Buchanan's Revenge

by Jonas Ward

  "You and your gang are to leave this territory when your work for the merchants is concluded," Lime said.

  "Suppose we like it here, brother?" Red Leech demanded. "Who's gonna chase us out?"

  "Soldier," Lime said, sounding very much like a former army captain, "soldier, you've made your rep against Mexicans. If you've a mind to try your bandit tactics against some Texans I'm sure you'll be accommodated."

  "You threatenin' Red Leech, brother?" the giant thundered. Lash Wall stepped between them.

  "We're down here on business, Sheriff," he said peaceably. "After we're done maybe we'll consider your invitation." He smiled. "Any other conditions?"

  "No, mister, that's all."

  Wall turned to Leech. "Let's go see our headquarters, Big Red," he suggested. "Get ourselves set up."

  "Damn right! You know somethin', Lash? I ain't had my siesta! Been ridin' since mornin'!" Then he thought of something else. "And by Judas, Lash, I ain't had a woman for a week!"

  "We'll take care of you, Big Red," Lash Wall told him, turning the man around and easing him toward the door of Lime's office. He looked back. "Nice meeting you, Sheriff," he said.

  "Been my pleasure, mister," Lime answered cordially.

  The house that the merchants had provided for Red Leech's headquarters was just as Bert Bronsen had described it—a large, comfortable hacienda that had once been the property of a wealthy Mexican. Visiting Spanish royalty had slept beneath its roof, and General Santa Ana, and just about every very important personage passing through the region. It was a house rich in history and full of memories—but none so rich and gaudy as the ones Red Leech and company gave it within twenty-four hours of moving in.

  It became the house that never slept. True, there were saloons in the city that stayed open around-the-clock but no place in Brownsville maintained the driving, riotous pace of drinking, brawling and carousing of Leech's "army." The capable Lash Wall had sent for a total of thirty of them, and each hour, each day, each night, another one or two or three of the far-flung gang would arrive. Old acquaintances were renewed boisterously, there was a fresh excuse for a party, and the ball kept rolling and rolling of its own wild momentum.

  To one Turkey Forbes was delegated the role of official greeter and host. As host, Turkey's main responsibility was to keep the wine, women and song in ample supply, and all day and all night two trains passed each other on the road to Brownsville. The wagons and carriages going to the city contained empty whisky kegs and exhausted, sleeping girls whose garter belts bulged with money. The train going to the hacienda outside of town carried full-kegs and a fresh load of gay, bright-eyed, companionable young females who were ready and eager for anything. The piano player and the fiddler stayed at the house, making music even with their eyes closed and growing richer beyond all expectations.

  On the third evening of the Gran Fiesta a party of three dust-begrimed, hard-faced riders rode into the courtyard and were greeted enthusiastically by Lash Wall.

  "Fred Perrott! Jules!" he shouted warmly. "Sam Gill! Sure glad you three fighters made it!"

  The trio of gunmen took the homage as if it were their due, murmured a greeting in return and dismounted.

  "How were pickings up Uvalde way?" Wall asked.

  "So-so," Fred Perrott grunted. There could be no mistaking him and Jules for brothers. Both were tall and raw-boned, with big, rough-looking hands and hard-muscled bodies. Their faces were even more alike—thin, hawkish noses, high cheekbones, thin lips and dark eyes set deep in their faces beneath protruding foreheads. Their hair was long and unkempt, the color of dried hay. Sam Gill was shorter and thicker through the chest. His face was square, his eyes wide-spaced, and there was an expression of truculent obstinacy about him even when he felt relaxed. It was a tossup between the three as to who owned the pickest gun or the most will to use it.

  "So-so," Fred Perrott repeated. "Picked up a little on the way down, though." "That so?"

  "Got us a stage outside of Hondo," Fred Perrott said conversationally. "Almost lost our stake in some little burg called—what was the name of that town, Jules?"

  "Aura," Jules Perrott said. "Gah-damn muleskinner, winnin' and grinnin'. Tried to rub our noses in it."

  "He's done winnin'," Sam Gill said slyly. "And grinnin'."

  "Well, come in, boys, and say hello to Big Red."

  "Yeah. What the hell's all the racket inside?"

  "Somebody's throwing a party," Lash Wall told them. "In honor of the biggest job we ever got next to."

  "Lead me to it," Fred Perrott said. "I'm in the mood for some cuttin' loose."

  As soon as they entered the hacienda they were greeted with a wild and drunken roar of welcome. Girls squealed and the fiddle jumped to new life.

  "Pull the plug on another keg!" Red Leech shouted overall. "Three stray lambs has joined the flock!"

  Somebody fired a gun into the high ceiling. Somebody else fell out a window. A girl squealed on the top floor. The party started all over again.

  Things had begun to taper off, but not much, by the time the last two of the summoned gunfighters arrived at headquarters.

  "What in hell happened to you, Wynt?" Red Leech demanded. Wynt Jenkins, carrying his arm in a sling to favor the bullet-grazed collarbone, scowled fiercely.

  "Some dirty jasper up the line got the drop on me," he growled. "Leastways, I'm better off than old Prado."

  "Prado?" Lash Wall asked. "What happened to him?"

  "Cashed in his stack," Sherm Moore answered. "Stepped on a tiger's tail sure enough."

  "Sam Prado dead," Red Leech said, subdued for once. "Never thought I'd hear bad news like that."

  "Let me get this straight," Lash Wall interrupted. "The same fella took you and Prado both?"

  Wynt nodded.

  "And where were you?" Wall asked Sherm Moore.

  "Standin' there with my left foot in hell," Sherm answered. "And I ain't ashamed to be still alive to tell about it. I mean, Lash, this boy was primed."

  "We'll sure miss Prado's gun," Red Leech said mournfully.

  "Yeah, Big Red, we sure will," Lash said, his voice thoughtful. "But I wouldn't mind having the gun that got him."

  "Well, we ain't and what the hell?" Leech said. "How many are we now, anyhow?"

  "Sherm and Wynt make thirty-five," Wall answered, "but I don't know if Wynt can handle himself in a fight."

  "He'll be able to do somethin'," Leech assured him. "You been over the trail like you said you would?"

  Wall nodded. "Going to draw a map tonight."

  "How does it look?"

  The lieutenant shrugged. "Bronsen and Owens want us to make the crossing just south of Davis Landing," he said. "I admit it's narrower there, but if I had my druthers I'd get across the river farther north. Up around Roma." T

  "You tell 'em that?"

  "I mentioned it. They said they were risking over a million dollars in goods and they'd pick the crossing place."

  Leech's little eyes lit up. "Over a million, eh? And we get a tenth?"

  "Unless we did it the other way around," Lash Wall said, smiling.

  "Other way around?"

  "Or threatened to at the last minute, Big Red. Get Mr. Bronsen and his friends to sweeten our end of the pot another tenth or so."

  Red Leech grinned wickedly. "Boy, I don't know where you get these ideas, but they sure are beauties! And that reminds me, where the hell's that big blonde-headed girl today? I like her good enough to keep permanent."

  "She'll be back tonight, Big Red," Turkey Forbes promised.

  "She better. And where's Jules Perrott lately? I ain't seen him around lately."

  "Jules' been slippin' into town last couple of nights," brother Fred answered. "He don't like it when he's told he can't go to a place."

  "What can he do there that he can't do right here?" Leech asked.

  "Aw, you know Jules," Fred Perrott said. "He's just got an ornery streak. Bad as our pa."

  "Well, I hope he don't ge
t ornery with that sheriff," Lash Wall said then. Big Red scowled at him darkly. "You afraid of that little badge toter, by God?"

  "You know better, Big Red. But we don't have Prado and we only got a part of Wynt. We lose any more boys and this convoy operation could get to be a real chore."

  "Why? What've the Mex got over there?"

  "Troops," Wall answered laconically. "Took Dirge Pine over for a little reconnoiter night before last. There's an army waiting for us there, Big Red. A thousand of 'em. And guns aplenty."

  "Well, hell! We licked the bastards afore, didn't we?"

  "Fighting our style," Lash Wall reminded the leader. "Hit and run. This time we got to take a million in bulky goods across that Rio. And when we're hit we got to stay and fight."

  "Lash, gah-damn it, you're gonna spoil my fun! Where's that big blonde-headed baby o'mine?"

  Seven

  WE COULD make it to Brownsville tonight," Buchanan told the girl. The sun was a red ball in the west and their horses had drunk their fill of the stream water.

  "Whatever you say," Cristy replied. Her pretty face was filmed with dust, weary-looking. Her hair was awry. But she sat her saddle as straight as she was able. Even more.

  "Tired?"

  "No," she lied. . ,

  "On the other hand—"

  "What?"

  "Just thinking out loud, ma'am. Three, four more hours in the saddle and all I'll be looking for in Brownsville is a

  bed.”

  "Instead of the men who killed Bogan?" she asked quietly.

  "Yeh. So there doesn't seem much point in pushing these horses today."

  "No," she agreed. "Let's be kind to the horses."

  Buchanan looked at her. "Meaning you are a little wore out?"

  Cristy sighed, nodded. "Riding a trail is a man's game," she confessed.

  "Why didn't you say something?" He dismounted, came to assist her down.

  "You haven't been exactly approachable," she said. “Your thoughts are on other things." She leaned down into his waiting arms, felt herself floated to the ground effortlessly. Buchanan stepped back, his manner impersonal.

  There's plenty of squirrels around here," he said. "You duck your face in that stream and I'll see about supper."

  "Squirrels?"

  "Squirrel pie," Buchanan said. "The mountain man's chicken."

  "You eat squirrels?"

  "Well, I'd never order one in a restaurant."

  "I couldn't," the girl said squeamishly. "I can't even think about it."

  "Well," Buchanan said, "I could go upstream a ways. Might be some beavers around."

  "Stop!" she cried. "Please stop!" Then she thought of something, turned to her saddlebag. "Oh, thank the Lord!" she murmured. "I just remembered that I brought some food. Bacon and beans. Is that all right?"

  "Sounds fine."

  "Squirrel!" she said, taking the things from the saddlebag. "Beaver!"

  "They got better manners than the pig that bacon was sliced off of," Buchanan pointed out. "Howsomever—"

  "Howsomever, it's civilized," she said.

  Buchanan chuckled lightly. "You'd be surprised, ma'am, who started making squirrel pie."

  "Who?"

  "Some high quality folks in the Virginia Colony. Taste for it spread to South Carolina."

  "You're making that up!"

  Buchanan took an oath with his upraised hand. "South Carolina's famous for squirrel pie. You mean you never saw one of those great big juicy fox squirrels when you was up there?"

  "Buchanan, you're a big tease. Have you ever been in Carolina?"

  He smiled, shook his head. "I will, though, by-an'-by. Going to see it all before I'm through."

  "Is that your ambition—to travel?"

  "Ambition? No, it's my perdition. My ambition, at the moment, is to get a fire going under this hog's hide and pea beans. And while it's cookin' to soak my own hide in that runnin' water."

  He lit a fire, improvised a wetwood grill, bid the girl a temporary adieu and tramped upstream for his privacy. Fifteen minutes later he signaled his return and stepped into the clearing. It was dusk now, and the firelight was warm and cheerful.

  "That water was cold, wasn't it?" he said, noticing that her hair and skin still glistened with moisture.

  "Yes," Cristy said, her voice low. She sat close to the fire.

  "Did you peel all the way down?" He stirred the beans.

  "Yes."

  "Did you feel that counter-current? Where you sit?"

  "Yes."

  Buchanan turned the sizzling bacon over.

  "Buchanan."

  He glanced at her. "What?"

  "I—I have a confession to make. I did something-something terrible. I followed you. I watched—like Joseph in the Bible—"

  Buchanan's laughter was a thing to hear. "I wish I'd've known about that," he said. '”I’d've strutted like a peacock!"

  "But I'm so ashamed of myself," the girl protested. "I don't know what came over me to do such a thing!'^

  "If I'd only known," Buchanan repeated happily. He served her beans and bacon.

  "You don't think I did wrong—to spy on you?"

  "I didn't feel a thing," Buchanan assured her. "Say, this is good bacon. Good as the steak that Chinaman cooked for me last night."

  The girl studied his profile in the flickering firelight. "Chang was impressed with you, too," she said. "Before I left this morning he told me you were going to be a very important man. That you were going to have the biggest ranch in Texas."

  "Yeh, he told me, too."

  "Isn't that what you want—a ranch of your own?"

  "I don't know," Buchanan said, staring into the blaze. "I don't know what I want for my own."

  "A woman?" she asked and he swung his head to her.

  "Not for my own, no," he said. "Not yet." He looked back into the fire. "Not yet, and especially not now."

  "Because of this thing that's eating at you, this need for vengeance?" she said with a trace of anger. "Is that the only thing that's important to you now?"

  Buchanan kept silent.

  "There were three of them!" she suddenly cried at him. "Three of them against one of you! Do you think you're infallible? Don't you know that everybody runs out of luck sometime?"

  "Hey, take it easy," Buchanan said.

  "I'm sorry," Cristy said, getting control of her voice. "I'll—I'll try not to speak my thoughts like a silly woman."

  "You haven't said anything silly."