by Jonas Ward
Leech, infuriated, took a swipe at the glass. The whisky splashed into Buchanan's face and the glass went flying across the room. Leech bent down quickly, wrapped his hands around the front legs of the chair and upended-it. Buchanan went over onto the back of his head and the screaming Rita with him. He lay there for another moment gazing quietly upward at the fiercely grinning redheaded man.
"Move out of the way," he told the girl and she rolled to one side, scampered to her feet. Buchanan rolled the other way, made the mistake of taking his eyes off Leech. Big Red's size-14 boot caught him behind the ear, flattened him out on his face this time. Buchanan lay still again, silently bawling himself out for his carelessness, feeling the thirst for battle rise sweet and warm through his chest.
Leech was laughing down at him, mockingly. Buchanan, with his back to the standing man, began to rise a second time, very slowly. Suddenly he dropped back down. Leech's boot grazed the top of his head, and as it went by Buchanan grabbed it and shoved.
Leech came down and Buchanan got up. Big Red, half-strangling on his rage, started to rise again immediately. Buchanan waited patiently, then drove his fist into the middle of those red whiskers. And stared respectfully. For all Leech did was shake his head to clear it and come wading on in. Buchanan took careful aim, cocked his fist and threw it against Leech's broad nose. The bridge made a loud popping noise but Big Red's forward momentum was unchecked. Buchanan tried him down below, buried his left fist to the wrist in Leech's belly. The man grunted and laid a sledgehammer along Buchanan's jaw. His other hand got into Buchanan's thick hair, gripped it tight and yanked hard. Buchanan's lip slammed against the top of Leech's bowed head. White lights dazzled his brain and his knees buckled. Knees. He brought the right one up, drove it home, and Leech abruptly let go of his hair and quit using him for a battering ram.
The two men stood back from each other, as if by some signal, and filled their lungs with air. Then Leech jammed his boot down onto Buchanan's instep, brought up an uppercut that was intended to stretch Buchanan's neck, followed with a roundhouse left to the ear that started bells ringing. Buchanan didn't pause to listen to them, punched a straight, shoulder-powered right into the red blob that was Leech's freely bleeding nose. Did it again and Big Red gave ground. Buchanan jolted him a third time with a chopping left that set up the bewhiskered jaw for the hardest punch the West Texan had ever thrown in his life.
Leech took it, stood there with his arms at his side, swaying back and forth and smiling foolishly through his split lips and broken teeth. Buchanan reached out, put his hand on the redhead's great chest and pushed gently. Leech went down with a crash that knocked the bottle from the table. Buchanan retrieved it, hoisted it by the neck and let it pour for a full and wonderful five seconds.
They came away from the bar, their voices hushed, their faces reverent, and stood looking down at Big Red as if this was his wake. Lash Wall broke the silence.
"Well, Buchanan, you did it," he said. "And even though I see him there I don't believe it." There was deep regret in the man's voice, the sorrow they all felt for a fallen champion.
Including the weary, battered, blood-smeared victor, who wouldn't know until the aching began that his own nose was broken again and the three knuckles on his left hand dislocated.
From the floor came a growling sound as consciousness flowed back into that massive figure. Big Red opened his eyes, stared all around, settled his gaze on Buchanan's face.
"You're boss now," he said solemnly. Buchanan reached down with his hand.
"Grab hold," he said. Leech took the grip and Buchanan lifted him to his feet again. Their hands stayed locked, by mutual consent. "I got one favor to ask," Buchanan said. "What's that?" "Don't ask for a rematch." Leech tried to grin. "Might lick ya, next time." "No mights about it, Big Red. You're the bossman here."
"Well," Leech said, "at least I got my ten dollars worth of somethin'J"
That reminded them both of the bone they'd been fighting over and they looked around the barroom. But the dancing girl had departed into the night, fled with her ten-dollar gold piece at that point in the battle royal when Buchanan seemed to be the certain loser.
The two big men looked for the girl then looked at each other, broke into grins that were really laughs on themselves. Buchanan wiped the top of his bottle with his grimy shirtsleeve, extended it to Leech. "Have a drink, Big Red," he invited. "Well, thanks, brother! Thanks! Don't mind if I do!" That was the start of a beautiful friendship, and along about dawn Lash Wall deposited both happy behemoths into the rear of an empty freight wagon and carted them back across the Rio again. The next night another shipment of duty-free cotton made its way into Mexico, from a point ten miles downriver, and another and another for thirteen consecutive nights.
When it could find the smugglers during the first week, the Army of Tamaulipas offered resistance. But each time it did try to interfere with the convoy the result was the same—a sorry drubbing—and the commanders in the field finally decided that non-interference with the damned gringos was the better part of valor. General Cueva resigned his commission, went back to raising horses, and Governor Diaz set up a conference with the Brownsville merchants to arrange for a reasonable ten per cent tariff on the goods shipped into Matamoros.
Everybody was happy, especially Rita in Ciudad Victoria. Rita and Linda and Josephine and Marie and Lolita —and all the girls who were waiting and eager to provide all sorts of entertainment for the free-spending Americans when each night's work was done.
Then the last shipment was delivered, the job was done, Big Red Leech threw a fine blowout that lasted three days and three nights, and his army dispersed to the four winds.
Twelve
BUCHANAN!" It was a female voice that hailed him as he rode through the main drag of Brownsville, happy-sounding and vaguely familiar. He turned his head to see Cristy Ford waving to him from the seat of a shiny new brougham that was parked before the entrance to the Crystal Palace. He swung his white stallion toward the carriage, spotted John Lime exiting the casino at the same moment. The man's arm was still in a sling from the battle at the jail.
"Hello, Cristy," Buchanan greeted her. "Howdy, Sheriff."
"Well just look at you!" she exclaimed, taking in the fancy new clothes, the new boots, the clean white shirt and string tie. "Why," she said, "that's even a new horse."
"That filly fooled me," Buchanan said. "Some little runt of a mustang made eyes at her over in Nuevo Leon and
she decided to become a mare."
"Heard it was a very prosperous operation," Lime said. "For all concerned."
“Not bad," Buchanan conceded. On his broad face was the grin of content that came from the satisfying action of the past three weeks.
'We heard about all the fighting," Cristy said. "This town hasn't been talking about anything else, in fact."
"And your private fight with Leech," Lime said. "We heard about that, too."
“Things get blown up," Buchanan said. Then he stared at something that seemed to interest him more. It was the huge diamond ring that sparkled on Cristy's finger.
"Mrs. Lime?" he asked.
She nodded. "As of two weeks yesterday."
"Well, say, that's fine! Congratulations, Sheriff."
"Former sheriff," Lime told him, pulling back his jacket to show the absence of the little gold star that had been almost a part of the man. "My bride has a strong aversion to guns and gunplay," he added. "We're leaving this frontier country for the more civilized life in Virginia,"
"Wish you best of luck," Buchanan said sincerely,
"Thank you. The office of Sheriff, incidentally, is up for election. Why don't you enter your name in the lists?"
"Not me," Buchanan grinned. "But I think my buddy Lash Wall will be interested."
"An outlaw?"
"Wouldn't be the first time, Mr. Lime. And I think Lash and Brownsville deserve each other." He tipped his hat. "Well," he said, "I got to be moseyin'. Things to do."
"Where you bound for, Tom?" Cristy asked him.
"Same place," Buchanan said doggedly. "New Orleans, This time I got passage all booked. Going there by boat."
The pretty bride laughed up at him. "That," she said, "ought to be something to see!"
Buchanan bade the newlyweds good-by and good luck, rode on until he came to the Wells Fargo office. There be made three consignments of cash, two to San Antonio, the third to Jess Bogan in Alpine. The sender of the money was listed in each case as The Double-B Fast Freight Company, R. Bogan, Prop.
And that was the end of it.
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