Buchanan 17

by Jonas Ward

  Buchanan said gently, “Ease off,” and gave Steve Quick a gentle look, which persuaded Quick, after a look at the dazed Scarlett, to drop his hand and back away.

  Antonia smiled up at Buchanan. “I think I could learn to like you.”

  Johnny Reo said, “Bet your bottom.”

  The girl hip-swayed away.

  Race Koenig said, “Where’s the boss?”

  Steve Quick said, “In the house.”

  Koenig said, “All right, everybody get back to work. You two come inside with me.”

  Johnny Reo fell into step beside Buchanan. He said, “You can dream up some pretty weird things in this country.”

  “You can meet some too,” said Buchanan.

  Six

  Mike Warrenrode spoke from his wheelchair. “Take the gentleman’s hat, Race.”

  Koenig looked at Johnny Reo, who made a face and took off his hat.

  Warrenrode said, “I don’t want to look up at you people. Sit down.”

  Buchanan drawled softly, “I reckon I’ll just keep my feet.”

  Warrenrode’s lips pinched in. Seated beneath the Seth Thomas clock, he said, “All right, Race. Leave us alone.”

  “You sure?”

  “Get out.”

  Koenig, with a worried look, glanced at Buchanan and Reo before he went outside and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Warrenrode said, “Whiskey in the sideboard. Help yourselves.”

  Reo went that way. Warrenrode addressed himself to Buchanan. “I hear Ben Scarlett will never be quite the same again. You’re quite a stem-winder, aren’t you? What was your name again?” Warrenrode ashed his cigar in the tin ashtray at his elbow. His skinny legs protruded beneath a blanket tossed over his knees; but from the waist up he was a formidable block of a man, bushy-haired and fierce of countenance. Johnny Reo handed a drink to Buchanan and then walked to the easy chair and sat down, poking his boots out.

  Warrenrode snapped, “See your spurs don’t rip that rug.”

  “And if they do?” Reo said in a voice dry as the desert wind.

  Warrenrode grimaced. “You two couldn’t get ten feet from this house without safe conduct from me. Let’s not waste time exchanging threats, gents.”

  Buchanan said, “If you’re coming to a point, let’s hear it.”

  Warrenrode shook his head; a vast weariness seemed to overcome him. “Some days I wonder if I’ll make it through to sundown.”

  Reo said, “Careful you don’t sorrow yourself into an early grave.”

  “If a man’s pitiable, then you can’t criticize him for self-pity,” Warrenrode said. “That Indian you broke loose yesterday—old Sentos—he came by this place yesterday to steal some horses.”

  Buchanan watched him guardedly. Johnny Reo said, “Look, friend, I don’t like bein’ put on the carpet, and I don’t aim to take the blame for you losin’ a horse or two.”

  The old man’s eyes, full of misery, came up and locked on Buchanan’s. “Horses wasn’t all they took. He packed my daughter, Marinda, away with him.”

  Buchanan absorbed it without a break in expression; but he said, “Looks like you’ve got a burden.”

  “I do,” Warrenrode said. “I love that girl, mister. I want her back.”

  “Good luck,” Reo muttered. “I reckon you know what they do to white squaws.”

  “I know this much,” Warrenrode said. “They don’t kill them. Not right away. She’s still alive, somewhere back in the mountains in that old bastard’s camp. I will not think about what they’re doing to her.” He stirred in his wheelchair; he said, “I’m a gambler. I hate your guts, Buchanan, but you look to me like a good risk, and I know you’re a redskin-loving friend of the old son of a bitch. And you, redhead, I make it you were the gent up in the rocks with the rifle.”

  “Could be,” Reo said.

  “Good shooting. Damn good.”

  Reo said, “Get at it, then.”

  “I will. If a man’s sick, he calls a doctor. I’m calling on you two. I want my daughter back alive.”

  Buchanan said, “I’m a little fuzzy this morning. I thought I heard you say you want us to go after your daughter.”

  “How about it, Buchanan?”

  “I’d sooner herd sheep,” Buchanan said. “I’ve trapped beavers and a few rabbits in my time, but I leave Indian-trapping to the missionary priests.”

  “You don’t get me,” Warrenrode said. “It’s gone beyond revenge. I can’t send an armed force after those Indians. It would just get Marinda killed. There’ll be time afterwards for me to devote the rest of my life to getting my hands on the red bastard and tearing him apart one bullet at a time. Right now that’s beside the point.”

  Reo said, “Then, what is the point?”

  “Get her back,” Warrenrode said.

  Buchanan said, “Two white men riding into Sentos’ stronghold up in those mountains would have about as much effect as a handful of snow on a forest fire.”

  “Two ordinary men,” Warrenrode said. “But you just might be able to do it. Sentos’ friendship for you may be the one thing that can save my daughter. He owes you his life, for yesterday. Use that against him. Persuade him. Hell, I don’t care what you decide to do. Do it—ask me how later.”

  Buchanan sipped his drink, walked to one of the high windows, and peered out through the thick wall at the brilliant sky. His face was narrowed down into a scowl.

  Mike Warrenrode leaned forward, elbows on the arms of his wheelchair. “I’m sure you’ll decide to do it.”

  “Don’t be sure,” Buchanan said. “The odds are bad.”

  Warrenrode said, “If I seem abrupt and rude, it’s because I am. But you ought to know this. If you two want to stay alive in this country, you’re going to have to do it for me.”

  Buchanan wheeled slowly on his heels and shook his head. “Not that way, old man. Nobody crowds me into anything.”

  “I will if I have to. I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got no choice. You ride for me or you die.”

  Johnny Reo said, “I always tend to suspect a man who starts out by saying, ‘I’ll be honest with you.’”

  Buchanan said, “Anything can happen up in those mountains. There are a lot of Apaches up there. My friendship with Sentos won’t save our hides if other Indians spot us first.”

  Johnny Reo said dryly, “You want to try a crystal ball or tea leaves?”

  Buchanan said, “Let’s use cards. Let’s put them face up on the table. The chances of getting the girl out of there are no better than a hundred to one.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Warrenrode said. “It’s a chance I’ve got to take. If it’s a long shot and if it’s the only shot you’ve got, you shoot it. Buchanan, you cut those Indians loose. When you did that, you made yourself responsible for what they did afterwards. But if you don’t want to look at it that way, there are two other things you’ve got to think about. One is that if I don’t get your word on this, you’ll never leave this house alive. And the other is that I’m willing to pay for the risks you take. Two thousand dollars to each of you if you get my daughter back safely.”

  “I never figured to be the richest man in the graveyard,” Reo said. He finished his drink, walked over to the sideboard to refill it, and abruptly wheeled. “Five thousand.”

  “What?”

  “I want five thousand dollars from you, old man, or it’s no go.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “And you’re out on a limb,” Reo replied.

  Warrenrode’s attention moved to Buchanan. “How about it?”

  “I’ll think it over.”

  “You already have.”

  Buchanan shrugged. “You kind of sneaked that one up on me, about responsibility for the kidnapping. I reckon part of it’s my own fault and I don’t see any way to get around that.”

  Reo said coolly, “Half now. Twenty-five hundred in gold.”

  Warrenrode said, “I don’t think so.”

  “I do,” Re
o replied. He grinned at Buchanan. “What you don’t ask for, amigo, you don’t get.”

  Warrenrode said, “Where are you going to spend it? In an Indian camp?”

  Reo countered, “How do we know you’ll pay off if we bring the girl back?”

  “All right,” Warrenrode sighed. “Suit yourself. But woe betide you if you try running out with the money. My crew will track you to China if they have to. Whoever eats my bread is obliged to sing my songs, mister, and don’t you forget that for a second.”

  Reo downed his second drink and shook his head. “Money or no, we’re just liable to spend the rest of our lives all shot to pieces.”

  Buchanan nodded. At the window he was looking out across the desert; and he was thinking, The only shade a man can find out there is his own shadow.

  Seven

  Steve Quick was lounging beside the house when Buchanan and Reo came out. Quick looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world—but he was standing right by the open parlor window. He pushed away from the wall, walked out into the yard, and intercepted Buchanan and Reo. Reo was carrying a rawhide poke, heavy enough to be full of gold.

  Quick sized them both up and said, “If you gents want a decent funeral, you’d better leave a few double eagles for us to hand over to the undertaker.”

  Reo said, “Who are you, mister?”

  “Name of Steve Quick. Western Division ramrod here, so watch your language.”

  “We’re impressed,” Reo said. “You want anything?”

  “No,” Quick said. “Just wanted a close look to see what a couple of corpses look like when they’re walking around.”

  Reo glanced at Buchanan. “I think this gentleman’s beggin’ for some tutoring.”

  “He’ll keep,” Buchanan drawled. “Let’s get going.” But before Buchanan turned away, Steve Quick felt the hard force of the big Texan’s eyes.

  Quick watched the two men walk toward the stable. A cowboy, who had been summoned to the ranch house, trotted out of the house and ran past Buchanan into the stable. Reo and Buchanan stood by the stable door, Reo turning up a cigarette and cupping his hands to light it; the two of them looked hard-bitten and tough in the glare of sunlight. The house door swung open, and Mike Warrenrode rolled his wheelchair into the opening; he sat there and watched while the cowboy brought two big fresh horses out of the stable, rigged with Buchanan’s saddle and Reo’s saddle. Race Koenig approached the stable and said something that made Reo’s face flash around. Reo said something, gesturing angrily. Buchanan murmured a few words. Koenig stepped back, smiling without mirth, and the two mounted up. Buchanan settled his seat and accepted the belted six-gun and rifle that Race Koenig handed up to him. Koenig gave Reo his guns, and when Reo buckled on his revolver, his red-topped face came around and aimed speculatively at Mike Warrenrode.

  Quick tipped his shoulder back against the wall and watched while Buchanan checked his weapons and put them away; while Reo tugged his hat down and lifted his reins to go; while a new shape—Antonia’s—came hip-swinging into sight and swayed toward Buchanan. Quick stiffened in anger but kept his place and only simmered while Antonia spoke to Buchanan. Buchanan’s face was hidden by his hat brim as he looked down from the saddle and Quick could not make out the nature of the big Texan’s reply, but whatever it was, it evidently rebuffed Antonia, who stepped back archly while Buchanan gigged his horse out of the yard. Reo spurred along.

  Quick stood silent and motionless, his eyes narrowed down, until the two riders dissolved into the shimmering hills, their passage marked by a plume of dust.

  Antonia came toward the house, and Quick moved out to intercept her. “Walk off a little piece here with me,” he said.

  She went with him, around past the end of the house. “What are you smiling about?” she asked.

  “Am I smiling?” He touched her arm. “That’s when you’ve got to watch me closest.”

  “My, what startling news that is,” she said, and gave him a mock smile.

  He said, “That was a waste of time, making eyes at the one that whipped Scarlett.”

  “I didn’t think it was. I think I could learn to like him.”

  Quick said, “You won’t have time. I aim to kill him.”

  Her eyes widened. “You really are jealous, aren’t you?”

  He began to deny it, then thought better of it; he only smiled at her. She said, “I knew one day I’d find out if you really still loved me.”

  “Sure I do,” he said.

  “I’m glad, Steve. Because I’m getting scared. Sometimes I can’t stand being alone at night.”

  “Scared of what? Everything’s going to be just fine and dandy. You just do what I tell you to do when the time comes.” He pulled her toward him and dropped his mouth on hers in a hard, cruel kiss. She melted against him. He was conscious mainly of the dust grit on his skin and the unpleasantness of the heat. After a moment he drew away and said, “I’ve got some business to take care of. You stick close to the house and be nice to the old man.”

  “The old son of a bitch,” she replied. “You think I’m going to forget how he cut me out of his will?”

  “You might as well. Because I’ve got the will now, and if you play your cards right, nobody will ever see it but you and me. You’re set to inherit this whole shebang, querida.”

  “Unless those two get Marinda back.”

  Quick said, “I kind of get a feeling they won’t.” With an enigmatic smile he left her and walked toward the stable.

  After a ten-minute prowl around the ranch buildings Quick finally turned up Ben Scarlett. The giant was sitting on the edge of a cot in the bunkhouse, nursing his hurts. Quick said conversationally, “This hot sun makes a feller impatient, don’t it, Ben?”

  Scarlett growled something inarticulate and pressed a damp towel to his face. Quick sat down gently on the bunk across the aisle and tipped back his hat. He rolled a cigarette and offered it to Scarlett. The big man’s bruised face shifted toward the cigarette, then toward Quick’s face. Scarlett accepted the cigarette and watched him with suspicion.

  Quick twisted the points of his scraggly mustache. He said in a very casual way, “You know, if I were you, I wouldn’t take kindly to being made a fool of.”

  “Ain’t nobody made a fool of Ben Scarlett. He hit me when I wasn’t lookin’. Next time I’ll tear his arms off and use them to beat his head in.”

  “I reckon the Indians will take care of that,” Quick said. “You don’t need to worry none about Buchanan anymore. But that ain’t what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “You ever stop to think why Buchanan made a point of picking those fights with you?” Quick knew full well that Scarlett had picked the fights, but he also knew the way Scarlett’s slow mind worked.

  It didn’t take Scarlett long to come around. Scarlett said, “No. Why?”

  “You never saw Buchanan before, did you?”

  “Never did.”

  “Then he couldn’t have had any grudge against you.”

  “Naw.”

  “Then somebody must have put him up to it, right?”

  “I dunno,” Scarlett said; his slow brain was grappling with it all. “I mean, Trask told me to—”

  “Forget Trask. Trask’s a friend of yours. He wouldn’t want anybody to beat up on you. No, it’s clear as crystal, Ben. Somebody paid Buchanan to trick you with that dirty fighting of his. Somebody hired him to work you over—he’s a professional, no question of it.”

  “But who?”

  “Somebody with a grudge against you, Ben.”

  “Could be anybody,” Scarlett allowed. “I’ve beat up on half the folks in the county one time or another.”

  Steve Quick said in a soft, suggestive tone, “You remember when you used to be segundo on this ranch, Ben?”

  “Hell, yes. I worked damn hard for that job, too. Then the old bastard—”

  “Mike Warrenrode. He caught you busting a wild bronc with a beer bottle inste
ad of gentling it the soft way. He took your job away and made you a common cowhand again. I don’t think that was fair, do you?”

  “Goddamn right I don’t,” said Scarlett.

  Quick murmured, “You’ve got a lot of good friends on this crew, Ben. Men who respect you. That’s why Warrenrode never fired you. He was afraid the rest of the crew would quit.”

  “Is that so?” Scarlett said, pleased.

  It was not so, not for a minute, but as far as Steve Quick was concerned, the only time it was worthwhile telling the truth was when a lie wouldn’t do as much good. He knew that Ben Scarlett, a man of methodical brutality, had nursed a grudge against Mike Warrenrode ever since Warrenrode had busted him back to the ranks. The only reason Scarlett hadn’t beaten Warrenrode to a pulp was that Warrenrode was a cripple, and even Scarlett’s sense of values recognized that beating up on cripples was not a useful thing to do. It had been years since Warrenrode had demoted Scarlett, but Scarlett hadn’t forgotten, and neither had Steve Quick. Quick was a man who stored little facts like that in his head until they became weapons in his arsenal.

  “No,” Quick purred, “Warrenrode never fired you because he couldn’t afford to. But he’s always been afraid of you, always wanted to get rid of you. That’s why he hired Buchanan—to beat you to death or scare you out of the country. But they didn’t figure on you being as strong as you are. Buchanan just wasn’t man enough to tear you apart, was he? You’re still rarin’ to go.”

  “You bet your boots I am,” Scarlett said. “Next time I lay my hands on that fancy Texan, I’ll—”

  “I told you, Ben,” Quick said patiently, “he’s on his way into Apache country, and the chances are he’ll never come back.”

  “But if them Injuns leave anything of him for me, I aim to—”

  “Forget Buchanan,” Quick said. “He was only a tool anyway. Mike Warrenrode’s tool. He’s the one you got to be thinking about. It was Warrenrode set it all up.”

  “Yeah,” Scarlett said slowly, “that’s so, ain’t it?”

  “Sure it is.”

  “I got to look out he don’t do it again,” Ben Scarlett said. A gleam came into his eyes. “Unless I look out, he’ll hire somebody else. Maybe have me knifed or bullet-shot next time.”