Buchanan 21

by Jonas Ward

  Pete had been a keen observer to the happenings all that late afternoon—the roundup of the half-senile jury, the transportation of first the girl to the church, then the big stranger—and when he’d seen her running frenziedly into Sinai Street, obviously with no idea which way to turn, he had waved to her, called out for her to come to the porch.

  And something in the tone of his voice had reached the girl’s intuition, persuaded her against anything that was purely reasonable that he wanted to help. So she came to him, and in half-forgotten pidgin-Spanish he showed her the little doorway in the side of the staircase that opened onto a surprisingly spacious stone-walled room. Nabor knew about its existence for the simple reason that he had built this hotel twenty years ago, when all this country had been known as the San Joaquin Strip. He’d been one of the first mountain men to come down and trade with the Mexicans. Now it was Salvation, and the Mexicans had been driven out, but there were still a few things about it that Sidney Hallett would have to learn for himself.

  The hours dragged by, the fruitless search was repeated over and over again, and Juanita, of course, stayed safe and snug in her hideout. Nabor kept up a running conversation with her, enjoying to the hilt this measure of satisfaction against the sheriff he so cordially hated. He even managed to smuggle down the supper of ham and beans that the maid served to him on the porch. The girl told him of Hallett’s treachery, voiced her concern that she had somehow been instrumental in a plot against El Fuerte—Buchanan.

  The old man’s reassurance on that was almost an echo of what Buchanan himself had told Ellen Booth.

  “He’s in a fix,” Nabor admitted. “No doubt of that. But they ain’t hung him yet.”

  The night wore on, hot and sultry, and despite his assurances to Hallett that the Mexican was not on River Street, Bull Hynman returned there, took up a place at the end of Birdy Warren’s bar and by his surly presence put a damper on any revelry that evening. He ordered a private bottle and began to drink from it. Though the liquor made no visible change in his outward appearance it began to slowly channel his uncomplicated mind into another channel. He told himself again that this was, after all, his night off from duty. The escape of the little Mex had Hallett all worked up, but Bull Hynman, for one, couldn’t get that excited about it.

  Oh, a nice-lookin’ piece and all that, he grunted, what with her dark features and girlish young figure. But she was to hell and gone tonight, and like the feller once said, a bird in the hand. The feller also said, Bull reminded himself, that they’re all alike when the light is out—and that was no farther away than crossing River Street to Maude’s. He was treated real good over there, and not just because he belted the tarts around every so often to keep ’em in line. He was treated good because, god dammit, he was Chief Deputy Sheriff, the second from the top and a man of importance. Hell, he was doin’ ’em a favor and they were grateful. That was it, grateful.

  All except the damn little Mex, and she didn’t know any better. And all except Ellen Booth, he suddenly thought. She knew better—knew damn well better that Bull Hynman was someone who counted for something. And her married to a sneakin’ little thief and puttin’ on airs! Hynman drained his glass of raw whisky.

  The impulse to cross the street to Maude’s was gone. In its place was born the picture of the blonde and ripe-bodied young woman languishing all alone in the night in the jail cell. Well, all alone except for the drifter—and with the dawn there’d be an end to him.

  He corked the bottle, pushed himself away from the bar and strode from the place. No bill had been presented, no payment offered, and the distraught Birdy was just as happy to leave it at that in exchange for his departure.

  Hynman came back to Sinai Street, observed by no one but the ever-vigilant Pete Nabor. He found Enos dozing noisily at Hallett’s desk. He knocked the man’s boots from their comfortable position and Enos came awake with a jerk.

  “What?” he asked. “What’sa matter?”

  “Get up and go home,” Hynman growled at him. “I’m takin’ your trick.”

  Enos blinked. It was not like the straw boss to offer any favors.

  “I do somethin’ wrong?” he asked.

  “Sleepin’ on the job. Now get on out of here. And don’t forget there’s a hangin’ tomorrow mornin’.”

  “I’ll be here,” Enos said, shuffling sleepily around the desk and on out into the night. Hynman waited a moment, then went to the street door and slid home the bolt. He crossed to the connecting door, a candle in one hand, the bottle in the other, and thumbed it open, stepped inside and pulled it closed with the heel of his boot. He moved across the room. In the one cell was Buchanan, sprawled face down on the cot with his wrists still tied, just as they had left him. His breathing was even, heavy with sleep.

  He gazed into the other cell, holding the candle at arm’s length. She slept, too, on her back, and his eyes fastened on the skirt of her thin cotton dress, where it had become hiked above her knee.

  They were not all alike when the light is out, he thought excitedly. Suddenly she stirred and Hynman extinguished the candle.

  “Is someone there?” Ellen’s voice asked in the dark.

  Hynman set the candle on the floor, reached into his pocket for the key.

  “Who is it?” Ellen asked. “Who is there?”

  He fitted the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door.

  “Get out of here!” she cried. “Get out—”

  He fell on her, his rough hand clamped over her mouth. She twisted beneath him, violently, and the bottle of whisky he held in his other hand crashed to the stone floor and broke into a hundred fragments.

  “God damn you, anyhow!” Hynman snarled, plunged into a blind rage by the fierceness of her resistance. She tried to roll out from under him, to claw at his face, to bring her knees up—tried so many ways to defend herself that she was exhausting her strength completely. And he seemed to know what he was about, kept pressing his two-hundred pounds down on her, wearing her out. Out of pure terror the girl found a reserve to stave off the man’s lust and she swung them both from the narrow cot. In an instant she was on her feet, backing away from him, but Hynman was as aware as Ellen was of the open cell door and he spread his arms wide, boxed her into a corner. He moved in on her slowly, relentlessly, and when his hands descended on her shoulders all her resistance to fight him deserted her.

  Hynman swung her around, started to bear her back to the cot. Then all at once he gave a strangling sound and the fight went out of him. Buchanan had him, had the man’s neck locked good in the crook of his arm, and Hynman’s frantic gurgling was about as sweet to his ears as anything he could ever recall hearing. A piece of the jagged glass had served to free his hands, after being awakened by the girl’s outcry, and now he was enjoying himself completely.

  It was happening much too fast for Ellen Booth to comprehend all that was going on. But one thing she knew just by the sound of it—a man was being killed in the dark—and she didn’t want that to happen on her account.

  “Stop,” she called to Buchanan. “Stop before it’s too late.”

  “He knows he’s got this coming,” Buchanan answered matter-of-factly.

  “Please,” she said. “Please don’t kill him.”

  Buchanan sighed, released the pressure slightly. With his free hand he reached into Hynman’s pocket, removed the key, then slid the other man’s Colt from its holster and hefted it fondly. “Pleasant dreams,” he told the deputy and cracked the butt just once behind his ear. Hynman slid down the bars, unconscious, and Buchanan stuck the gun in his waistband, unlocked the cell and let himself out of jail.

  “Well, come on,” he said to Ellen.

  “You mean—just walk out of here?”

  “Not unless you like the service you’re getting. Come on.”

  “But that would be breaking a law,” she said and Buchanan gave a laugh that mirrored his wonder at a woman’s point of view.

  “Far be it from me,” h
e told her, “to start you on a life of crime. Recommend, though, that you lock yourself away from bruiser-boy.” He stepped into her cell, reached out with the key. Their hands brushed and suddenly the girl’s slim fingers took hold of his wrist.

  “I’ll come along,” she murmured, still clinging to him as he led the way out. It was midnight. Salvation slept. So far as Buchanan could see along dark Sinai Street there was no one else about but the two of them.

  “Now let’s really break the law,” he suggested.

  “What?”

  “We’re going to borrow the deputy’s pony,” he said, unhitching Hynman’s horse from the rail and swinging into the saddle. “Reach up,” he told Ellen then, and when she gave him her hand he swung her effortlessly up behind him, turned the mount in the direction of River Street.

  “Where can I take you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said worriedly. “There’s no place to go.”

  “My own horse is in the livery,” he said. “You’re welcome to ride along to Sacramento.”

  “Sacramento? You mean—just the two of us?”

  “Invite anybody else you want to …”

  “Psst! You there—big feller! Come over here!” The low, urgent-sounding voice came from the direction of the hotel.

  “Who are you?” Buchanan called back.

  “A friend, dangit! Come here!”

  “It’s Pete Nabor,” Ellen said. “Let’s see what he wants.”

  Buchanan edged in toward the building, in no particular mood to chew the fat with Pete Nabor or any other citizen of Salvation.

  “So ye broke out, did ye?” the old man greeted him gleefully. “Knew ye would—just knew it!”

  “Anything else you wanted?”

  “Did ye stop Hynman’s clock fer ’em?” Nabor asked in high expectation.

  “No,” Buchanan said, his own voice regretful. “Well, got to push along, Captain,” he said, swinging the horse.

  “Not so dang fast, sonny. You’re takin’ another passenger, wherever you’re goin’.”

  “You can’t come, Pete,” Ellen Booth put in.

  “Not me. Juanita.”

  “Juanita? They didn’t stick her back in that crib?”

  “She’s right under these stairs, sleepin’ like a babe.”

  Buchanan dismounted.

  “Jest swing the third step outward,” Nabor instructed, and sure enough it was a door on hinges. Buchanan stuck his head and shoulders through.

  “Muchacha,” he called. “Wake up!”

  “El Fuerte!” came the answer a moment later. “I knew you would come for me!”

  Folks seemed to know a lot more than he did, Buchanan reflected, and then the girl was directly in front of him. He backed out of the opening and she followed.

  “Up you go,” he told her, boosting her into the saddle. The dark-haired girl looked around at the blonde one and Juanita spoke a greeting.

  “What did she say?” Ellen asked.

  “Now, wait,” Buchanan said firmly. “We’re not going through that business again.” He went forward, picked the reins over the horse’s head. “So long,” he said to Pete Nabor and started off along the street.

  “Take care of yeselves,” Nabor called after them. “Vaya con Dios,” he added for Juanita, and with his voice still echoing in the warm night air the thing happened.

  Lafe Jenkins, the cautious one, took two brief steps from the shadows and opened fire without a word of warning. A hot slug slammed into Buchanan’s shoulder, spinning him halfway around and down to one knee. Two more shots screamed past his head. He whipped Hynman’s unfamiliar gun from his trouser tops and the hammer fell with a sickening click on an empty chamber. He triggered again and a live bullet roared toward the muzzle flash of Jenkins’ .45. He hit him with a second shot, a third, and then there was no target as Lafe lay sprawled and unmoving in the dust of Sinai Street.

  The girls astride the horse had been struck dumb by the suddenness of the attack, the terrifying din. Ellen Booth stared almost sightlessly at the gunsmoke curling lazily upward. She was brought slowly back to her surroundings by the acrid smell of gunpowder in her nostrils.

  “How awful,” she said in a wavering voice. “How awful.” The other one began to cry very softly—and a moment later both fell silent, aware almost simultaneously that there was neither sound nor movement from Buchanan. The man still knelt on one knee, his hand pressed to his bullet-torn shoulder, his head bowed tiredly. His attitude seemed to say that there is some limit to human endurance.

  Ellen Booth was beside him in an instant. Juanita followed.

  “What can I do for you?” Ellen asked. “How can I help you?”

  Lights were being lit in the various houses. Faces appeared in open windows.

  “Ride out of here,” Buchanan told her. “Hallett will be coming …”

  “No,” Ellen said. “No.” She put her arm around his back, another beneath his arm. “Try to stand,” she told him. “Lean on me.” Juanita gave her support to the other side, and together, plus the big man’s effort, they got him erect. “Walk,” Ellen said. “Just a few steps.” She guided him to the stirrup and both girls lifted his boot to it. Then, working together, they had him in the saddle. Ellen went quickly to gather up the reins again, motioned to the other girl. “Come on,” she said and they started off for River Street a second time.

  Ten

  “I’m awake,” Buchanan said.

  “I know,” Ellen Booth told him. “I heard a change in your breathing.”

  “And wherever I am, it feels awful good.”

  “You’re at the ranch,” she said. “This used to be my father’s room.”

  Buchanan, lying almost in state atop a great four-poster bed, looked around at his new surroundings with a knowing eye. There was obvious neglect here, a lack of human habitation, but those beams above his head were solid oak, that door was hung by a craftsman, the window frames were meant to last a lifetime and then some.

  “How could you leave this to live in that town?” he asked mildly.

  “Frank and I meant to work the place,” she said. “Then he got into his trouble. I couldn’t very well live here all alone.”

  “Guess not,” he agreed, and then his face changed as he made a discovery. “What, ah, happened to my duds?” he asked.

  “We washed them, Juanita and I. They’re out in the sun drying.”

  “Real thoughtful.”

  “Later on we’re going to wash you, too,” she informed him. “Give you a shave and cut your hair.”

  Buchanan cocked his head at her, ran a hand over his stubbled chin. “Guess I can manage that,” he said.

  “You’re going to take it easy,” Ellen said. “How does your shoulder feel this morning?”

  “A little stiff,” he lied. The wound was hurting like hell. He looked down at the bandage, grinned self-consciously. “Pretty fancy fixings,” he said.

  “From one of Juanita’s petticoats.”

  “What’s Juanita doing now?”

  “She found some cans of things in the larder. I guess we’re going to have a stew.”

  “Well that’s fine,” he said. “That’s dandy. Now—how in the world did you get me up here?”

  Ellen smiled. “It’s funny what you do when you have to,” she said. “Even two helpless females who can’t understand a word of the other’s. What we did was get your horse at the stable—and what a temper that animal has!”

  “High spirits, mostly.”

  “Well, if Doc Allen hadn’t gentled her, drunk as he was, we’d have never gotten you onto her back. But after that she was all right, except for biting Hynman’s horse whenever he got too close.”

  Buchanan laughed. “Particular who she travels with,” he said.

  “Well, we got you here, that’s the main thing. How long we can stay is another.”

  Then Buchanan reminded himself that this was just another postponement after all, another delay. His mind went back to t
he night before, to the burning hole in his shoulder, and the inclination to just stay right there in the middle of their damn street and settle the argument once and for all. But the girls had pulled his bacon out of that fire, and if his responsibility for them had only been casual then, now it was real.

  “Any weapons at all around the place?”

  “Dad has a gun locker in the attic. None of them are very new—and of course Frank never owned a gun at all.”

  “For a fact?”

  “He’s city-bred,” she told him. “Went to college. He didn’t have to make his way with a gun. I’m sorry, Buchanan. I didn’t mean that exactly like it sounded.”

  “I. envy your husband,” Buchanan said. “Suit me fine if every man in the country chucked his gun in the well and we started off brand new.”

  “What would you do with yourself—starting off brand new?”

  “Well,” he grinned, “first off I’d hunt me up a pretty girl who owned a little spread like this one. Then I’d work her skinny so’s there’d always be enough for me to paint the town Saturday night.”

  Ellen laughed with him. “You know ranching?”

  “Born and raised on one.”

  “Why’d you give it up?”

  “The old man got wiped out, back in forty-six.”

  “Drought?”

  Buchanan looked at the blonde, shook his head slowly.

  “The land never let us down around Alpine,” he said with a note of reminiscence in his deep voice. “Grass grow over your boot-tips if you give it half the chance. Just sink a pole and you got water.”

  “Then what happened to your ranch?”

  “Couple of jaspers rode into town one Monday morning. Bearded gents. The old man and a friend of his caught up with them, but that was a year later and there wasn’t a dime left of the fifty thousand.”

  “The fifty thousand?”

  “What they stole from the Alpine Bank,” Buchanan said. “Two riffraff thieves, and they wiped out a dozen men whose boots they weren’t fit to lick.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen said. She looked stricken.

  “And so am I for telling the story,” he said. “I just hope that Sheriff Hallett’s made another bad guess so far as your man is concerned.”