rebuild your strength.”

Hays was a wide-open, exciting town with plenty to see, but Estelle made no objection. Dark circles stained the pale skin under her eyes, and it was obvious to Fletcher that the strain of the past weeks was beginning to tell.

“Buck,” she’d said before he closed the door to her room, “be careful.”

Fletcher smiled. “I will.”

“Buck.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know why I told you to be careful.”

Fletcher shrugged. “A man can’t be too careful, Estelle. I’m not on the prod, and, believe me, I’ve no intention of borrowing trouble.”

Now he stared at the ceiling, listening to the noises from the saloons, the roar of men, the laughter of women, the whirring click of roulette wheels and always the tinny, out-of-tune pianos dropping notes like bad coins into the night.

Over the years, how many towns had he known like this one? Hundreds maybe? And how many more would he see before it all ended for him? A thousand? More that that?

Often he’d pause for only a night or two in such a town, just riding through. But there were other times, using his Colts for pay—the hard chink of gold in the palm—when he’d met belted men in gunfights who were every bit as fearless, skilled, and tough as himself.

Those were days spent along the dangerous, ragged fringes of hell, blazing, searing days, when men died, falling behind a cloud of gray gunsmoke, Colts blasting in teeth-bared defiance, battling until the very end.

Fletcher closed his eyes against the echoes, reaching for sleep, but saw only the wild, reckless, and laughing faces of men he’d known who lived by the gun. Men like Wes Hardin and Cullen Baker and Clay Allison, men he’d ridden with, men magnificently, vibrantly alive because, every single day of their lives, they lived so close to death.

Sleep would not come to him.

Fletcher swung his long legs off the bed and rose to his feet. He stepped to the window and looked outside.

Along the boardwalks oil lamps had been lit against the gathering darkness, casting dancing pools of yellow and orange on the rough pine planks, lights that could be seen for miles out on the plains.

Men came and went, heels pounding, leaving one saloon, heading for another.

The scent of cigar smoke and rye whiskey and women’s perfume hung in the air, and overlaying it all another, subtler odor—the smell of excitement. The restlessness pulled at Fletcher, refusing to let him be.