by Jonas Ward
“I just wish he knew me a little better. Man, this outfit is close.”
“The fashion, Buchanan. Now let’s try the vest.”
It was a sleeved vest, of the same black cloth but trimmed lavishly with interlaced silver cloth. And for all the outsize allowances that José had been admonished to make, the jacket still fit snugly across the shoulders. Buchanan sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled on his gleaming black boots. He stood up.
“Amigo,” Gomez said, “you are a thing of rare beauty. Come view yourself in the mirror.”
Buchanan looked, and a self-conscious smile lit his face.
“God damn,” he said. “If Campos could only see me now.”
“Wait till Lilita sees you.” Buchanan caught Gomez’s eyes in the mirror. “Don’t go pushing nothing with that one,” he said. “That little girl’s no fly-by-night.”
“You, too?” Gomez asked, laughing. “She has my vaqueros swimming in the head. They rant in their sleep about her.”
“All I’m saying is don’t push. Let nature take its course.”
“You are frightened of her! You—El Hombre!”
“She’s no fly-by-night,” Buchanan repeated.
“Por Dios, I think you are being serious.”
Buchanan turned around, put his hands on Gomez’s shoulders. “Don’t push it,” he said. “I’m riding out of here in the morning. I don’t want to take her with me.”
“Por que? Why do you ride away? If the girl pleases you why not stay here with her—with us? I know that Don Pedro wants to give you the north section at the border. We would ranch it all together, you, Juan and myself. Three good comrades.”
“Man, you’re putting pearls before swine. I’m Tom Buchanan, the saddlebum.”
“No! You are a rancher, hijo. A cattleman if I ever saw one.”
“Damn it, Gomez, stop putting big ideas into an empty head!”
The door opened and Doña Isabel stood in the entrance. “What big ideas are those, Señor Tomaso?” she asked.
“I guess I did raise my voice, ma’am. Sorry.”
“No,” the lady said. “It is your indulgence I beg, for listening so long outside your door. I should have come in immediately you mentioned my servant, Lilita.” She smiled at both men. “I’m afraid I found the conversation too exciting to interrupt. The maid takes your fancy, señor?”
“She’s awful pretty,” Buchanan said. “And nobody’s fool.”
“Prettier than my daughter, Maria?”
“Prettier?” Buchanan asked thoughtfully. “I don’t guess I’d try to compare the two of them.”
“Why not? A woman is a woman.”
Buchanan smiled down at the little woman. “Which you know isn’t true, ma’am. Your daughter’s more on the beauty side.”
“You find that a detriment?”
“I don’t rightly know what we’re talking about,” he said.
“Which you know isn’t true.”
“Which I can’t even consider,” Buchanan said.
“Then I will make you consider it. Will you marry my daughter?”
“No, ma’am.”
“She is not worthy of you?”
“Let’s not joke about this thing,” Buchanan said gently.
“I’m sorry. If I told you I wanted you for Maria’s husband, would that make a difference?”
“I could never make your daughter happy. Does that make a difference to you?”
“Maria’s happiness is the goal of my life. It is all I live for.”
“Then stop worrying about me.”
“Believe me, Tomaso, I was not worried about you. I could not have been more pleased with a son-in-law than yourself. But if it cannot be, may I ask a mother’s favor?”
“Anything.”
“Let Maria know. Let her know certainly, for all time. Do not ride away as a man of romance and mystery. When she marries Sebastian Diaz let her give herself completely, without doubts about what might have been.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” Buchanan promised.
Seventeen
The approach of a horse awoke the light-sleeping Abe Carbo and brought him to his feet all in one continuing motion. He peered out the small window of the hut but there was nothing at all to be seen in that utter blackness. The sound, however, kept growing, and what disturbed Carbo about it was the direction. The rider was arriving from the north.
Carbo buckled the gun at his waist, retrieved his hat and moved outside to his own picketed mount. Within seconds he was in pursuit of the man ahead, gauging the distance between them at three hundred feet and content to leave it at that until he knew their destination. For even though they were on Del Cuervo range it was still possible that the one ahead was just a wayfarer passing through the country innocently. Carbo doubted that that was the case, but he was willing to grant the man the outside chance….
Amos Agry was oblivious to being followed. More than that, he was not even aware that he had passed quite close to a line camp and that there were still wisps of chimney smoke to reveal its occupancy. Like most men whose lives have been spent in or near towns, Amos was as much a stranger on the open range as he would have been in the center of the ocean. It was enough to point the horse in the desired direction and then to sit there until journey’s end. He had even come on this particular journey unarmed.
Some thirty minutes later Amos did spy the unusual amount of light glowing from the Del Cuervo hacienda and the surrounding area. It told him that a fiesta was in full swing, and he considered that in appreciation of his timely warning to Buchanan, Don Pedro might very well invite him to join the festivities. Amos had heard much about the wild good time at these galas and the prospect of actually attending one caused him to quicken the mount’s pace.
For Abe Carbo, the light up ahead served to silhouette the figure of the man he followed. There was a general conformity about it that was very familiar, and at the same time naggingly elusive. Then, in the same moment that Amos Agry spurred his horse, Carbo recognized him.
A sellout, he thought immediately. Simon had sent his cousin to dicker with Buchanan, perhaps offer him safe conduct to the north and freedom from prosecution for return of part of the money. It surprised Carbo that he had misread Simon’s thought processes; surprised him and angered him as he set out to overtake the inexpert rider.
Amos Agry did not so much hear pursuit as he sensed it. Even so, by the time he looked over his shoulder and saw Carbo it was too late. Carbo’s slim arm lashed out at him, in its hand a long slender blade that pierced his jugular vein, strangling the cry in his throat and pitching him headlong from the horse. Carbo was on him like a cat, turning him on his back and plunging the knife up under his ribs and into his heart. He wiped the blade clean on the rough fabric of Agry’s woolen shirt, reflecting that under the circumstances it had been about the most efficient and noiseless murder he had ever done.
He sent Amos’s horse running in the opposite direction, remounted his own and made his way cautiously toward the sounds of music and laughter at the hacienda.
If there was ever a beau-of-the-ball it would have to be Buchanan the night he danced at Don Pedro’s gran fiesta. He was everywhere at once, and wherever he was, that’s where the party was. He tilted jugs in contests with the vaqueros, he shook the maracas and led the orchestra, he kissed every woman in attendance and danced the fandango as it was never danced before.
“Incredible!” “Formidable!” “Impossible!” That’s what they said of Buchanan as he let off a whole two years’ supply of steam.
The night had actually begun rather solemnly, though a witness coming on the scene after midnight would have been hard pressed to believe it had been anything but bedlam from the start. The solemn occasion had taken place in the great hall of the hacienda. There, amid a handful of specially invited guests, Don Pedro had addressed himself to Buchanan.
“Amigo mio,” he had said, “this night is yours. And so that you may always remember thi
s fiesta held in your honor, those of us in your everlasting debt would like to present you with small mementoes. First, my daughter Maria.”
Maria had stepped forward and stood before Buchanan, her face and figure brilliant in the soft glow of the candlelit room.
“Señor,” the girl said huskily, “to you I owe my life and my future happiness.” Then, from a small case she carried in her hands, she had taken a slender gold chain from which was suspended a wafer-thin golden heart. In the center of the heart was a diamond that must have weighed five carats. Buchanan bent down and Maria fastened the keepsake around his neck. She touched her lips fleetingly to his cheek.
“My son Juan,” Pedro said, and the slender youth, garbed all in white, shook Buchanan’s hand and spoke with great emotion. “Of everything that you did for me,” he said, “I will always be most grateful for the gift of your understanding and moral courage during that long night we spent together in the cell. May this, amigo, remind you of my gratitude throughout your life.” Juan’s gift was a narrow belt of silver, the traditional identification of a Spanish hidalgo, and hanging from it was a sheathed, be-jeweled dagger. He buckled the belt around Buchanan’s waist, shook his hand again and stepped back.
“My friend and segundo, Gomez,” Don Pedro said.
“I have a horse for you, Buchanan,” Gomez announced, his gruff voice echoing through the room. “A white stallion with a spirit to match your own.” The words lay there, unembellished, and Buchanan knew that he owned an animal very dear to Gomez’s heart.
“Doña Isabel,” Don Pedro said.
The little lady, wearing a diamond tiara which picked up the dancing lights, moved from her husband’s side and looked up into the big man’s face. “Wherever you travel, Tomaso mío, a mother’s prayers will be with you. I can give you nothing more. But for the bride you will someday choose to share life with you, this token of my love for her.”
The token was a gleaming sapphire necklace, twelve blue-green, perfectly matched stones, each the size of an almond. She showed it to Buchanan in its case, closed the lid and put it in his hand. Buchanan leaned over and received her kiss.
Don Pedro came and stood opposite him, tall and straight.
“My house,” he said, “is your house. Your friends are my friends, your enemies are my enemies.” He lifted Buchanan’s left hand and on the third finger slipped an enormous gold ring marked with the signet of the Del Cuervo family. It made him, in effect, a member of the ancient clan and an heir to its fortunes.
A servant came forward bearing a goblet of wine. Don Pedro sipped from it and handed it to Buchanan. Buchanan drank thirstily, trying to clear the dryness in his throat.
“I hope you know,” he said, “that I never felt so terrible in my life. There’s a limit to what a man can take.” The tremendous figure of the man, looming all black and solid, seemed to belie that statement. But there was a humbleness in his rich voice that made his listeners understand.
Buchanan had spoken directly to Don Pedro. Now, with a shift of his body, he addressed himself to the mother and son and daughter.
“A man like me has his limits,” he said, paraphrasing what he had just said, giving it special meaning. “Yesterday a judge and a prosecutor took me along my back-trail and I came out of it looking like a pretty sorry specimen. Tonight you folks reverse the verdict.” He lifted the goblet and drank again.
“Somebody,” Buchanan said, looking directly at Maria, “would seem to be wrong. But the truth is, as I know Tom Buchanan, he’s not quite so worthless as Lew Agry painted him for a jury, and not nearly the man the Del Cuervo family would like to imagine. Buchanan,” Buchanan said, “is a bum. He’s a restless, rootless drifter who knows a little bit about everybody else’s business but not one damn thing about his own.”
The servant came and filled the goblet to the brim. Buchanan all but drained it.
“You folks,” he went on into that expectant silence, “have made quite a fuss tonight. You’ve thrown a fiesta just for me and you’ve given me gifts that I know are as precious as anything you own. Even so, I get the feeling that you’re not satisfied. The trouble is, you let your emotions run away with your head. But it’s going to be all right. I’ll be gone tomorrow, on that white horse of Gomez’s, loaded down with my loot, and day after tomorrow you’ll settle down to the regular run of this establishment and be able to see things in their true light. You’ll understand that Buchanan was just passing through, that he’s of no more consequence than one of those shooting stars that goes whipping across the sky with a lot of fireworks tied to his tail. But the stars that you can count on are always there, and when the night’s over the sun comes up just as regular as ever.”
Buchanan turned his attention to Doña Isabel. “Ma’am, you gave me a necklace for my bride. You said it was for some girl who was going to share my life with me. I wish you’d take back the condition, because the life I see ahead has no place in it for a wife.”
The lady nodded, telling him with her eyes that he had said all he need say so far as her daughter was concerned.
“And if it’s agreeable,” Buchanan said, “I hear the music starting up outside and this man’s rarin’ to go.” He gave his arm to Doña Isabel and escorted her to the patio where he danced the first dance with her and then claimed Maria.
He found the girl in his arms mercurial, gay and vivacious, and as they whirled around the marble patio Buchanan had a moment’s doubt about everything he’d said of himself in the hacienda. That moment ended when the music stopped and he released the girl to the stag line.
“Thank you, Buchanan, for everything,” Maria said.
He and Gomez adjourned to the segundo’s quarters then for a half hour’s drinking with Ramon and the other top hands. Buchanan returned to find the first fandango being danced and the tall, smoldering-eyed girl from San Javier the center of attraction. He moved out toward her, grinning, and that was when the party began. Soon they were the only ones dancing, the others gathered round in a circle, keeping the beat with their hands, and when they finished a great “Hola!” went up. Then another as Buchanan bent the girl’s lithe body to his and kissed her full on the lips.
“Where are you going, hombre?” Lilita called after the abruptly retreating figure, racing to catch up with him.
“Honey,” he told her happily, “I’d forgotten what a woman felt like. Now I’ve got to quench the fire.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“That won’t quench it.”
“Bueno!” she said, slipping her slim hand into his and leading him to one of the wine casks. There she filled two cups. First she drank from his, then held her own to his lips. Buchanan drank.
“There,” she said. “It is done.”
“What’s done?”
“We are betrothed, you and I.”
“The hell you say!”
“It is the custom.”
“Hey, Gomez!” Buchanan yelled, but before the man could reach him the girl had slipped away into the shadows.
“What is it, amigo? You roar like a gored bull!”
“How do you get engaged in this country?”
“We have many ways,” Gomez said with a twinkle. “The most interesting, they say, is to be surprised by the lady’s father.”
“How about if you drink her wine?”
Gomez shrugged. “That would interest me,” he said, “but not very much. And speaking of wine …”
During the next hour Buchanan kept getting fleeting glimpses of the girl, each time surrounded by vaqueros, and when it came around to the traditional solo dances he watched from the shadows as she entertained with a tambourine and made her full skirts whirl and twist to her thighs. The crowd made her dance again, and the music grew wilder, and quite unexpectedly Buchanan looked up to find her before him, her breasts heaving beneath the thin blouse she wore, her hands offering a drink from her cup of wine.
Buchanan emptied it, threw the cup away and reached for the girl. They k
issed, but when he would have kissed her again she slipped away from him and ran for the bordering grove. And he might never have found her if she hadn’t betrayed her dark hiding place by a soft musical laugh.
They were together then for what seemed to them both was an instant and an eternity and afterward Buchanan was content to lie on that soft earth forever, his face buried against her sweet-smelling breasts….
“I’m going to get dressed,” Lilita announced suddenly.
“Why?”
“Because I want to dance one more time. In front of everyone, but just for you alone.”
“You can dance for me alone right here.”
“This is different. It is important to me.”
So she dressed and they rejoined the fiesta. Lilita spoke to the musicians and they struck up a tempo that was unfamiliar to Buchanan’s ears. The girl danced to it, slowly, sensuously, and though Buchanan watched her pleasurably he was conscious that the other onlookers were glancing at him just as often as they did her.
“So, amigo?” Gomez said at his elbow. “You have found an interesting way of your own?”
“Is that what she’s telling all these folks?” Buchanan asked in amazement.
“Not quite. That is an ancient dance she is doing. I am surprised that she even knew it. What she is saying is farewell, to the other vaqueros who courted her.”
“Lucky for me I’m pulling stakes,” Buchanan said.
Gomez slapped him on the back. “You don’t sound like you feel so lucky, hombre,” he told him. “Come on, it is time for two bachelors to do some serious drinking.” They picked up Ramon on the way, and Buchanan returned from that visit to headquarters without a care in the world. It was then that he personally undertook the success of the fiesta.
Eighteen
Next to Lilita, no one was enjoying the performance of El Hombre more than Maria del Cuervo. Buchanan danced with her audaciously, holding her close, flinging her about, manhandling her as no vaquero would have dared. He had even persuaded her to dance alone, to Don Pedro’s amazement, then happily scandalized all Rancho del Rey by rewarding her with a firm kiss.