Bushedwhacked Groom Read Free

girls out to service the miners? The one the dude ranch had later bought and renovated for taking guests on excursions? The very ve hicle from which the young professoress had disap peared? Had the ranch proprietor, Woody Lynch, abandoned it here sometime after his enterprise had failed?
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” Lucky muttered.
    Now intensely curious, he lowered himself onto the ledge to have a closer look at the rattletrap conveyance. One wagon wheel was missing, and three others stood rusty and askew. Through one partially opened door he caught a glimpse of moth-eaten, burgundy velvet up holstery, and holes in the roof and floor. A musty, aged smell emanated from the interior.
    Lucky could only shake his head. Had Woody Lynch really put the stagecoach here, or was this somebody else’s idea of a joke?
    He was closing the door when he flinched at the sound of hoofbeats approaching from above. He scrambled back onto the ridge, only to watch a stranger gallop toward him from the south. Reverting to instinct, Lucky drew out his pistol. As the rider grew closer, he caught a better look. Dressed in jeans, a sheepskin coat and a beige Stetson, he appeared to be in his late twenties and was pudgy, with a potbelly and a round baby face. A harmless enough looking char acter, definitely not the sheriff or anyone else Lucky knew from these parts. Still, under the circumstances he should exercise some caution.
    Twenty yards from Lucky, the stranger pulled his mount to a halt and grimaced comically at Lucky’s pis tol. “Hey, mister, that’s a pretty unfriendly greeting,” he began in a high-pitched voice.
    Lucky stood his ground, waving his Colt menacingly. “Who are you and what are you doing out here?”
    The man gulped. “Cool down, will you, neighbor? I’m Grover Singleton, and I’m here visiting with my folks at their ranch south of Buck Hollow.”
    “Singleton?” Lucky asked with a frown. “Never heard of any Singletons in these parts.”
    “My family hasn’t lived here very long.” The man ex tended a hand in pleading. “Look, mister, would you mind lowering that gun? You’re making me nervous as hell.”
    “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing way out here.”
    As the man’s brown horse snorted, Grover Singleton glanced around in bewilderment. “Well, I went for a ride and got lost. Then I spotted your horse and hoped I’d found someone who could steer me back in the right direction.”
    Lucky gave a laugh. “Since I’ve never heard of your people, that’s unlikely. Don’t you have a cell phone?”
    “Nope.” He grinned sheepishly. “Truth to tell, I ain’t that fond of modern technology.”
    Lucky had to smile, for he’d clearly met a kindred spirit. “Me neither. I like to get away from civilization, not bring it closer.”
    “Amen.” The stranger cleared his throat. “Still, if I don’t return to the ranch soon, my folks are bound to worry. Can you at least tell me how to get back to Buck Hollow so I can call them from there?”
    Lucky shook his head ruefully and shoved his pistol into his waist. This numbskull was no threat. “Sure. Why not?”
    The man grinned in obvious relief and dismounted. Stepping closer to Lucky, he eyed him curiously. “When I rode up I saw you climbing up from that gorge. Any reason?”
    “As a matter of fact, yeah. Come have a look at this, stranger.”
    Lucky pointed out the broken-down stagecoach to his companion, then answered Grover’s many ques tions, relating his own theories about the Broken Buck Dude Ranch and how the stagecoach might have gotten stranded here. Grover appeared fascinated, chuckling over the account of the female professor who had supposedly been abducted across time by an outlaw gang. By the time ten minutes of jawboning had passed, Lucky found he was actually enjoying Grover’s company.
    Afterward he gave Grover directions for getting back to Buck Hollow. “Head southwest toward that high mountain peak,” he