Buchanan 17

by Jonas Ward

  Yancey flushed. “Gimme your gun and shut up.”

  “I’ll just keep my gun for the time being,” Reo said. “But we’ll mosey on over to the jail with you.”

  Yancey paused, looked around, and finally squared his shoulders. “Fair enough.” He lifted his voice at the crowd. “I guess that’s all, ain’t it, boys? Somebody get Diaz out of here.”

  Reo kept his gun. He followed Buchanan, and Buchanan followed the marshal. The three of them single-filed out of the saloon. When Buchanan went past Trask, he caught the self-satisfied smirk in Trask’s eyes. Buchanan chalked that one up, too. He went outside and followed the marshal down the street.

  Inside the marshal’s office Yancey shut the door and said, “You can let me have the gun now. Ain’t nobody going to potshot you in here.”

  “All right,” Reo said, and handed over his gun without argument. Buchanan looked at him, surprised.

  Yancey went around and sat down at his desk. He took out a blank form and wetted the point of a pencil with his tongue. “How much money you two got between you?”

  “Not a dime,” Reo said cheerfully. Yancey looked at Buchanan. Buchanan shrugged, turned out his pockets, and put his money on the desk.

  Yancey counted it out. “Eighteen dollars. Ain’t enough.”

  Buchanan said, “Enough for what?”

  “Pay your fines.”

  “Fines?”

  “Disturbin’ the peace,” Yancey said complacently. “Hell, I know it must’ve been a fair fight, otherwise you wouldn’t of give me that gun. But if Warrenrode wants you out of the country, then that’s the way it’s got to be. I reckon them two crowbait nags out there belong to you, hey? Maybe I’ll just confiscate ’em to take care of your fines. There ought to be enough left over to buy a couple stagecoach tickets to Tucson. Stage leaves in the morning. I’ll jail you overnight just to keep you out of trouble.”

  Johnny Reo said, “Marshal, we got no objection to spending a night on your room and board. But you take a man’s horse, and you’re buying trouble.”

  “Is that a threat, cowboy?”

  “Just advice,” Reo said.

  “We’ll see,” said Yancey. He picked up a key ring and went back into the cells. “Come on.”

  Locked up in the cell next to Reo’s, Buchanan stood at the barred window watching the winking lamps of town. He said, “I didn’t bargain on him stealing our horses.”

  “Neither did I. Figured he’d put us up to a free night’s room and board. Otherwise I wouldn’t have let him have the gun.” Reo’s shoulders went up and went down. “Just shows you can’t trust anybody, least of all a badge toter.”

  Buchanan stretched. “We can worry about it in the morning. Might as well try to get some sleep.”

  “Amigo,” said Reo, “I won’t have to try.” He lay back on his cot and tipped the hat forward over his face.

  After a little while Buchanan lay down and stared frowning at the ceiling. He had a feeling that there was trouble in store. And Buchanan didn’t look forward to that. He was, after all, a peaceable man.

  Five

  Buchanan stretched like a cat and blinked away the morning blaze of light that lanced down through the bar-latticed window. A skinny kid brought in a pair of precariously balanced breakfast trays, went without a word, and returned twenty minutes later to take the trays away. Johnny Reo pointed to his half-finished meal. “What do you call this stuff? Fried adobe?”

  The skinny kid gave him a look, took the tray, and left again.

  “Talkative shaver,” Reo observed. “Tell me something, Buchanan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What do you figure we ought to do about it if that bantam-cock marshal steals our horses?”

  “Steal them back,” Buchanan said without heat.

  Reo grinned at him. “Now you sound like a sensible man. And here I had you all pegged out as a law lover.”

  “I tend to respect a badge,” Buchanan said, “except when it’s tied on a picket string that leads back to some citizen perched on a rawhide throne.”

  “Meaning Mike Warrenrode. You know, you and me made one mistake. We should have minded our own business and let him skewer those worthless redskins.”

  “Thought you said you’d been raised by Apaches.”

  Reo said, “That’s what makes me know they’re worthless,” and he grinned. His red hair stuck up in a tall flaming brush.

  Buchanan cocked his head toward the open door at the end of the cell corridor. “Sounds like company.”

  “You got good ears.”

  The door opened, and a tall man stooped to clear the frame. Rangy and handsome, he wore a doctor-fresh bandage over one temple, and a pair of iron-rimmed eyeglasses. He came down the hall and stopped in the hall to give Buchanan the once-over. “How are you?” said the stranger.

  “Friendly.”

  “I’m Race Koenig.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you,” said Buchanan.

  Koenig went on to the next cell. “Are you Reo? I’m Warrenrode’s foreman.”

  Johnny Reo said coolly, “I don’t know you.”

  “You will,” Koenig said, and turned back to regard Buchanan. “The boss is disappointed in you. You’re still alive.”

  Buchanan said, “I’m beginning to think I don’t really have to get all broken up about it if your boss is disappointed. In fact, I’m starting to get a little tired of hearing about him.”

  Koenig said mildly, “You are allowed to breathe by the grace of Mike Warrenrode, pilgrim, and besides, a man oughtn’t boil over so early in the morning. You’re likely to run out of steam before sundown.”

  Buchanan grinned at him. He was already beginning to like the tall bespectacled cowboy.

  Marshal Yancey came down the hall and said testily, “Couple of border toughs is all they are, Race. Maybe they’ve got a future, but it ain’t in this particular climate. I’m puttin’ them on the stage.”

  “Not this morning, Yancey,” said Koenig. “Afraid I need them for a spell.”

  “Huh?”

  “Boss’s orders. I’ve been looking for these two—in fact, the whole Pitchfork crew’s out scouring the desert for them. I only just found out you had them in here.”

  Johnny Reo walked forward and put his hands on the bars. “What you want us for? A necktie party?”

  “You’ll find out,” Koenig said, and turned to the marshal. “Let them go in my custody, Yancey. I’ll take their guns with me.”

  “How about payin’ their fines?”

  “Send the bill to Pitchfork.”

  Yancey heated up. “Race, I ain’t your lackey and I ain’t Mike Warrenrode’s neither.”

  Koenig said gently, “All right. Go ahead and put them on the stage. I’ll take them off it. That make you feel happier?”

  Yancey grumbled. His eyes flickered around; finally he lifted the key ring and stepped forward to open the cell doors.

  Casually Race Koenig shucked out his six-gun and let it dangle in his fist, with his thumb over the hammer ready to shoot. He said, “Don’t either of you do anything foolish, now.”

  Johnny Reo said, “If you’re in the popularity contest, friend, you ain’t trying very hard to win.”

  Buchanan stepped out of his cell, lugging his hat. He said, “I was getting tired of the food anyway.”

  Yancey told him, “We don’t tend to encourage folks to stay that way.”

  “I could see that,” Buchanan said amiably.

  In front of Koenig’s gun, they went out to the office. Koenig collected two gunbelts—Reo’s and Buchanan’s; it indicated to Buchanan that somebody had gone through his saddlebags. That was where he kept his belt gun.

  Koenig said, “Yancey, you might go rustle up their horses.”

  “And I might not,” Yancey said. “I told you before, I ain’t—”

  “You ain’t about to get many votes next election if you keep bucking me,” Koenig said. His eyes, wide and innocent behind the dusty
glasses, lay blandly upon the marshal, whereupon Yancey clapped his hat on and stalked outside.

  Koenig grinned. “He takes a little proddin’ now and again.”

  “Like a jackass in harness,” Buchanan observed without rancor.

  “Something like that,” Koenig agreed cheerfully. “But don’t be hard on poor old Yancey. He’s just what this town needs. If he was any tougher, we’d have a lot more trouble around here. Give a gent too big a dose of the law the first time, and it’s just like whiskey—he’s likely to swear off for life. With Yancey, we don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Must be a great comfort,” Johnny Reo said.

  Buchanan propped his hip against the corner of Yancey’s desk. His eyes drifted around the place and for a moment he contemplated diving for the rifle rack, but before making that decision, he reckoned he ought to find out what Koenig had in mind, so he said, “What does Warrenrode want from us?”

  “Just talk,” Koenig said. “Ain’t nobody aiming to string you up, if that’s what’s troubling you.” His grin settled lazily, and he drifted closer to the rifle rack; he said mildly, “Don’t get notions, Buchanan.”

  Johnny Reo said, “I rise to remark this country gets curioser and curioser.”

  “Don’t let it fret you,” Koenig said. “You might enjoy havin’ a talk with the old man. Most people hate him on sight, but it takes some folks a little longer.”

  “Then why are you workin’ for him?” Reo inquired.

  “Because he’s the best friend I ever had,” said Koenig. “He’s turned a mite testy since he got his legs stove up, but before that he was the finest man this side of San Antonio—the toughest, the biggest, and the most generous you ever met. Bunch of Sentos’ Apaches run off one of our herds at roundup time a year or two back, and the old man got caught in the stampede. That’s what crippled him.”

  “And makes him hate Sentos,” Buchanan said.

  “Sure. But you got to make allowances. There never was a better man to work for. You can make mistakes, long as you don’t make excuses.”

  “Like Trask?”

  “I heard about that,” Koenig said. “Trask had that coming to him a long time.”

  He seemed about to add something, but Yancey appeared in the door, red-faced and petulant. “Your goddamn horses are waitin’,” he said, and went scowling around behind the desk to sit down. “Get the hell out of here. I’m sick of lookin’ at all three of you.”

  Koenig jiggled his six-gun. Reo looked at Buchanan, shrugged, and headed for the door. Yancey said, “By the way, Ben Scarlett’s comin’ down the street. Do me a favor and take him with you. I don’t need his kind of trouble in town.”

  “He’s supposed to be at work anyway,” Koenig said.

  Buchanan went outside with Reo and looked up street. Ben Scarlett, big as a Clydesdale, was lumbering toward them, and Scarlett’s face became hard and angry when he recognized Buchanan. Koenig stepped onto the sidewalk and said, “What fell on you?”

  Scarlett poked his face toward Buchanan. “This bastard got a lucky punch.” He began to square off defiantly. “This time he’s gonna be picking up his teeth with two busted arms.”

  Buchanan said, “You know what I like about you, Scarlett?”

  Flustered, confused, Scarlett took a little while to absorb it. “Huh? What?”

  “Know what I like about you?” Buchanan repeated.

  “No. What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Scarlett turned a color that befitted his name. His cheeks puffed out, and he seemed to swell up. Koenig stepped between them casually, and said: “Go get your horse and catch up to us, Ben. We’re headed for Pitchfork. You can settle your grudges some other time.”

  Scarlett’s hound face turned sluggishly toward Koenig. “Yuh,” he muttered. “Sure, Race.” He shouldered past and went down the street.

  Johnny Reo said, “He’s a buzzard, ain’t he?”

  “Maybe,” said Koenig. “But don’t forget, a buzzard can spot a helpless field mouse from five thousand feet up.”

  Marshal Yancey appeared in the door. “You all still here?”

  “Just on our way,” Koenig said.

  The marshal squared his narrow shoulders. “Tell your boss something for me, Race. Tell him I’m sick and tired of being treated like one of his hired hands.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Koenig said. “But just think about the fix you’d be in if Mike Warrenrode pulled out his support. You’ve got a lot of enemies, Yancey.”

  Koenig stepped down into the street and said, “I leave you with that thought, Yancey. It ought to keep you from getting bored.” He gestured with his gun toward the waiting horses. “Put it in the saddle, gents.”

  The wagon road took them across rolling desert hills. Two miles out of town, Ben Scarlett caught up, riding a horse as big as any Buchanan had ever seen. Scarlett still thought it was a lucky punch that had floored him last night. Koenig, whose orders Scarlett seemed to respect grudgingly, had to restrain Scarlett from jumping all over Buchanan.

  Even Buchanan’s extraordinary equanimity had its limits. By the time they raised sight of the Pitchfork buildings, he had had his fill of Scarlett’s epithets. He was ready to meet Scarlett more than halfway. They rode down a gentle pitch into the yard. Buchanan’s practiced scrutiny took in the buildings and corrals briefly, and he conceded silently that the ranch was a model of perfection, expertly managed and well kept. He wondered how much of that was due to Race Koenig’s talent. Koenig impressed him as an earnest, skillful cattleman, good-natured but tough.

  A full-breasted, dark-haired girl stood in the ranch house door, shading her eyes with her palm. Buchanan’s interest was drawn wholeheartedly that way when they halted their horses in the yard. Buchanan began to grin, which was when, with his fragile self-control snapping like a brittle twig, Ben Scarlett launched himself from the saddle and butted Buchanan right out of the saddle.

  The two big men landed in a heap amid milling horse hoofs. Buchanan struck the earth on shoulder and flank and felt the slivers of bruising pain. With dust in his eyes, he got untangled and circled away, getting his feet under him. He wiped his face and braced himself, and heard Scarlett mutter, “I am going to break a few of the bones you need the most.”

  Buchanan brought up his guard—and a wheeling, riderless horse, his own or Scarlett’s, spun against him, knocking him asprawl. He hit the dirt with his face and heard Scarlett’s grunt of pleasure. Scarlett landed on top of him like two tons of horseshoes, hooking his thick arm around Buchanan’s windpipe while he kept both knees planted in Buchanan’s back.

  Men swarmed into the yard from the bunkhouse and barns to watch. Koenig’s angry voice was rising and falling, but the milling horses kept cutting him off. Scarlett’s hot, acrid breath whooshed against the back of Buchanan’s neck. Locked in Scarlett’s grotesque hold, Buchanan felt himself being bent backward unnaturally, with the breath cut off at his Adam’s apple. The gathering crowd murmured, and the murmur grew into a growl and became a red, flooding roar in Buchanan’s ears. A pulse throbbed in his head; a blood-thick haze climbed up like a curtain over his eyes. Purple-faced, far past the point where a lesser man’s neck would have broken, Buchanan finally found a subtle point of balance and used it as a lever; the crooked point of his elbow smashed brutally backward into Scarlett’s ribs.

  Scarlett’s grip slackened ever so slightly—but it was enough for Buchanan to wedge his upthrust shoulder inside the curve of Scarlett’s arm. With that advantage, Buchanan humped his back, heaved his shoulders upward, and let himself fall to one side, pinning Scarlett’s arm under the weight of his shoulder. Elbow driving like a piston, he finally broke loose and rolled away, heedless of the dancing hoofs around. As his vision cleared he had a clear instant’s view of one horse’s rolling eyes.

  He heard the dark-haired girl shrieking, “Kill him! Kill him!” It wasn’t clear which one of them she had in mind. He had time to think, Bloodthirsty wench, and then he wa
s dodging out from under the belly of a rearing horse, getting his feet under him, wheeling, trying to find Scarlett in the dusty confusion. Koenig tramped forward on foot with his six-gun out, but then Buchanan found Scarlett. He brushed past Koenig’s gun, too angry to think about it, and roared into Scarlett like a tornado.

  “Put him on the ground,” the girl shrieked. “Hard!”

  He waded in, assuming she was rooting for him but not really caring. He caught Scarlett in the soft belly and buried his fist up to the wrist. He pulled it out and clubbed Scarlett’s nose with it. He used it to drill holes in Scarlett. It had all of Buchanan’s formidable weight and all the incredible muscle power of his right shoulder behind it. It plunged in a blur of motion against Scarlett’s belly, Scarlett’s neck, Scarlett’s hapless face. It made sickening sounds that clapped echoing around the yard.

  The open-mouthed gawking cowboys watched mutely while Ben Scarlett’s knees went rubbery. Scarlett made a dainty pirouette, turning half around as he sank, then collapsed senseless.

  Buchanan looked around, his anger beginning to cool down, and went hunting for his hat.

  The dark-haired girl pushed through the crowd and grinned at him. Buchanan crushed his hat down on his head. He turned toward the girl—and saw Scarlett, moving sluggishly, dragging out his holster gun.

  Koenig’s long leg thrashed out. His boot cracked against Scarlett’s wrist. The gun dropped away.

  Koenig said, “Don’t lose your head, Ben. Fun’s fun.”

  Johnny Reo said, “He ain’t losing his head. He’s losing his nerve.”

  Dust settled. The girl came up to Buchanan with a smile that was as good as a kiss. “What’s your name?”

  “Buchanan.”

  “I seem to remember you,” she said, “from one of my better dreams.” She attached herself to his arm like a hungry leech.

  Steve Quick took three steps forward and grabbed the girl. “Jesus. You got no sense at all?”

  Koenig said, “Antonia, this ain’t no place for you. Get her back in the house, Steve.”

  Quick said, “Damn right.” He jerked on the girl’s arm.