by Jonas Ward
“Café,” the young man said affectionately, calling the segundo by the nickname he had earned from his constant drinking of coffee, “Café, where is the man who carried Maria in his arms when we met you this afternoon?”
“He went on his way, Señor Juan.”
“His way where? Why?”
“Who knows?”
“I remember him,” Juan said. “I paid little attention at the time, but now I think of him. He was a hard-looking man. He said practically nothing.”
“Un vago. A type that moves from place to place, and never tarries.”
“Which way was he moving today?”
“Toward the border.” Gomez looked intently at Juan. “But you are wrong if you suspect him of this thing.”
“Then you know?”
“I know what I know. The hombre also knew, but he was not the one.”
“You are very certain.”
“As certain as I am that it was not myself.”
Juan left Gomez then, to eat his supper and, presumably, to sleep. For this was the time of the winter roundup, and this season Don Pedro had elevated Juan to range boss—under Gomez’ supervision, of course, but boss just the same and coming gradually into his own as primo of the Rancho del Rey. It was early to bed and early to rise at roundup season, but the young boss did not bed down, although he returned to his rooms in the west wing. While there he looked over his collection of handguns and rifles, finally chose a Remington.45 and a carbine, and whiled away an hour cleaning both weapons, testing their action and then loading them with live ammunition. He opened a bottle of Franciscan brandy then, lit a cigar borrowed from his father’s private stock, and in the presence of guns, liquor and tobacco saw himself as a man full-grown and specially dedicated.
He thought of Maria, and so many memories of his younger sister flooded his mind that he had to herd them into a sensible whole, a complete picture. He passed over the annoyances of their early youth, the demands that a little sister can make on the activities and the patience of a boy two years older. He forgot how she demanded, and got, equality in all things, how she made him wonder who was the elder and who the younger, who the son in this patriarchal system and who the daughter with no other problem but to get safely married.
Tonight Juan didn’t think of the strong-minded Maria but of the smiling, agreeable, sweet-scented and always feminine little sister that one could not consider without a happy little pang tugging at the heart. She was so good, so beautiful—so innocent—that it reduced one to sentimental extremes to see her.
And some man had debased her. Some terrible person, male like himself, had attacked Maria and brought dishonor to the name of Del Cuervo.
Juan finished the brandy in his glass and moved down the great corridor of the hacienda toward the room where Maria lay. Gomez straightened at his approach.
“Que va?”
“I just wanted to see her for a few moments,” Juan explained, opening the door swiftly. He went inside and closed the door behind him. Tia Rosa sat in a padded rocking chair near the bed, but the chair was motionless and when Juan investigated he found the old woman drowsing. Good. He leaned down over his sister’s pale face.
“Maria,” he whispered. “Maria!”
There was an answering sound from the girl’s lips.
“Maria—can you hear me?”
“Yes,” came the toneless answer.
“Who did this to you, Maria? Who was he?”
“Ro—” the voice started to say, then stopped.
“Roy?” Juan asked insistently. “Roy Agry?”
“Yes.” Suddenly the girl’s eyelids fluttered open. She looked around wonderingly. “What happened? Where—”
But her brother was already across the room, opening the door. The sounds awoke Tia Rosa who gave a startled cry; the woman arose and went to the bedside.
Gomez, too, was disturbed. Not by anything he had heard but by the look on the face of Don Pedro’s son.
“What is it, Juan? What has happened?”
The young man walked away without speaking, returned to his rooms for the guns, and left the great house by a rear door. He cut out his own sleek stallion from the remuda, saddled it and rode down the cobblestone drive. From there he took the public road that led to Agrytown across the border.
Three
Agrytown looked as good as any place to Buchanan for a meal and a bed. He admitted that the town had a flimsy look to it, an impermanence, but then he realized that just five short years ago all this had been part of Mexico, too. Give us Americans a chance, he told himself. We’re starting from scratch.
The big man grinned a little wryly at his use of the word “we.” For every place he looked in Agrytown seemed to be claimed by Agry, whoever he was. The Agry Hotel, Agry’s Mercantile, Agry’s Saloon, Agry’s Livery—why he’d even read a notice pertaining to the use of firearms signed by “Lew Agry, High Sheriff.” And now, as he entered the lobby of the small hotel he was greeted by an electioneering poster: “Vote for Simon Agry for U. S. Senator.” Agrytown was a closed corporation for sure.
“I need a room for the night,” Buchanan told the clerk.
“Ten dollars, in advance.”
“That all?”
“Take it or leave it.”
What Buchanan wanted to take was one short, swift swing at the fat face before him. But hell, he was too happy to be back in the States for any ramstamming like that. He opened the ragged shortcoat to reveal a splendid leather belt fastened by a huge, solid silver buckle. Tied above the belt was a leather purse, and Buchanan dipped his fingers inside and brought forth a gold coin worth fifty dollars.
“Wrong one,” he said and put it back. On the fourth try he located a ten-dollar gold piece which he flipped negligently to the desk. The wide-eyed clerk picked up the coin and dropped it on the steel bar beside the register. The gold gave a fine, solid ring and then it disappeared into the safe. Buchanan signed the book.
“First room at the head of the stairs, mister,” the clerk said, his glance shifting from Buchanan’s unshaven, abused face to the surprising leather purse.
“I’ll use it later. Where’s some good grub in town?”
“They’ll cook you up a steak over to the saloon. Tell ’em Amos sent you.”
“You an Agry?” Buchanan asked innocently.
“I’m a cousin. Why’d you ask?”
“Curious by nature,” Buchanan said and went out and across the dirt street to the Agry Saloon. There was a noisy ruckus in progress at the bar between a young, big-shouldered man and the bartender, to which everyone was paying what Buchanan thought was unusually close attention.
“You pa give me strict orders about your drinking, Roy,” the bartender was saying nervously.
“Put another bottle up, by hell,” the one named Roy said, “or I’ll come back there and take it.”
“You don’t want me to lose my job, do you?”
“Who in hell cares about you? I’m Roy Agry and I want a bottle!”
“I can’t do it, Roy.”
“How about me?” Buchanan asked, shouldering his way in. “Can I get a steak?”
“Who do you think you’re shovin’ there, jasper?” Roy Agry said, but when he angrily tried to move Buchanan aside nothing happened. He grabbed the arm of the ragged coat and jerked at it. The arm came back, fast, and the point of Buchanan’s elbow jammed itself into the pit of Agry’s belly, knocking him off balance. Agry gave a sharp grunt.
“That steak ought to be cooked so the meat’s still on the red side,” Buchanan continued to the bartender. “But don’t you give me no meal that’s out-and-out raw …”
The bartender wasn’t even listening. He was looking at something that was happening beyond Buchanan’s shoulder. Roy Agry had a long-barreled.44 in his hand, upraised to bring it down on Buchanan’s head. Buchanan saw the situation in the back-bar mirror and moved with catlike grace to avoid the skulling. The descending gun grazed his ear and slammed down onto
the bar. Buchanan hit Agry twice for that, once in the belly, once on the point of his lantern jaw. Agry’s legs quit supporting him and he went down in a clumsy heap.
“Man, you’re full of vinegar tonight,” Buchanan told him conversationally, hoisting Agry back to his feet. As he did he noticed the long scratches on the other man’s cheeks, four on each side, stretching from his eye to his neck. Those marks made Buchanan think of something else that had happened, but for the moment he couldn’t place the memory. His embarrassment was too great, anyhow, to let him dwell on the matter, and as he propped Roy Agry against the bar he scolded himself mentally for brawling with a fellow American on his first night back in the States.
“I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch,” Roy Agry said in a blurred voice. Buchanan grinned at him.
“First let me buy you a drink,” he said.
“No more drinks for him,” the bartender announced. “And if I was you, friend, I’d light out of this town quick.”
“Too late,” Buchanan said. “I already bought my room. Now how about that bottle and how about that nice steak?”
The barman shrugged. “I’m selling this to you, mister,” he said loud enough for all to hear, setting a quart of The Lion’s Roar rye whisky in front of Buchanan. “That’ll be ten dollars.”
“Man,” Buchanan said, parting the shortcoat again, “I’m sure glad I’m not settling down in this ten-dollar town permanent.” He fished down into the purse, and after several mis-tries finally located a twenty-dollar coin. “How much for the steak?” he asked.
“Ten dollars.”
Buchanan tossed him the gold money, reminding himself forcibly how grateful he was to be back. Then he offered the bottle to Roy Agry.
“After you, old horse,” he said.
Agry grabbed the liquor from Buchanan’s hand, tilted it to his lips and drank thirstily. Almost desperately, Buchanan thought. “Save a drop,” he said. “I’ve built up a small hankerin’ myself.”
The bartender had hollered out back somewhere for the steak and now he swung to Buchanan. “Why don’t you take the bottle to a table by yourself?” he asked nervously. “You’re just piling up charges for yourself with the whole Agry family.”
“Not my intention,” Buchanan said, “but I’ll do whatever you want me to.” He looked at Agry for the return of the bottle.
“You’ve got till this is empty,” Roy said, holding it to his chest. “After that, you lousy bum, I’m gonna kill you.”
Buchanan frowned, and his shoulders shifted impatiently.
“Your steak’s coming off the fire in a minute,” the bartender said in his anxious voice. “Eat it and get out of here.”
Buchanan made himself smile. “Whatever you say,” he told the barman good-naturedly, and moved away to a table in the far corner. The other customers looked at him curiously, kept watching all the while he ate and drank his coffee. It was as if they were present at a very unusual wake.
Buchanan was oblivious to it all, so disappointed was he in the quality of the food. Perhaps, he thought, he’d looked forward to his first meal in the States with too much expectation. Maybe he was too used to those damn spices and hot sauces back in Sonora. How that fat slob Campos used to fuss with his women about food!
He looked up to see how Roy Agry was coming with the bottle. Half gone, he saw. But by the time he was finished the man would be all gone himself. Who the hell wanted a gunfight, anyhow? Not him. Not Tommy Buchanan. Strictly a peaceful, peace loving citizen of the good old U.S.A. from now on. Which reminded him, for no good reason, that he was going to shave one of these days, soon as the face wasn’t so bloody tender from what Campos and the boys had done to it.
Forget that, too, he said to himself. They beat up on you, but you gave as good as you got, especially to Campos. And you’ve still got your hard-earned money. Buchanan laughed aloud. By hell, Campos couldn’t steal it but these unarmed thieves in Agrytown will. He stood up and walked back to the bar.
“My name is Buchanan,” he said, ostensibly to the bartender, “and if anybody needs me I’m across the way at the hotel. First room at the top of the stairs, and the door will be off the latch.” He went out then, crossed over to the hotel and mounted to his room. But instead of the bed he bunked down on the floor opposite, and he went off to sleep with the Colt in his fist and primed….
By that time Roy Agry had forgotten about him. The other thing was too much in his mind, a nightmare that wouldn’t let him escape, and it seemed that the more he drank to forget what he had done the more vivid his memories became.
It was as though he had known all along that he would come to do such a brutal and violent thing; as if one of those roving Mexican women had looked into the palm of his hand when he was a kid and said “Roy Agry, when you are twenty-one you are going to do a terrible thing to someone….”
There was flash temper and violence in all the Agrys. His Uncle Lew, the sheriff, was no man to be around when he was mad. He remembered Uncle Lew horsewhipping Aunt Anna years ago. He remembered last week, when Uncle Lew shot and killed the half-breed for not getting out of his way on the duckboards. His father Simon, who owned the town and was going to be senator, had a different kind of violence in him. His temper was just as short as Lew’s, he was just as quick to take offense, but he was slyer about it. He got even with people he didn’t like in a quieter way. He let other people do his work and didn’t leave himself open to criticism like his brother did.
Roy suspected he had a little of each of them in him. He had warned Maria when he’d heard of the coming marriage that no other man was going to have her. She thought he was bluffing, but he’d shown her. Just as Uncle Lew had shown that breed. But like his father, he’d covered himself. There was only one witness—Maria—and he’d fixed it so she’d never talk against him.
Not that anything could be done to him. It had happened over in Mexico, hadn’t it? This was Agrytown, state of California. Who could touch an Agry in his own town for what had been done to a Mex? Sure, that’s all Maria was. A Mex. Still, it wasn’t the kind of thing you want people talking about. Men acted funny about another man who’d —
He lifted the bottle and drank deeply from it. There it was again. What he’d said when he’d dragged her off the horse. What she’d said. Her fighting him, scratching him, screaming at him. His knocking her to the ground, hitting her with the gun. What he’d done then … From a great distance he heard someone calling his name.
“Roy Agry!” Juan shouted again from the saloon entrance. “Are you going to draw or be shot down like a dog?”
It was Maria’s brother, Roy thought foggily. Maria’s brother!
“There’ll be none of that!” the bartender yelled, leveling a shotgun at Juan del Cuervo. “Get out of here, Mex!”
Juan could not know whether the bartender would fire the scattergun or not. He felt only the sting of the name Mex. It made him an outcast here, an interloper in the camp of his enemy’s friends. So when he drew the Remington from its holster he fully expected to be killed in the act. The big.45 came clear and jumped and roared death in Juan’s slim hands until there was no more vengeance in it. Even then the smooth-working hammer clicked three times on empty shell cases.
It was all over in so many blurred seconds, but for Roy Agry those seconds had seemed an eternity. He had stared in fascination as Maria’s brother had brought the gun into sight. He had still had a gunfighter’s chance, but Roy was no gunfighter. He was the bullying, arrogant son of a rich and ruthless father. And he died in his father’s saloon as he had lived in his father’s long shadow: a coward.
The bartender never fired the rifle. In fact, when the Mexican youth’s intentions were clear he had abandoned the gun and dived for safety behind his oaken barricade. Everyone else in the half-filled place had sought to get out of the way, too, with the result that Juan seemed to be the only man on his feet when the thing was done. Beyond this he had not planned at all, and now he was overwhelmed. He flung th
e gun away from him, turned and fled—straight into the arms of Waldo Peek, first deputy sheriff of Agry County. Peek had been in the cribhouse next door, trying out the Apache Indian girl, and he was bound for the saloon to tell the boys what a wildcat she was and how he’d tamed her. He’d heard the gunfire, but put it down to just one more liquored-up cowpoke shooting harmlessly at the bullet-studded ceiling. Instead, it was trouble—that was Roy Agry pouring out his life’s blood on the floor, and this Mex kid turning toward him was the killer. Waldo wrapped his bearlike arms around Juan’s slim body and drove his thick knee into Juan’s groin. The youth collapsed against him and Waldo gave it to him again. Then he held him at arm’s length and beat his fist repeatedly into Juan’s face. And the more he hit the boy the wilder his anger became, without reason, for among all those that Waldo hated in this world Roy Agry topped the list.
Buchanan came awake as if warned by some sixth sense—awake and scrambling to his feet even before Juan had finished emptying his gun into Roy Agry across the street. He went to the open window and looked out with a face that was frankly and actively curious.
Buchanan had been absorbed with everything that his fellow humans did since his childhood days in West Texas. People and events fascinated him, and there was nothing better than a gunfight unless it was a prairie fire. But what was going on over there wasn’t fun at all to watch. The beefy hombre was much too much for the slender kid and before he realized what he was doing, Buchanan was dropping from the window to the tin overhang, then coming down from that to the street below.
He crossed the street in four long strides, wrenched Peek loose from his prisoner, and when the deputy swung on him Buchanan blocked the blow with his raised elbow. Almost a part of the same defensive movement was the hard, overhand right that punched Peek’s face out of proportion and scrambled his thinking. For good measure, and because he felt justified, Buchanan let go with the left hand. Waldo caught that one in the mouth, but even as he was being removed from the battle Buchanan was catching hell from behind.
