Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  “Marion Grace, eh?” He remembered her, a pretty girl with lots of spunk. Cara Shaw was her mother, a pants-wearing lady who had a big part in managing the home station of the line, a severe lady, no nonsense about her. She was very dark, her hair almost black, with snapping dark eyes, and skin tanned from not wearing a hat in the blistering New Mexican summers. He had a bit more than a nodding acquaintance with Cara.

  “If anything happened to Mr. Shaw, they’d have to run the business, wouldn’t they?”

  “Or sell at a nothin’ price to ASL.”

  There was a spot ahead where a marksman could conceal himself and have a good shot at the stage. Buchanan clucked to the horses. He had not removed Ebenezar’s whip from within reaching distance of the old man; he knew the superstition regarding the whip.

  The boy said, “I can drive ’em. Me and Grade, we practiced in the barn. You know, with weights and a little wall, how you do?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “You handle the rifle.” Then he said, “You and Grade, huh? Only family and close friends called her ’Grade.’”

  The kid’s face went red. “Well, we known each other all our lives.”

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan was watching for the spot he had ticked off in his mind. “See that clump of chaparral? Unload on it.”

  It was a far shot, but the boy was quick. He fired the old repeater like a veteran. Lead whistled into the cover.

  A figure appeared, covered with a serape, wearing a Mexican sombrero. The man was carrying a large gun. He lurched from view. He reappeared aboard an undistinguished dun-colored horse, bent forward over the cantle, and rode swiftly out of sight.

  “Pinked him,” said Buchanan. “Scared the hell outta him, too.”

  “You reckon I truly hit him?” Doug Campbell was excited.

  “Close enough,” said Buchanan. “You could tell Grade you hit him.”

  “Aw, now.” But the boy’s eyes were bright and his shoulders squared as they drove the remaining miles to the town of Las Cruces.

  Buchanan thought of his own youth and how, when he was fourteen, his father, a sometime sheriff in East Texas, had gotten into a bind and how Tom had fired the Navy Colt with which he had been practicing and had killed the man and it was thought better he should be sent away to school. He had not gone, but had run away to Texas. And he thought of Billy Button, who had been a foundling and was raised by the redheaded saloon keeper in Encinal and who had been the town’s bad boy until he’d found Nora Mulligan and how Buchanan had been able to help them and that now there was a little Tommy. And then he thought of Coco and how they had found each other in jail and had broken out and had always been together since and what a life they had spent in all the places where one could see the elephant. And that it had been a short span of years but a wonder of times in this country, this vast, open western country that he loved with all his heart. And maybe there were other matters to be attended to—such as the mysterious Mr. Broderick J. Simon and his complicated ways and his odd wife and his big, voracious ASL.

  Three

  The house was squeaky new, on the outskirts of El Paso, north of the Rio Grande, with many rooms, a courtyard, a barn, and a high fence to protect it from gawking—sometimes mocking—neighbors. It was well lighted and furnished with heavy Mexican furniture, its high windows replete with velvet drapes. Broderick J. Simon clapped his hands and a young woman with olive skin, a deep bosom, and bare feet brought a tray with a bottle of brandy and appropriate fine glasses.

  The stout man in black broadcloth, congress gaiters, and linen as white as the driven snow flashed the diamond on his left hand and said, “You do yourself proud here, Broderick.”

  “It is necessary to impress the natives,” said Simon. He smiled at the girl. “That is all, Maria. You may retire now.”

  “Si, señor. ” Her skirt flirted as she swept from the room.

  The stout man, whose name was James Brady, said, “Frightening, that affair involving your wife. Aborigines, I presume?”

  “The Apaches are always dangerous.” Simon sighed. “I’m afraid it’s all up with old Shaw. A messenger tells us he was hard hit.”

  “But you have not acquired his stage line.”

  “A matter of time.” He poured the brandy. “There was interference by an oaf named Buchanan.”

  “A businessman?”

  “A wandering gambler. We shall take care of him.”

  Brady sniffed, then sipped. “We are depending upon you to close out these small deals. Bigger things await you if you are successful. But you know that.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “ASL is only part of it. Good business waits on no man. There is money here, gold, cattle, the railroads. In New York we watch these trends. Surely these simple western folk cannot compete.”

  “Of course not. I have hired those who can do the most for us.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen your payroll. Be careful, Broderick. Remember that good business depends on spending less to accumulate more.”

  “Indeed. On the other hand we must venture in order to win, to make gains.”

  “So long as you understand.” There was a heavy warning note in the stout man’s voice. “I am but a part of the company, you know. I bear no ill will; I must however warn you. In New York they are a bit impatient.”

  There was a moment of silence. Simon drained the brandy. His cheeks were slightly flushed. Finally he said, “If my efforts are not appreciated, Brady, I would be happy to resign.”

  “No, no.” Brady extricated himself from the curved chair. He was not a fat man; he was round and firm. Another diamond flashed. “Money makes money. We know that. But results. Results count, right?”

  “I have my methods.” Simon could not fight the man. It would be butting his head against a stone wall and he knew it. He smiled and said, “Your room is ready anytime. And, ahem, there is Maria.”

  “Thank you, but no,” said Brady. “I have a rule against that.”

  It was another subtle insult. Simon did not lose his smile. “Certainly. Understandable. Goodnight, sir.”

  He drained the brandy, poured another, drank it, then tossed down a third. His blood was boiling. He went into the courtyard. Brady’s man, a dressed-up thug if he ever saw one, was in the shadows. The powers back east never overlooked a detail. The night was dark. Clouds were gathering. There was a hint of rain in the air. It suited him, his mood.

  He had invested and won, then someone had given him the tip on Coco Bean’s prizefight, and, in his cups, he had lost more than he could afford. Then it had been Buchanan and the public insult, followed by the rescue of Ebenezar Shaw. It seemed as though the fates had suddenly conspired against him, he who had always been a winner by any means. The people represented by Brady were powerful, but he had sneered at them in the course of his employment for being overly cautious, shortsighted, old-fashioned.

  The liquor boiled in his belly, ran hot in his veins. They could not defeat him; he would go ahead; he would show them how an empire was founded. And he would use Buchanan and the miserable little stage line to Encinal as prime examples.

  He was, after all, an educated man. He was a man of the world. They were bumpkins. He was out of Kentucky, of a fine family.

  He winced despite himself. He had long since been disowned. The rain came as if pelted down by the gods, and he ducked into the doorway he was seeking. The girl, Maria, was waiting.

  The Las Cruces hospital was small but efficient. Dr. Watson was a good man, wise to gunshot wounds. Ebenezar looked shrunken, wasted. Buchanan was sweating, but the bullet was out and the wound cleansed.

  “A chance,” the doctor whispered. “Just a chance. It’ll take a lot of time.”

  Cara Shaw left the operating chamber. Buchanan followed her, knowing her, aware that she needed support but she would never admit it, that she was holding back tears mainly by strength of character. She was tall and not truly beautiful; her gracefulness and strength of body and mind were the charact
eristics that set her apart from other frontier women who had lived through the rough early days.

  He said, “He’ll make it. He’s tough as a boot.”

  “You saw him. He’s never looked that bad.” She inhaled, dashed a hand at her eyes. “I can run the line. But that Concord, I didn’t want him to buy it.”

  Buchanan said gently, “Let me tell you about that.”

  They walked toward the Las Cruces Hotel, two tall people. Most women looked tiny walking with Buchanan, but Cara did not. She carried herself tall, with long strides of her long legs in her tight jeans and two-toned heeled boots. She had come down on horseback from Encinal but looked none the worse for wear. The little lines at the corners of her eyes were from squinting at the sun; her skin was smooth as silk. They went into the parlor of the hotel and sat at a table. She ordered cold beer and he had his whiskey and water.

  When he had finished the story she said, “The woman. She came here a couple years ago, a widow, she said. She stayed here in this hotel and spent money. She seems to have air in her head, but sometimes—I dunno. There’s more there than appears.”

  “When did she marry Simon?”

  “About a year ago. Here today, gone tomorrow, off with the dashing easterner. People did talk some. No bad gossip, though. Just a flighty lady. With money.”

  “I’d guess it was Simon’s money,” said Buchanan. “I’d surmise there was some reason he sent her here until he could get her.”

  “No,” said Cara. “It was her money. You know Dale? The banker? He said it was family money from Kentucky or some place back there.”

  “I see.” It made more sense that way, now that he thought about it. Her money, Simon wanted it. “I got to check out some matters. About him and her. And ASL. And who fired the shots.”

  She said, “Ebenezar.” Now the pain was evident. “The line means everything to him.”

  “And you?” She had been widowed early. There had been a time, long ago ... Buchanan forbore to think of that now. “It means as much to you.”

  “I grew up with it. Grade grew up with it.” She paused, frowning. “Grade’s scared about Ebenezar, but that Campbell boy seems able to calm her down.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Young people.”

  “I remember.”

  “Don’t start that.” She flushed. “Let’s get down to business. We’ll need a driver.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Will you look around?”

  “Seems like I better do more’n that.”

  “Just because you put up the money—”

  He gently interrupted. “Just because there’s a heap of trouble. Because of ASL. Because of Mr. Simon and his friends. Comes down to more’n driving stages.”

  “You’re movin’ in, Tom. I feel it.”

  “Somebody shot at me.”

  “Your investment?” Then she lifted a hand. “I know the money means nothing to you. But if ... if Ebenezar don’t make it, you’re part owner.”

  “If you see it that way.”

  “There’s no other way to look at it. He bought the damn Concord. You saved his bacon.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  She frowned. “In a way. Maybe. I can run the business end. I can even drive a leg if I have to. I know the stock, every damn horse. On t’other hand ...”

  “Don’t you reckon I’m in too, whether or no?”

  She drank the beer. She sighed. “You’re in. No way to stop you. Truth is, maybe I am a bit scared. Now with you and me together again. Oh, Lordy, I am scared.”

  “I’m scared too. For you and Ebenezar and, for that matter, for my own hide. Simon is after me. He’s got money and power. He’s got hired help that is scary dangerous. And he’s got big business behind it all. You know how it was with the railroads. This is more of the same.”

  “Yes. Can we win?” she asked.

  “We can fight,” he said.

  “Yes. We can fight. If we don’t fight each other.”

  “We’re older now. Maybe wiser.”

  They managed to smile. They were silent, their minds going back to another time.

  A voice called, “Buchanan, you in there?”

  “He’s here, and where’s Grade?” Cara said.

  “I’m here.” They came in, the boy from Encinal and the pretty girl. She was small and rounded and feminine, from her blond hair to her tiny feet. She wore a man’s shirt and a divided dress. Her feet and hands were tiny. She had tawny eyes, large but slanted rather than round. Her chin was firm, and she moved like a cat, quick and lithe. She was the exact opposite of her mother.

  Young Campbell said, “Ebenezar could talk when we left. He said to make the run. That’s all he said.”

  “Doug can help,” said Grade Shaw. “He can stay with us. He can drive ...”

  “Just a little, now,” Campbell said quickly. “I can ride shotgun, though.”

  Cara said grimly, “Out of the mouths of babes and children. Buchanan, what about this?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “You talk it over. I’ll see to the hitch.”

  The drummer was mouthing off in the bar to the one paying passenger left. Buchanan passed him without speaking and walked down to the stable. The further away he was from confrontations between the girl and the dark woman the better off he would be, he thought. It had been always thus—Ebenezar’s authoritative hand was needed to make final decisions. Which decisions, he began to realize, would now be his. Old Tom Buchanan, in the middle again. He hastened his pace, uneasy at the thought.

  At the stable he paused. The four horses stood harnessed, but there was no sign of the hostler. Flies hovered and the horses were uneasy. Inside the stable there was a slight noise.

  Buchanan could move as silently as a night shadow. He went around the barn. The rear door was almost closed, not quite. He eased through it into dimness. A rat scurried, a small terrier yipped, chasing it. He was about to relax and look for the missing stableman when there was another tiny bit of motion in one of the empty stalls.

  Buchanan drew his right-hand gun. The clean, acrid odor of manure was strong in his nostrils. He slid, crouching, toward the place whence the sound had come, at the far end of the barn.

  Now there was a rustle of straw above. Buchanan saw one outstretched leg of the hostler extending from a stall. He turned and fired upward upon pure reflex.

  There was a cry of pain. A figure came out from the direction of the first noise he had heard. Buchanan fired again, without aim.

  A man fell from the loft. Another staggered into view carrying a rifle. Buchanan shot twice more, ducked away, and searched for a third attacker.

  None was forthcoming. He walked in the dimness and toed the first body. The face that stared up at him was fixed in a grimace, a dark face. He went to the second victim. It was a man with a scraggly brown beard, gap-toothed, without life. In the man’s hand was a knife, curved, deadly sharp.

  “Hamstringin’,” said Buchanan aloud. There were footsteps—shots were uncommon in settled Las Cruces. People drew near the open doors. Coco’s voice called to him. He said, “Of all the damn, dirty, rotten deeds a man can commit, to hamstring a horse. May they roast in hell.”

  Cutthroats, he saw, turning them over, raggedy odds and ends for hire to do any deed for a pittance. Someone in town had hired them. There had not been time to send them from El Paso; no one would have dared send a telegram, nor were they the types to receive a wire. The deed had been planned in advance in case the stage arrived intact.

  He straightened, going toward Coco and the curious who were crowding the doorway. He said, “Send for the marshal. Tell him to see Buchanan.”

  He walked with Coco around the stable to the waiting horses. People were pushing in now. The stableman was dead, his throat cut. There was a murmur of voices, and Buchanan heard his name repeated several times.

  He suddenly felt worn and weary. The bad time was on him again. There would be no rest until the problem was solved, a
nd it looked to be a long, hard pull to the goal.

  Coco said, “Guns and knives and blood.”

  “And friends to keep safe,” said Buchanan.

  “It ain’t easy.” Coco’s voice was soft. “It’s always the same. It ain’t easy, but we got to do it.”

  They went toward the hotel to gather up the women and the drunken tobacco salesman and the boy. Buchanan straightened. Coco was right. They had to do it.

  Four

  Buchanan relaxed, allowing the horses to walk the steep grade of Spanish Gorge on the last leg of the journey to Encinal. The old road lay between brown and mauve rocks, mounting high upon the tumble of the Black Hills. Doug Campbell was riding shotgun. The passengers were Coco, Grade Shaw, and the inebriated tobacco drummer.

  “Two deadheads and a drunk,” Buchanan remarked. “Without the mail and the express it would be no kinda business whatsoever.”

  “You don’t reckon there’ll be an attack on us hereabouts?” asked the youth.

  “Keep an eye on the hills. I think you winged Charlie Knife or whoever back yonder.” Buchanan’s hands ached from handling the reins, and an old wound in his back was acting up due to his unaccustomed position on the high seat. It would be good to get back to the place he called home, the Billy Button ranch outside Encinal where the grama grass grew high and the cooking was as tasty as it was aromatic. He could smell it now, he imagined. “No place like home” was a rightful song. Was that the actual title? He couldn’t remember.

  He realized with a start that he was tired, almost to the point of dozing off. He shook his head and stared at the ridges of colorful rock in the late sunshine. There was no sign of human life. If he talked, he could stay awake.

  He said to the boy, “It was a few years back. Lemme see, Tommy Buchanan Button is ... eight?”

  “Just about, sir,” said Doug Campbell.

  “You were just a kid when I met up with Billy Button and Nora Mulligan, who was Mousetrap Mulligan’s granddaughter. They were a pair.”

  “There was a mine, wasn’t there?”