Chapter 11
The rain came sudden, hard, and mean — the kind that woke every dry bone in the desert and made the land smell of birth and rot all at once.
It hammered rooftops and sluiced through the alleys, turning Allen Street into a red river that rolled slowly between the boardwalks. Lightning split the night, revealing the town like a picture ripped from hell: wagons half sunk in mud, doors banging loose, horses fighting their halters.
Johnny Irons stood under the marshal’s porch, water running off his hat brim, his slicker already soaked through. Behind him, the lamplight from the office’s open door glowed faint and tired, the kind of light that made a man think about quitting early.
Marshal White sat behind the desk, his head swathed in white bandages that made him look older than he was.
“Bad night for riding,” he called out, not bothering to rise. “A fool’s errand, if you ask me.”
Johnny looked out into the rain. “You’re right about one thing. Only a fool rides in it.”
“Then why saddle up?”
“Because fools are the only ones left who’ll do what needs to be done.”
White sighed, rubbing at the corner of his jaw. “You still figure Buckner’s behind all the meanness in this town?”
“No more figuring,” Johnny said. “I know.”
“You can’t prove it.”
“Maybe not yet.” He checked the Walker at his belt, then gave the cylinder a slow turn. “You once said a badge can’t fight money.”
White gave a crooked grin. “I did.”
Johnny stepped out from under the porch, the rain striking his face like thrown gravel. “Well, let’s see if justice can.”
He crossed the street without another word. White watched him go, a thin shadow against the lightning, and muttered, “God help the boy. He’s too steady for his own good.”
Meg waited in the livery, ears back. She didn’t like thunder. Johnny saddled her by lantern light.
Whiskey stood close, silent as a thought. When Johnny swung into the saddle, the dog fell in beside him like a shadow with eyes.
They rode north out of Tombstone, the storm their only company. The wind tore at Johnny’s hat brim, and every hoofbeat splashed mud up the mule’s sides. Water ran down his neck, but he didn’t mind it. The storm felt honest, and honest things were scarce in Tombstone these days.
The road bent upward toward the ridge, where Buckner’s mansion sat like a ghost house against the black sky. Lightning flashed, and for an instant the windows glimmered—three lit on the upper floor, the rest dark.
Thunder rolled over the hills, heavy as wagon wheels on stone.
Johnny turned Meg off the main trail, letting her pick her way through the mesquite. He found a stand of low trees near the edge of the slope.
He swung down and patted her neck. “Stay here, girl. You’ve carried me through worse. Don’t take fright if the sky falls in.”
Whiskey shook himself, sending a sheet of water from his coat.
“You keep watch,” Johnny told him. “Meg here likes her guard close.”
The dog’s tail thumped once in the mud.
Johnny pulled his slicker tight and started up the hill. The ground was soft, sucking at his boots. Every few yards, he stopped to listen. The rain made a wall of sound; it was cover and warning both.
The mansion rose out of the storm—three stories of carved wood and iron rail, fine enough for San Francisco, foolish enough for Arizona. Light spilled from the tall windows, turning the rain to silver.
He stayed close to the hedge line and circled the side yard.
A guard stood under the carriage shed at the gate, hat brim low, rifle propped against the wall. He looked cold and bored, a man wishing for a dry blanket and a different job.
Johnny came up behind him, silent as smoke. The barrel of the Walker rose and tapped him once behind the ear. The guard folded into the mud without a sound.
Johnny knelt, checked the pulse. Alive. He unbuckled a ring of keys from the man’s belt, thumbed through them until the lantern light caught the brass.
He walked to the gate and tried the largest iron key; the lock clicked. He pushed it open. He looked at the key ring in the light of a lightning flash. Choose the brass key.
“Front door key,” he muttered. “Much obliged,” he added, tossing the key ring to where the guard lay unmoving.
He climbed the drive to the front porch. The steps were slick, the rail cold beneath his hand. He tried the knob—locked—and slipped the brass key in. It turned easily.
Thunder masked the sound of the bolt sliding back.
Inside, the air smelled of polish and cigar smoke, the kind of scent only rich men made. The hall was long, lined with mirrors and velvet drapes. A grandfather clock stood near the stairs, ticking loudly in the hush. Each tick felt like judgment, counting seconds.
Johnny shut the door behind him. Water dripped from his hat onto the marble floor. He listened for a long moment, then slid the Walker into his belt and drew the Pocket Colt from the shoulder rig.
The small gun looked plain and deadly in the glow of the wall lamps.
He crossed the rugs quietly, found the parlor door, and eased it open. It was the same room where Buckner had played the gentleman weeks earlier.
The fire was dead, but the air still held its warmth. Papers covered the desk like frost.
Johnny moved slowly, opening drawers, reading what he could by the dim light from the windows: bills, letters, ledgers—the waste of a man who lived by other people’s work.
In the bottom drawer, he found something different: a folded sheet, stiff with age.
He unfolded it carefully—a wanted poster.
The face was younger, the eyes the same—cold, clever, and unrepentant.
The name printed in bold across the top read: BUCKSKIN LEWIS – Robbery, Murder, Escape from Yuma Prison. Reward $2,000.
Johnny turned it over. On the back, in a firm, scrawling hand, were the words, Wish I still looked like this. Damn that fire to hell.
Johnny’s jaw tightened. “Buckner is Buckskin Lewis,” he said, his voice low and steady. “And the devil’s kept him rich.”
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Johnny turned, gun half-raised. Lightning flared through the window, washing the room white.
A tall, thin man stood in the doorway—the butler, dressed as neat as a preacher, a small pistol cocked and ready.
“Drop the gun, Mr. Irons,” he said.
Johnny’s face didn’t change. “You sure you want me to drop it? These Colts have a habit of going off when they hit the floor.”
“Then holster it,” the man said. “I’m an excellent shot. Don’t test me.”
Johnny slid the Colt into the shoulder rig, palms open. “You know your boss is Buckskin Lewis? Wanted for murder and robbery?”
“Yes,” the butler said calmly. “I know. And I’m sorry, but finding that out is fatal for you.”
The pistol moved a hair.
Johnny’s right hand went behind him as if he were scratching an itch. The Walker came up heavy and sure. One flash, one roar, and the butler’s head snapped back. He fell without a sound, the small pistol slipping from his fingers.
Smoke drifted in the air, gray against the flash of the next lightning bolt.
Johnny exhaled slowly. “Sorry, you picked the wrong man to warn.”
The shot still hung in the parlor when another sound rode in behind it—glass shattering. A man shouted from the second floor. “Burn, Johnny Irons.” Johnny knew the voice.
Buckner.
The sounds of angry flames followed.
Johnny crossed the hall fast. The stairwell breathed warm air. Oil stung his throat. A wavering glow licked along the upper landing, nosing the velvet like a hungry colt. Then the heat shouldered down as if the house itself had decided to breathe fire.
“Damn fool,” Johnny muttered under his breath.
The first curtain caught fire like dry grass. Flame ran the length of it, reached for the banister, found polish it could feed on, and climbed. Smoke rolled along the ceiling, low. Lightning flashed in the tall windows, making the smoke look like a living thing.
Johnny took two steps up the stairs, felt the heat punch him back, and changed his mind. Buckner had made his choice. The house wouldn’t care who burned.
He cut for the front door and swung it wide. Rain hit him like a river. Wind drove water into the hall, and the fire hissed like a cat. It didn’t die. It crouched, waited for the gust to pass, then flared even harder.
Johnny went along the porch beneath the eaves and dropped to the wet gravel. He circled the corner at a trot, past hedges flattened by the storm toward the outbuildings. He spotted the outside fire escape.
“Damn, he had an escape route,” Johnny mumbled.
He glanced behind the house. A flash of lightning illuminated a stable with a lantern bobbing. A stable boy saddled a big, long-legged black with shaking hands. The black danced impatiently.
Buckner stood there, a slicker over his coat and a leather satchel clutched under one arm. Lightning traced the scars on his face, turning them white. He looked at Johnny and shook his head. “Too slow, boy,” he called, easy as talking over cards.
“Come down off that horse,” Johnny shouted, running toward the stable. “You’re under arrest.”
The gelding came around quick, hind feet scattering gravel. Buckner tucked the satchel under his coat and laughed once.
Johnny raised the Walker. A sheet of flame ran out the stable door, found a tumble of straw, and flared high between them.
Heat slapped Johnny’s face. The gelding shied and went through the gate like water through a crack.
By the time Johnny moved right and found a line to shoot through, horse and rider were only a black mark in the rain.
He lowered the big Colt and stood for a moment, letting the storm wash the smoke from him. The stable boy whimpered once and stared at the growing fire in the stable, paralyzed. Johnny hustled him out into the rain.
“Run home,” he said. “Get clear.”
The boy ran.
“Damn, I can’t believe he burned the house and the stable,” Johnny mumbled.