Buchanan 21

by Jonas Ward

  His thoughts, for instance, ranged as far back as the city of Boston, where he had been born. Brought into the world by a midwife who couldn’t save his mother, handed over to a proud, cynical maternal grandmother whose own father had helped condemn witches to the torch in nearby Salem. Hallett was also the maternal name, Sidney’s father being an unidentified sailor. All the time that he lived with Grandmother Hallett the bitter old woman never let him forget that he had been begotten in sin.

  This, however, didn’t prevent him from entering the Harvard School of Divinity after earning his BA at the University, but might have had something to do with shocking the churchmen’s college into dismissing him in the midst of his second semester. (There was an essay involved—according to young Sidney’s explanation to his grandmother—one that questioned the legal status of Mary and Joseph when Jesus was born. Hallett’s conclusion was that their child had been born out of wedlock, and that all such children are touched with divinity. The Dean denied that this wildly written paper had anything to do with his separation. He told the grandmother, in person, that her ward had been found publicly drunk in Copley Square by the prefect, and at the time in the company of a woman well-known to the police of Boston as a harlot.)

  The grandmother passed away a year later, rather conveniently, and Sidney fell heir to a tidy twenty-thousand dollars. He fled Boston immediately, headed west, a young man too thin for his extreme height, too much given to weird, unorthodox interpretations of the Bible—and too easily tempted by women. In Chicago he was jailed for enticing a female under the legal age of consent. He jumped the two-hundred dollar bail and made his way to Dodge. There was no law against enticing in that wide-open town, not even a God—but even so, Sidney Hallett was given eight hours notice to leave town by the U.S. Marshal.

  He made several stopovers on his continuing journey west, most of them of short duration, but he eventually gravitated to the melting pot that was San Francisco. By now he had become very cautious about violating the law, and grievously envious of the men who enforced the law. Side by side with that ambition grew an ever increasing fanaticism with religion.

  Sidney was, by nature, a tight man with a dollar. But some of the things he had to have cost money, and the twenty thousand began to dwindle. It was when he had five-thousand dollars left that he ‘discovered’ the old Mexican tract which he bought from the new State of California and re-named Salvation.

  Salvation was an idea he had been nurturing in his secret mind for some time. It was a town that he would run, in every respect, and anyone who wanted to settle there would be beholden to Sidney Hallett. He owned the land, five square miles of it, and instead of selling sites he leased them for a term of ninety-nine years. And each lease contained any number of ‘moral turpitude’ clauses which allowed the landlord to cancel the contract for nearly any reason at all. No wonder, then, that the merchants paid strict attention to whatever Hallett decreed—whether he spoke from the pulpit or wrote his own laws in the sheriff’s office. No wonder that the Selectmen automatically reelected him as peace officer, that the Deacons renewed his appointment as pastor.

  For over a decade now he had run things his way, directed peoples’ very existence. Until last Sunday. A lone drifter had shown his organization to be soft, vulnerable, and the experience left Sid Hallett shaken in his self-confidence, indecisive.

  Right after Lafe had been shot, for example. Should he send his men after the wounded Buchanan and the two females—or should he keep them here? Hynman wanted to give chase, violently, but Hallett worried that Hynman might be killed himself—and Enos. Then he would have no guns left at all, and no time to import others if he had guessed right that Frank Booth and Luther Reeves were already en route.

  So he had kept his guns close by, for protection, and that in itself was an admission of insecurity. Now, on this everlastingly hot, bright Tuesday afternoon, the man sat behind his desk deep in thought, meditating about the past, speculating about the future, and from no particular source he got the inspiration for next Sunday’s sermon.

  It would be the return of the prodigal—except that his version would differ radically from the scripture. For Frank Booth would play the prodigal. As Hallett outlined his thoughts he knew he could fall back on the Old Testament for some unyielding, show-the-sinner-no-mercy quotations that would give his sermon the mantle of ‘truth.’ Booth would now be akin to a leper. Association would mean contamination. He should, therefore, be struck down on sight, destroyed. It would require some obtuse language, some dramatics from the pulpit, but Hallett felt confident that when he was done the town would be with him.

  As he began to write out his sermon the door of the office opened and Bull Hynman entered. Hynman looked older, somehow—looked haggard and worn out. The long hours on duty were getting him down, the constant patrolling in the merciless sun, and on top of the unexpected work load he had to live with his dark thoughts about Buchanan. His mind was murderous on that sore subject—as sore as the welt at the base of his skull—and the knowledge that he would never get another crack at Buchanan only heaped fresh coal on his sullen anger, left him badly frustrated. Yesterday morning, for instance, he had stood above Lafe Jenkins’ open grave and amazed everyone at the funeral with the depth and obvious genuineness of his grief. He had even been seen to brush a hairy hand across his eyes. Hynman did feel sorry, and it had been a tear, but only because the pine box being lowered into the earth didn’t contain the body of Buchanan.

  Lafe Jenkins? Hell, that scudder had been gettin’ too big for his britches for over a year now.

  “Where is Enos?” Hallett asked him now, looking up from his writing.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Don’t know? By God, you’d better know!”

  “He’s down to River Street,” Hynman said, his own voice peevish. “That’s where he’s supposed to be.”

  Hallett glared at him. “Maybe your responsibilities are getting too much for you,” he said coldly. “You may not be as helpful to me as you used to be.”

  “Ah, it’s this heat,” Hynman said. “And lookin’ for ghosts, mornin’, noon and night.”

  “What do you mean, looking for ghosts?”

  “Booth and Reeves. Sid, they ain’t comin’ back here.”

  “And I say that they are. I also say—”

  What Hallett also would say Hynman was not to know, for at that moment a cry went up at Sinai Street, a voice shouting bad news for Salvation:

  “THE BANK’S BEEN ROBBED! SHERIFF—THEY ROBBED THE BANK!”

  They had for a fact—and after two long years of thinking about it, of planning it, of living with it, the thing had gone off so ridiculously easy that Frank Booth almost felt let down. Not his partner, though. The easier things came the better it suited Luther Reeves—especially the sometimes risky chore of holding up banks.

  They had talked it over one more time following Buchanan’s departure from the ranch. Reeves had liked the news that the law in Salvation was shy one deputy, and he liked the weather, the heat that would keep people off the streets, make the town itself indolent and lazy. It was Reeves’ suggestion that they hit the bank at two o’clock, siesta time, and shortly after noon they started down from the hills, watched from her bedroom by Ellen—who had hoped right up until that last minute that Frank would change his mind.

  It never occurred to him. He was committed irrevocably to having his revenge on Sid Hallett, on Cyrus Martin, on anyone and everyone who had been responsible for his going to prison.

  They came into Salvation from the south, along Genesis Street, and as Booth saw one familiar landmark after another he felt a giddiness go through him, as if it were unreal that he was returning. But that passed, passed at the intersection at Sinai, when he found himself staring at the squat little building marked BANK OF SALVATION. It seemed even smaller than he remembered.

  “This is it,” Reeves said. “Let’s go.”

  They went. Directly across Sinai, walking their h
orses, trying to look as much like two punchers as possible. They dismounted, tied their animals loosely to the rail, and sauntered inside.

  And for once, Pete Nabor missed something that was happening in Salvation. The old man dozed in his rocker while his life savings were being stolen across the street.

  Reeves walked directly to the single teller’s cage, stuck the long barrel of his .44 into the cashier’s frightened face.

  “Put it all in a sack,” Reeves told him. “Don’t hold a dollar out or I’ll blow your head clean off your shoulders!”

  Frank Booth’s destination was Martin’s private office. The bank president looked up from his desk, annoyed at the intrusion, and then his mouth dropped open and his body began shaking uncontrollably.

  “It’s me, Martin. Frank Booth. Swing that safe open inside thirty seconds or I’ll kill you.”

  “No,” the old man said. “Don’t shoot me. Don’t …”

  “Get to work on the safe then.”

  Martin did, but his hands shook so that he bungled the combination that he could have dialed in his sleep. The second time the tumblers fell into place and the door opened.

  “Stand aside,” Booth ordered. He knelt before the safe, began filling sacks with the thousands of dollars resting in there. There was also a money box, locked. “Give me the key to this,” he ordered.

  “It’s at home,” Martin said. “I swear to you that it’s home.”

  Booth dropped the box into the sack, and when he hoisted it to his shoulder he had a sizable weight to carry.

  “Stay right here,” he told the banker, backing out of the office. Reeves was waiting for him.

  “Got it all?”

  “Everything.”

  “They don’t keep it anywheres else?”

  “No.”

  “Come on then.”

  They left the bank, got back on their horses and rode on out Genesis again. That’s all there was to it.

  Except for the part of the job that Frank Booth didn’t know about. He learned, though, an hour and a half later, just as their horses were topping the last steep rise before coming onto the ranch.

  “Hold up a minute, Frank,” Luther told him from behind. Booth reined in, looked around questioningly.

  “What’s the matter, Luth? What’re you holding that rifle on me for?”

  “Get down off your horse, Frank.”

  “Down? Why? What’re you going to do?”

  “Gonna kill you, old buddy,” Reeves told him and actually sounded regretful. “Got to,” he added.

  “Got to?” Booth repeated, his voice cracking, his face stunned. “We’re partners, Luth! Share and share alike …”

  “Frank, it ain’t just the money. My problem with you is, you’re not cut out for this work. Why you almost backed out on me this very mornin’ …”

  “But I didn’t, though! I went through with it, didn’t I?”

  “It ain’t in your blood, son. I couldn’t depend on you. Now climb down off that horse. I don’t want her all spooked-up.” His tone was suddenly curt, businesslike.

  Booth laid both hands over his saddlehorn, spoke earnestly.

  “You couldn’t do it, Luth,” he said to the other man. “You know you couldn’t shoot me. Not the pals we been …”

  “It was gonna be sooner or later,” Reeves told him flatly. “Now it’s got to be sooner. Get off that horse.”

  “Why?” Booth shouted, though there wasn’t six feet between them. “Why has it got to be now?”

  “On account of that pretty blonde wife of yours,” Reeves answered. “Her and me don’t want you underfoot, do we?”

  Booth’s eyes flared in anger—but only for one brief, flickering moment. In the next instant his glance had dropped from Reeves’ face to the long barrel of the rifle and it was then that he forfeited his manhood.

  “I won’t, Luth,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis. “I won’t be in your way at all. Look. We’ll split the money right here and now. I’ll take my half and head south with it. I’ll keep going till I’m across the border. All right, Luth?” The words had spewed from his mouth in a torrent, and when he was through there was a long silence.

  “Get off the horse,” Reeves told him. “I’m runnin’ a little short on time—”

  Booth spread his heels, raked the horse’s belly with his spurs and sent it plunging headlong toward the top of the hill. Reeves set the rifle stock against his armpit, sighted along the barrel and fired at the desperately retreating figure.

  Thirteen

  They had ridden off at noon, and for a long while afterward Ellen Booth had stayed at the bedroom window, gazing moodily out at the land, her spirit numbed, her mind locked in a vise. She felt trapped—trapped by the very surroundings that had once been such a happy and carefree home. And just as those days were gone beyond recall, so she felt about the future, that it was lost, that her life was ended. It was a foreboding the girl couldn’t shake, a certainty that there was an act of violence in the making from which she would not escape.

  After a time she stirred from the window, began wandering aimlessly through the house she knew and loved so dearly. She had been born within these walls, lived here for eighteen wonderful years, been married in this very parlor—and now in her melancholy thoughts she was saying goodbye.

  It was the same despondency that led her out of the house, guided her steps to the secluded little spring that was such a rich storehouse of memories. What a part this place had played in the life of Ellen Henry.

  ‘Ellen Henry.’ Not once in over three years had she thought of herself as anyone but Ellen Booth, Mrs. Frank Booth, and as she gazed at her reflection in the bright green water it seemed very important to know whether she had used her maiden name because there was no connection between Mrs. Frank Booth and the pond, or whether her subconscious mind no longer considered her married.

  There was no clear answer to the question, and the longer she stared into the shimmering water the less it seemed to matter. The less anything mattered. She had a sudden urge then to be in the pool, to be comforted by it, and in a matter of moments she had stepped out of her brief clothing and dove beneath the cool surface.

  If time could only be stopped, she thought as she floated around in the water. If she could just stay here forever …

  The gunfire sounded very clear and sharp in the still air. She counted three shots, evenly spaced, and then a formidable silence. Quickly, almost feverishly, Ellen regained the bank and dressed herself again. But she had no intention of investigating the shots. Instead, she huddled down right here, and it was if some sixth sense told her that whoever had fired the gun would be looking for her.

  The first slug from the rifle plowed into the money pouch. The second and third lifted Frank Booth clear out of the saddle, but his right boot got wedged in the stirrup and the frightened horse dragged him head down over the rough ground for another fifty feet before Luther Reeves could halt the animal.

  Reeves dismounted, freed the caught foot and let the dead man lie where he was while he recovered the nearby pouch and led both horses on foot the rest of the way to the house.

  Reeves hadn’t wanted to make such a racket—just a single bullet between Booth’s eyes and then take the woman by surprise. But he guessed that she had heard the noise, and when a search of the house didn’t produce her he told himself that that was all right, too. Hunting game came natural to the man, and as he started out to flush her from her hiding place he felt excited, expectant.

  And as part of the sport he left the most obvious spot to last—the thick, hedge like growth of foliage off to the left. His sharp eyes marked the trail of matted grass leading up to it, picked out the exact point where someone had parted the brush.

  He peered through, looked into the shaded glen. But Reeves was no lover of nature and the place had no appeal for him. He preferred the house.

  “I’ve found ya, sweetheart,” he called out in a voice that he thought was cajoling. “Come on
out and say hello to your big new man.”

  Ellen hugged the side of the bank in terror.

  “Don’t be unfriendly now, little darlin’. Just come on out of there.”

  He scowled when she still kept silent. There was a lot of money lying around loose back at the house and he wanted to get back to it.

  “Was I you, sweetheart, I wouldn’t make old Luther mad at me,” he said then, warningly. “Luther wants to treat you like a real gent, so don’t you go spoilin’ the fun.”

  Ellen thought that if she didn’t stop hearing his voice she would scream. She had begun to work her way along the bank toward the opposite side, knowing all the while how futile it was, that she was only postponing the inevitable. For this little space was now her whole world, and in that world were just two people—herself and a man named Luther Reeves.

  “All right!” she heard him shout from above. “That’s the way you want it to happen, that’s the way you’ll get it!” He broke through the foliage, and his heavy footfalls pounded nearer and nearer.

  Suddenly it was very still, and the girl raised her head slowly. He stood looking down at her—legs spread wide, hands on hips—leering down at her, and she knew that there couldn’t be a crueler sight than the one he presented.

  “Do I got to come fetch ya, honey?” Reeves asked insolently.

  Ellen shook her head, said “No” in a voice that was barely audible.

  “Then move, damn it! Get yourself on up here, woman!”

  She started to mount the incline on legs that had lost the sensation of feeling, lost her footing briefly near the top, and when he reached out to take her hand she recoiled with an expression of loathing. He grabbed her then, roughly, pulled her up over the ledge and hard against him. She struggled to twist away, to avert her face, but an arm encircled her waist, a hand was in her damp hair, forcing her head back, and his mouth fastened itself on hers with a lusting, half-crazed hunger.

  He broke the embrace just as savagely, held her at arm’s length. She stared into his face, saw herself stripped naked in the eyes that devoured her.