Then the army would come in to clean out the hostiles, the government would take back the reservation land it had granted to the savages, and Jardine and his partner would be ready to take full advantage of that.
Deeds had already been drawn up, just waiting for the proper developments in Washington. Once they were signed, millions of acres would belong to Zack Jardine ... the King of the Four Corners.
It had a nice ring to it.
Of course, most of those acres were flat, empty, and useless ... but they surrounded areas where cattle could be run, and precious waterholes, and mines producing small but still lucrative quantities of gold, silver, and copper.
Besides, there was talk of running a rail line through here, and if that happened, the so-called worthless land would be worth even more. No land where the railroad wanted to go was truly worthless.
“At least we know the half-breed’s here now,” Braverman said, breaking into Jardine’s grandiose thoughts. “We don’t have to watch the trail for him anymore.”
“It would be better if Joe and Three-Finger had done like they were supposed to,” Jardine snapped. “We could have set a trap that would’ve made sure the meddling bastard was dead by now.”
“We can still kill him,” Hilliard suggested. “He’s upstairs right now.”
“With that Englishwoman,” Jardine pointed out. “Lady Augusta’s the belle of this whole region. We don’t want anything to happen to her.”
That brought another idea to Jardine’s brain, one that had crossed his mind on previous occasions. In an area where most of the women were either washed-out whores or Navajo squaws, Lady Augusta Winslow was a shining light of femininity.
If he was going to be the King of the Four Corners, Jardine mused, maybe he could interest Lady Augusta in being his queen ...
With a little shake of his head, he put aside that appealing thought and told Braverman and Hilliard, “Keep an eye on the ’breed, but don’t let him know you’re watching him. If you get a chance ... get rid of him.”
“What about those two cowboys?” Braverman asked.
Jardine shrugged.
“I don’t have anything against them. But if they’re in the way ... well, the buzzards would be even happier with three bodies than they would with one, wouldn’t they?”
Chapter 18
When Sam stepped through the door of the suite, he wasn’t surprised to see that the sitting room was elegantly and sumptuously furnished, from the rug on the floor to the paintings on the walls to the ornate lamp on a gleaming table.
He had seen enough downstairs to know that the lady liked fine things.
“Sit down,” she ordered as she came into the room behind them. “That divan will do.”
Stovepipe took off his hat and said, “Ma’am, not to be argumentative, but that’s a mighty nice piece of furniture to have three galoots like us sittin’ on it. We’re liable to get it a mite dirty.”
“Never mind that,” Lady Augusta snapped. “Sit.”
The three men sat.
She lowered the shotgun as she faced them, but the weapon was still pointed in their general direction. She wouldn’t have to raise it much in order to spray them with buckshot if she pulled the trigger on the loaded barrel. Shotguns were heavy enough that some women had trouble handling them, Sam thought, but not this supposedly genteel Englishwoman.
“Now tell me what happened down there,” Lady Augusta ordered. She nodded at Sam. “You.”
“Pete Lowry and some riders from the Devil’s Pitchfork came in and started talking about how the Navajo raided their ranch last night, ran off some cattle, and killed a couple of hands.” Sam inclined his head toward Stovepipe and continued, “I commented to my friend here how that seemed unlikely to me. Someone overheard me and told Lowry that I called him a liar.”
Lady Augusta nodded.
“I can see how that would spark a confrontation. I’ve seen these other two around, sir, but not you. Who are you?”
“My name is Sam Two Wolves, ma’am. And before you ask, I really am half Cheyenne. No Navajo blood, despite what Lowry said down there.”
“Yes, I didn’t think you looked much like any of the Navajo I’ve ever seen, and there are plenty of them around here. This is supposedly their land, after all.” She turned her attention to Stovepipe and Wilbur. “What about you two? Who are you, and what’s your connection with all this?”
Stovepipe still had his black Stetson in his hand, and when he nudged Wilbur in the ribs with an elbow, Wilbur snatched his battered old hat off his head, too.
“They call me Stovepipe Stewart, ma’am,” the tall, skinny cowboy said. “This here’s my pard, Wilbur Coleman.”
Wilbur opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a nervous squeak.
“You got to pardon ol’ Wilbur,” Stovepipe went on. “He ain’t much for talkin’, especially around beauti-some ladies.”
Lady Augusta didn’t smile, but Sam thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in her eyes for a second.
“Go on,” she said solemnly. “Why were you involved in that fight?”
“Because we were sidin’ Sam here,” Stovepipe explained. “Didn’t seem fair to us that so many fellas would jump one lone hombre and give him a thrashin’ ... especially when he was just tellin’ the truth.”
“Then you were sticking up for the underdog.”
Stovepipe nodded.
“Yes’m, you could say that.”
For a moment, Lady Augusta regarded them gravely, then nodded and turned to place the shotgun on a side table.
The sight of the Greener lying there on what was obviously an expensive piece of furniture was a little odd, Sam thought, a good example of the stark contrasts to be found in many frontier towns on the edge of civilization.
“I can respect such behavior,” Lady Augusta said, “although my tolerance is strained when it results in damage to my saloon. You gentlemen are forgiven for your part in the hostilities.” She crossed her arms over her bosom. “Now ... what about the Indians? You don’t believe there’s any truth to what Pete Lowry said, Mr. Two Wolves?”
“I don’t know for sure because I wasn’t there,” Sam admitted, “but it seems pretty unlikely to me that people who have been mostly at peace with the white men for more than fifteen years would risk starting a war again.”
“But what if they’re starving? What if they had to have those cattle in order to feed their families?”
She had a point there, Sam thought. Fifty cattle would feed Caballo Rojo’s people for quite a while.
But that isolated canyon where the Navajo lived was two days’ ride from here, and Sam hadn’t heard Caballo Rojo, Juan Pablo, or any of the other warriors talking about raiding a ranch in the near future, or any other time, for that matter.
It hadn’t appeared to Sam that the band was running short on food, either. Everyone seemed reasonably well-fed. Between the sheep they raised, the crops they grew, and the deer that roamed the area, none of the Navajo should have gone hungry.
They wouldn’t have risked everything by attacking the Devil’s Pitchfork. Sam was sure of it.
“I just don’t see it happening that way,” he told Lady Augusta. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
“What other explanation is there?” she asked. “Or do you believe the incident never occurred?”
Stovepipe said, “You mean maybe Lowry and his boss made the whole thing up? Why would they do that?”
She smiled at him.
“You tell me, Mr. Stewart.”
Stovepipe shook his head and said, “Sorry, ma’am, I can’t. This whole business don’t make heads nor tails to me.”
“Well, it’s really none of my affair. I was just curious what nearly got my saloon busted all to pieces, as you ruffians might say.” She went to the door and opened it. “There’s a door at the end of the hall that leads to the rear stairs. I suggest the three of you depart that way, rather than going through the main room downstairs. In fact, I insist upon it. Mr. Lowry and his friends may still be down there, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened earlier.”