Buchanan 17

by Jonas Ward

  “Goddamn right,” Quick agreed. “You’ve got to be on your toes, Ben.”

  Scarlett slammed his enormous fist into the slab of his left palm. “Steve, I’m in a tough place. I can’t go beat up Mike Warrenrode. He’s a cripple. The hands would string me up.”

  “Warrenrode knows that. That’s why he’s so bold about having you picked on. He wants to drive you out of the country, Ben, but he doesn’t want anybody to know it’s him that’s behind it. You aim to let him get away with it?”

  Scarlett shook his head in agony. “I don’t rightly see how I can stop it.”

  In a very quiet way, Quick said, “It only takes one bullet, Ben.”

  Scarlett’s eyes came up. They looked like two holes burned in a blanket. Quick put his hands on his knees, preparatory to rising; he said, “It’s you or him, Ben. Think about that.”

  “You want me to shoot Mike Warrenrode?” Scarlett said, confused.

  “I don’t want anything, Ben. I just work here. I ain’t got no axe to grind. But I’m a friend of yours, you know that, and I just reckoned you ought to know what Mike Warrenrode was doing against you, behind your back.”

  Quick got to his feet, acting like a very unconcerned man, and made his way without hurry to the door. Scarlett’s voice reached him there and stopped him.

  “Steve?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m much obliged to you for tellin’ me.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ between friends, Ben.”

  “Steve?”

  “What?”

  “I aim to get back at him for sneakin’ around at me that way. Ain’t no man alive can get away with makin’ a fool out of Ben Scarlett. Not and live to tell about it. So I’m gonna—”

  “I don’t want to hear about it, Ben,” Quick said gently. “What I don’t know, I can’t repeat afterwards. Know what I mean?”

  A slow grin spread across Scarlett’s black-and-blue face. “Yeah, sure, Steve. Anybody asks you, you don’t know nothin’ at all.”

  “That’s right, Ben.”

  “Steve?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks, Steve. You’re about the only real friend I got.”

  “You’ve got plenty of friends, Ben. The whole crew’s on your side.” Quick smiled a friendly smile and went outside. As soon as he hit the sunlight, the smile fell away from his face. The door banged behind him. He went plowing through the yard in a dry thickness of heat and dust.

  Race Koenig was just coming out of the barn. “I’ve been looking for you. Better get your crew back in those brakes up west of Council Tanks and start combing out cows. We’ve got work to do around here.”

  “Later,” Quick said. “I got business to tend to.”

  “Whose business?”

  “Pitchfork Ranch business,” Quick snapped. “Send some other hired hand out to the brakes.”

  Beneath his white bandage, Koenig’s weather-beaten face reddened. He took off his glasses and squinted. “Steve, I’ve had just about enough from you. When you get an order, you jump to it. I’m the straw boss around here.”

  Quick started to retort, then closed his mouth. There was no point in showing his hand too early; soon enough Koenig would find out what side his future was buttered on. So Quick just nodded and said, “All right, all right. Don’t get yourself all lathered up.”

  Without waiting further conversation, Quick tramped into the stable barn. With an expression of decision, he reached down a coiled rope and stalked back through the aisle into the horse corral.

  A dozen animals milled restively around. Quick snaked out a loop and walked forward. His dun shifted around in the midst of the knot of horses. Cursing, Quick slapped one of them on the flank with the loop end of his rope. The horses started to wheel spiritedly around the corral, throwing up stifling clouds of dust and straw and raising the smell of manure. It made Quick sneeze. He dodged back and forth, pursuing the dun into a corner. He laid his loop back, ready to throw, and then the dun dodged past him. Quick mouthed a progression of oaths, becoming furious. He saw Koenig standing outside the corral, watching amusedly, and he had an impulse to drag out his gun and shoot Koenig in his tracks, but he didn’t; things were working out too smoothly just now, and he didn’t want to take any chances. Personal grudges could wait. Right now there was business to take care of. Only it had to be done quickly, and the damned horse wasn’t cooperating. He cursed and plunged forward, wheeling the lasso slowly overhead, waiting for a clear chance at the dun.

  Finally, half choked by dust, he got his loop over the dun’s head, led it into the stable and tied it up. When he couldn’t find his own bridle, he swore, took down another bridle, and found that it was not adjusted to the size of the dun’s head. He ripped a fingernail adjusting the buckles.

  The dun tried to chop his finger off when he pried the bit between its teeth. Spooky from Quick’s mood, the horse shook off the saddle blanket. Quick pinched his lips together, put the blanket back on, heaved up his saddle, and planted his boot against the dun’s belly to haul up the cinch.

  He led the dun out into the yard, gathered the reins and mounted up.

  The horse exploded. It swapped ends, snapping Quick’s neck cruelly, and reared up, trying to pitch him off. Quick locked his grip on the horn, sank spurs deep into the dun’s ribs, lashed it with his hat, and grimly cursed the beast.

  The horse lined out in an angry gallop. At least, he thought, it was headed in the right direction—the road to Signal town.

  He tied up outside the cantina, leaving the horse sweat-lathered and heaving. The noonday heat slammed down viciously on the weathered town.

  Nobody was inside except the bartender. Quick slapped a coin down on the bar. “Seen Trask?”

  “I don’t think so, señor.”

  “This half eagle’s yours if you find him for me. Tell him I’m waiting here for him. And make it quick. I’ll mind the store.”

  “Si,” the barkeep said. He snatched up the coin, pocketed it, and went out.

  Quick went around behind the bar and helped himself to a glass of forty-rod whiskey.

  The flush in his cheeks was not altogether from the heat. Excitement stirred him; he could not stand still. He drifted aimlessly around the empty saloon, kicking chairs, sipping from his drink, pulling out his pocket timepiece and opening the snap lid and looking at it and closing it and putting it away. If anyone had asked him the time, he would not have been able to answer without looking at his watch again.

  Finally Trask came in, stopped, and watched Quick. Trask’s attention was like the blade of a knife, motionless but ready to cut. The bartender came in and went around the bar. Trask walked back to the end of the room and waited for Quick to come over, and said, “Want something?”

  “You did a bad job on Buchanan last night.”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Ben Scarlett.”

  “Somebody,” Trask said, “somebody’s going to shut that big stupid mouth for good.”

  “Don’t fret yourself about him,” Quick said. “I came to town to offer you another chance at Buchanan and his partner.”

  “Reo?”

  “You know him?”

  “Heard about him. He’d set fire to his own mother if he could get a good price for the ashes.”

  “That’s interesting to know,” said Quick, and he filed it away in the recesses of his mind. “Look, you want another crack at Buchanan?”

  “He killed Lacy and he killed Cesar Diaz, or anyway Reo did. Sure I want another crack at him. Son of a bitch cost me a good job at gun wages. Where do I find him?”

  “The two of them headed southwest from Pitchfork.”

  “Southwest? Toward Indian country?”

  “They’re headed for Sentos’ camp.”

  “I’ll be,” said Trask.

  “Uh-huh,” Quick said. “You’ll need a couple gunnies to go along with you. Buchanan and Reo’s too much for you to take on by yourself.”

  Trask said
dryly, “I gather you ain’t cuttin’ yourself in.”

  “I’ve got some other fish to fry. But there’s two hundred dollars in it for you. Split it any way you like with the boys you hire.”

  “What’s your piece of this?” Trask said.

  “Strictly business. I’ve got my reasons for not wanting Buchanan to get into those mountains alive. If you leave here within an hour or so and cut straight south across country, you ought to intercept his tracks before nightfall. You can follow them on into his night camp and bushwhack the pair of them.”

  “What makes you think I operate that way?” Trask said, getting his back up.

  Quick grinned. “Look, I don’t care how you do it and there ain’t going to be any witnesses around anyway, way out there in the foothills.”

  “Let’s see the cash.”

  Quick brought a poke out of his pocket and counted out five double eagles. “Half now, half when you’ve finished the job.”

  “Fair enough,” said Trask as he pocketed the big coins.

  “Cover your tracks,” Quick advised. “Nobody’ll ever know but what Buchanan and Reo got killed by Indians.”

  “Good idea.”

  “One other thing,” Quick said. “Don’t be in any all-fired hurry to clear out of the country after you finish the job. I may have some other chores for you. There’s going to be some changes made out at Pitchfork, and there’ll be a spot for you on the payroll again.”

  “Not so long as Mike Warrenrode’s running the place, I reckon.”

  “Mike’s getting old,” Quick said meaningfully. Trask’s glance came up and locked on his. Both men began to smile coolly.

  Eight

  Johnny Reo was humming. Finally he opened his mouth to speak. He said, “Mary Fitzsimmons from Boston, Mass., went wading in water up to her ankles.”

  Buchanan said, “That doesn’t rhyme.”

  “Wait till the tide comes in,” said Reo, and guffawed.

  It was a desert of heroic proportions. The sun threw middle-long afternoon shadows across the baking earth. The horses carried them steadily deeper into the wilderness of rock and cactus. The plain began to wrinkle, then to heave, until their chosen route brought them down into a narrow valley bisected by the winding, tree-lined banks of a dry riverbed. Two hundred yards beyond they had to ford a shallow stream, and Johnny Reo remarked, “Rivers are as changeable as women. This creek’s changed its course since those trees took root back there.”

  “So have we,” observed Buchanan.

  Reo laughed. “You know, I like the way you size up.” His brash glance traveled forward toward the hills, and he said, “Gonna be a lot of Indians up there. A lot of Indians. We may end up playing Russian roulette with every chamber loaded.”

  “Every chamber but one.”

  “You mean old Sentos? I don’t put as much trust in that old liar as you do. He’s got all the character of a billy goat. Reminds me of myself, I reckon. No, Buchanan, I’d say our hill’s going to get a lot higher to climb come tomorrow.”

  “You’re a fanciful man, Johnny.”

  “Me? Naw.”

  “Then, why’d you deal yourself in?”

  “For the money,” Reo answered promptly. “You gotta be hard, amigo. Old Warrenrode wouldn’t have got anyplace at all appealing to my conscience the way he did to yours. What’s the point killing yourself for a man who doesn’t even know your name?”

  “I know my name,” Buchanan replied. The slopes lifted them by slow degrees. The sun quartered in at them from the right. Roundabout lay clusters of yucca and juniper; beyond stood the haze-blue risings of the saw-edged mountains, deep and thick in heavy green pine timber. But that was still many hours across the desert foothills. The middle-down sun burned their faces and hands. A jackrabbit bounded across a hillside like a kangaroo, and Reo said, “I’d feel a whole lot better about this if I knew what that girl looks like. Suppose she’s three hundred pounds of ugly?”

  “Then, she’s lucky,” Buchanan said. “If she’s ugly, those young bucks won’t gang up on her so fast.”

  “Unless she wants them to,” Reo said with a sly grin. “Been my experience that a woman with her skirt up can generally run faster than a man with his pants down.” He pointed ahead toward the mountains. “You been givin’ any thought to how we’ll handle it once we get up there?”

  “Some.”

  “You keeping it a secret for a rainy day?”

  Buchanan shrugged. “I haven’t worked it out yet. How would you handle it?”

  “Me? I’d go back to bed and pull the blankets up over my head.”

  “Then, what are you doing here?”

  “I always was a sucker for money,” Reo said. “Bound to be my downfall someday.” He was laughing low in his throat. “Only one thing I regret. I should’ve held up the old man for twice as much. He’d have paid it.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” Buchanan asked shrewdly. “I reckon you’ve got more conscience than you admit to if you dig down inside deep enough.”

  “No,” Johnny Reo said, quite grave. “Don’t ever make that mistake about me, Buchanan. I never do favors. If you want true love and loyalty, there’s nothing like a small dog. Don’t ever start countin’ on me for things money won’t buy.”

  Buchanan glanced at him. “Suppose I don’t believe you?”

  “You could get yourself into a passel of grief that way.” Reo built a cigarette and squinted through the smoke; he said, “I learned a long time ago how the world works. Mimbrenos wiped out my folks when I was twelve, and then the puking Indians took me back to their camp and raised me. Soon as I was big enough, I took the first chance I got to run out on them. I took out across the desert on foot with a hide full of water, hiked three days into Mesilla. I was sixteen. The Mexicans in Mesilla took one look at me—I was so dirty then you couldn’t even tell I had red hair—and they were about ready to scalp me for the bounty. And the whites were just as friendly. I had to run for it. I’d been three days in the desert, the last day without water, and I hadn’t eaten in two days. I ran out of town down to the Rio Grande and dived in, figuring to get across. Happens the water cleaned up my hair enough, and when the Mexes caught up with me, they saw they couldn’t peddle my scalp for the bounty. That’s the only reason they didn’t gut me right there on the river bank.”

  Reo’s voice was flat, emotionless. He droned on: “It taught me one thing—you can’t trust nobody. And it taught me another thing. How to hate. I hated Apaches and I hated Mexicans. After those Mexes let me go, I stole some food from a farmer and cut south toward El Paso. But nobody down there wanted a stringy Injun-raised kid either. I’d forgot how to talk English, pret’ near. So I stole me a gun and a case of cartridges from a store down there and went across the Border. Kept practicin’ and stealing more ammunition until I was as good as I figured I was going to get. Then I started huntin’ Indians. They were paying fifty dollars in gold for an Apache scalp in Chihuahua. I made a pretty good pile of money. So did a lot of other gents. There wasn’t no way for the Mex Government to tell the difference between the hair of an Apache and the hair of a peaceable farm Indian or even a Mex peon, for that matter. When the boys run out of Apaches to scalp, they started in on the farm towns. I guess I didn’t have it in me to do that. Not then, anyhow—I still wasn’t hard enough. But I learned. Knock a man down often enough, and he learns. Yes, by God.”

  Reo paused and pinched out the butt of his cigarette. His eyes had gone bleak; his long face had settled into grave lines. But then, abruptly, the grin flashed across his face, and he said, “Bet you’re sorry for me, now. Don’t be. Every word I just told you is a lie.”

  “I don’t think so,” Buchanan said.

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for. Why should I tell the truth to you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  Reo laughed. “All right, have it your way. But I’ll warn you of this much. When the going gets too tough, I cut and run. Don’t count on m
e if we get in a bad pinch.”

  “Well, then,” Buchanan said, “you might as well turn back right now.”

  “No. I’ll bluff it out with you until I see how the land lies. Maybe you can work a deal with Sentos. Him owin’ you his life and all. Maybe I can earn my five thousand without workin’ for it at all. Easier that way than having Warrenrode’s whole crew chasing after me.”

  Buchanan reined in suddenly; it forced Reo to yank his horse to a halt. Buchanan said, “In that case I think I want to be sure where you stand, Johnny. I won’t go in there with you behind me unless I’ve got your word to hold up your end.”

  “That’s asking a hell of a lot.”

  “It’s that,” Buchanan said, “or we split up right here. Which leaves you out here by yourself right between the Apaches and the Pitchfork crew. Make up your mind.”

  Reo’s bony shoulders lifted two inches and dropped. “All right. You got my word. A figure of speech, of course—my word’s worthless.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” said Buchanan. He had watched Johnny Reo make a big point out of how untrustworthy he was; Reo had made such an act of it that Buchanan wasn’t inclined to believe a word of it. He liked Reo; he believed that Reo owned a bigger brand of honor than he talked.

  Just the same, he intended to keep one eye on Reo at all times.

  Dusk, then dark. Making no effort to conceal themselves, Buchanan and Reo beat carelessly through the night until, at the base of the higher foothills, Buchanan called a halt. “No moon tonight. Bad footing up there. We’ll wait for daylight to see where we’re going.”

  A breeze ruffled up the dying warmth of the powdered earth. Dust tickled Buchanan’s nostrils. They made camp below the hill, careful to post themselves in open country surrounded by nothing more threatening than occasional clumps of scrub oak and piñon. Buchanan scooped depressions in the earth for hip and shoulder and lay down to sleep after Reo said, “I’ll take first watch.”