Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  “You’re right about that.” Simon knew he had to be cautious about Brady. He shook his head to clear cobwebs. He had been drinking since the courier had brought the news about Bullitt. “All right. You boys go and do the job. I don’t want to know the details.”

  “We’ll think on it,” Slab Cider said.

  Simon left them and went into the house. James Brady was smoking a redolent cigar and sipping brandy.

  Brady said, “Lost another cohort, eh? Man died hard, didn’t he?”

  “You know about that?” Simon could not conceal his astonishment.

  “I try to be thorough. What is your plan?”

  “To destroy Buchanan.”

  “With your two top men.”

  Simon poured himself a drink. “You do seem to be up on everything.”

  “That is my errand. I mean to stay until Buchanan has been eliminated.”

  “Your man has been spying,” said Simon recklessly. “He sneaks around. You evidently do not trust me.”

  “Have you given me any reason to put trust in you? Money has been poured into the acquisition of this small stage line. Too much to permit failure. New York is not happy. Therefore, I am unhappy.”

  “Buchanan has lived a charmed life. It can’t last forever.”

  “We don’t have forever.”

  Brady sipped the brandy, his diamonds sparkling in the lamplight. It flashed across Simon’s mind that these baubles would provide a motive for murder and robbery. Immediately he knew Brady would have to be separated from his eastern bodyguard, difficult but possible. Then he was aware of Brady’s cynical eye upon him and he dissembled, saying, “Of course you’re right, sir.”

  Simon knew then that he hated Brady as much as he hated Buchanan, that he feared Brady and Buchanan, that he had to do away with them both to regain his momentum, to achieve the feeling of power that was the breath of life to him.

  Concita slipped into the boudoir of Myra Simon wearing an ankle-length black cloak. She shook the raindrops from it out a window and smiled. She said, “The big man from New York spies. I spy; we all spy.”

  “And you learned?”

  “They always talk of killing Buchanan. Always. They are frightened to death of Buchanan. So much killing for that tiny stage line.”

  “It’s part of the bigger scheme,” said Myra. “They started; now they can’t stop. Is my dear husband drinking again?”

  “Oh, yes. He will go to the slut tonight.”

  “As always of late. I no longer appeal to him, praise be.” Myra reached under the bed for the satchel she had brought home from Las Cruces. “I think it will be safer in the closet, deep in the corner.”

  “Probably.” Concita took the satchel, smiled again, and buried herself in the closet. When she reappeared, Myra was unloading a .32 Smith & Wesson revolver, removing the cartridges, and applying oil with expert hands.

  Concita said, “You are careful. That is good.” She lifted her skirt above shapely legs, displaying a gartered stiletto. “We are prepared.”

  “We could go now, tonight, and take the train. But I have too much invested here.”

  “Yes. It is too much to give up,” Concita said.

  “We will mark time.”

  “I agree. But we will be ready. I know not for what, but ready.”

  “We are safe. They do not fear us,” Myra said.

  “We are women.”

  “They think that because they are men they have power and believe they will have more.” Myra sighed. “The West, they are not of the West, you know. Before I was ever sent to school I learned about guns. Simon knows little about guns. His men and Brady’s man, they know. Above all, Buchanan knows best.”

  “Ha!” Concita laughed merrily. “How they do fear him.”

  Myra said soberly, “I believe, Concita, we are safe so long as Buchanan is alive. If they kill him, we will be in danger.”

  “You mean in danger of being enslaved here in El Paso?”

  “Simon has looked hard at you. The man Brady has looked hard at us both.”

  “But of course.”

  “Buchanan never looked upon me in that way,” said Myra. “On the other hand, he divined that I was not stupid.”

  “I think we do not need Buchanan for the two of us.”

  “Perhaps not. You are my only friend, Concita. If we can prevail, you will profit, I promise.”

  “I believe in your promise.” Concita smiled.

  Yet Myra felt alone. She had been trusting, and the trust had been betrayed. She had played a part, and she was not quite sure that she had been convincing enough, if her husband took time to remember her when they had first been married.

  When Concita had retired, Myra retrieved her satchel and again placed it beneath the bed. She put the revolver under her pillow. She said her prayers and tried to sleep.

  In the stage line office at Encinal Cara and Coco drank milk. She said, “I swan, you keep me off the booze with your milk-drinkin’.”

  “Never did like liquor. Milk keeps me in shape to fight. Anyway, Tom’s all right in Cruces.”

  “Yes. And Bullitt is gone. Thanks be for the telegraph wire.”

  “They sure come at us strong,” said Coco. “Good thing we got Ramon and the boys around here.”

  “Tom thinks of everything. But how long, oh Lord, how long? Those that are after us are mighty damn powerful,” Cara said.

  Coco said, “Main thing is not to scare. I know you don’t.”

  “Mighty nigh, sometimes. Mighty nigh thinkin’ to sell out cheap to the bastids.”

  “Ebenezar’d rather die altogether.”

  “I might could convince him.”

  “Tom wouldn’t cotton to it.”

  “And he’s invested money and put his life right on the line.” She nodded. She got up and went to the cupboard, brought out whiskey, and poured a generous amount into her milk. “The hell with it. I ain’t goin’ to fight in the ring.”

  “Nervish, ain’t you?”

  She said, “For the first time in many a long year.”

  Coco said, “B’lieve I’ll go out and look around. You take it easy, now.”

  He went out through the office and walked around the stables. The rain had stopped, but it was a pitch-black night into which he melted, sure-footed, cat-eyed. Ramon and the others were in their bunks.

  There was sound, then movement. Coco crouched. Two men were approaching the stable. Coco waited, poised.

  One of the men looked right, then left. The other said, “They’re all asleep.”

  Coco stood not upon ceremony. He came on with a rush. He struck one man, knocking him into the other. Coco then seized both by the nape of their necks and banged their heads together. He dragged them back to the street, into the reflected light of the office. He called, “Miss Cara, better come here. We got jail bait for the marshal.”

  It was another night, another attack, another triumph of justice. Nobody felt any better for it.

  Cara finished her second drink and went to where Gracie was sleeping and looked at her daughter for long minutes. She could scarcely picture the father of the girl in her mind. It had been so long ago, and they had been together such a short time, that it might not have happened at all, she thought. It could have ruined her life, had it not been for her father.

  Yet she had never been close to Ebenezar, not really. He had fiercely opposed her marriage, and only the happenstance of Gracie had brought them together on the cool level that continued to this day.

  And now, Buchanan again, she pondered. Buchanan saving the stage line, Buchanan fighting and in danger every hour.

  She shook her head and went back for a nightcap. Coco was in bed; all was quiet. Another attempted attack had been foiled. It was one damn thing after another. Somehow she was able to grin. Buchanan was back, at least part way, as a friend in need. And she was doing her best to help. Now she could not sleep. She had to act.

  “Time,” said Buchanan, “is the devil’s pric
e for lettin’ us live a while longer.”

  “Reckon you’re right.” Young Campbell was weary. He was not as tough as his older companion; he would never be. They had stopped in Las Cruces, gone on to El Paso, and were now coming back into Cruces—too much of a run too wearying, too hard on muscles and nerves. It was afternoon, but the sun was still shining, hot and sultry after the storm. Buchanan pulled up to the station, cracking the whip, saluting the usual observers. The passengers disembarked. There was only a married couple returning from a visit to their son in El Paso. As expected, only those for whom travel was absolutely imperative were utilizing the Grace stage. The word was out: danger lurked. However, there was freight and mail bound for Encinal.

  Buchanan said, “Boy, you go in there and lay down and get some sleep.” He put up his whip. “I got to see Ebenezar; then I’ll be right back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Campbell staggered a bit but made it into the station. Buchanan walked down to Doc Watson’s. Upon arriving, he stopped and blinked.

  There was a spring wagon tied to the hitching rack. It was the property of Billy Button. It was piled with mattresses and blankets.

  Behind him Cara said, “He was yelling, and Doc wired me to come down and get him.”

  “Crazy old coot.” But Buchanan knew that feeling of being stranded away from home and friends. He had not often had the experience, but he could remember it. “You okay?”

  “As could be. Gracie and Coco are looking after things. We had a couple of ’em try the stables again. Coco nailed ’em and the marshal’s got ’em.”

  “Too much,” he said soberly. “Too damn many. Let’s talk to Ebenezar.”

  They went indoors. Ebenezar was fully dressed, sitting in a deep chair. The Watsons were present, looking worried but resigned.

  The old man said, “Consarn it, I got to git outta here. You understand? All hell bein’ raised and me stuck like a baby in a crib. I’m goin’ home.”

  Doc Watson said, “I can’t be responsible, you know.”

  “He should stay another week,” said Mrs. Watson.

  “There ain’t no way I’m a gonna stay here another week. I got to be with my folks.” Ebenezar stared defiantly at Cara.

  She said, “Ebenezar, I brought Billy’s spring wagon, the one you always admired so much. If you want to die in it, that’s up to you.”

  He snorted, coughed, recovered. “One way or t’other, I’m goin’ home.”

  Buchanan said, “Not tonight you ain’t.”

  “Why in tarnation not?”

  “Because I won’t let Cara drive you alone.”

  She said, “I’ve got Ben Maddow, Tom. We need another driver anyway, and he came through on a freight train. He’s not the best, but he’ll do.”

  “He can take a stage through,” said Ebenezar. “A bit slow in the head, but he’ll do, like you say.”

  “Then everyone better get a night’s sleep, because I’m plumb beat,” Buchanan said.

  “You mean you admit it?” Cara put a hand on his arm. “You mean you got a lick of sense after all?”

  “She always did have that smart mouth,” said Ebenezar. But he looked fondly at his daughter. “Been thinkin’ a heap layin’ around here. You been a good girl, Cara. Never did seem to be able to tell you before. Don’t know what I’d a done without you. Now you bring that spring wagon to take your mean old man home. I ’preciate it.”

  “It’s about time,” said Buchanan. He looked at the good doctor and his wife and shrugged. “You see how it stands.”

  “She stands that I got to get home,” Ebenezar repeated.

  “He’s been restless, which is not good for him.” There was a note of relief in Doc Watson’s voice.

  “Okay. You can send Maddow back with the stage,” said Buchanan. “We’ll be by in the morning.”

  “Make it damn early,” croaked Ebenezar. He was grinning at them, color in his cheeks.

  Cara said, “Whatever you say, boss.”

  They said their goodnights and went back toward the station. Buchanan said, “I expect he’ll live through it. He’s mighty tough.”

  “And set on going,” she replied. “This may have been a lesson to him.”

  “He’ll never learn. He’s all right.”

  “I’m worried a bit about you. Lost weight, haven’t you? You got to be dog tired.”

  “Like I said. Always did need sleep.”

  They drove the wagon to the stage station. There were two passengers again, this time for Encinal, a rancher named Helpin, and a miner named Gore. Ben Maddow was a roly-poly man, rubicund, smiling. He carried a silver-handled whip. He said, “Haven’t used this in some time. Ain’t fit for freightin’ with mules. Glad to have a chance to drive stage again.”

  “You haven’t got a shotgun?” Buchanan asked.

  “Couldn’t find one to make the drive. I got my rifle. I ain’t scared.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Buchanan.

  “Never you fret about me,” said Maddow.

  Cara said, “No other way, Tom.”

  A sleepy hostler came to take care of the lightweight team attached to the spring wagon. Young Campbell was snoring. It was quiet in the office. They sat down and stared at each other.

  Cara reached into a desk drawer and found a bottle of whiskey. “You know, I almost got swacked the other night. When Coco nailed those two.”

  Buchanan took two glasses from a shelf. He poured. “Can’t blame you.”

  “I’ve been livin’ like a man so long I’ll be growin’ whiskers if I don’t look out.”

  “Not you, Cara. Not you.” He added, “But you’ll do for anything a man can do.”

  “Pretty near.” She smiled at him. “I’ve got a room at the hotel.”

  “I’ll walk you over.” He drank the whiskey. “I do have to get some sleep. Never been wearier.”

  They walked, their arms touching. They came to the hotel and stood a moment.

  He said, “Best to say goodnight.”

  “Yes.”

  “I ... well, see you in the morning.”

  “Yes.” She turned away, then turned back. She said, “Kiss me goodnight, Tom.”

  They stepped into shadow on the deserted street and he held her. She was firm but relaxed. She said, “Hell, Tom, it’s never been the same with anyone else.”

  “Me too.” They were both lying, he thought, but it was a time for skirting the truth.

  She said, “Go sleep, damn it.”

  He watched her sweep into the hotel, head erect, striding on her long legs. She showed no sign of the strain under which she was laboring. He walked back to the station, wanting only the surcease of sleep. The dangerous situation was leaning heavily upon him.

  He was asleep, and then it was morning.

  He made his ablutions and saw to his weapons. Young Campbell was already awake and seeing to the team that was to take them back to Encinal. The others were preparing for the incoming stagecoach.

  Campbell said worriedly, “I should’ve been riding shotgun with that new driver.”

  “You would’ve been asleep if anything came up,” Buchanan told him. “Better you should be riding with us.”

  Cara was waiting at Doc Watson’s. Ebenezar was dressed in clean clothing she had provided. Buchanan picked up the old man, startled at how little he weighed, and carried him to the wagon. They tucked him in, deaf to his complaints, and Cara climbed in the wagon body to steady him on the trip. Buchanan peeled off bills to pay the doctor, and they were on their way.

  It was a beautiful morning, fleecy clouds riding the blue sky, a slight breeze blowing. The spring wagon rode like a carriage, smooth as silk. Young Campbell drove, accustoming his hands to reins. Buchanan held his rifle close and watched for possible danger. It was a given fact that the minions of ASL knew their every move. Broderick J. Simon had certainly set up a slick spy organization, they all knew.

  Ebenezar demanded immediately, “I wanta know what’s been happin’, every consarn
bit.”

  “That’ll take a while,” Buchanan said.

  “I’ll try to tell you,” said Cara. “If you want to know, it all started with you buyin’ that damn Concord.”

  “No,” said Buchanan. “One way or another Broderick J. Simon would have been after you-all.”

  “Well, anyway ...” Cara paused, then began at the beginning and related the events that had piled one atop the other, interrupted at intervals by Ebenezar’s exclamations of anger and amazement.

  They came to the rear of a freight train plodding under a heavy load, pulled by mule teams. At its head was the red-bearded Barber, who waved them down.

  Buchanan made introductions, and the freighter said, “I want another poker game with or without Luke Short.”

  “Did you know they were out to cheat you?” asked Buchanan.

  “I surmised. Couldn’t be certain. Reckon I was lucky you and Luke set in. Those tenderfoot fellers, I didn’t cotton to ’em much.”

  Ebenezar piped, “You better watch ’em like a hawk. They get the stage lines, next they’ll be after your business. They want it all, the whole world.”

  “Give me a wee bit more time and I won’t care,” Barber told them. “I got me a spread in Texas. Just need some cows and they can have this business.”

  “Good luck,” Buchanan said to him. They drove past and continued on the road. It was nearing noon, and Cara had bought cold food from the hotel restaurant. They were looking for a pleasant spot to pause for refreshment when young Campbell said, “Don’t I see two people walkin’ toward us?”

  Buchanan said, “You do. And they look familiar, sorta.”

  Campbell urged the team to a trot and in a moment Buchanan said, “It’s Helpin and Gore.”

  “The stage,” yelped Ebenezar. “Didn’t you say they was the passengers?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “Hell’s to pay again.”

  The two figures broke into a run, the miner striding ahead, the rancher hobbling on high-heeled boots. Neither seemed harmed. As they came together Buchanan swung down and demanded, “The stage? Maddow?”

  “Maddow’s down,” said Gore.

  Helpin hobbled up and added, “They stole the cargo, everything. They robbed us.”