by Jonas Ward
“Two of them,” said Gore. “A big man and a skinny sort of fellow. They wore masks. Also serapes, you know? It would be hard to identify them.”
“They killed one of your lead horses,” said Helpin. “Knew their stuff. Maddow tried for his gun and the thin jasper shot him.”
“Is he alive?”
Both men wagged their heads slowly. “Right through the head. One shot with a Colt,” said Helpin.
“Climb aboard,” said Buchanan. “Be careful of Ebenezar. Get goin’, Campbell.”
It was only a few miles. The stage had been pulled to the side of the road, not a mark upon it. The horses were gone. Maddow lay beside the coach, staring blindly at the sky. His rifle was missing.
Buchanan said, “Simon put his best men to work, it seems. Was there money in the strongbox, Gore?”
“Payroll,” said the miner. “When the horse went down we were thrown off balance and the big man had us covered before you could blink.”
Helpin said, “They took our guns, too. We didn’t have a ghost of a chance. They knew their business.”
Cara was staring at the body of Maddow. She shook her head. “He wanted to be back driving so bad. He wasn’t too smart, but he was willing. He had the heart for it.” Ebenezar was looking over the side of the wagon. He said, “Put him in here. We can manage. Can’t leave no driver layin’ there.”
Buchanan nodded and the two former passengers lifted the dead man. There were tracks, but they were impossible to follow without a saddle horse. They would be obliterated in the shale leading to the foothills where undoubtedly the killers had turned the stage line horses loose.
Slab Cider and Rye Dingle, he thought, wise to all the tricks, mean enough to kill when a wound would have served. Simon’s shock troops, sent to rob without harming a coach that Simon could use later on, when the job was completed. There was bile in Buchanan’s throat now. The time had come when he must attack. Defense was not enough. He climbed back onto the wagon, now overloaded with the living and the dead, and young Campbell, sober and white-faced, drove toward Encinal.
Nine
The strongbox lay open on the floor of the room occupied by Rye Dingle and Slab Cider. The currency was fresh and crisp. Broderick J. Simon eyed it with approval. Charlie Knife, heavily bandaged, merely grunted, disdainful.
“You did not get Buchanan,” he said.
“We did our job,” Slab Cider said mildly. “Sorry we had to kill the driver. He was dumb and slow, goin’ for his gun.”
Simon said, “We lost track of Buchanan for a while when he left the stage at Las Cruces. Now we know he was taking old Shaw to Encinal.”
“Could have got him,” said Charlie Knife. “I will go—”
Simon took some bills from the box and passed them over. “You do that, Charlie. You’re the one to get him.”
Rye Dingle’s mouth curled at the corners. “Yeah. You do that, Charlie.”
The Apache’s dark eyes flashed for a moment, then the slim figure was out the door and gone. The atmosphere of the room lightened at his departure.
“Gives me the creeps,” Rye Dingle explained. “I never like doin’ business with his kind.”
“You ain’t doin’ the business,” said Slab Cider. “It’s the boss’s business. Now how about this cash?”
“You get your pay,” said Simon. “The rest goes to the kitty.”
“Pussy cats don’t cut no ice. Money is what counts.” Rye Dingle was a man of few words—in fact, Simon had seldom heard this many from him before. Cider was unsmiling. Simon reluctantly extracted a hundred dollars and held it out. Dingle accepted it. Simon gulped and found another hundred for the soft-spoken bigger man.
“Now we can hunker down and make some more plans,” said Slab Cider. “Y’see, with a man like Buchanan we can’t just go out with blazin’ guns. We got to out-think him. Old Shaw now, we could kill him, but what good would that do?”
“You did well in not harming the coach. The driver—well, who will know? You covered your tracks, you say. Suspicions have no meaning in this country,” Simon said.
“Don’t you believe it. If Buchanan’s got suspicions, he’s liable to do most anything. Even come down here a-lookin’.”
“He wouldn’t dare come here. This is a city, with law.”
“You reckon on that, you’re in deep trouble,” said Slab Cider. “Stroutmire and his deputies, they’re all old hands; they all know Buchanan right well. You’re an outsider. Spendin’, drinkin’ with ’em, eatin’ at Mama Casino’s, that don’t make you no native. Mr. Brady, I don’t see him mixin’ around, makin’ friends. What you got is the men we bring in, hired guns. You got money, you got us. That’s all.”
“Charlie Knife,” Simon reminded him.
Rye Dingle snorted, but Cider said, “Could be. He’s like a snake but quicker. He’s got his chance. We’ll be waitin’ and hopin’.”
“Brady wants action.” Simon could not conceal his anxiety regarding the man from New York.
“You might tell Brady that if that ugly jasper of his spies on us anymore there’ll be a funeral in the neighborhood,” said Slab Cider. “Like he might have a bad accident, y’know?”
“I don’t even know the man’s name. I agree with you; he’s a snoop. Maybe a policeman.” There was nothing Simon could do about the seldom-seen thug.
“No matter. He gets in our hair some more, he’s got trouble. Pass it along.”
“I’ll do that.” But Simon knew he wouldn’t. “You boys have a drink and do what you need to do.”
He left them, and, carrying the remainder of the cash, he returned to the main house, walking across the patio, noting the light in Maria’s room, promising himself that come what may he would see her later. He had been drinking, and the fire was lit within him. He went to the parlor, where Brady stood in his usual position, brandy glass in hand, smoking a cigar.
Simon put the cash on the table. “Capital for when it is needed. The boys did well.”
Brady looked coldly at the money and said, “One man dead, the authorities in search of the murderers, Buchanan still alive. That is not progress.”
“Buchanan left the stage at Las Cruces. They did the best they could to cause trouble for the line.”
“Crude. Buy more criminals with the cash? Is that your idea?”
“My men attend to the reinforcements.” Simon was fighting for control, and he felt that Brady knew it and cared not a whit.
“The West was primitive. It is now beginning to become civilized in the metropolitan areas. You are using methods that may be going out of style, Simon. Think about that.”
“You agree that Buchanan is our most dangerous adversary.”
“I do, indeed. One assassination is reasonable. Too many could bring down the wrath of more people than you can hire.”
Simon went to the sideboard and poured whiskey neat. He drank it, poured another. He said, “People get in the way, they get hurt.”
“Agreed. Still, it is Buchanan in our way.”
“So we are making plans. About that man of yours. I don’t even know his name.”
“His name would mean nothing to you nor to anyone, except certain people in New York,” Brady told him.
“He spies upon my men. Upon me.”
“That is his business,” said Brady with a thin smile. “He is very good at it. He can be very dangerous. I would advise your men, skillful as they may be, to avoid crossing him.”
The whiskey was raging now. Simon said, “It seems to be a standoff. I shall do what I can, sir.”
“Angels can do no more.” Brady beamed at him.
Simon said, “I must—attend to affairs. Excuse me, sir.”
He had to leave, his temper was approaching the boiling point, and he knew the whiskey might unbalance him. He went directly across the patio, knowing he was being watched, not caring, making for the light in Maria’s window.
Myra Simon swept into the parlor in a décolleté gown of bright blue t
o complement her eyes. She bowed to James Brady, went to the table, and brought him the brandy bottle. “I shall have a libation with you. It’s so nice to talk of New York. The evenings are lonely sometimes, aren’t they?”
“Not when you are present.” He half struggled to his feet, reseated himself, and smiled.
“Well, I am not a woman of the world. I do like to talk to someone with a sympathetic ear.”
“Please do. It is seldom I have a chance to speak with such a beautiful lady.”
They sat across from each other, each with secret thoughts, each dissembling. Possibly neither fooled the other for an instant.
Cara sat beside Buchanan as they drove the spring wagon out to Billy Button’s spread. Coco, Gracie, and young Campbell were left in charge of the station. The somnolent Ebenezar was sleeping in his daughter’s quarters, weak but alive. Red Barber had been sent to bring in the stagecoach. The wires had been hot relaying the news of the holdup. Ben Maddow’s funeral would be tomorrow.
Cara said, “I can see it buildin’. You’re steamin’, Tom. I feel it real good.”
“Like the man said, a time comes and you do what has to be done.”
“Yes. But what?”
“First things first. Like I need to change clothes and get everybody ready.”
“None of my business?”
“No good to talk when I ain’t plumb sure.”
After a moment she said, “You’re pretty damn sure.”
“Know me real well, don’t you?” He felt a flood of affection for her, her calmness, her acceptance.
“I always have. This time, though, it’s ... well, different. You started doin’ for us. Now you’ve got a bug in you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re pushin’, Tom. It ain’t always good to push.”
“I been pushed. They killed a driver. They did a lot of damage before. But you can’t let ’em kill a driver.”
“I know that.”
“Maddow didn’t even get to finish his run.”
“I feel it, too.”
He patted her knee. She was wearing a long skirt and a woman’s blouse for a change, going to visit. “You do know.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, and managed a small laugh. “Truth to tell, we’re a lot alike.”
“We’re carryin’ a rifle and a shotgun right now, goin’ peaceably to see my nephew. We’re both lookin’ right and left. Is that any way to live?”
“No.”
“They hire killers. We don’t. You see?”
“We do our own killin’?”
He said grimly, “Whatever it takes. I’m a peaceable man; you know that.”
“You want to be a peaceable man,” she said.
“Someday there’ll be real law. Until then we do what has to be done.”
She nodded, serious, facing the implications. “Yes.” They drove to the ranch in silence, in agreement.
Nora, little Tommy, and Billy came to greet them. A cowboy shook hands and then led away the wagon. They went to the verandah and filled the Buttons in on the latest happenings as they sipped cold lemonade.
Billy said, “Somethin’s got to be done. We can gather up all my boys and go wipe ’em out. All the way down to El Paso, we can wipe ’em out.”
“Not all the way to New York and Washington,” Buchanan told him. “Remember the railroads.”
“We could scare the hell outta them.” Billy was not so certain now.
“Those people are too far away to be scared.”
“Then what?”
“I’m thinkin’ on it,” said Buchanan. “I got to get cleaned up and keep thinkin’. Maybe we can spend the night.”
“You have to come to the stable,” Tommy said. “He’s growing every day. Honest he is.”
They went to the stable. Cara admired the colt. They pretended it was a social visit. Cara went to the corral with Buchanan to calm Nightshade and saw a sorrel that made her eyes sparkle. Billy said, “He’s yours.”
“Now, Billy,” she admonished him. “You don’t give away a horse like that.”
He shook his head. “When I met Tom I didn’t have anything. I was a saloon kid. Now I own the saloon. I own all a man can want. Tom’s helped me hold on to it. Any friend of Tom’s can have whatever I got.”
Buchanan said, “You can ride him back with me.”
“You think it’s all right?” Cara asked.
“If Billy says so, it’s all right.”
Tommy was giggling. “How you going to ride him into town in that dress, Cara?”
She said, “If Billy can give him to me, I can ride him.”
“There’s an old sidesaddle in the stable,” said Billy. “British lady come by, had to leave in a hurry.”
“This I got to lay eyes on,” said Buchanan. “Cara ridin’ fancy.”
They managed to keep the conversation light. Buchanan went up to his room. He missed Coco, but knew it was best that his partner stay close to Ebenezar and have a quieting influence on the vaqueros and keep an eye on Gracie and Young Campbell as well. Buchanan bathed and changed into work clothing, clean but easy. He sat down and went over his rifle and revolvers. Before he went back downstairs he slung a Bowie knife between his shoulder blades, something he had not done in years. He thought out each detail of the nebulous plan that had come to him after the murder of Ben Maddow. He went down to a sumptuous meal prepared by the indefatigable Matilda.
The women repaired to the kitchen afterward, while Buchanan sat over a nightcap and a cigar with Billy Button. Billy said, “I know you’re up to somethin’, damn it. I wanta be there.”
“You want to be here with your boys around you. I want Ramon and his men at the station. You understand?”
“’Cause they’re liable to hit anyplace anytime?”
“What have they been doin’?”
“Tom, you can’t wipe ’em all out.”
“Don’t reckon I can,” Buchanan said.
“You ain’t even goin’ to try.”
“Uh-huh.”
Billy nodded. “The head of the snake.”
“I’ll be leavin’ early.”
“Matilda’ll have some victuals.”
“Uh-huh. Be seein’ you, Billy.” Buchanan went silently up to bed. He ran his plans through his head once more and then fell asleep, dreamless, needing all the strength he could muster. The snake had more than one head.
Buchanan was awake and dressed before dawn. He was washing his face at the creek when he heard a sound behind him. He whirled and saw Cara standing alongside the corral. Both Nightshade and the sorrel were saddled.
She said, “I’m goin’ to call him Red. Sound good?”
“What are you doin’ up at this hour?”
“Whither thou goest, I go,” she said demurely.
“Now, damn it, Cara ...”
“You just shut up before you wake the house. I’m ridin’ in with you.”
He shook his head, then went to Nightshade and addressed the horse. “You let a woman saddle you up? You gettin’ soft on me?”
The big black horse nuzzled him and received his lump of sugar. When Buchanan mounted he did not even buck, just fell in beside the sorrel as Cara, with some awkwardness, climbed up and hooked a knee around the pommel of the strange saddle. They took off for Encinal before the sun came over the mountain.
The town was scarcely awake when they arrived at the station. The few who espied Cara blinked in amazement, not believing their eyes, then went about their business.
Buchanan said, “You did good. Take care of things, will you, now? Stay put and hold the fort.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. “Do you believe I can read your mind?”
“I’d believe anything about you, woman.”
“You have a hunch.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I have one, too.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll give Maddow a funeral. Then I promise nothing,” she said.
“Can�
��t force you.”
“Never had to, did you?” She laughed, smirked at him, slapped his arm, and watched him remount. Then she went into the station. He rode southward.
Ten
Buchanan rode the hills on a remembered trail as the sun rose above the Black Hills. It was the first time in many a year that he had been on a manhunt. It was not in his way of life to be on such an errand. It was, he thought, absolutely necessary. It was an offensive move in order to provide a defense.
He came to the place where he and Nightshade had fought the puma and dismounted. There was a need for great caution, of Indian silence and maneuvers. He left the slight trail and the obedient Nightshade followed him through sparse woods, heavy brush, moving as silently as possible.
He came thus to a vantage point. He was slightly above the cabin where the woman had so nearly defeated him. He needed to be sure that Charlie Knife had not decamped. He had reason to believe there had not quite been time. He admonished Nightshade to stay behind a heavy growth of green and without his rifle began to make his way down to the hideaway. The vision of the redoubtable woman with the flat eyes was in his mind’s eye.
He glimpsed movement at the front of the cabin. Then he saw two pack horses and knew he had barely made it in time. He crept downward inch by inch. If they had spotted him, he was in mortal danger. Charlie Knife knew each and every move used by Buchanan or any other veteran of the western scene. There was also the woman.
Buchanan came to the edge of cover. He could see the path up which he had walked to face the woman. If they were both in the cabin, he might make a run and cover them. He could not bring himself to ambush them. He should—any bounty hunter would, knowing the crimes committed by Charlie Knife, knowing the woman to be as dangerous as her mate. That he was unable to do so was a cross he had borne over the violent years.
He poised, drawing a Colt. He was close enough that there should be some sound. There was no sound. There was not even the movement of birds or small animals in the brush.
He dropped flat. As he did so there was a blow at his wrist. He dropped the revolver, his hand numb. He saw that he had been struck by a thrown knife, that his sudden move had caused the blade to miss him, that he had been struck by the heavy haft.