Buchanan 21

by Jonas Ward

  She told herself that it was impossible he could have meant that. However the thought kept recurring, grew worrisome when Hallett took an active, personal interest in settling her father’s meager estate. Banker Martin was named executor in the will, but it was the sheriff who handled the details. The ranch had been left to her, along with a small amount of cash, but there was still some three thousand dollars owing the bank for which the land was collateral. It was on this matter that Hallett really perplexed the girl—when he offered to pay off the loan himself and suggested that she should have the help and companionship of a mature, experienced man in the management of the ranch.

  “Frank will run the place when we are married,” she told him. Hallett’s voice had been pleasant up until then. Now it was cold.

  “You are not going to marry Booth,” he told her flatly. “I forbid it.”

  “You forbid it?”

  “Your father is gone, girl. You need someone else to guide you.”

  “But my father approved of Frank. You know that.”

  “I know that your father was a very sick man. He did not have full possession of his faculties.”

  “He did!”

  Hallett shook his head. “Booth took advantage of both of you. He doesn’t deserve to have such a prize as yourself, Ellen.”

  She broke off the conversation, got away from him almost in terror, and at her insistence she and Frank married within a week. The young man assumed all responsibilities for the money owed on the property, but convinced his bride that it would be better if he continued working at the bank for at least another year. The cattle market, he told her, was uncertain—but his weekly salary from Cyrus Martin was money they could count on.

  They were married six short months when it happened, when that leering deputy, Hynman, rode out to the ranch to tell her that Frank was under arrest. Embezzlement. A shortage in Frank’s accounts of five thousand dollars. And as if his information wasn’t cataclysmic enough, Bull Hynman added a personal touch that made his visit a complete nightmare.

  Ellen had run to the bedroom, to change from the work dress into something better, and though she had closed the door she had not considered it necessary to lock it. The hulking, beady-eyed Hynman came into the room and found her in only a thin cotton undergarment. She ordered him out and he shook his head.

  “I’ve been waitin’ for this a long time,” he said.

  “Get out!” she told him again. “I’ve got to get dressed. I’ve got to go to my husband.”

  “You can’t help him,” Hynman said. “The case is open and shut.”

  “Frank didn’t steal anything!”

  “He stole five thousand dollars. And he’ll be in prison a long time. Lady, you need all the friends you can get right now.”

  “‘I don’t need you!” she screamed at him. He lunged for her, broke the strap of the undergarment, tried to force her down on the bed. But Ellen squirmed out of his grip, made her way out to the room her father had used for an office. Still in the desk was his old single-shot Remington—and when she leveled it at Hynman’s chest neither of them knew whether it was loaded. Hynman, however, decided to bide his time, figured that she would be available to him in this lonely old house another night.

  He left and Ellen rode into Salvation. Frank’s face was haggard, his eyes sunken as he fell to his knees in the cell and swore his innocence. Ellen believed her husband, out of her love for him, but so damning was the evidence at his trial that even her faith was shaken. The most telling witness against Frank Booth was a man named Poindexter, a U.S. Marshal from San Francisco. Poindexter read to the jury an affidavit taken from a woman identified as Ruby Fowler. Ruby Fowler had taken her own life, and on her deathbed confessed to receiving five thousand dollars from Frank Booth—and, in turn, giving the money to a lover who had run out on her.

  Frank denied Poindexter’s testimony, swore he’d never laid eyes on Ruby Fowler. Then he was shown a ring, one which Ellen from her seat in the jammed courtroom identified as Frank’s own signet. Frank also admitted ownership, claimed that he had lost it in the bank’s washroom months before. The marshal was then recalled to the stand.

  “Have you ever seen this ring, Mr. Poindexter?”

  “I have. I brought it down here myself from San Francisco.”

  “And how did you come to have it?”

  Poindexter looked at Frank Booth, then to the jury. “I found that ring,” he said, “among the effects of the late Ruby Fowler.”

  The jury voted right in the box—guilty—and Sidney Hallett, as magistrate, sentenced him to prison for twenty years. That was stern justice, and Ellen persuaded Frank’s lawyer to appeal to the state court. The conviction was upheld, but the sentence was reduced to a minimum of three years and a maximum of ten.

  Hallett allowed Ellen to see Frank only one more time, in the cell again, and once more Booth pleaded his innocence to her. But her doubts now came between them like a wall.

  “I’d still love you, Frank,” she told him. “No matter what mistake you made.”

  “I didn’t do it, Ellen,” he insisted.

  “But you’re going away,” she said tearfully. “Don’t you want to tell me everything about you and Ruby Fowler?”

  Booth shook his head stubbornly, said there was nothing to tell about Ruby Fowler. Ellen kissed him and Bull Hynman, of all undesirable people, came to take Booth to the waiting stage.

  Two nights later, after midnight, Hynman visited her at the ranch, tried to force himself inside. But now Ellen was armed with a shotgun and the deputy left with his tail between his legs. Next morning, Ellen moved into this room at the hotel, eked out a haphazard living as a waitress in the dining room, a salesgirl at the mercantile and even did menial labor from time to time. The town was completely dependent on the cattle market, and Ellen’s employment and joblessness fluctuated with the price of cows at the slaughterhouse.

  A year ago Birdy Warren had offered her a job in his place—scandalizing the young girl to some degree—and whenever he might see her the saloonkeeper repeated the offer. And last month, when she lost her last job in Mrs. Meeker’s dress shop, Ellen went to work in Birdy’s.

  Sid Hallett had pressed his suit all this time. But never publicly, never really saying outright what he expected her to do about him. He did suggest that she should divorce Frank Booth, promised that Booth would remain in prison for the full term of ten years. Her answer was always the same—a firm “No.” But Hallett never was clear about what his intentions would be if the answer had been the one he wanted. He pressed his attentions furtively and kept close watch on her activities—so close that Bull Hynman was kept from making any advances of his own. Hynman didn’t guess that his boss had a personal interest in Ellen Booth. He thought that it had some vague connection with the embezzlement of the bank by her husband, that there might be other monies involved and she knew of them.

  And then this Sunday morning, like a bolt from the blue, Hallett had turned on her from the pulpit, accused her without any cause of adultery, made her job at Birdy’s seem shameful, and banished her from the town. Where was she supposed to go? What was she supposed to do? Her only reason for staying in Salvation—of bearing the onus of a thief’s wife—was to be here when her husband returned, to pick up the threads of their brief life together and start anew. They could go to the ranch, she thought, where there would be no people to bother them and plenty of hard work to make them forget what had happened in the past. But even that was not to be now—thanks to Sid Hallett.

  Such a quiet little town, a wonderful place to settle and marry and raise a family. As Ellen Booth relived these last four years her glance moved from the bank’s façade to the disappearing figure of the big cowpoke leading the limping horse down Sinai Street toward Damnation. That was the life, she thought in self-compassion. No worries, no problems; just come as you please, go as you please, do as you please. She saw his face again, very clearly, and once again passed judgment on him as tough an
d distant, unapproachable.

  Ellen was still at the window when Sidney Hallett came into view, stopped for a long moment and then moved on toward his office. She turned away, reminded of his injunction, packed her few belongings in a cardboard suitcase and left the hotel to walk herself in the direction of River Street. For some reason that the girl couldn’t explain she felt that she would be among her own kind of people there, that men like Birdy Warren and poor old Doc Allen could advise her what to do. For Hallett was against them, too. Had vowed publicly to drive them out.

  But neither of them was there when she arrived at the saloon. According to the barkeep, Sam, Allen had left on the shoulder of a big stranger. Birdy had gone out a bit later, taken the stranger’s horse to the livery. And so far as Sam could make out from eavesdropping, it had something to do with a little stone the horse had picked up in her hoof. None of it made much sense to Ellen and she climbed the flight of steps to her dressing room on the floor above. But she didn’t change into one of the three sequined, short-skirted and tight-bodiced gowns Birdy had bought for her to work in. Instead she waited, not sure what her status was, and presently there was a knock on the door. It was Birdy.

  “I’m in trouble,” Ellen told him.

  “I heard what happened in church, Ellie. I’m awful sorry.”

  “Sorry? What fault is it of yours?”

  “I’m not blind,” he said. “Not like those sheep uptown that Sid Hallett keeps all flocked and ignorant. Hallett’s after you, kid,” he told her. “He watches over you like a hawk on a sparrow. I knew that when I first offered you a job here. Figured he’d give up if you went over to my side of the street.” The small man shook his head ruefully. “I figured wrong,” he said. “Looks like if he can’t have you, nobody can.”

  It was calmly spoken, as matter-of-factly as Birdy could speak in his high-pitched voice, but the girl was appalled to hear someone else put her own dark fears into words.

  “If he can’t,” she asked him, “nobody can?”

  “You’re talking about your husband,” Birdy said. “I don’t know anything about that. I wasn’t even at his trial.”

  “A government marshal gave evidence,” she said. “It must have been true.”

  “They ain’t angels, honey, take it from me. You get west of Chicago and you see some damn strange things …”

  The gunfire down at Maude’s broke into his conversation, sent him to the shade-drawn window. He raised the shade, leaned out over the sill just a moment too late to see Buchanan’s unorthodox entrance into the bawdyhouse.

  “What is it?” Ellen asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Birdy said. “But that wild scudder just took off for Maude’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Feller with a hurt horse. Hauled Doc Allen over there to sober him up.” Birdy laughed. “Guess he took a shine to one of Maude’s girls.”

  Again there were gunshots coming from within the house at the end of the street.

  “Man, man,” Birdy said reprovingly. “Didn’t figure him to be so proddy.”

  “He looked like a roughneck to me,” Ellen said. “Where are you going?”

  “Downstairs,” Birdy answered, opening the door. “Find out what’s going on.”

  The saloonkeeper left her, and when Buchanan made his surprising exit from Maude’s, Ellen was a silent observer from the upstairs window. The next thing she knew, Birdy was leading the wounded man inside and she heard their footsteps ascending the stairs to the dressing room.

  “Can we come in, Ellie?” Birdy asked. She opened the door, stood aside while they entered. If the dressing room had been small before it shrunk considerably the moment Buchanan crossed the threshold.

  “This is Ellen Booth,” Birdy said. “Don’t think I ever heard your name.”

  “Tom Buchanan. Pleased to meet you.” He swept off his hat and Ellen nodded to him, wondering what in the world he found to smile about with his shirt all soaked in blood and Bull Hynman threatening even more damage.

  “Stretch out on that couch there,” Birdy told him. “Let’s get that shirt off your back and have a look-see.”

  “That’s no treat for the ladies,” Buchanan said and then spoke to the Mexican. “Sale usted, por favor.”

  “I would rather stay,” she answered. “I can do something, to help, perhaps.”

  “But this won’t be agreeable …”

  “Instead of arguing about it,” Ellen said, “why don’t you just take your shirt off?”

  Buchanan blinked at her in surprise, began to do as she told him to. The barber made his way inside then, carrying towels, bandage and a pan of water. He set to work quickly, almost professionally, and his comment when the four-inch-long wound was exposed was an expressive whistle.

  “I bruise easy,” Buchanan said, sounding almost apologetic.

  “And you’d have died easy, buster, if that slug had come another inch inside.” He began wrapping the gauze around Buchanan’s ribs.

  “Where’d you get that one?” Birdy Warren asked, pointing to a bullet scar high on his chest. Buchanan rubbed his finger along the old wound, his face thoughtful.

  “Picked it up a year ago,” he said. “Compliments of a friend.”

  “Got another one on your arm there,” Birdy said. “And by golly look at this beauty.” He turned to Ellen. “Ever seen the likes of it?”

  “No,” she said, “I didn’t. But I imagine Mr. Buchanan earned them.”

  “And paid back with interest, hey, Tom?” Birdy said admiringly.

  “You about through?” Buchanan asked the barber.

  “Through as I’ll ever be.”

  “What’s the bill?”

  “A dollar?” the man said questioningly.

  “Fair enough,” Buchanan told him, reaching into his trousers for a cartwheel. But when he started to pull on the grisly-looking shirt again, Ellen Booth spoke up.

  “Don’t you have anything else to wear?”

  “My butler’s gone on ahead with all the trunks,” he answered drily.

  “Wait a minute,” Birdy said. “I’ll get you something. May not fit, but it’ll be clean.” He left the room and so did the barber, leaving Buchanan to stand half-dressed and uncomfortable between the two females.

  “¿Es su mujer?” the Mexican one asked him and he shook his head.

  “What did she say?” Ellen asked.

  “She asked me if you’re my woman.”

  “Whatever gave her an idea like that?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Tell her that I’m married,” Ellen said.

  “Why?”

  “I just want her to know.”

  Buchanan shrugged. “La señora es casada,” he said obediently to the dark-haired girl.

  “Yo estoy feliz,” she said, smiling at Ellen.

  “She says she’s happy,” Buchanan translated.

  “Tell her thank you.”

  “La señora dice gracias,” Buchanan said.

  “De nada.”

  “You’re welcome,” Buchanan told Ellen.

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You had a gunfight over her and you don’t know her name?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a fight over her.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “Well—a difference of opinion. What I mean is, there was nothing personal.”

  Ellen looked at him curiously. “Ask her her name,” she said.

  Buchanan sighed, turned to the Mexican. “¿Cómo se llama Ud?”

  “Yo se llamo Juanita María Isabel Henriquez y del Vayez,” the girl answered brightly.

  “Juanita,” Buchanan told Ellen.

  “Tell her my name is Ellen Booth.”

  “La señora se llama Elena,” he reported dutifully.

  “Ella es muy linda,” Juanita said.

  “Sí.”

  “What was that?” Ellen asked.

  “Juanita thinks you’re good-looking,”
he explained and the blonde girl colored.

  “I think she is very pretty,” she said.

  “La señora dice usted es muy linda también,” he told the other one. Then the door opened, Birdy came in with a gray denim shirt, and Buchanan looked like a man reprieved. He put his arms through the shirt, buttoned it snugly across his chest.

  “Biggest one Perley had in stock,” Birdy said.

  “How much?” Buchanan asked, reaching into his pocket.

  “On the house,” the saloonkeeper said. “Can I have the old one for a souvenir? Want to hang it over the bar mirror.”

  “You serious?”

  “Damn right I am. And now I’m going to take you downstairs and buy you a drink.”

  Buchanan looked suddenly stricken. “The Doc,” he said unhappily. “Promised to bring him a bottle.”

  “All took care of. And that mean-eyed bronc of yours is took care of, too.”

  “Wonder can I ride on out of here?”

  “What’s the big hurry?”

  “The job I mentioned.”

  “Hell, they’ll be years building that railroad. Come on down and have a drink with the boys.” He turned to Ellen. “You two pretty gals come along, too. Brighten up the place.”

  The four of them, making an odd assortment, left together.

  Five

  When Sid Hallett returned from his visit to Cyrus Martin’s house he dismounted before the hotel and strode inside.

  “Can I help you, Sheriff?” the desk clerk asked, made nervous just by the man’s appearance in the place.

  Hallett shook his head. “I’m going up to see Mrs. Booth,” he said.

  “She’s checked out,” the clerk informed him.

  “When?”

  “A little after noon.”

  “Carrying any luggage?”

  “Yes, sir, a traveling bag.”

  “Which way was she headed?”

  “She turned up that way,” he said, pointing toward River Street, and the sheriff promptly left him, returned to his office. There were three men taking their leisure in there—special deputies at the moment, but who doubled as deacons of the church, collection takers and whatever else Hallett needed them for. They all climbed to their feet, seemed to appear apologetic for their inactivity on this peaceful Sunday. Hallett went by them to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a legal document. It was an arrest warrant, already signed by ‘Sidney Hallett, Magistrate,’ directing ‘Sidney Hallett, Sheriff, and/or his Deputy’ to take into lawful custody (blank) for the charge of (blank). Into these blank spaces he now wrote ‘Mrs. Frank Booth’ and ‘Accessory before the crime.’