Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  They were upon him, then, dropping out of the sky in silence, the man and the woman. Charlie Knife had a blade in each hand. The woman was cocking a gun.

  Buchanan struck out, spinning, feeling the life come back into his right hand. He knocked the woman ten feet away. He reached and drew the Bowie from between his shoulder blades.

  He had caught them before they could bushwhack him with the Sharps. The woman’s gun went off, and he went for her, kicking her wrist and knocking it flying, and he thought of the last time they had faced each other and how he had thrown away the gun.

  Now they were coming at him with sharp knives and he had only the Bowie. He held out his left arm like a boxer, tempting Charlie, who slashed. He drew back the arm at the last possible second. The woman was charging with a machete. Buchanan ducked and swerved and danced.

  Charlie Knife matched his every move. He was bandaged, a slight handicap, but he knew the game. He circled, trying to get behind Buchanan as the woman came in front. She was as light on her feet as a puma; her eyes were a puma’s eyes. Buchanan stepped right, then left, then sideways, trying to keep them both in front of him.

  Charlie Knife feinted a charge. Buchanan showed him the point of the long Bowie. The woman swung her longer weapon. Buchanan ducked beneath it. Again he offered his left arm. Charlie refused to bite, jigging away, his black eyes intent. Not a word had been spoken; there was only the sound of heavy breathing. There would be no parleying. This was to the death.

  They went around and around like a carousel. Buchanan’s speed was giving them pause for thought. They dared not make a break for their guns for fear he would intercept them. They had to duel, the advantage all on their side. He wondered why they did not throw at him again. They probably were afraid they would miss and before Charlie could go for another knife the Bowie would put an end to the battle, he thought. They were like two animals, showing no emotion, flushed with one desire, to kill him and leave him to rot in the hills.

  Buchanan saw Charlie Knife’s eyes flicker and assumed it was a signal to the woman. The woman came on with a rush, and now she screamed a fierce cry, animal-like, filling the glade. At the same time Charlie Knife came in low from Buchanan’s left.

  The machete was aimed to decapitate Buchanan. Charlie could hamstring him with either knife. Buchanan drew on his long hours of boxing with Coco Bean.

  He ducked his head, but barely, letting the woman’s blade knock off his Stetson. He shuffled backward, keeping his balance, and let Charlie fly by him. Now both adversaries were before him. They were, for the first time, off balance. The man was closer.

  Buchanan used the Bowie as a sword. He sliced at Charlie’s right arm, felt the steel strike the bone. He danced forward with the Bowie poised for a fatal blow.

  Again the woman screamed. She rushed past her man and whirled the big blade. Buchanan again retreated. The blood ran down Charlie’s wrist, covering his hand. He dropped the one knife. Without uttering a sound he attacked again.

  Buchanan circled on light feet. He put out his left hand and hit Charlie a hard blow.

  Charlie stumbled backward. The woman advanced. Buchanan again evaded her machete, turned, and menaced her with the Bowie, unable to thrust it into her body. She spun and stumbled over his foot. She fell backward as Charlie, bleeding, still expressionless, came forward. Buchanan let him go by.

  Charlie’s left-hand knife flashed. The knife slashed into the woman’s body. She cried out, not a threatening sound. She made one convulsive move with the machete. Its point cut the hand bearing Charlie’s remaining knife.

  Buchanan stared in horrified amazement. They lay together. They moved, kicked. The woman thrashed loose from the man, her blade slashing wildly. Charlie arose. He did not look at Buchanan. His gaze was upon the woman. She spoke in a language Buchanan could not distinguish. Charlie sank down to his knees. He was bleeding profusely. The woman kicked her feet. Then she died.

  Charlie Knife looked up at Buchanan. He said, “You are the devil.”

  “Maybe,” said Buchanan. “Maybe the devil is taking his own.”

  “You have forced us to kill each other.” He was now speaking the patois of the border, Indian-Mexican talk.

  “I have done what had to be done.”

  “No man could defeat me with the knives.”

  “You defeated each other,” Buchanan told him. “Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

  “You will die by the bullet,” said Charlie. He choked up blood. “You will surely die by the bullet.”

  “Uh-huh. Wouldn’t be surprised. But not today,” said Buchanan. “Have you any word for Simon?”

  “Ha!” Charlie Knife managed a horrid laugh. “He will see to it that you eat the bullets.”

  “Go with God,” said Buchanan. He saw the end in the dark eyes, saw them fade. Charlie Knife collapsed across the body of the woman. “The good Lord saved me the trouble this time. Thanks, Lord.”

  Buchanan went to look for a spade. He could not leave the bodies for the vultures and the rodents, and he had no wish to try to carry them to town through the rough terrain between the cabin and Encinal. He dug one grave for both.

  He searched Charlie Knife, found the spare blades in their hiding places, dropped them into the grave. He found cash, bloodstained, and marked it in his mind for charity before pocketing it.

  He went into the cabin, surprised at its neatness and cleanliness. He took blankets in which to wrap the bodies. He buried the pair together. Then he took the Sharps rifle and fastened it to one of the pack horses. He turned loose Charlie Knife’s horse to forage until discovered, or to run wild in the mountains.

  Buchanan went back to the pack horses and debated. He had no curiosity about the belongings of the two dead people. Finally he turned the horses’ heads toward Encinal and sent them trotting back down the trail. They might or might not make their way to town. It only mattered that one part of the plan had been carried out, that one dangerous bushwhacker had been eliminated from the scene. There was far more to be accomplished. He went back to where Nightshade patiently waited, mounted, and rode south and east for Las Cruces.

  They buried Ben Maddow with honor. Cara returned to the station to find Dr. Borden in attendance with Ebenezar. Gracie was hovering, young Campbell was boiling water, Coco was grave.

  “Chills and fever,” Coco told him. “He’s been babblin’ about the Concord and callin’ for you and Tom.”

  She went to the bedside. Dr. Borden lifted his shoulders, grave, concerned.

  Ebenezar was staring into space, his voice shrill. “She’s a beauty ... Should not’ve bought her, but she is a beauty ... Friends ... Comes down to it money don’t mean nothin’, coach don’t mean nothin’ ... Only Tom Buchanan ... Women don’t mean nothin’, neither ... Friends ... Where’s Tom? ... Where’s my daughter? ...”

  “I’m right here, Ebenezar,” Cara said.

  “Tom Buchanan ... A friend ... Nothin’ in the world beats a real, true friend ...” He swallowed and went on, “A daughter now, that’s good, too. ... A real daughter ... Yep ... But a friend ...” He was silent.

  Doctor Borden said, “He’s asleep. It will be nip and tuck. The bullet did get to his lung, you know.”

  “What can I do?” demanded Cara.

  “Nothing. I will watch. And hope.”

  Coco said, “Reckon we better talk some.”

  “Yes.” She went into the office. Young Campbell followed; Gracie remained with the doctor.

  Coco said, “Friends. Your daddy’s got it right. You know where Tom went?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “They got a big strong dun at the stable,” said Coco. “I got to ride after Tom.”

  “Wait on me,” she said, her mouth a firm line. “Doug, you and Gracie take over.”

  She went to her room and changed into her Levi’s and a wool shirt. She strapped on her cartridge belt and saw to her S & W .38. She donned soft boots and wound a kerchief around her head. Then she w
ent in and looked at her father as he slept. Returning to Coco, she said, “I got me a new fine sorrel. Let’s go.”

  She admonished Ramon to be watchful and walked into the station stable. Young Campbell helped her put her own saddle on the horse. She said to him, “Whatever comes to take place here, I have to go.”

  “Wish I could go with you.”

  “There may be hell to pay right here,” she said sharply. “You mind that and listen to Ramon and see that Ebenezar is taken care of.”

  “I heard what he said about friends,” said the youth. “It’s the pure truth, ain’t it?”

  “Believe it.” She mounted and rode to the livery stable. Coco was waiting with the big, strong dun. They rode southward without further discussion.

  James Brady held his brandy snifter in both hands and listened. Broderick J. Simon walked up and down the parlor of his bastion on the outskirts of El Paso. Slab Cider spoke in his deliberate manner.

  “Buchanan got past Charlie Knife. We had word that he passed through Las Cruces. He’s alone on that big black horse. He’s loaded for bear.”

  “What can he do alone? Go out and get him,” snapped Simon.

  “The woman and the nigra have left Encinal on horseback,” Slab Cider went on patiently. “The old goat Marshal Stroutmire is actin’ like he knows somethin’. You want us to leave you here alone?”

  “Nobody can get to us in here. I built this place to be safe. There are only two entrances and you know both are barred. Anyone can guard them.”

  James Brady spoke. “Wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If the local law will not accommodate us, any determined people can dynamite your gates.”

  “Impossible. We have men watching.”

  “And Buchanan, with the possible aid of the marshal, on the outside.”

  Rye Dingle said, “I say we go and get Buchanan.”

  Brady shook his head. “No. If you fail, that will be the end. You two are the ones we can count upon. Right?”

  Slab Cider said, “Well ... considerin’ Buchanan got past Charlie Knife ... They also said in the wire from Encinal the old geezer’s failin’. Got the sawbones settin’ with him.”

  “If he dies,” Simon began, but Brady held up a hand.

  “If he dies, Buchanan will own a share of the line. I thought we agreed. Buchanan is a threat to everything we’ve planned. I do not believe he could be ambushed by these two gentlemen, not when he is on the alert. If he comes here, we will be ready and waiting.”

  Rye Dingle said, “No man livin’ can get away from Slab and me. I say we go after him.”

  “He’s got to camp,” said Slab Cider, half agreeing. “Even that big black of his’n can’t make it by tomorrow.”

  “Do you know where he will camp?” asked Brady. “Don’t you think he may have a watch on you, on all of us?”

  “There’s no way we can’t git him,” insisted Rye Dingle.

  Brady raised one eyebrow, stared at Simon. There was a silence. Then Simon said, “We’ll sleep on it.”

  “If you say so, boss.” The big man led Rye Dingle from the room before the dour gunman could speak again.

  Simon went to the whiskey bottle. After a moment Brady said, “The men they hired. How many are close by?”

  “Maybe a half dozen.”

  “Have them set a watch. Bring as many inside as possible.”

  “You mean at this moment?” Simon drank deeply.

  “Before morning,” said Brady.

  “Is that an order?” There was a trace of belligerence in his voice.

  “I gave no orders while your henchmen were present. Now, if you like, it is an order.”

  Simon finished the whiskey, poured another. “I believe you’re unduly alarmed.”

  “I am not alarmed. I am careful. I will instruct my man to also keep a watch.”

  “Buchanan has the world scared,” Simon burst forth. “Buchanan is an army in himself. One man, what can he do? We are impregnable here.”

  Brady asked, “Will you do as I say?”

  For a moment it seemed Simon would rebel. Then he said, “Of course.”

  He left abruptly, carrying his whiskey with him. He had lost at every point in the debate with Brady. He was furious, but he managed to keep control. For once the liquor had not driven him over the edge. If Buchanan did come, he thought, perhaps Brady might provide a target. With both of them out of the way ... He held that thought tight within him.

  Brady sat in the big chair, waiting. In a few minutes. Myra Simon appeared, again in the blue garment. She smiled as he arose and went to the table to pour another brandy. She accepted it. “Oh, thank you. It is so nice to have a man of the world, a man of fine manners, to talk to. It has been quite lonely for me of late, you know. So much talk about stage lines and that man Buchanan. Dear me, he must be a fearsome person.”

  “I have taken steps. You need feel no alarm.” Brady patted her arm as he resumed his chair. “Shall we talk of New York?”

  “Oh, dear me, yes! I do adore talking about that great city.” She sat opposite him, holding the brandy daintily, admiring him. He expounded, beaming.

  It was early night and a cold rain, a drizzle of rain, was coming off the Rio Grande when Donley, at the El Paso stage station, was aware of a blanketed horse and a stooped man entering the stable. He reached for his shotgun and slid out to block the way.

  Buchanan straightened up and said, “It’s okay.”

  “Man, you look beat,” said Donley. “Lemme put up your horse.”

  “Give him oats and have him rubbed down,” said Buchanan. “It’s been a long, hard one. You happen to know where Stroutmire is drinkin’ tonight?”

  “Mama Casino’s. He was askin’ for you earlier.”

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan shed his poncho. His back ached from his pretending to be six inches shorter than his height. “Good thing. When’s the stage due?”

  “Not for two-and-a-half hours. It’s the new Concord with Ed Harper.”

  “Stroutmire leave any message?”

  “Just that he’d be at Mama’s.”

  Buchanan debated. He did not want to be recognized, but he was cold and hungry and the thought of a bowl of chili predominated. He redonned the poncho and said, “If anybody asks, I ain’t here. Understand?”

  “Sure. Can I help?”

  “No. Stay put and keep the gun handy.” He went back into the dark. There was no moon, and the light rain blew in his face. He knew the side streets; he knew the back door of the restaurant. Twice he ducked into alleys to avoid hurrying pedestrians.

  The kitchen help were startled at his entrance. He admonished them with a finger to his lips and went close to the head cook. “Marshal Stroutmire inside?”

  “Si, señor.”

  “Please call Mama for me.”

  The dark lady appeared almost immediately. “Yes. It is you. I will tell the marshal.” She was already ladling chili into a huge bowl. “You are wet and weary and hungry, my friend.”

  He sat in a corner and waited. He was almost finished with the steaming food when Stroutmire came in, not from the dining room but through the rear door.

  “I was lookin’ for you. Know why? There’s strangers in town. Somethin’s stirrin’ around Simon’s place,” said the marshal.

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan spooned up the last of the chili. He felt better, almost human. “Camped out last night. Ran out of victuals. Which strangers?”

  “Tony Bull, Beans Reardon and Indian Frank. Ain’t got a warrant on a one of ’em. But I know ’em. Simon’s got people all around, seems like. You got anything for me?”

  “They killed Ben Maddow.”

  “See what you mean. What about Charlie Knife?”

  “Forget him.”

  “You took care of him?” the marshal asked.

  “Sort of. Buried him.”

  “Good enough for me. So now you got to do somethin’ about old Maddow.”

  “Just want to
talk to Simon’s men. Two of ’em,” Buchanan said.

  “Them two. Yep. What can I do?”

  “It comes down like this—you’re the law. There’s no proof of anything. Sure, we know who did what. It don’t do any good without witnesses. What you can do is leave me handle it.”

  “Haven’t seen you wear two guns in a long time. Never knowed you when you couldn’t take care of yourself. But these eastern folks and their money to hire, it ain’t like old times.”

  “Old times, new times, we go our ways.”

  The aging marshal sighed. “I’d plumb like to git in on it, Tom.”

  “If you lay low, maybe keep your eyes open ...”

  “Can do that. I can stay quiet unless you have need.”

  “That’s good enough.” Buchanan gave the cook a gold piece to spread among his help. He shook hands with Stroutmire and went back out into the unpleasant night. He walked again through dark ways, not hurrying, making for the outskirts of town where Simon had built his mansion.

  Buchanan had no definite plan. They had been warned somehow that he was on his way; they would be more than ready. By making the long, hard ride he had hoped to catch them off guard. He had failed. However, he was also forewarned by Stroutmire. He would not be walking blindly into a trap.

  As he approached Simon’s house he saw the guards at once. Clad in slickers, they were patrolling. He recognized Tony Bull, a broad-shouldered gunman. There were others and they were alert. It would be impossible to walk past them, even if he knew he could gain entry to the establishment.

  It was Slab Cider and Rye Dingle whom he wanted. If there was a way to entice them out of the house, he would make his challenge. There was no question in his mind that they had conspired with Charlie Knife, that Bullitt had been hired by them. Certainly Simon would not know how to engage such men.

  As to the man James Brady, Buchanan surmised that ASL in New York trusted him, that Brady had sanctioned all Simon’s moves, which made him guilty by association if not by direct action.