Buzzard's Bluff. William W. Johnstone
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happened? Did your wife tell you she’s leavin’ or something?”
Ben chuckled and replied, “Nope, I ain’t got that kinda trouble. I just found out I own a saloon, and I don’t know the first damn thing about runnin’ one.”
“No foolin’?” the bartender asked. “Here in town?”
“Nope. Buzzard’s Bluff,” Ben answered.
“Buzzard’s Bluff? Where the hell is that?”
“About ninety miles northwest of here on the Navasota River, and I just made up my mind that I’m gonna head out that way this mornin’.” That said, he paid for his whiskey and left his second shot untouched. The bartender shook his head, amazed when Ben walked out the door, so he picked up the drink and downed it himself.
With his mind made up to ride to Buzzard’s Bluff right away, Ben went back by Randolph Mitchell’s office and told him he was going to take some time off to have a look at a piece of property he had been left in an old friend’s will. He didn’t tell him the property had a saloon on it that was his, as well. Mitchell was agreeable, “Take all the time you need,” he said. “I’ve been working you pretty hard for the last few weeks, so just come on back when you’re ready.”
“I ’preciate it, Capt’n,” Ben said. When he left Mitchell’s office, he got his horses and possibles ready to leave before noon. He planned to arrive in Buzzard’s Bluff at noon, two days later.
* * *
He had expected to ride forty-five miles a day, but both Cousin and his packhorse seemed to be willing to go farther. So he traveled about fifty-two miles, as close as he could figure, the first day. It shaved a little off the distance for the second day, so he crossed the river and arrived at the town of Buzzard’s Bluff a little before noon. Entering the south end of the town, built where Wolf Creek emptied into the Navasota, he pulled Cousin to a halt and took a look up the main street. It was hard to believe his eyes when he thought of the last time he had been there. In the length of the street, there were three two-story buildings. The first one was a hotel. He rode past to the next one which was obviously a saloon. However, when he stopped in front of it, he read THE GOLDEN RAIL on the sign. Competition, he thought. He didn’t linger for more than a few moments there, anxious to see his new property. He nudged Cousin and the big dun gelding walked him slowly up the main street while Ben looked at the stores and shops as he passed. When he came to the last two-story building in the center of the businesses, he stopped to read the sign, LOST COYOTE SALOON. Two large windows framed the batwing front door, and a porch ran the width of the front façade that was in need of some carpentry repairs at one end. While he watched, a couple of men that looked like ranch hands passed on either side of him and tied their horses up at the rail. Well, there’s some business, he thought, and urged Cousin to continue on up to the north end where he could see a stable.
“How do?” Henry Barnes greeted Ben when he pulled up to the stable. From habit, he made an obvious appraisal of the man, the horses, and his gear. “You wantin’ to leave them horses here?”
“That’s what I had in mind, if you don’t charge too much,” Ben answered.
“That depends on whether you’re thinkin’ about leavin’ ’em here for a month or just for the night,” Henry said.
“Let’s start out with overnight.”
“Fifty cents a horse,” Henry quoted. “That’s water and a stall. Portion of grain is twenty-five cents extra.”
“That adds up to a dollar and a half,” Ben said. “That’s kinda steep, ain’t it?”
“I can give you a lot better rate if you were boardin’ ’em here longer.” He waited for Ben to consider it, then said, “I won’t charge you for the oats. All right?”
“All right,” Ben said and started pulling the saddle off Cousin. They turned his horses out in the corral and Henry helped him stow his packs and saddle in a corner of a stall. “How much if I wanna sleep in the stall with him?”
“A quarter, I reckon, but you have to be here when I lock up at seven o’clock,” Henry said.
“Fair enough. Where can I get something to eat?”
“The hotel’s the best place to get you a good dinner or supper,” Henry said. “If you’ll settle for a slice of ham in a biscuit, you can get that at the saloon.” He waited for Ben to think that over, then asked, “What’s your name, mister?—so’s I’ll know whose horses I’m boardin’.”
“Ben Savage. What’s yours?”
“Henry Barnes. Hope you find what you’re lookin’ for in Buzzard’s Bluff.”
“Obliged,” Ben said and walked out to take a walking tour of the town before he made his inspection of the Lost Coyote Saloon.
CHAPTER 4
He walked back the length of the main street, just to get a feel for the town, past the hotel, the sheriff’s office, the post office, and Howard’s General Merchandise. Then he turned around and headed back to the Lost Coyote Saloon. When he stepped inside the door, he paused there a few seconds to look the room over. He recognized the two cowhands who had ridden by him when he had stopped to look at the saloon before. They were seated at a table playing cards with two other men. At the far end of the bar, the bartender, a huge man, was talking to a woman who had a cup of coffee on the bar before her. Always an imposing figure, Ben attracted a looking-over by the bartender and the woman as well. After a moment, Ben walked over to the bar. “Howdy,” the bartender moved down the bar to serve him. “Whatcha gonna have?”
“Howdy,” Ben returned and touched his hat brim politely as he nodded to the woman. “Tell you the truth, I’d like to have a cup of that coffee the lady’s drinkin’, if you sell coffee.”
“Sure thing,” Tiny Davis said. “We’ll sell you some coffee.”
“I’ll get it for you,” the woman said to Tiny, then to Ben she said, “If you need something to eat with it, we sell that, too.” She waited for his decision. “You’re in luck today. Annie’s husband killed a deer this morning and she cooked up some stew with that fresh venison.”
“That sounds pretty good,” Ben replied. “I’ll give that a try.”
“You won’t be sorry,” the woman said. “Sit down at a table and I’ll bring it to you.” She went to the kitchen while Ben settled into a chair at a table close to the bar.
Tiny walked over to talk to him while he waited for his coffee. “You just ride into town? I know I ain’t ever seen you in here before.”
“That’s a fact,” Ben answered. “The last time I passed through here, there wasn’t anything but a store and a blacksmith.”
“Man, that was a long time ago,” Tiny responded. “What brings you back this way? You thinkin’ about lookin’ for some land around here?”
“I reckon you could say that,” Ben answered. “I thought I’d like to get a feel for the town—see what you folks are doin’ with the town.”
“You couldn’t find a town with a better future than Buzzard’s Bluff,” Tiny claimed. “We’re seein’ more families movin’ here every year.” He paused then to introduce himself. “I’m Tiny Davis.” Ben wasn’t surprised by the name. He offered his hand just as the woman came with the coffee and stew. Tiny stepped aside to give her room. “And this is Rachel Baskin,” he said. “She’s the manager.”
“Ben Savage,” he said, “pleased to meet you, ma’am.” She extended her hand and they shook. “So you’re the boss,” Ben commented.
“Well, no, not really,” Rachel said. “I guess you could say I manage the saloon. The owner was the boss, but he just passed away recently, so I’m the boss temporarily