by Jonas Ward
“Then don’t ask me how and why. Your orders were to send any two that could do the job. Didn’t have time to be too partic’lar, now, did I?” Rye Dingle said.
“No. Damn it, you’re right. I have Charlie Knife laid up and now we lose two more men.” Simon shook his head.
“More money, more men. No problem. Me and Slab, we know dozens. Sooner or later Buchanan slips.”
“Yes. He cannot be invincible.”
“Whatever you say.” Dingle was noncommittal. “Anything else tonight?”
“Nothing. You couldn’t do any more. I see that.”
“We’ll need some cash, me and Slab.”
“Tomorrow. They cleaned me of cash tonight.”
“Tried to tip you on Luke Short. You was too busy watchin’ Brady and Buchanan. Missed my signals.”
“It was Brady’s idea. Brother-in-law! Damn him, too.”
“Yeah.” Dingle shook his head. “Best get rid of the fat man and his shiny rocks and his smooth mouth.”
“I wish I could get rid of him.”
“Say the word.”
“Hell, no. New York would be down on us with an army we couldn’t match. You don’t know what they can do.”
“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. You’re the boss.”
“Let it go that way.”
Simon went into the house. His wife smiled at him and announced that it was past her bedtime. James Brady nursed his brandy.
Simon said, “Buchanan again.”
“No,” said Brady. “Luke Short.”
“You think he dealt us out?”
“If so, the man has the best hands in the world. I have played with the greatest in the East. I watched him. I could detect nothing, not in the deal nor in his face.”
“Brother-in-law,” said Simon. “Your idea.”
“I admit it. Little did I expect Short and Buchanan would work it on us.”
“They did?” Simon had not thought of that.
“Buchanan had nothing, believe me. He kept the pot alive until Short could make his big bet. It was worth the money to see their play.” Brady drank, smiling.
“I don’t have that kind of cash right now. On that subject—I shall need expenses.”
“You know, Simon, if I had not suggested the little poker ploy, I might have had some objections. However, having met Buchanan, having noted what you are up against, I must give you more leeway.”
“I should hope so. I believe I deserve it.”
“You may not deserve it, but I’m learning what you’re up against. Buchanan.”
“Sooner or later I shall take care of him,” Simon told him.
“Yes. You must. Otherwise ...”
Simon asked no questions. He already knew the answers. Now it was official. It was himself or Buchanan. It was a duel to the finish.
Seven
The sound of the bugle slapped against the foothills of the mountains and blared resounding echoes. Buchanan awakened with a start, rifle in his hands. The other passengers in the stage resisted giggles and dismounted, stretching their legs in Encinal.
Cara was waiting. “So you got back here in one piece, you big dummy.”
He climbed down, bones aching. “I could have driven it.”
She said, “I was lucky to get Slim Barnes to pick you up.”
“I made it to El Paso.” Buchanan was mumbling. He shook himself, ashamed of his weakness.
“Which was bad enough,” she scolded. “Thirty miles per day is plenty and a layover every third stop. Oh, what’s the use of talking to you.”
He said, “That driver may be skinny, but he’s got some pair of lungs. Like to scare the fool outta me.”
“Only the devil will scare the fool out of you, Tom Buchanan. Ebenezar’s doin’ well, I hear.”
“That’s what Mrs. Watson told me. He was sleepin’ when I stopped by on my way to El Paso, and on my way back here.” Buchanan hobbled toward the entrance to the station. “We oughta get him up here, though. Just because nothin’s happened for a few days don’t mean all hell ain’t goin’ to break loose.”
“Come in and set and drink and eat and tell me about it.”
They went into the living quarters, where she poured him a drink and then left to attend to the details of the stage’s arrival. He almost fell asleep again, but finished the whiskey, and helped himself to another. Slowly he regained his poise. When she returned he was sitting up straight, grinning at her.
“Fool!” she said. She came across the room and hugged him. She was wearing a flowing dress of some hard material that could not disguise the softness of her. He picked her up off her feet and sat her on his lap, no small load of woman.
He said, “Fool I am.” He told her what had transpired. She did not pull away as he held her lightly, but when his hand wandered she came erect and shook her finger at him.
She said, “Poker. After that hellish trip.”
“I wasn’t tired then. Felt restless. Glad I didn’t miss Luke. He’s somethin’ else, Luke is.”
“You and your raffish friends.”
“Me and my friends are doin’ what we can for you and your damn stage line,” he said without rancor. “What’s more, you know it, and come to think on it, where do you get off callin’ names?”
She laughed. “I don’t get off. I stay with it. You’re right as rain. It takes all kinds, and we need every one of ’em. Charlie Knife won’t lay low for long with a scratched shoulder.”
“Cousin Broderick J. Simon is now about to bust. And there’s that Brady feller. Hard stuff there, iron.”
“You figure he’s tougher than Simon?”
“Most likely. He’s close with Simon but superior. You can smell it. The eastern boss, maybe.”
She said, “You had answers to your telegrams.” She took them from the table and brought them to him, smiling wryly. He read them. They were filled with equivocation and evasion.
“Just a leetle scared, ain’t they? Do their best, but don’t expect too much. And Brady is one of the big fellers in ASL. And politics is hell. And so on.”
“So you were right again. About Brady. You’re not really a fool, you fool,” Cara said.
“As that might be. How are the children doin’?”
“Together again. The Campbell boy made it back and had to take his time off along with Ed Harper. Reckon the kids’ll be around and about to hear from you. If they can get off each other’s necks.”
“Looks like a match?”
“She could do worse. She catches a lot of eyes. You know how it is with girls today. Marriage or sewin’ or workin’ in a bank ... or whorin’ in a dance hall.”
“Not for our kids,” Buchanan said.
“You do adopt them. All ages and sizes. Mrs. Simon?”
“Now Cara.”
“You have a lot to say about her.”
“You do pick up on every little thing. All I said was that she’s a whole lot smarter than she seemed.”
“And pretty, too,” Cara persisted.
“How do you know? You never seen her.”
“I know you! If she was plain, you’d have said so.”
“You know me pretty dang well, you think. Well, I know a jealous woman when I hear one, too.”
She cocked one eye at him. “You’re hungry; that’s your trouble.” She went to the kitchen and he followed. He was always hungry and he was not thinking straight, he realized. It was not a time for chafing.
He said, “If we were goin’ to lose the mail or the freight, it would have been in one of these telegrams. So we keep runnin’ along.”
“With heaven knows how many gunmen and thieves workin’ against us? How long can we manage?” she asked.
“Until somethin’ breaks one way or t’other. Billy’s boys acting okay?”
“Raisin’ a bit of hell. But they’re on the job.”
“The Barringer boy still alive?”
“Improving.”
“I want to talk to him.” He tried t
he food she put before him. It was good, but somehow it did not satisfy. She was right, there were forces arrayed beyond any he had ever encountered. He could not shake the memory of the cold stare of James Brady of ASL, the glare of the woman in the hills, the fact of Charlie Knife and others like him being involved in this. If he could engage them in open combat, all of them at once, it would be a relief, come what may.
She said, “You’ve got to rest, Tom.” Her voice was soft. “We’re both scared, but we have to stay in shape to face whatever’s comin’.”
He mumbled, “Rest. Sleep.”
He put down his knife and fork. For the first time he could remember he could not finish a meal. He allowed her to lead him to the room reserved for overnight travelers. He was asleep in an instant.
She looked at him for a long time, then covered him with a blanket. He had been a wild one in their younger days, and she had been with him then. She’d known all of his moods at that time. Now it was different; they were both different. Responsibility, she supposed, had altered their view of life.
Yet when he had been teasing her she had felt a spark of the old feeling. It was still there hidden beneath the surface, at least a trace of it. Too much water under the old bridge, she thought, sighing, returning to the business of running the stage station.
The woman was gigantic. She held a huge-mouthed shotgun on him, and Buchanan was fumbling at his belt for the derringer. The buckle would not open. She came closer and closer and her eyes were huge and menacing. He was uncertain on his feet. There was no escape. He could hear the angels singing.
Buchanan awakened, starting up, flailing his arms. Coco was sitting next to the bed, humming a hymn.
“You was talkin’ a heap,” said Coco, “Another woman on your mind?”
“Damn, that was close.” Buchanan got up and staggered to the wash basin.
“You never get ’em in the dreams,” said Coco.
“This one near got me.”
“How’s that?”
“Never mind. What time is it?” Buchanan asked.
“Time to be doin’ something.”
“How’s things at the ranch?”
“Scrumptious. Dozens of them Mexicano friends of Billy’s come by. Drivin’ Matilda crazy. Got Nora cookin’. Little Tommy’s happy as a wingin’ bird.”
“When Billy’s in need the word gets over the border damn quick.”
“He treats ’em better than anybody,” Coco said. “Always did. Those young buckaroos are good people to begin with.”
Buchanan stared at himself in a wall mirror. “I got to get a bath and a shave.”
“Too late for the dream woman.” Coco chuckled.
“Uh-huh.” Buchanan almost never dreamed. The incident with Charlie Knife’s woman still rankled. There would have to be a showdown some fine day.
Coco said, “There’s a storm brewin’ in the mountains. Sun done gone left us today.”
Cara was in the office, working on the books. She looked up when Buchanan entered, and said, “You still need sleep.”
“Have to get crackin’.” He managed to smile at her. “You look a bit peaked your own self.”
“Can you make another drive today? Afternoon? Layover in Cruces?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ed Harper took on a few too many. Young Campbell will ride with you.”
“I’ll be in the barbershop, then at the marshal’s.”
“Got some freight and some bullion for the assayer in Cruces,” she said. “Two, maybe three, passengers. People are gettin’ skittish about ridin’ with us. Gossip’s a brushfire once it gets started.”
“Uh-huh.” He left with Coco.
Ramon and two of his compadres were playing mumblety-peg with horn-handled jackknives in the dirt alongside the stage office. They called, “Amigo? Que tal? Okay?”
“Asiy asi. Seen it better. Hold the fort,” Buchanan told them.
“You betcha,” said Ramon, proud of his use of yanqui idiom.
The barbershop had two enormous tubs in the rear, hot water, and soap that smelled good, all for fifty cents. “Best bargain in town,” said Buchanan.
Coco said, “Not as good as we got at the ranch. Want me to scrub your back?”
“I can still reach around. If the brush handle’s long enough, that is.”
Coco squinted, sitting on a hard chair. “Tom, all them scars, how come you ain’t dead?”
“Lucky.” The hot water and soap were relaxing him.
“Guns,” said Coco, off on his favorite gripe. “Guns for killin’ people. Mr. Colt should never have made one.”
Buchanan pointed with an index finger. “A knife. An arrow. A sharp pointy stick. A bite from a bear ... claw mark, too. If it ain’t guns, it’s anything comes to hand. You got a few marks your own self. Fist marks.”
“Nobody ain’t about to kill me with no punches,” Coco said. “And I ain’t killed no one ...” He stopped, his eyes widening. “But I have, ain’t I?”
“Not in the prize ring.”
“I have done so,” said Coco sadly. He brightened. “But it was always to help somebody, now, wasn’t it?”
“You ever see me gun down a man for fun?” Buchanan rested his case, rinsing himself by pulling a chain leading to an overhead bucket. The cool water felt fine. Coco handed him a towel. Buchanan dressed and went to the shop and sat down in the barber’s chair.
He said, “The most trusted man in the world. There he is, a razor in his hand, workin’ around your throat. One slash and that’s the end.”
“Don’t put no ideas in the man’s head,” said Coco. “Ah, here comes the shiny boy now.”
Doug Campbell entered the shop. He was wearing a fancy plaid shirt and a bright red rebozo, spanking clean Levi’s and his revolver in a polished, not-too-new cartridge belt. He said, “Mr. Buchanan. Coco. Heard you were lookin’ for me.”
“All dressed up and some place to go. Those your new workin’ duds? Or are they for sparkin’?”
The youth flushed. “I’m ready to ride.”
“Mister. I ain’t used to bein’ called ‘mister.’ Buchanan will do. How well do you know the Barringer boy?”
“Pretty well,” Doug Campbell said.
“Know his folks?”
“He don’t have any. That is, he lives with his uncle, a mean old man.”
“Uncle didn’t show his face,” added Coco. “Scared.”
“Drunk, mostly,” said Campbell.
The barber reached for the cologne, and Buchanan shook his head. “Pretty smells ain’t becomin’ to me, somehow.” He gave the man a dollar and the trio left the shop.
Dave Darrin met them at the door to the jailhouse office that he commanded. “Glad to see you men. Reckon you want to talk to young Barringer. A hard case.”
“What’s his condition?” Buchanan asked.
“He might lose the arm. Billy caught him high, but it got the bone.”
“Does he know that?”
Darrin shrugged. “Hard to tell. He won’t say anything exceptin’ when he’s hungry.”
They went inside, through a metal door to the cells. The youth was the only occupant. He lay on the bunk, his hair long and matted, and stared at them. One shoulder was bulky with a bandage.
“They treatin’ you all right?” asked Buchanan.
“The hell with ’em.” The boy’s voice was a treble; his face was twisted into a tight grimace.
“Marshal tells us you won’t talk.”
“What’s to say? You got my pardners, you got me. Hang me, what the hell? Go ahead and hang me.”
“Ain’t a hangin’ matter,” Buchanan told him.
Coco said, “You oughta thank the Lord.”
“The Lord ain’t done nothin’ for me. Why should I thank Him?” The youth stared at Doug Campbell. “You bastid, I never could stand you and your Sunday-school ways.”
“I never did anything to you or your friends,” said Campbell. “You never did anything real bad before e
ither, not that I know of. How come all this?”
“You go to hell. I ain’t no squealer.”
Buchanan asked, “Who’s to squeal on? Your buddies? They wasn’t as lucky as you.”
The boy muttered under his breath.
Buchanan said, “Someone promised you money. A lot of money. You didn’t collect in advance; we know that. What made you so damn dumb?”
“It wasn’t dumb.” He sat up, flicking back his hair, glaring at them. “Jobs. Ridin’ jobs, not sissy town jobs.” He stopped, biting his lips. His fingernails were gnawed raw, Buchanan noted. It was dark in the place; the clouds had come down. Dave Darrin brought a lantern and hung it on a hook in the corridor.
Buchanan said, “Unlock the cell, Dave, please. This is too uncomfortable.”
The marshal obliged. There were two bunks in the cell. Buchanan, Coco, and Campbell sat on one. Darrin lingered a moment, then nodded and went back to his office.
“Bastid,” muttered Barringer. “Don’t feed near enough.”
“Be that as it may, let’s talk about what you’re goin’ to do when you get loose again.”
“Loose? I’ll die in that damn pen. I know what goes on in that damn pen.”
Buchanan looked at Coco and Campbell. “You gents mind leavin’ me alone with this young lad?”
“Reckon he can’t hurt you none,” said Coco. “Son, you better pray. You got time yet. There’s always the Lord up above.”
When they were alone Barringer said, “I thought he was a damn prizefighter. He a preacher, too?”
“In his way,” said Buchanan. “In his way. Now, about what’s goin’ to happen to you. First off, you may lose that arm. You know that?”
The youth’s face became a frightened mask. “I don’t wanta think about it. You hear me?”
“Well, son, you got to think about it. You’re goin’ to need help.”
“Help? Who the hell’s gonna help me?”
“That depends.”
“Depends? Depends on what?”
“Not on what. On you,” Buchanan told him.
“I ain’t no ...”
“Uh-huh. You ain’t no squealer. Well, in that case I can’t learn anything from you. Therefore, I can’t do anything for you.” Buchanan sighed ever so gently. “Too bad son.” He stood up to leave.