by Jonas Ward
“Still is. Old Mousetrap hit it, then drank too much and blabbed too much. Uh-huh. Cost him his life. Opened the eyes of Billy and Nora. They found out they loved each other. Billy was an orphan, y’know. Red Morgan found him on the porch of his saloon. Gave him the name Billy Button. Red went over and Billy went to ranchin’.”
“The bar is still called ‘Morgan’s’, y’know,” Doug Campbell said.
“Uh-huh.”
“The Buttons got themselves a fine spread, all right. I worked there last year awhile. Best people in the world.”
“Do say. You worked cattle?”
“Yes, sir. Learned a lot. Learned to shoot.”
“Guns and guts. That’s how they kept the ranch. You mind the war we had?”
“I mind it. Like you say, I was a kid my own self, but everybody knows about the war.”
The road still stretched ahead, wide enough but scary with the precipitous rocks towering on either side. The horses plodded. Buchanan flexed his hands. Just ahead was a break in the gorge; the sun shone on the dirt and stone, rich, warm, deep chocolate.
Young Campbell said, “Horsemen on the right.” He cranked a shell into his rifle chamber.
“Easy does it.” They were sitting ducks. There was no possible way to make a run even though the upward grade had lessened. The home base of Encinal lay straight ahead.
The riders came sliding down through shale. There were four of them. They had masked themselves with rebozos, which was stupid, Buchanan thought, a dead giveaway. He said, “Take the lead rider. Keep it low; make sure you at least get the horse.”
The bandits fired the first shot. It went wild. Young Campbell fired the second.
The lead rider went down. Buchanan transferred the offside reins from his left hand to his right and picked up the shotgun. They would be within range if they kept coming, and if they did, they were damn fools.
The trio kept coming. Campbell blew another one away. The other two were still not in shotgun range.
Hoof beats came suddenly behind the stage. The rider broke clear and fired a carbine. The third man in front of them went down. Buchanan resumed his proper hold on the excited horses. He slowly reined them in as the last of the holdup men wheeled around and fled back whence they had come. Cara Shaw rode up on a roan stallion, which snorted and pranced so that she had to check him down hard. Her hair was flying. She said, “Lost my damn hat. Got here in time, didn’t I?”
Buchanan pulled the stage to the side of the road. “That last hombre was bad news. Couldn’t get him in range. Young Campbell here, he did the rest.”
The youth was white, shaking, but he was reloading the rifle. “Golly.” He jumped to the ground. “Gracie! Grade!”
She came out of the stage. Coco wagged his head. The inebriated drummer was shaking like an aspen leaf.
Gracie ran to Doug Campbell and shivered in his eager grasp.
Buchanan asked, “Will you tell me why in tarnation you’re here instead of taking care of Ebenezar?”
“You mean how did you get so lucky?” said Cara Shaw.
“Sort of.”
She said, “Because that damn old fool was afraid to tell you what you’re carrying, that’s why.”
“Seems like we’re carryin’ two deadheads, a drunk, and some express which I wouldn’t know anything about.”
“You’re carrying a payroll for Avery at the mines,” she told him. “One way or t’other they been after you since you started, haven’t they?”
“Uh-huh. I had other notions. Like Mr. Broderick J. Simon wanted to wreck the line.”
“Put the two together and you got it right, I’d say. Should we look over these holdup people?” Cara asked.
“I been watchin’. Haven’t seen any of ’em stir a finger. Man gets shot off a horse, it does him in real good.” They went to one of the fallen men. Buchanan removed the kerchief from the dead face. He revealed the features of a blond young man, unseeing eyes staring into the declining light of the sun. From paces away Gracie uttered a low cry.
Doug Campbell said, “Oh, no!”
Cara said grimly, “One of the Huddleston boys.” Buchanan went to the second victim. He did not need to be told that this was a brother to the first.
“We went to school with them,” said Gracie.
The third was equally young, a Latino. “Beau Cortez,” said Cara. “Just kids around Encinal. My God, the devil’s at work here.”
“The one that got away would be Sam Barringer. They sort of hung around together,” said Doug. “I knew these fellers. Fished with ’em. Hunted with ’em.”
Cara said, “The Cortez boy worked for us at times. And I killed him.”
Coco and Buchanan were arranging the bodies side by side along the road. Their horses were gone, probably back toward the stables in Encinal. Buchanan said, “They didn’t know how to attack. They were too green for the job.”
“Corruptin’ the young, that’s the highest evil,” said Coco.
“Amen,” said Buchanan. He began removing gunbelts and weapons from the bodies. Coco stood apart, murmuring a prayer. Young Campbell retrieved a rifle. Buchanan went on, “We’ve seen big business before, the railroads. The mines owned by easterners, foreigners. This is the worst yet. This strikes home.”
Cara said, “And all for one little stage line.”
“More’n that,” said Buchanan. “The whole western country and what it stands for.” He was more deeply affected, more enraged than he cared to show. “Cara, maybe you better ride ahead and do the things that must be done.”
“Yes,” she said. She had not cracked for a moment. Her dark eyes were steady. “Marshal Darrin will handle it. The families ... that’s another matter. I know them. Just plain folks, workin’ people. The Huddlestons are somewhat shiftless. Oh, hell.”
She mounted her stallion like a man, but there was nothing else male about her, Buchanan thought. She rode off without further words. She had never been one to palaver. He knew the tension she kept under control. She was, he also knew, one hell of a woman.
Gracie’s face was wet with tears. As she climbed back into the coach she whispered, “They were at a square dance just the other day, seems like.”
Buchanan said, “Young Campbell, you best ride inside. Coco’ll come up with me.”
The drummer, sobered, sat crunched into a corner of the stage. He muttered, “Maybe it’s best if the big company took over.”
Buchanan stared at him. The bile had risen inside him.
“You dumb bastard, what would you know? Keep your damn mouth shut before I shut it for you.”
He climbed to the driver’s seat. It was unlike him to utter threats. The drummer was beneath notice, a sad case in any event. Buchanan knew he had to regain control; he had to act. There were matters to which he must attend. He picked up the reins and gee’d the horses onward on the still ascending road to Encinal. It would not be a happy homecoming.
He thought about Cara. She had always been headstrong. She had been married at fifteen to a cowboy who tried to break the wrong bronc and instead broke his neck. She had been drawn into the stage line business by necessity, had taken hold, and been a great asset to Ebenezar, although they had never been close. Once she had been Buchanan’s lover, long ago, when they were young. It had not endured. It had been sweet and short. It had been very sweet ...
He made himself think of Broderick J. Simon and the Amalgamated Stage Lines—and of Mrs. Simon, that somewhat strange lady. It was plenty of food for thought.
Finally the road leveled off. The horses pricked up their ears and broke into a trot. Encinal lay ahead, sprawled on the edge of the Black Hills, open plains westward, the mines to the north. It was a homely, small town but comforting to the eyes of Buchanan and Coco. The home station lay on its border, adobe office and outbuildings spic and span. And along the street were the townspeople, probably as many as could walk, solemn, watchful, wondering. Sam Wolsey’s dead wagon passed them, the driver waving a whip,
going to pick up the young men lying along the road. Cara awaited the coach as it pulled in. The elder Huddlestons stood behind her, stricken, disbelieving.
John Avery’s buggy was tied up at the rack. He came quickly, a man with a furrowed brow, wearing his flat hat, corduroy breeches and town boots, superintendent of the absentee-owned mines, a cold man who carefully disassociated himself from the town—but an honest man after his fashion.
Buchanan swung down, stiff in all his joints, reminded painfully of old wounds.
Avery said, “Buchanan. Hell of a thing. You brought in the payroll?”
“Damn if I know. Can’t you wait’ll we unload?”
“Come on, Tom. I’m your friend. Cara told me some of what happened. I said I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “Mainly I need a drink.” Coco walked with him down the familiar street, past the Miner’s Hotel, the general store, across from the telegraph office to Red Morgan’s. They went into the cool, deserted saloon and rested elbows on the bar. Dan the Bartender, red nosed, no surname, placed a bottle of Monongahela and a four-ouncer before Buchanan and poured a glass of cold milk for Coco.
The door swung open and Billy Button came in like a small whirlwind, shouting, “Tom! Coco! What the damn hell is happenin’? I was buyin’ supplies when you come in. What’s all this gabble goin’ around town? What about Ebenezar?”
Buchanan said wearily, “Shut up and let’s sit down. How’s the family?”
“Waitin’ a big meal for you at home. Damn, I’ve heard all kinds of loco yarns here and there and the other damn place. Scared the fool out of me.”
“Nothin’ll quite scare the fool out of you, son,” said Buchanan. Now he could grin and relax a mite. Excitable little Billy had never changed. Full of fire, he was also full of sympathy and kindness to the world. He wore expensive range garments these days and hand-tooled boots with very high heels, which did not, at that, bring him up to average height. He wore a fancy gunbelt and a short-barreled .38 Starr revolver in a cut-down holster and despite his bombast was on occasion a dangerous fellow to cross. He grabbed the whiskey bottle, obtained a glass and a couple of cold beers, and led the way to a corner table in the empty barroom. “Just tell me about it,” he demanded. “All of it. The fight Coco made, every damn bit till now.”
At first Buchanan demurred and let Coco begin the tale. Then he began to speak of Broderick J. Simon, and it seemed to help clear his mind. The whiskey helped.
The door opened again and the drummer came in, shoulders bent, dragging his sample case. He stared at the trio in the corner, lifted one hand, shuddered, and draped himself over the bar.
Buchanan said, “And that feller lived to tell it—for the rest of his days no doubt.” Then he went on and now every detail was coming clear and Billy for once was silent.
When he was finished Billy said, “Looks like you and Coco own a piece of the Grace Stage Line. Looks like this Simon feller means to take it. And you, too. Whoosh!”
“You sum it up just like you went to school,” Buchanan told him.
“I’m good at business.” Billy grinned, waved expansively. “Like I just bought back this saloon.”
“Well, you were raised in it,” said Buchanan. “What else is news?”
“Tommy growed another inch. Nora’s prettier than ever. Bought some Herefords. Just the same old grind. This business of yours, now, this is interestin’.”
“And you stay the hell out of it, unless I call for help.”
“You’re going to send telegrams east. So will I. Maybe even Avery—he uses the stage. If the bastids send in any strangers with guns, my boys’ll be on ’em,” said Billy. “And here comes Dave now.”
Marshal Dave Darrin, rather new to Encinal, was entering. He was a good-looking man with an ever-serious mien, conscientious, brave, honest. He came directly to the table and said, “Buchanan—trouble?”
“Seems to follow me around,” said Buchanan truthfully. “How’s the family?”
“Fine, just fine. What the hell happened with the Huddlestons and Cortez?”
“Greed, no doubt,” said Buchanan. “I take it the other boy hasn’t shown?”
“His mother is worried to death. He was always a pretty wild sort of kid. Not real bad. Why this? Why?”
Buchanan said, “It’s one of those things that build. A man is crooked, he has money to spend, he turns good into bad overnight. Are there any strangers in Encinal?”
“People passin’ through. Maybe more than usual. No way to keep track; they ride in, ride out.”
“Charlie Knife?”
“Lordy, no. I’d grab him on sight.”
“Be ready to shoot him, or they’ll have him out on a writ,” Buchanan advised. “He’s got big backin’ as of now.”
“Cara told me some of it. You will fill me in, Tom?”
Billy Button said, “Leave Tom alone. I’ll fill you in. Have a drink. We all got to put our heads together.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “First off, how many of those young vaqueros you got hangin’ around doin’ next to nothin’?”
Billy fingered the mustache that really would never become luxuriant and looked as guilty as he could manage. “Them boys work. They’re good boys.”
“Roundup is over. You keep ’em because they are good boys and Mexico don’t want them back. Too rambunctious.” He did not mean to criticize; he approved of Billy’s fondness for his youthful, dark-skinned riders. “You still got Ramon Guttierez?”
“He’s my top hand.”
“He’s your bully boy. Send him or a few like him over to the stage station. Armed.”
“Sure!” Then Billy scowled. “They’re inclined to get a little bit outta hand in town.”
“Leave them to the marshal and me. We’ll put the fear of the Lord into ’em. And you, personal, you stay outta this until you get word. Understand?”
“If Charlie Knife shows up on my spread, I’ll shoot him outta hand.”
“That’s okay. Otherwise, keep cool.”
The marshal said, “What Tom means is, if ASL has got that much muscle, we could all be in thick soup.”
“Nobody’s got that much muscle,” Billy said.
Buchanan admonished him, “You hear me. They showed us on this trip from El Paso that they can hire from every place. Even Encinal, right?”
“The Huddlestons. Yeah. I see what you mean.”
“You watch over Nora and Tommy—and Nightshade.” Nightshade was Buchanan’s great black horse. “And your own self.”
“Don’t you worry about us,” said Billy.
“Stay out of it,” Buchanan repeated. “We don’t want another range war to muddle things up.”
“All right,” said Billy. “Now can we have another drink and talk about our own selves?”
It was as close to a plea as the feisty little bantam cock could manage. Buchanan relaxed, smiling. Billy wanted to brag about Tommy’s accomplishments, the price he got for his cattle, the continuing beauty of Nora, all the matters of family that he shared only with Coco and Buchanan.
Darrin said, “I’ll be moseyin’ along. I’ll keep my eyes open. See you, Billy.”
Coco, who had remained silent, eyes half closed, came to life. “Yeah, Billy. Tell us all about it.”
A half hour later Billy said, “Reckon you won’t be comin’ out tonight.”
“Reckon not,” said Buchanan. He looked at Coco. “Reckon you could go.”
“I wanta see little Tommy real bad,” said Coco. “You mind?”
“I can handle myself alone one or two nights,” said Buchanan gravely. “I know that’s hard for you to swallow, but it’s been done.”
“And you can get into trouble, too. That whiskey in you and wearin’ those damn guns,” Coco scolded.
But he rode out with Billy on a hired hack from the livery stable. Buchanan went to the telegraph office.
Ray Terrill was on duty. He said, “Mr. Buchanan. Heard you were in town. Heard there was
trouble on the line coming home. What can I do for you?”
Buchanan wrote on a tablet, slowly because of the stiffness in his hands. He addressed one message to Senator George Lincoln in Washington, another to the territorial governor in Santa Fe. He took his time and made his meaning clear. He wanted information on Amalgamated Stage Lines and on Broderick J. Simon and anyone or anything connected with them. He also warned that an attempt would be made to deprive Ebenezar Shaw of his mail and express licenses and that violent and illegal acts had been attempted—and performed—by hirelings of Mr. Simon.
Buchanan paid heavily for the privilege, then said to the clerk, “I’ll be at the hotel for a couple of days, I think. Send for me as soon as you get an answer. If I’m not hereabouts, hold ’em tight to your vest. You savvy?”
“I do, indeed. I’m really sorry about Mr. Shaw. He’s a fine man,” Ray Terrill said.
“He’ll probably live. Too mean to die. Have a drink on me.” He left a silver dollar for a tip and walked down to the home station of the stage line. It was nighttime in Encinal. There was a light in the office. Cara was working on a ledger.
“Suppertime,” said Buchanan. “On me.”
“I’ve balanced the books,” said Cara. “I found Ed Harper and hired him to drive tomorrow’s run. You think the Campbell boy would ride shotgun?”
“I do. Further, if Billy Button’s boys show up, maybe we’ll send one to ride inside.”
She sighed. “This is too damned much, Tom. I mean, we can’t run a line like this. Word’ll get out and no one’ll dare ride with us.”
“That word’ll already be out, thanks to Broderick J. Simon,” Buchanan told her. “You’ll have to rely mainly on mail and freight for a time.”
“The books tell me it can’t be for a very long time.”
“I don’t intend to let it take too long. You goin’ to eat, lady? Ain’t you skinny enough?”
“Skinny? Why, damn your eyes, I’ve lost ten pounds, sure; but I wouldn’t call me skinny if I was you.” She scowled, then laughed. “Gracie and that boy are down at the eatery. I’ve got a venison stew on the back of the stove. Okay?”
“If you cooked it, a heap more’n okay.”