by Jonas Ward
“No, no! I won’t leave. There’s still a chance!”
“A chance for what? What can you do for him?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know ...” Her voice broke off at the sight of two gunmen emerging from the alley. “What are they doing, Billy?”
“Sealing off the front of the house,” Neale told her. “It’s so uneven—all of them, and all he did was defend himself against that troublemaker.”
Her words stirred an uneasiness in Neale’s mind. He saw now that his first conclusion—that they were lawmen hunting a desperado—didn’t stand up. Not only had Buchanan been plainly unarmed when he arrived at the dance, but no peace officer in Texas would have fired at him across the floor with Rosemarie obscuring his shot, But wanting to help was one thing. Actually helping was; another. Gunplay—even if he had a weapon with him—was foreign to Billy Neale’s character. He was born and raised for nothing else but ranching, the peaceable, workaday life of raising cattle and sending them to market. He owned a Colt’s repeater, but damned if he could hit anything with it beyond ten feet. That was what shocked him about the shot fired so close to the girl, and amazed him that the Buchanan fellow could have returned it so unerringly.
“There’s a shotgun behind the bar at the Glasgow,” Rosemarie said, as if reading his mind. “Run and get it, Billy.”
“You come with me.”
“No. I’ve got to stay here. It’s—I’ve just got to.”
The cowboy went off to the saloon, not understanding the female mind, the fundamental need to keep a vigil, the belief that her personal presence lent weight to the prayer she offered up.
And hardly had Neale left her side but the girl saw the shutter open in the upstairs window. Then, with her heart beating trip hammer blows against her breast, Buchanan appeared there and proceeded to step out on the decorative cornice. She noticed at once how woodenly he moved, like a man walking in his sleep, and she was certain that with his next step he would lose his balance and fall to the street.
That dire thought reminded her of the two gunmen directly below. They must not look up. If they did ...
Now Mr. Mulchay was out of the window, closing the shutters, leaning awkwardly against the slanted roof and edging along. Something made the man suddenly stop and she saw his small body freeze with terrible anticipation. What caused it she could not tell.
For twenty seconds she stood there and watched the two of them cross. Twenty years. Twenty eons. But then Buchanan was stepping down to the roof of Smith’s store, and Mr. Mulchay made it. Not out of danger yet, not nearly, but worlds safer than they had been from the moment the gunmen had entered the dancehall.
What now? she wondered. In back of the hardware store was a small yard, beyond that the lumber yard and Donhegan’s stable. The stable! Horses!
Almost without realizing it, the girl was crossing the street, taking a diagonal route that would precede Buchanan to Donhegan’s. The practical thought was to prepare a mount for him, have it saddled and ready to fly.. In the back of her mind was a wild notion—to make two horses ready and ride away with him.
A violent movement up above made her look to the Ferguson window. The man called Gibbons had slammed the shutters open and was glancing all around.
“Kersh! Didn’t you see him?”
“Hell, no.”
“Damn it, he must have gone this way! Passed right over you!” With that, Gibbons stepped out onto the ledge and started moving purposefully in the same direction his quarry had.
Seven
“You hear what I hear?” Angus asked. The little man had been walking around, restless as a bird. The big one was stretched out below him, the thumb of his left hand plugged into the hole the bullet had made. It was surprisingly effective in staunching the outgo of his life’s blood.
“Did ye hear?” Mulchay asked again.
Buchanan nodded. “Always that same damn voice.”
“We’ll be hearing more than his voice in another minute.”
“Not you, old-timer.”
“The hell ye say! It’s two birds with one stone tonight for Black Jack Gibbons.”
“What did you ever do to him?”
“Claimed bottomland when the Rio was at high flood, that’s what.”
“Can’t shoot you for that.”
“Can if it benefits Malcolm Lord—can, and will!”
“Well, in case it doesn’t,” Buchanan said—obviously not believing that anyone would kill old Mulchay—”in case it doesn’t I want to will you my goods.”
“We’re goin’ out together, lad! That’s a fact.”
“Consistin’ just about entirely of a one-half claim in the Lucky Monday Mine—”
“Will ye quit jabberin’? It’s Last Saturday for the both of us!”
“... can’t give you any positive location, except it’s in the Negras and you take the trail west by two peaks of Big Chisos. Then just keep climbin’ until somebody takes a potshot at you. That’ll be Fargo, but he can’t shoot worth a Mex dollar.”
“Here he comes!” Mulchay said, dropping to one knee. “Ah, lad, if ye had your health. If ye had a gun ...”
Gibbons stepped cautiously to the flat roof of the hardware store, stood there waiting until he was joined there by the two he had detailed to follow him.
“Can you see them?”
“Black as tar pitch, Cap’n. You sure he ain’t armed?”
“Positive.”
“But he’ll have a knife. Don’t want a gutful of that.”
Gibbons hadn’t considered a blade. As a Ranger he’d never carried one, figured it as Mexican. But Texas Thompson had, one Jim Bowie had made for him, and so had others who worked the border.
“We’ll each take a corner,” Gibbons said, his bravado tempered. “Work toward the center, and keep talking. Anything else that moves, shoot it.” They went where he told them to go. “Start,” he commanded and all three began converging toward the door in the middle of the roof.
Buchanan and Mulchay had heard it all.
“Ye don’t, do ye?” Angus whispered.
“No knife,” Buchanan answered, and that was that. Each man lapsed into silence, thinking his own thoughts, but the will to live was still with them, for the silence was absolute and their assassins would get no help in their work.
Buchanan gave his personal attention to Gibbons, gauging the direction he would come from, listening closely to each footfall. When he thought it was time he pulled his thumb from the wound and flexed all the fingers of that good hand. His last request wasn’t outlandish—only the chance to use that hand on Gibbons to leave the man something to remember him by.
They were both listening so hard to death that neither heard the bolt being slid back from the door. Then the door moved beneath Mulchay’s arm and the old man shouted out loud.
Three guns exploded a startled, fearsome reply, thundered another time, again—and nine murderous slugs crisscrossed all about the heads and legs of the two prone men, so close they could smell them and all but taste the scorching lead.
And in the midst of everything that was happening, Buchanan marveled at the single-minded courage of whoever it was who kept pushing that door wider.
“Down here, down here,” Mulchay was yelling at him, and then Mulchay was abruptly gone, pulled to safety by an unseen hand. Buchanan crawled into the dark opening, was also tugged head first down the stairway. The heavy door slammed closed above him.
“Good work, Billy,” said a voice he recognized as Hamlin’s, from the saloon. “That took sand.”
Second the motion, Buchanan tried to say, but the effort just to speak seemed too much now. Very quietly the big man passed into unconsciousness.
Eight
There was no truce in the private war between Gibbons’ Militia and Tom Buchanan—only a ceasefire, and that arranged by Malcolm Lord.
It was done by an ultimatum, delivered sternly. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Captain?” the rancher demanded, his voice outraged
.
“Lower your voice, sir,” Gibbons retorted, his own temper on a very short fuse. “This is a question of principle. HI brook no interference.”
“All right, then! Keep after that fellow in there, whoever he is! I’m told you’ve already wounded him badly, but keep on with the hunt, Captain—and when you’ve finally killed him take your fine militia out of Scotstown and keep it out!”
“We have an arrangement, Lord ...”
“Had. Do you think I could possibly go through with any proposition if you continue? I brought you here to clear the country of hostile Mexicans. My motives are valid. But, great God, do you think I can sponsor your troops if this is how they work? Either withdraw from this sorry affair immediately or go your way alone.”
Rarely did Black Jack Gibbons decline a challenge, or swallow an angry reply, but he did so now—and for a very practical reason. Unknown to Malcolm Lord, Gibbons’ Militia was in perilous financial condition. Its commander had ample funds and a few lucky camp gamblers, but some forty-odd men hadn’t been paid in a month, and the monthly payroll was a sizable four thousand dollars. Nor, if he should lose this “commission” in the Big Bend, would he be able to meet next month’s payroll. Gibbons needed Lord’s ten thousand very badly—and whatever else he could get his hands on.
So he called off the siege of Smith’s hardware store, but not without some face-saving. With Malcolm Lord and Doc Church as intermediaries, Gibbons had himself escorted inside the store and into the backroom where Buchanan had been carried. There, besides the unconscious man, and Mulchay, he found Rosemarie MacKay, Billy Neale, Hamlin, Macintosh, and Smith himself.
“Give up, have ye, Black Jack?” asked the belligerent little Angus. “Or are ye just stallin’ for time?”
“Be quiet, Mulchay!” Lord told him. “The captain has something he wants to say.”
“I’ll be brief,” Gibbons said, shifting his steady glance from the face and figure of the girl to include them all. “You’ve seen fit to give aid and comfort to an enemy of mine. In this instance—since you in the Big Bend aren’t fully aware of the important services my men are rendering the great state of Texas, the sacrifices they are making to protect your women, your children and your property from the ravaging Mexican bands—in this instance I’ll overlook the matter and take no reprisal.
“As for him,” Gibbons went on, looking to the bloody figure on the cot, “I can grant no such amnesty.”
“Ye mean ye’d still kill the lad?” Mulchay demanded. “I give him safe conduct out of Scotstown,” Gibbons said. “It expires in twenty-four hours, at midnight tomorrow—and from one minute past midnight he’ll be killed on sight.”
With that Gibbons swung on his heel and stalked out. Lord followed Doc Church to where Buchanan lay, looked on as the medico listened for a heartbeat.
“Rough-looking customer you got there, Doc,” the rancher said, frowning. “Wouldn’t want to meet him in the dark.”
“Don’t say such a thing,” Rosemarie protested with heat. “He’s as gentle as a kitten.”
“Killed two and wounded two,” Lord said. “And hasn’t been in town three hours.”
“And arrived unarmed, Malcolm Lord,” Mulchay put in. “Looking for a sociable drink and a little poker—until your friend the butcher turned his dogs loose on him.”
Lord paid no attention to him. “I’d advise you all,” he said, “and especially you, young lady, to get shut of this fellow immediately. He’s bad medicine, mark my words ...”
“Beats me,” Doc Church said, breaking in. “This horse’s heart is hammering away like he was no more than sleeping real heavy. Somebody get me some rags and a pan of water.” Rosemarie hurried off and the doctor turned to the owner of the store. “Left my bag at home, Tom—mind if I borrow what I need?”
“Don’t stock doctor’s things, but help yourself.” Church wandered into the store proper, returned with a paring knife, a thin chisel and long-jawed pliers. Rosemarie returned with the water and pieces she had stripped from her petticoat.
“Billy,” Church said then, “he may come to with a roar. Think you can hold him down?”
“I’ll sure try.”
“And if Billy can’t hold him, will somebody else stand by to conk him out again?”
“I’ll do that,” Mulchay volunteered. “The laddie can trust me to bash him gently.”
Church bent to his work without further ado, and Malcolm Lord, feeling suddenly in need of air, went out of the place. Under the pain of the probing knife, then the chisel, Buchanan began to stir. Church worked the slug loose, and Buchanan groaned deep in his chest. The pliers went into the wound, got purchase on the lead bullet, and when Church yanked it free Buchanan rose to a wide-eyed sitting position. He roared, as the doctor had predicted, and his left hand clamped around the doctor’s windpipe—all in the pure instinct of self-preservation. But Church was in great danger of being strangled, what with Mulchay’s blows with the ax handle only convincing Buchanan’s brain that it was fighting for life. It was Rosemarie, yanking the handle from Angus’s fingers, who supplied the anesthesia. Buchanan’s body went limp and his chin fell against his bare chest.
“Well, thank you,” Church said when he could speak again. “That boy can grab hold good.” He was surprised to see the girl break out into tears, and with a shrug he went about blocking the fresh spurt of blood and bandaging the wound. He gave the thigh his attention then, stripping the trouser leg away, and made the happy discover)’ that the bullet had forced its own way out of the flesh. “Look at the leg on the fellow, would you?” he asked admiringly. “I tell you, boys, that is sinew. Make awful tough eating, this horse.”
“Damn it, Doc,” Macintosh said, “there’s a female present. And an unmarried one, to boot.”
“It is a manly leg,” Rosemarie said, brushing the tears from her eyes. “And nothing to cause me embarrassment, married or no.”
“Not very fond of my patient, are you?” Church teased.
“No, not very.”
“Figure to nurse him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, feed him when he comes to. Underdone beef, if you can. And make him take some whisky—help tide him over any nerve shock. Matter of fact, think I’ll prescribe some of that for myself. The Glasgow still doing business?”
“My treat,” Mulchay offered. “Mulchay’s treat all around.” He put an arm around the shoulders of his two cronies, looked back for a moment to the girl. “Be back soon,” he told her. “We’ll discuss the situation when the lad’s himself again.” The old men went out, leaving Billy Neale behind.
“What is it between you and him?” the cowboy asked.
“I don’t know, Billy,” Rosemarie answered.
“Kind of acting like a calf, ain’t you?”
“Am I?”
“You sure are! And you sure can’t be serious—not serious about taking up with some homeless drifter!”
“He has a home. And a job.”
“Yeah, some home! Up in the Negras. You got any idea what it’s like up there?”
“Lonely,” she said.
“Not for a wildcat, it ain’t. Animals like it up there.”
“Meaning Tom is no better than an animal?”
“Damn it all—I don’t relish talking about a man when he’s out and under like he is. But I got to talk sense into you before it’s too late.”
“Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions, Billy. He told me once tonight he wasn’t interested in taking me along.”
“You mean you asked him? Him?”
“Ay. And he turned me down.”
“Well, try me then! I wouldn’t turn you down.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Billy.”
“Is it the mountains? You figure you’d like to spend some time up there? I’ll live with you anywheres, Rosemarie.”
The girl laughed at his earnestness.
“So I’m funny. All I am is funny.”
“No, no, no! You’re
a sweet, goodhearted fellow. And tonight I saw just how quick in the mind you are, rushing Mr. Smith back here with the keys. And brave, opening that door in the face of all those guns! You’re not funny, Billy Neale. You’re a fine man, and some day you’ll be the biggest rancher in the Big Bend.”
It was quite a speech, and he looked at her for several moments without saying anything.
“I’m all those things, but you want him?”
She returned his steady gaze, nodding her head.
“Suppose he lives in the mountains because he’s on the dodge?”
“Oh, no, he couldn’t be a criminal. I’d know that about him in the first instant.”
“All right, maybe not a criminal, but suppose he’s wanted, like those gunmen wanted him tonight. What kind of life would that be for a woman?”
“I’ve already told you,” she said patiently. “He’s turned me down.”
“But you’re not going to take no for an answer. Is that it?”
“What’s all the shouting about?” the rumbling voice of Buchanan asked, startling them both badly.
“How long you been awake?” Neale asked him gruffly.
“Awake? How long’ve I been out?”
“Not long enough,” Rosemarie told him worriedly. “How does your poor shoulder feel?”
“Tender. How’d I wind up here—and where’s the little guy?”
“You’re in Mr. Smith’s shop,” she told him. “Mr. Mulchay is fine.”
“That Captain Gibbons was here a while ago,” Billy Neale said then. “He gave you what he called safe conduct out of town.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s good for twenty-four hours, Gibbons said.”
“Hope somebody thanked him for me.”
“You gonna take it?”
“The safe conduct?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know about that,” Buchanan said thoughtfully. “But one thing sure—I’ve got to be on my way before any twenty-four hours ...”
“You couldn’t!” Rosemarie objected. “Not possibly, Tom!”
He regarded the girl with a face that was expressionless, then a smile broke through and he glanced at Neale.
