by Jonas Ward
Reo tried to stare him down; his face was truculent and almost as red as his hair. Buchanan held his gaze, level and even. And in time Reo shook his head, looked away, and said, “Dammit. All right.” And swung up into the brush without any further remarks.
On his way into the camp, Buchanan encountered old Sentos, who peered out from under his stovepipe hat with an expression that suggested he was only an old man with bad kidneys and he wished the world would let him alone. Grim as a pallbearer, Sentos pointed his finger in the general direction of Buchanan’s belly button, which would have been the level of an average man’s chest.
“My heart is sad,” Sentos said. “You are my good friend, but the people of the village wish that I do not ask you to stay any longer here.”
“Sure,” Buchanan said. “That’s all right. I just sent my partner up to get our horses. We’re fixing to pull out.”
“It is wise,” Sentos said without pleasure. “I do not wish that you leave here, not for myself.”
“I understand, amigo.”
Sentos’ lip curled slightly. “I am an old man and I should not be war chief here. But the best warriors are no longer with us. They squat fat and slow on the white man’s reservation. And I am here with what is left. I am chief here only because among crows even a hawk is an eagle.”
“I wish you luck,” Buchanan told him. Sentos shuffled past, toward the gathering crowd at the ceremonial fire. Long blue lances of twilight shot across the sky, spreading darker waves across the mountains.
A tall shape weaved through the shadows, coming toward Buchanan. It was Matesa, the out-size warrior who had wanted to kill him back along the trail. Matesa was a little drunk; he smelled of tiswin and horse sweat. He stood swaying before Buchanan and slapped his own chest. “To fight Matesa is to die.” The big Indian had a sharp, irritating laugh, like a small dog’s yap.
“Well,” Buchanan said, “I’m a peaceable man. I’ve got no fight with you.”
“We will fight,” Matesa said. He focused his eyes. “Soon,” he added, and lurched away toward the ceremonial crowd. A smaller Indian came along, glanced at Buchanan, and rushed after Matesa, following the big warrior, carping like a magpie. Matesa stopped, brought the smaller Indian into focus, roared a single word, and clouted the smaller Indian with one blow that laid him out flat. Matesa looked back at Buchanan, grinned loosely, and went on his way. Down by the fire the shaman was exhorting the spirits, and the crowd was silent. Each of the medicine man’s remarks was received as attentively as a ransom note. That was good; as long as the whole tribe’s undivided attention was on the proceedings at the fire, Buchanan would be able to prowl the camp unmolested.
Or so he thought. When he reached the girl’s wickiup, he found three Indians guarding the door—two bucks and a fat woman.
Buchanan’s mouth tightened. He walked right up to the wickiup. The two warriors stiffened and faced him foursquare. The fat woman closed one eye and peered at Buchanan out of the other one.
Buchanan spoke in Apache: “The shaman Lazen wishes that you come to him.”
The woman frowned, looked at her two brown companions, and returned her one-eyed stare to Buchanan, who lounged casually and smiled at her.
Finally she spoke sharply to the two braves and waddled away.
Buchanan took out his tobacco and spun up a cigarette. He saw the woman’s broad back disappear into the crowd. He turned to the two braves and held out the cigarette, offering it to them. Not speaking, both men shook their heads gravely. Buchanan grinned, put the cigarette in his mouth, and shifted his stance to get his fist into the pocket of his Levi’s to find a match.
And then, in a blur of motion, he whipped up his great hands and wrapped them around the two Indians’ thick necks. He brought their skulls together with a sickening crash. He let them drop, senseless, to the ground.
Without even troubling to look over his shoulder he ducked swiftly into the wickiup.
She cringed back against the wall. They had dressed her in a deerskin dress; her hair was burred; she was black and blue with bruises, the marks of beatings at the hands of the squaws. But she was beautiful; no battering could change that.
Buchanan stared at her until she blushed. She said in a hoarse voice, “How can you bear to look at me?”
“You look fine,” he said gently. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.” He took a pace forward and extended his hand.
She flattened herself against the wall, drawing her knees up. Buchanan stopped where he was and crouched over to clear the low ceiling; he said softly, “They’ve got you pretty scared, haven’t they? Well, that’s all right, then. You’ll be all right. There’s no danger now.”
Her lips trembled, but she spoke with spunk. “You’re a bad liar.”
He smiled. “You’re a hard girl to lie to. My name’s Buchanan. Your daddy sent me to get you.”
Showing her confusion, she said, “But—”
“No time to talk,” he said. “We’ve got to move. Can you walk?”
She only stared at him, round-eyed. She said, “Do you really think we can get away?”
“I think we have to try,” he murmured.
She was a strong girl; she got her feet under her and said in a lower, calmer voice, “I don’t think I’m afraid of you anymore. I’ll come.”
He reached out and took her hand; he smiled at her with as much confidence as he could scare up and he turned to the door, dropping his free hand to the grip of his six-gun.
Inching the blanket aside, he had a quick look. The two guards were still dead to the world. Down by the fire, half hidden by the jut of Sentos’ hut in front of Buchanan, the Apaches squatted around the circle, intent on the shaman’s incantations. Colored smoke wafted into the darkening sky. The drums rolled with heady monotony; the singers chanted. A disturbance was starting up around the shape of a fat woman. She was just finding out that the shaman hadn’t sent for her after all; she knew, by now, that Buchanan had lied to her to draw her away from the wickiup.
“We’ve only got a few seconds,” he said. “We’ll have to run for it.”
“I’ll keep up,” Marinda said.
“On the run, then.” He dodged outside, lifting his gun; he waited for her, took her hand again, and ducked around behind the wickiup. No one shouted.
“So far, so good. Keep down. We’ll try and keep the wickiup between us and them. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Go!” He gave her a boost, fell into step, and kept stride with her, slowing his pace to match hers. They plunged into the brush and worked their way uphill. Branches scratched the girl’s face, and she tore them aside impatiently, never complaining. Her bare, pale feet flitted across the stony ground.
Buchanan risked a quick look over his shoulder. He could see the fat woman jogging toward the wickiup. Just then she lifted her head—and saw him. She stopped, filled her chest, and let out a roar.
“Fat’s in the fire,” Buchanan grunted. “Come on.” He took tight hold on Marinda’s arm and half lifted her forward, increasing the pace; they scrambled up the steep pitch, threaded a patch of rocks, and plunged over the top of the rise.
A single gunshot boomed somewhere back in camp; and then they were past the crest, with the ridge between them and the Indians. The girl cried out, lurched, and would have fallen but for Buchanan’s tight grip on her arm.
“You hit?”
“No. I must have cut my foot.”
Buchanan bent down, got an arm behind her knees and the other around her shoulders, and lifted her bodily. Cradling her in his arms, he ran down the slope toward the Apache horse herd. She didn’t seem to weigh any more than a feather.
He could see Johnny Reo emerging from a clump of junipers by the horses; Reo waved his hat. The light was getting rapidly worse. Reo’s red hair seemed colorless; the earth had changed from brown-yellow to gray.
The horses were stirring nervously. Buchanan reached the edge of the herd and ran right into the midst
of the milling horses; the animals began to scatter, eyes rolling. He slammed right on through. When he was close to Reo, Reo said in a warning voice, “Those two horse guards ain’t got far yet. They’re battin’ around someplace.”
Buchanan lifted the girl bodily and set her down astride one of the three saddled horses Reo was holding. Buchanan swung, all part of the same motion, and whipped the reins out of Reo’s hand; he handed them up to the girl, who was shaking her head as if to clear it, and said tautly, “Hang on, Marinda. We’re just about out of the woods.”
“Like hell,” Reo said.
Buchanan gathered the reins in smooth synchronization with his quick rise to the saddle. It was an Apache saddle, hardly more than stirruped surcingle and blanket. Reo ran past him and leaped onto the back of his horse—and two squat silhouettes appeared on the western hilltop.
“Horse guards,” Reo grunted. His gun whipped up and laid hard echoes across the dusk. The two Indians wheeled to cover. Buchanan reined savagely around and lifted his gun; he fired in the air and whooped, dashing to and fro among the skittish horses. The animals broke and pitched away into the night, scattering in all directions, trailing the dangling ends of the rope hobbles that Reo had cut loose.
Two or three guns opened up, talking in harsh signals from the ridge tops toward Sentos’ camp. Buchanan calmed his horse down and lifted his gun. His sights settled on a shifting figure on the ridge, and then he recognized the stovepipe hat. He lowered the gun without firing. He said, “Due north—run for it. Come on.”
With the girl between them, they spurred out of the hollow, ramming at a dead run up into the piñons. The ridge behind them blossomed with gunfire. Marinda’s hair, silver in the starlight, flowed lawlessly behind her. Laid low across the withers, they drummed onto the ridge, dropped onto the farther slope, and thundered north.
Buchanan urged his horse down the side of the ridge. Flashing into the pines, he led Reo and Marinda recklessly through the timber, humped across a sharp rise of earth, and smashed through brushy undergrowth. Here he held up his arm and paused to breathe the animals. Reo’s horse snorted and sneezed.
Buchanan said, “We turn east here.”
“East? That’s the long way.”
“Sure. But it’ll take them longer to pick up our trail. We’ve got to keep zigzagging.”
Marinda said, “I have to say something.” Reo turned and stared at her. The girl said, “I want to thank both of you. Even if we don’t make it. I have to say it now.”
“Don’t worry,” Buchanan told her. “We’re just about home.”
They put their horses forward, east, straight away from their previous course; Buchanan held the pace to a steady canter that conserved the horses’ wind. Ahead stood the jagged tilts of the broken mountains, tier below tier to the desert flats many miles away. They skirted a thicket; beyond it the grade swung upward in a stiff pitch that put the horses to hard-breathing labor until they achieved the crest and made a long slant downward through open growth. Behind and above them there was the thinned report of a rifle shot—a rallying signal. The echo rolled across the mountains. They ran through a broken district of deep-slashed coulees and cutbanks and gnarled rocks. In the darkness the big bones of Buchanan’s face seemed to press more firmly against his skin. Just about home—that was what he had said. But it wasn’t true. It was a long way home.
Thirteen
Steve Quick sat in the ranch house parlor, dragging suicidally on a cigarette, pulling from the mouth of a bottle of whiskey, and staring sightlessly across the room.
Antonia came in through the front hall. Her big breasts thrust defiantly against her blouse. “Here you are.”
“Thinking,” he said.
“About what?”
“The old man, in there.”
“The old man,” Antonia said. “Is he still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
It made him turn his sour glance on her. He groaned. “I’m all shot to shingles, you know that?”
“You’ve lost your guts,” she said contemptuously.
The front door banged open. Race Koenig came in, deposited his tally book on the desk, and went back toward the front door. He gave both of them a look through his eyeglasses and said, “Better turn in, Steve. Lot of work tomorrow.”
“I’ll be along.”
Koenig nodded. “’Night, ’Tonia.”
When the door closed behind him, Antonia said, “You want to look out for him. He’s twice as tough as he looks.”
“You ought to know,” Quick said.
“Stop that. He’s never laid a finger on me.”
“Sure.”
She sighed with mock patience. “Have it your own way, then. But have you thought about what you’ll do about him afterward?”
“I’ll double-cross that bridge when I come to it,” Quick said, and snickered at his own bad joke.
“You’re drunk.”
“No. I haven’t done much damage to this bottle yet.”
“Put it away,” she said. “You’ve had enough. It’s got to be tonight. Remember? That’s what you said.”
He snapped, “You’ve been batting your gums so much I’m surprised you ain’t got bunions on your lips.”
“I’d shut up fast enough if you’d get out of that chair and go in there after the old man.”
“I need a little more whiskey first,” he said. “It ain’t every day you shoot a cripple dead.” He made a bitter face and turned to stab out the butt of his cigarette in the pottery ashtray.
He was like that, half-turned in the chair, when he saw Mike Warrenrode roll into the room in his wheelchair.
Hot anger flashed in Warrenrode’s eyes. “So,” he said, biting his words off short, “you aim to kill yourself a cripple, do you?”
Antonia said icily. “You’re worth more dead than alive, you old son of a bitch. And I’m glad you gave me the chance to say it to your face before you die. I’ll bet nobody’s ever enjoyed anything as much as I’m going to enjoy watching my own father die.”
Warrenrode just sat there for a long stretching moment while the blood drained out of his face and he stared, disbelieving, at Antonia.
Then his face regained its color, and he roared, “You are not, and never have been, any blood kin of mine. Don’t ever call me your father. You’re a worthless slut, and if it hadn’t been for a promise I made your old man before he died, I’d have thrown you out years ago.”
“My old man?” she said in a small voice.
“Yes, by God. Your old man was a cowhand that worked for me. A common cowhand, no better, but I liked him. He got stomped by a horse he was trying to break. I promised him I’d look after you as if you were my own daughter.”
Antonia’s lip curled into a sneer. “And all these years you let me go right on believing I was your bastard daughter.”
“You could believe what you wanted to believe. I never said a word to make you think anything of the sort.” Warrenrode whipped his leonine head around and fastened his steel glare on Quick. “And you. Of all the lily-livered, backstabbin’ cowards I’ve met in my life, you take top honors. Why don’t you go ahead and murder yourself a cripple? Here he is, right in front of you. Or is your chicken-boned hand shaking too badly to hit me at this range?”
Quick was watching the blanket that covered the old man’s knees. Under that blanket, he was sure, was the same gun the old man had used to shoot Ben Scarlett. For all Quick could tell, it was pointed right at his heart right now.
And so Quick said in a weak voice, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You know, I’d have bet my last dollar you’d say that.” Warrenrode gave him a look of arch contempt. “Now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to have the two of you stripped naked and tarred and feathered and ridden off this ranch on a rail. And if I ever get wind of either one of you within five hundred miles of here again, I’ll turn the dogs loose on you.”
<
br /> Warrenrode turned his face toward the front of the house and dragged in a deep breath. It was clear he intended to yell out. Koenig and the others would come charging in hell-for-leather.
An instant’s vision, of all his dreams collapsing like broken glass, flashed through Steve Quick’s mind; and it was desperation that sent his hand whipping down to his gun, brought the gun up, and tightened his finger in spasm on the trigger.
Half in awe, half not believing his own act, Quick watched Mike Warrenrode look around at him with vast surprise. For a heart-stopping instant Quick was sure he had missed; he stared, as if mesmerized, and waited for Warrenrode to blast him down in his tracks.
And then Warrenrode slumped forward and fell out of the wheelchair.
The blanket fell away. Warrenrode’s spindly legs were tangled up in the chair; it capsized on him.
Quick took four paces and knelt by the old man. He said in a muffled tone, “No gun. He never had no gun under the blanket. The old bastard was bluffing all the time.” He cackled harshly like a hen.
“Is he dead?” Antonia asked in a tiny voice.
“See for yourself.”
“Tell me. Is he dead?”
He looked up. She was backing away with her hand to her mouth. The table brought her up short and she stood there, face like chalk.
“He’s dead,” Quick said. He got up, glanced at the front door, and wheeled to the desk. Warrenrode always kept a six-gun in there, a .44-40, same as Quick’s gun. Hurriedly Quick yanked the drawer open, took out the gun, and put it into his holster. He put his own gun into the drawer and slammed it shut. Then he stepped away from the desk and said in a taut voice, “When they come in, let me do the talking, and back me up, no matter what I say.”
She stammered. “Any—anything you say.” She began to chew on her lower lip like a little girl caught in the cookie jar.
Quick said angrily, “Get a goddamn grip on yourself.”
He didn’t have time to add anything. The door slammed open, and Koenig charged in. Koenig skidded to a stop on his boot heels and looked down with broad wonder at the corpse all tangled up in the overturned wheelchair.
