Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  And then—he had allowed a woman to get the drop on him. He was almost to the ranch when the humor of the contretemps struck him. Even then he could not laugh.

  Nightshade, once out of the hills, wanted to run. It was a sight, the big man on the big horse with its tail flying, coursing over the flat land. They came in at a walk, and Buchanan unsaddled at the corral fence, decided that the black stallion needed a rubdown, and started for the stable. He overheard Coco’s voice and paused, finally able to smile, knowing his friend would be telling some tall story to the boy.

  Tommy’s voice said, “There’s an owl sits in that tree outside my window, you know? At night. He sits there making that noise, coooo, coooo, cooo. Only at night.”

  “That’s the way it is with owls,” said Coco.

  “People always say ‘wise old owls.’ How come owls are so wise, Coco?”

  Buchanan waited. Coco always had answers.

  “Who says? I mean who partic’lar says owls is so wise?” Coco asked. He was stalling, turning the proper reply over his head.

  “Well, in Maguffey’s Reader. There’s a story about a wise old owl.”

  “It don’t tell you how come?”

  “Nope.”

  Again Coco paused. Then he asked, “You ever see an owl do somethin’ wise?”

  “They catch mice,” Tommy said.

  “They don’t catch stable rats.”

  “Guess not.”

  “Well, seems to me owls are like your uncle Tom Buchanan.”

  “Coco! That’s dumb.” Tommy laughed.

  “Not so dumb.” He spoke carefully, louder. “Owls look wise. It’s ’cause they don’t know how to look scared!”

  Buchanan said, “You knew I was listenin’, you rascal.” He walked Nightshade into the stable. “You heard us.”

  Coco chuckled, “You always say you can see a fly on the moon. I can hear a fly walkin’ on the moon.”

  Tommy cried, “Uncle Tom is wise. You were just making a joke, there. Weren’t you?”

  Buchanan said, “Right now I figure Coco’s right. Some of the time, anyhow.” In the house, he waited until Tommy was not present and then told the others of his encounter with Charlie Knife’s woman.

  “It wasn’t ... wise,” he admitted.

  Billy Button said, “I dunno what else you could’ve done. You couldn’t see the bloody shirt real plain unless you went in.”

  “Uh-huh. But I could’ve kept my big mouth shut.”

  “You couldn’t shoot the woman,” said Coco.

  “I think you did right,” Nora said. “You put Charlie Knife on the run. Now maybe some lawman’ll get him and save us the trouble.”

  They were kind, but it did not make Buchanan feel better about the incident. He ate a huge breakfast in order to restore his spirits. He thought about driving the stage and was not too sure about that, either.

  Six

  Every stagecoach driver had his own manner of announcing the coach’s arrival at a station. Most used the snapping of the long whips, though some blew horns or whistles. Buchanan had borrowed an old whip at Encinal. Cara had laughed at his efforts to handle it properly.

  He was driving one of the old coaches, repainted and in good condition but not as ornate nor as comfortable as the new one, which had precipitated all the trouble. Inside he had a clerk from the mine office, the drunken drummer who had found business enough overnight, and the inevitable mail plus a modest freight load. By the time he reached Las Cruces he had two pairs of veteran horses that gave him no trouble. This gave him a chance to experiment with the whip—to which the teams paid no attention, since there was no need for haste and no danger.

  He came down the main street at a trot, and despite hands still tender, he managed to snap his wrist. He amazed himself with the satisfactory sound the whip gave off. People took notice, came outside with their inevitable curiosity. It was daily attention given the arrival of every stage.

  Someone said in a treble, “Bravo! Bravo, Mr. Buchanan!”

  It was Mrs. Broderick J. Simon. She was waiting outside the station. Evidently she had not wasted much time with her dressmaker. She carried a small satchel he had not seen before, and was smiling at him. He turned the coach over to the hostlers and dismounted, remembering to take his whip along in the true tradition.

  “Going home so soon, Mrs. Simon?” he asked.

  “Oh, I merely had to select the fashions,” she said. “From a Parisian catalogue. Fashions and colors. Doesn’t take much time, you know. My seamstress knows my size, of course. Did you have a good trip? How is Mr. Shaw? I haven’t had time to ask, really. I do hope he’s going to live.”

  “I’m going that way right now.”

  “And the stage won’t leave without you, now, will it? So may I walk along?”

  “Uh-huh.” He reached for the satchel. She hesitated and for a moment she did not seem such an empty-headed lady. Then she relaxed and turned it over to him. It was neither light not heavy; nothing in it rattled or shifted. They walked toward Dr. Watson’s office and hospital.

  She said, “People do notice you, do they not?” He was acknowledging salutations every other step. “It must be exciting to be so well known and feared ... well, respected.”

  “This here’s my part of the country,” he told her. “Been some ructions and some fun hereabouts. People get so they think they know you. Nothin’ to it.”

  “There is a lot to it. My husband dotes on the kind of attention you get. He lives for it, for—well, for power, I guess.”

  “Power? Never was interested.” But Buchanan was interested in what she had said. “So your husband’s real ambitious?”

  “Oh, dear me, yes. When I met him he was with the railroad, you know. Buying land, all that. He knows so many people. Hiring, firing, dealing. My goodness. Then, of course, I had my money from my father and grandfather.” Once started, she rattled on as though without thought, just uttering words.

  “Oh, then you built the house in El Paso?” He was careful with his fishing.

  “Well, Simon sort of rebuilt it. It’s a very nice house. Bigger than ... Well, he wanted it to entertain, you know. People from the East, important people. ASL is very big, you know. Simon wines and dines them. He can out drink anyone, he says. Although ...” She paused, a shadow crossing her brightness, a dark cloud. “Well, he wants to be at the top of everything. Once he even said that someday he would take over ASL and then start his own railroad.”

  “That’s ambitious, all right.” Buchanan carefully kept disapproval from his tone.

  “He was very bright in school. He was always top dog, you know? It’s just ... just the way he is.” Her voice lowered, and she stared off into the distance. “Men. Men in business; they’re all alike, it seems.” She looked up at him. “You’re not in business, are you?”

  “No, ma’am. Don’t understand the machinery. Me, I mainly hunt and fish and loaf around. Just helpin’ out old Ebenezar right now.”

  She said, “But you’re very bright. I mean, you are quick to catch on to things. I can tell. I can tell a lot more than people think I can.”

  “I’d bet on that.” He was beginning to see something beneath the surface.

  “My folks, they owned land, businesses around here; and in Kentucky.” She waved her hand. “They sent me back east to school when I was a little tot. Mother’s mother took care of me, selected the schools, all that. I never was a western girl. But I know about guns and things. You’re a shooter. You are very good at protecting people. That’s why I wasn’t so scared. You know? On the way here?”

  “You were very brave.”

  “La! Maybe I wasn’t raised here, but I’ve heard the stories and read the books. I like to read. Simon never reads. He’s always planning his next move.”

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan was afraid to ask questions. She was a self-starter, he realized; she needed no prodding.

  “Taking over all the little stage lines and making them one, that sounded reasonable
. You know? Best for everyone. Make it all run better. So Broderick says.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But hurting Mr. Shaw. Or anyone. That isn’t right, is it?”

  “Ebenezar is an old friend,” he said carefully. “Naturally I feel different than your husband.”

  “Yes, I see that. You don’t believe in big business, then, do you?”

  “In its place, ma’am. Everything in its place.”

  “Yes. One man can’t run all the railroads. But Broderick thinks ASL can run what’s left of the stage lines. Because they’re small, now, since the rails came. That’s what he believes.”

  Buchanan looked quizzically at her. “You do have a lot to say when your husband ain’t around.”

  “Oh, it upsets him if I talk when company is present.” She frowned. “Fact is, we haven’t seemed to have much to say to each other at all lately.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s nervish-making. Business, that’s all he talks these days. He wasn’t always that way. He’s very bright, you know. He thinks I’m a scatterbrain, but I don’t really believe I am.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am, I don’t think you are.”

  “You see, I’m alone a lot, so when I’m with people I like to talk. And I do listen a lot, too. If you want to say anything to me, go right ahead.” She beamed upon him.

  “Why, ma’am, I just think you’re a real pretty lady and that you deserve to talk all you want about anything you want to talk about.” The satchel was really lightweight. Money? he wondered. Certificates? If so, for what purpose? He had a hunch it was not to pay off debts incurred by Simon.

  He waited, hoping for information that could be of value. But she just ran on about the weather, about Las Cruces, which she knew well, and about ... nothing ... nada.

  They came to Doc Watson’s, and Mrs. Watson met them at the door. She said, “Mr. Shaw is sleeping. I’d rather not disturb him; he needs the rest.”

  “Will he be okay?” asked Buchanan.

  “It will take time. But we think he’ll be fine. He passed the crisis with flying colors.”

  “Can he be moved?”

  “Oh, no. Not for some time, I’m afraid.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, send me a bill at Encinal, please. I’ll be stopping back on the way home. I’d sure like to see the old goat.”

  She smiled. “He’s a caution, at that. But we’re very fond of him.”

  Buchanan said, “I may send a man to kinda watch out for you-all. He’ll mention my name and say ‘Ebenezar.’ Okay?”

  “Well ... If you say so, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “We don’t want more shootin’, do we, ma’am?”

  “We’re not afraid. The doctor has a gun.”

  “Uh-huh. None the less.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  Mrs. Simon said, “I do hope Mr. Shaw recovers in full good health.”

  “It looks hopeful,” Mrs. Watson replied.

  “Be seein’ you, ma’am.” Buchanan touched his Stetson to the doctor’s wife, and the pair returned to the stage station, Myra Simon chatting every step of the way.

  The hostler had brought Buchanan sturdy horses for the long run to the town called Anthony. Buchanan walked to each, stroking their noses. She followed, asking, “Do you have to know them? Is that why you speak to them?”

  “It sometimes helps. I’m new at the job.”

  The other passengers were boarding. Buchanan was unaccustomed to sitting for hours, and his old wounds ached a bit at the thought of climbing back onto the seat. He was not truly afraid of further trouble; he knew Charlie Knife was on the run, probably seeking instruction, possibly pay for his injury and the unexpected difficulty of his job. Myra Simon said, “I do feel safe with you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry you and my husband don’t agree.” She paused. “You humiliated him, didn’t you?”

  “He tell you that?”

  “Oh, no. I heard. I have a servant who seems to know everything that goes on when I’m not present. A girl, Mexican-Indian.”

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan dared not open up to her. She was not an ordinary, everyday woman. He helped her enter the coach. She had delicate, beautifully turned ankles. She smiled warmly at him, thanking him.

  He mounted to the driver’s seat, cracked the whip and began the journey. She was a strange woman, he thought. He wondered how she had come to marry the saturnine, at best, Broderick J. Simon. He remembered an old saying; “There’s no accounting for taste, as the old woman said when she kissed the cow.”

  James Brady said, “What do you do for excitement in El Paso, Mr. Simon?”

  “Why—mainly I work. A little poker at times.”

  “Poker. Ah, yes, the great American game.”

  “The Cowboy Saloon has a special table for high stakes.”

  “Do you fancy your prowess at this game?” Brady smiled, not a warm smile.

  “I hold my own.” Simon was holding his ever-ready hot temper. “Would you care to indulge?”

  “I think we understand each other so far as business is concerned. Relaxation might well be in order.” The diamonds flashed on Brady’s fingers as he finished his brandy.

  “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” Simon said. In the doorway to the big room Slab Cider was beckoning.

  “At your pleasure.” Brady poured himself another drink. Simon followed the giant out through a side door, across the patio in haste, asking, “What the hell?”

  “Your half-breed,” said Slab Cider. “He’s got a wound, and he’s cryin’ for money, a doctor, the moon.”

  Charlie Knife was in one of the rooms occupied by servants. His arm was in a rude sling. He stared at Simon and said, “I got to have money.”

  Simon looked at the hard, obsidian eyes and took out a piece of gold and handed it over. “Do you need a doctor?”

  “Si.”

  “He’s scared of infection.” Slab Cider spoke softly as usual. “He’s got a right, I’d say.”

  “See that he gets to a doctor. Now—what happened?”

  “They shoot me.”

  “And Buchanan lives.”

  The eyes did not change. “For now.”

  “We need a new plan. I’m talking to some people.”

  Charlie Knife said, “You fix me. Then I take care of it.”

  “Yes. I believe you.” Simon turned to Slab Cider. “I’ve got to entertain Brady. It’s a waste of time, but it’s necessary. You understand?”

  “Very well. Shall I send Dingle to follow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I hear poker spoke of?”

  “You did.”

  “Best we should be along. The Cowboy Saloon?” Slab Cider asked.

  “Yes.” There were many things to be considered. Simon’s wife had returned, but he had not spoken to her. There was pressure from several directions at once and he had to remain cool. He desperately wanted a drink, but he knew better than to take one.

  He said to Charlie Knife, “You can stay here. We’ll make sure you are all right. But don’t show yourself.”

  Charlie Knife grunted. He had no notion of showing himself in El Paso unless it was absolutely essential.

  Simon returned to the main house. Brady was smoking a cigar, Buddha-like, impassive.

  Myra Simon appeared, smiling, eyebrows raised. She had on a flowing gown of soft blue material.

  Simon said, “My dear, I thought you were resting. This is James Brady from New York. ”

  She extended a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, sir.”

  With the alacrity and grace of so many stout men, Brady was on his feet, bending over her hand. “Your beauty has not been exaggerated. How nice to see you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She curtsied, amusement in her eyes. “La, eastern manners. I do miss them sometimes out here in the Wild West.”

  Simon cleared his throat. “Yes ... Well, I imagine you have much to attend to, my dear. If you
’ll excuse us, we plan to go into town.”

  “Of course,” she said, still smiling. She swept from the room.

  “Lovely lady. Lovely,” said Brady. He resumed his seat, carefully dumping cigar ash into the always convenient spittoon of shining brass. “Now, about the poker game. Elucidate, please.”

  “Five card, draw or stud. Our table would be pot limit—it might go to table stakes, every player willing.”

  “Open on anything?”

  “Oh, yes. Western poker.”

  Brady allowed himself a small smile. “You know the game. I take it we are safe from skullduggery.”

  “Absolutely,” Simon assured him.

  “So ... Yet there are ways and means, are there not?”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “Come, come, we are businessmen. When I gamble I enjoy a little edge. A clever man’s advantage, shall I say?”

  “Cheating in this city will get you killed.” Simon shrugged. “Perhaps we’d better not play.”

  “Cheating? Nonsense. Just a bit of brother-in-law.”

  “Brother-in-law?”

  “A simple procedure. We watch each other. We prearrange a slight signal, such as toying with chips. When one has what is most probably the winning hand, the other, no matter his cards, continues to raise the pot. He drops out and conceals his cards at the proper moment. You see? At the end we divvy up.”

  “Partners.”

  “Correct.”

  “Clever,” said Simon.

  “Should I have my man behind us? To signal?” asked Brady.

  “Too dangerous. I have us covered.”

  “Good! You do catch on, Simon.”

  “I try.” Simon wondered if he was being tested and in what fashion: to determine whether he was indeed slightly crooked, if he was truly clever, or merely to probe the strength of his nerve?

  Brady’s diamonds flashed; he was smiling more easily than he had at any time since he had arrived. It could be that Brady had a streak of dishonesty beyond business dealings, the true urge to gain by any means. It could be that Brady was a soul brother. It was a possibility worth exploring, Simon thought.

  He called for his carriage to convey them to the Cowboy Saloon. Out of Brady’s sight he took one quick drink of whiskey. It was not to bolster his courage—he had a taste for it; he believed it sharpened his wits. And of course Rye Dingle would be driving the carriage whilst Slab Cider took care of Charlie Knife.