Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  Buchanan wondered about the woman, Myra Simon. She was not a birdbrain; of that he was sure. Where did she fit in the picture? What had been the contents of that lightweight satchel he had toted for her in Las Cruces? What was her true relationship with her husband? It would be worthwhile to know more about her.

  He walked around the perimeter of the Simon property, keeping well out of sight in the dark of the night. There was a single tree; he leaned against it, the water running from his hat brim. He watched the men patrolling. There is a certain cadence to the steps of anyone walking guard, especially if they have been in the army, he knew. He counted the footsteps of Tony Bull, medium steps, going down one side of the thick-walled house, then retracing their path. If he could take out a guard and pretend enough ... But the other man on this side was too much in evidence. It would be impossible to overcome one without the other being witness. It would be the way to sudden death.

  He was turning to leave, to go try to think of another way when he heard the sound of a whippoorwill. He stopped, disbelieving. There were no whippoorwills in this part of the country. He answered the call.

  Coco Bean came like a dark shadow. Behind him was another figure disguised in a slicker. Buchanan motioned them back and went to them.

  He said, “What in hell?”

  Cara’s face came into view as she lowered her hood. She said, “It was a long, hard ride, but we got the coach in Cruces and Ed Harper drove like a madman.”

  “We went to Mama Casino’s,” Coco said. “We talked to Stroutmire and then we knew. Lucky we came out this way.”

  “We meant to scout the place,” said Cara. “What’s the plan?”

  Buchanan said, “I didn’t have one up till now.”

  “So?”

  He led them back to the tree. In their black slickers they were practically invisible. He said, “Watch those two. Tony Bull, the big man, is tough, a fast gun. I don’t know the other one.”

  They watched. The two guards did not come together, nor pause, nor speak. They grimly paraded back and forth.

  “Got to get ’em both at once,” said Coco.

  “Then what?” asked Cara.

  “Look at the windows.”

  There were four of them in the long wall of the house. They were blank, shaded by hangings from within.

  “Supposin’ they’re barred?” asked Cara.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We’d be sittin’ ducks,” said Coco.

  Buchanan strained his eyes. In the miserable darkness the windows were no more than vague outlines of a slightly different shade than the wall. Then he took a step forward, and another. He returned to the others.

  “There’s a door.”

  Coco said, “You always could see a fly on the moon. Whereat is this door?”

  “Halfway along. Directly in the middle.”

  Coco and Cara crept toward the house. Buchanan waited, trying to think it through. They came back to him.

  “Yes, It’s there. But it will be locked,” Cara said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Coco exclaimed, “Look. A light.”

  The light came from a window close to the door. Now it was apparent that there were iron bars at the window. A drapery had been drawn back. Someone was staring out into the rain and the darkness.

  “That’s his wife,” said Buchanan.

  “There’s another woman with her,” said Cara.

  “Looks like they’re goin’ someplace,” said Coco.

  Cara said excitedly, “Tom, they’re wearin’ cloaks. If they’re comin’ out that door ...”

  “Can’t,” said Buchanan. “Tony or the other guard would grab ’em. Simon wouldn’t let his wife get outside that house.”

  Coco said, “We got to do somethin’ right now.”

  “Tom,” said Cara, “could you get into the light?” There was a ray of light from the window. Tony Bull came by and touched his hat to the two women in the window.

  Cara said, “Show yourself, Tom!”

  “What?”

  “Take my word,” she urged him. “Let ’em know you’re out here.”

  He hesitated, then removed his poncho and handed it to Coco. He waited until Tony Bull and the other guard were as far apart as they would get, then he ran into the sliver of light, waved his hat, and backed away as quickly as he had appeared.

  “She saw you!” said Cara. “She recognized you, I’ll bet my life!”

  The drapes were closed. Now it was pitch black again. The two guards continued their dreary march back and forth. Buchanan took a deep breath.

  Coco said, “Me first. Nobody can see me in the dark.”

  It was true. Clad in dark clothing beneath the slicker, which he now threw off, he became part of the night. Buchanan nodded and they went forward, Coco in the van.

  Tony Bull came first, a burly man. Coco ran and leaped like a huge cat. One arm went around the guard’s neck. With the other the prizefighter delivered a terrific punch to the kidney. Tony Bull emitted a grunt, then went limp under the choke hold.

  Coco dropped him, showing his distaste for guns by taking out the two guard’s two revolvers and throwing them one by one into the far darkness.

  Buchanan hit the second man behind the ear with the muzzle of his Colt. He fell like a stoned ox. Buchanan then disarmed him, sticking the revolver in his belt. He and Coco both removed the belts of their victims and used them as bonds. They made gags of the guards’ rebozos. They dragged them back to the tree under which Cara waited. Coco donned his slicker and returned to the house to patrol lest someone notice the absence of the two gunmen. Cara followed suit, walking tall as always.

  Buchanan watched them from beneath the tree. They were perfect troopers, he thought. They were also in grave danger unless something happened fast. He stared at the window at which the woman had appeared. He wondered again, with reason, about Myra Simon.

  As Stroutmire had said, things were happening inside the Simon domain. It was probable that they had strengthened their defenses. Buchanan did not know how many were inside, but he imagined there were too many.

  Again there was a slit of light as a shade was drawn with discretion. He moved upon instinct, risking everything to disclose himself. The light vanished.

  He ran to the dimly perceived door. He tapped upon it, careful not to make too much noise. He held his breath as Cara passed him, slowed down, and Coco came from the other direction. The door opened on a crack, and Myra Simon’s voice whispered, “Mr. Buchanan, is it you?”

  “No one else,” he said.

  The door opened wider. “Come in, come in!” Her voice was husky with fear.

  He slid inside the door and put his back against it. The other woman stood behind Myra. She was smiling enigmatically. Myra had the remembered satchel in one hand. She put the other on Buchanan’s arm and whispered, “Can you get us away? We were afraid to run without transportation.”

  Buchanan said, “Best not to run, lady. You wouldn’t get far.”

  “What can we do? There are bad men all over the house and patio.”

  “How many?”

  “I am Concita,” said the second woman. “I counted five—and the two leaders.”

  “And Simon and Brady.”

  She smiled again. “You do not fear them, surely.”

  Buchanan said, “Where does this hall lead to?”

  “The patio.”

  “Open the door again.”

  “But ...” Myra was confused.

  “Open it and find a safe place for whatever time it takes,” Buchanan said harshly. “I don’t know your game, but I know you’re not a fool.”

  “He’s right,” said Concita. “You’ve been brave. Be brave now.”

  Myra Simon pulled herself visibly together, standing taller, composing her features. She nodded and opened the portal once more. Cara and Coco, divested of their slickers, came quickly indoors. The only light came from a small dark lantern in Concita’s hands. Myra stared, gulped, and asked, �
�Is ... is that a lady?”

  Cara said, “Hell, no. But I’ll do for this rangdoodle.”

  Buchanan said, “Quick, where’s your husband? How do we get to him and Brady?”

  “They’re in the parlor,” said Myra. “But you have to cross the patio to get there.”

  “Before they miss the boys outside,” Buchanan said to the others. “That way.”

  They went down the hall, which was in the center of the building, with rooms on either side. Myra said, “We can wait in here,” and opened one of the doors. “Servant quarters, but empty now.”

  Concita said, “I’ll go with Buchanan.”

  Myra jerked her arm. “You stay with me.”

  Protesting, the girl obeyed. Myra closed the door, and the trio was in the dark. The door reopened and Concita handed out the dark lantern, saying, “She’s only half scared. She’ll be all right.”

  “Frankly,” said Cara, “it don’t worry me a bit.” She followed Buchanan to the end of the corridor. The little lamp gave enough light for them to make out the latch on the exit. Buchanan doused the light.

  “This ain’t a place for you, Cara. Howsomever, you’re here and I see you got your gun.”

  “I wouldn’t be any other place.” She added, “She sure is pretty.”

  “Which one?” Buchanan scowled. “Never mind. We got to move fast and not shoot unless we must. Coco, damn it, I don’t know what to tell you. There’s at least five guns out there.”

  “Ne’mind.” Coco spat upon his hands. “Guns ain’t everything, like I always tell you.”

  “They’re what’ll do till everything comes in place.” Buchanan took hold of the latch, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  The patio was lit with flickering pitch torches. Nothing moved; no one was in view. He exhaled in relief, knowing a fusillade would have cut them down in a jiffy. He stepped into the open. His friends followed, Coco closing the door behind them.

  There was much light coming from a big window across from them. That, Buchanan thought, must be the parlor Myra had mentioned. It was all guesswork from now on; he had to play his hunches. He started across the stones of the patio, which were slippery under his feet. The rain came down steadily, gently.

  A voice growled, “Hey, Tony, you’re supposed to ...” Coco made a flying leap. He struck the man on the chin, then doubled him over with a body punch. Coco followed the body down and banged the head against the stones.

  Cara reached for the man’s revolver. “Might’s well have an extra,” she said. “That’s one down. Where’s the next?”

  That was a good question, Buchanan thought. He gazed around. The torches were protected by hoods, which made for a ghostly scene. There seemed to be a door of some kind behind the man on the ground. He made for it.

  He heard voices within. He beckoned to the others, then flung open the door.

  There were three men inside, of varying descriptions. Buchanan plunged at them with his revolver drawn. Cara and Coco came behind him. The three in front of them were caught completely by surprise. Cara wielded the borrowed .45; Coco whirled his heavy fists; and Buchanan grabbed a hand away from a rifle and knocked the man to whom it belonged against the wall.

  Coco said, “Looky here. A rope!”

  There was a lariat hanging on the wall for decoration. Buchanan cut it up with his Bowie. They disposed of the unconscious gunmen as they had the guards.

  Buchanan said, “Such luck can’t last.” He paused, considering. “You two, stay behind. I mean that. Stay behind.”

  “You’re walkin’ into that room there? You know Slab Cider and Rye Dingle are in there,” said Cara.

  “That’s who we want to see,” Buchanan told her.

  “Try to do it alone.” Her chin was set. Buchanan looked at Coco, who spread his hands and hunched his shoulders.

  Buchanan said, “Damn it, Cara, there’ll be guns this time.”

  She showed him the borrowed .45. “It works, I expect. Looks clean to me. Whose fight is this, anyway, Tom?”

  He bit his lip. There was nothing he could do. He knew the woman; he knew better than to challenge her on this. From the beginning she had been involved, without an opportunity to act in self-defense. She was no ordinary female. She was Cara Shaw—she did not even use the name of her dead husband. She was who she had always been.

  As for Coco, he knew better than to waste time arguing with his friend. Buchanan made a last plea. “Stay behind me, you hear? If I get ’em covered, I might scare ’em into a showdown.”

  They regarded him as though he had gone suddenly simpleminded. He turned and walked to the entry to the big parlor.

  Torchlight flickered on the heavy door. Rain misted around the flame. Buchanan put a hand on the knob. The door was locked.

  Now he had lost the advantage of surprise. He fingered his Colt. He could shoot off the lock—and warn those within. Coco came to him and they both put their shoulders to the thick wood. It gave not an inch.

  Buchanan said, “Got to get in there.”

  He was aiming at the lock when a strained voice cried, “Hey, youse ... What t’ hell ...”

  Coco, having backed off to give Buchanan his shot, was nearest the figure of the bruiser from New York. He batted the gun from the man’s hand. He knocked the fellow loose from it—but the gun went off.

  Simultaneously Buchanan shot the lock off the door.

  Coco stayed with the eastern bully. Buchanan charged through the door, hurtling clear across the big room.

  Three men were in the room, Simon, Dingle, and Cider. Dingle had his gun out in a flash.

  From the doorway Cara Shaw shot Dingle in the belt buckle. He folded over like a piece of tarpaulin. She swung the gun around.

  Simon dropped a glass of whiskey and ran for a rack of rifles and shotguns. Slab Cider had his revolver in his hand. Buchanan fired and Cider spun around, struck in the shoulder.

  Coco entered, dragging the victim of his punches behind him. Cara pointed the Colt at Simon and drew her own .38.

  Brave until the end Cider tried to bring his weapon to bear on Buchanan. Reluctantly, Buchanan shot it out of his hand.

  Simon froze.

  Buchanan said, “Just hold it, and you may live, Simon.”

  A door opposite Buchanan opened. Myra Simon and Concita came stumbling in. Myra still clutched her satchel. Behind her was James Brady with a sawed-off shotgun at her spine.

  Brady said, “I believe you had better think again, Buchanan.”

  Buchanan did not move a muscle. “A Mexican standoff, we sometimes call this. Exceptin’ for one little matter.”

  “I see no matter to be discussed. You will drop your guns or I will blow this lovely lady to bits.”

  “You know, Brady, I doubt that.” Buchanan took a step forward. “You’re tough. But you ain’t that tough.”

  Simon suddenly moved. He grabbed for a weapon from the rack. Buchanan swiped backward with his Colt. He caught Simon on his prominent nose.

  Simon managed to grab a long gun and turn it upon Buchanan. Brady cried, “No, you fool.”

  Cara lifted her revolver. She aimed, her eyes glinting. She fired. Simon threw out his arms and dropped the gun. He fell forward upon his face.

  Buchanan was already in motion. He dove between the two women and Brady, striking hard. He knocked the shotgun out Brady’s be-diamonded hands. He put a shoulder into Brady’s big belly and shoved him across the room against the wall.

  He said, “Nice bluff, Brady. It wouldn’t have gone over even without your friend’s dumb play.”

  Brady’s voice was calm and steady. “Your pot, and Simon was never my friend.”

  Myra Simon went to where her husband lay on the floor. “Is he ... Is he ... dead?”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” said Cara. “He asked for it. And he had it coming.”

  Myra turned to her. “Oh, I know that.” She still held on to her satchel. “I was trying to run away from him. He spent all of my money except what I
have here in this bag. He never loved me, never.”

  Buchanan said, “There’s a mess of cleanin’ up to do around here. I got a notion we might just have to help.” He went to the leaning, ruined door and called loudly, “You there, Marshal?”

  Stroutmire answered from the rainy exterior, “Yep. Brought a couple deputies just in case.”

  “You find that trash outside?”

  “Got ’em.”

  “You can collect some more in here.”

  “On my way.”

  Buchanan turned to the others. “Is there another place we can confab a bit?”

  Myra said, “Upstairs.” She led the way to her boudoir.

  Buchanan said, “Mr. Brady, please.”

  Brady went silently, with aplomb. They settled down, Myra and Concita, Cara, Buchanan, Coco, and Brady. For a moment they looked at one another. Then Buchanan said, “There’s been a damn lot of blood spilt, Brady.”

  “I agree.”

  “Yours could’ve been part of it.”

  “I’m aware that you spared me.”

  “It wasn’t because I love you,” Buchanan told him.

  “I have an idea of your reason.”

  “They say if you play poker with a man, you get to know something about him. You’re crooked, Brady, but you’re crooked in a certain way.”

  “I take advantage when I can.” The man was imperturbable.

  “On t’other hand, if you give your word?”

  “I keep my word.”

  “Uh-huh. Now you and Simon had a passel of guns out there lookin’ for me and anybody connected with Ebenezar Shaw’s stage line. How you goin’ to call them off?” Buchanan asked.

  “I believe Slab Cider is alive,” Brady said.

  “Uh-huh. Before he goes to jail you’ll have him call off the dogs.”

  “It will probably save their lives.” The man actually smiled. He reached into his pocket and took out a cigar, glanced at the women, then reluctantly replaced it. “Consider it done.”

  “A telegram back to ASL, which we’ll send over your signature,” Buchanan went on.

  “Agreed.”

  “If you countermand it, I’ll be lookin’ for you. Even if I have to take a trip back east.”