by Jonas Ward
Power went on inside the chandeliered lobby, nodding brusquely to several acquaintances as he crossed the deep-piled rug to the desk. He went to the far end of the desk and in a moment he was joined there by the head clerk, a round, apple-cheeked little man named Callow.
"Hot enough for you, Mr. Power?" Callow asked his eyes aglow with something very close to veneration as he raised them to the square-jawed, granite-like face above him.
“No mail for me?" Power asked impatiently, cutting through the small talk.
The clerk didn't appear to mind. "Nothing for you on the evening stage, Mr. Power,” he said servilely.
"Boyd Weston leave a message?"
"Why, no,” Callow said, somehow looking distressed because he couldn't have more satisfactory answers. "Mr. Western's been over at Troy's since early this morning. They say," Callow added eagerly, "that it's the biggest game since that marathon you won last winter."
But he guessed wrong if he hoped to titillate the man with this morsel. The information, in fact, gave Frank Power a sharp and sudden annoyance. He pulled a long cigar from the inside pocket of his pearl-gray coat and wrenched off the tip with an angry gesture.
"How long has Mrs. Weston been here?" he asked crisply, lighting the cigar, and whatever question Callow thought he would be asked, it was not that one.
"Why, ah, she drove into town about an hour ago. She inquired at the desk for Mr. Weston and then took supper in the dining room."
"Where is she now?"
The clerk blinked.
"Now? Well, I imagine the lady has retired to her suite. It's nearly nine o'clock," he pointed out rather primly.
Frank Power was no longer listening.
"Get me my own key," he said abruptly, and Mr. Callow scurried to the rows of boxes. From the one numbered 15 he fished out a key and returned with it, handed it over, and watched with some speculation as Power strode to the curving staircase and started up.
Power reached the second floor and walked the length of that quiet corridor, going past Number 15, and turned in at the service stairs. He climbed these to the fourth floor and finally halted before the door of Room 46. At his knock the door was opened and he stepped wordlessly across the threshold. The door closed again at his back and was double-locked.
"You're late, Frank," a woman said to his back, but Power didn't answer. Instead, he moved through the little foyer and into the main room, noting that the single lamp gave out only a dim light, that the heavy drapes were drawn tightly across the window. Then he swung around to the woman, his eyes appraising.
"I'm more than late, Ruby," he said. "I'm mad as hell."
"At Boyd?"
"Your husband makes a damn poor agent."
"My husband makes a damn poor man,” Ruby Weston said unfeelingly, stepping away from the door. But when she would have passed Frank Power he slipped an arm around her supple waist and pulled her against him with an easy familiarity. He kissed her mouth, slid his lips to the hollow of her throat. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away.
"No," she said. "Your heart isn't in it." She looked up at him coolly, a raven-haired, dark-eyed woman of truly startling beauty. Her face was a study in planes; as a diamond is, and each angular feature was in almost too perfect proportion to another, creating a final effect that had the same restless, discomforting, prismatic brilliance as a precious stone. Her figure was a complement to that face: long and slender legs, boyishly slim hips, a fashionable, unemphatic bust—and overall an impression of resilience, unbreakability. Ruby Weston, nee O'Hara, was twenty-three years old. “
"Boyd had work to do for me today," Frank Power said to her now. "Important work." There was accusation in his tone.
Ruby had moved toward the settee. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder at him.
"Important to both of us, Frank," she said. "He left the ranch at seven this morning to get the money at the bank."
"The game at Troy's interfered."
Again there was the rebuke, the implication of responsibility on her part for whatever it was her husband had done.
"I know about the game." she said. "Who all is playing?"
Power smiled sardonically. "The big attraction is my friend from Chicago.” he said. "The man Boyd is supposed to be dickering with for the beef."
"That's just fine," Ruby said. "Leave it to Boyd."
Power glanced at her for a long moment and then his left hand went to the black, wiry-haired mustache on his lip, thumb and forefinger stroking it, an all but unconscious mannerism in times of decision.
"I'm afraid I'm through leaving it to Boyd, Ruby," he said. "Your husband is a luxury I can no longer afford."
There was finality in that and a deep sigh went through her body, was audible across the heavy silence between them. Obviously she had expected him to say that, and once it was spoken she seemed to feel a kind of relief,
"What becomes of us, Frank?" she asked.
"Us?"
"Boyd and I. What do we do? Where do we go from here?"
Power carried his cigar to an ash tray, looking sidewise at her as he moved, a half-amused smile touching his lips. He flicked off the long ash, his eyes never leaving her face.
"Boyd," he said very carefully, "gets the chance to ride out of this country with no regrets,"
"And me?"
"You don't ride anywhere. You move into the biggest mansion on top of Signal Hill and live happily ever after."
"As Mrs. Frank Power?"
"As Mrs. Anything-you-want"
"Then you won't marry me?"
"And spoil a beautiful friendship?"
"Suppose I insist on it?"
"Then that would spoil it." He took a deep drag on the cigar, blew out the smoke expansively. "You're a desirable woman, Ruby," he told her. "Also an intelligent one. I should have thought you'd had enough marriages to suit you."
"You miss the point," Ruby said. "I'm probably better off with Boyd."
"Boyd's a lightweight, a nothing. This morning he signed his name to a bank draft and it was worth ten thousand dollars. But I made it available, told him what to do with it. If he signs his name tomorrow morning the cashier will laugh in his face."
"So Boyd is through?"
"Finished."
"When are you going to tell him?"
"As soon as the game at Troy's is over. I don't exactly want to advertise my problems." He crossed over to where she stood. "And that game," he said huskily, "isn't going last forever."
She let his arms go about her, submitted to the embrace without joining in it.
Chapter Three
Buchanan and Sandoe made their way along Signal Street, and with each passing moment there was something new and interesting to catch the eyes of the pilgrims: here an inviting saloon, there a girl in a doorway, a hardware store with shining new handguns on display, a barber's shop, a girl passing by in a carriage, a haberdasher, two girls smiling down at them from a single window.
"Not so frolickin' fast," Sandoe complained. "What's the hurry for?"
"You'll have time for everything, kid," Buchanan told him. "What we need is the wherewithal"
They swung in toward the portico of Bella House, Buchanan in the lead, when a lean figure in black stepped from the shadows and blocked their way.
"Where do you think you're going?" asked one of Frank Power's alert bodyguards in a flat, tonelessly authoritative voice.
"I'm going in there," Buchanan answered, "as soon as you take that gun out of my ribs."
"Punchers and drifters stay south of the Happy Times Saloon,"
"Says who?"
"Says the finger on this trigger. Get back down the street where you belong."
Buchanan moved neither forward nor backward, quietly debating it, and the delay brought the gunman's partner from his waiting place in the alley entrance. It happened very swiftly then, too fast for Buchanan to stop it. The first guard's attitude, the second one's abrupt entry had snapped Mike Sandoe's trail-tau
t nerves. The Colt swept into his fist in one blurred instant and in the next it was roaring furiously.
The guard bracing Buchanan was luckier than his partner. He caught only fists—a left that slammed downward on his wrist, a choppy right that glazed his eyes and buckled his legs. Buchanan let him fall and turned to the man who had been shot, writhing and groaning in the alleyway.
"You're real slippery with that shooter,” he told Sandoe reprovingly.
"Didn't know his intention. He hurt bad?"
"Some." Buchanan's probing hand came away blood-soaked and he wiped it carefully on the wounded man's shirt. "Not much left in him,” he said.
"Tough luck,” Sandoe said. "What do you figure they were so proddy about?"
"Didn't want us muckin' up their pretty hotel, near as I could make out."
The two of them seemed oblivious of the buzz of voices from the hotel porch, of the dozen-odd gamblers and drinkers who had come out onto the street from Troy's place, curious but cautious. Then one man, a star glistening on his vest, made his way across Signal Street.
"Guns up!" he announced. "This is the law."
"Let's get out of here," Sandoe said, but Buchanan put a hand over the barrel of the drawn Colt, forced it down back toward the holster.
"This is where our money is, kid,”
“Damn it cut out the kid stuff,”
The lawman moved close to them, glanced at the pair on the ground, and then raised his startled face to Buchanan.
"What goes on here? Ain't that Kersey and Bowen?"
Buchanan shrugged. "Strangers to us, Sheriff,” he said.
"City marshal,” the man with the star corrected testily. "and strangers in Bella stay south of the Happy Times."
"So the fellow said," Buchanan admitted.
*"And you plugged him?" the marshal asked, incredulous.
"That was me," Mike Sandoe said. "The first one braced us with his gun already drawed. That one doing all the moaning like to have scared me half to death when he busted out of the alley.”
"It was more justifiable than not,” Buchanan agreed. ""You got my word for it, Marshal,”
“Your word! And who the hell are you?"
'Tom Buchanan," Buchanan said. "Out of Alpine, West Texas. Sheriff Jeff Sage will vouch for my word around Alpine,”
"This is around Bella, Territory of California," the marshal told him, bristling even more. "And the pair you picked on work for Mr. Frank Power.”
"He ought to learn them better damn manners,” Sandoe said.
The marshal turned his head to the people on the porch,
"Will somebody get Doc Brown down here?"
"Sent for," someone answered, and the lawman swung back to Buchanan and Sandoe.
"Saddle up and ride, boys,” he said. "That's the best break you'll ever get in Bella."
"Thanks just the same," Buchanan told him, "We got some business matters to attend to first."
"With who?"
"Fella in the hotel here."
"Didn't I just tell you about staying south of the—"
"Marshal, we're not going to break the law in Bella. But that 'south of the Happy Times' business leaves me with a bad smell in my nose,”
"Likewise," Sandoe said. "So step to one side, Mr. Marshal, and let two peace-lovin' gents be about their business."
He brushed the officer aside and started for the entrance stairs, causing hurried movements on the porch as the onlookers scurried out of his way.
Buchanan paused briefly at the marshal's side. "That body don't mean no real harm,” he said confidentially. "Just nerved up some, is all."
"Nerved up? That's Sam Kersey he plugged, the swiftest gunny that ever worked these parts."
"They're all the best till the next one rides in," Buchanan said, and went off after Sandoe with the marshal's wide-eyed gaze following him up the stairs.
They crossed the porch together, but when they entered the lobby Sandoe fell a step behind, as if seeking some sort of assurance from Buchanan in the face of such elegance and respectability.
The head clerk, Callow, had got a hasty report of the shooting outside, and now he watched the approach of the ferocious pair with a face gone chalk-colored. Killers, he told himself, and all he could think about was the dream he had had, the one in which he was killed during a gunfight down at the south end of town. But this was no dream.
"I'm looking for Boyd Weston,” Buchanan said, and his voice was the only sound in that hushed room.
Callow tried to talk but his throat was locked, all he could do was shake his head from side to side.
Buchanan, misinterpreting the clerk's fear for evasion looked down at the open register. "Boyd Weston” read one of the signatures, and someone else had written, "46."
Buchanan swung to the curving staircase and mounted it with Sandoe close behind.
“Some layout,” Sandoe said when they reached the first
“Got a bigger one in San Antone. Heard about an even bigger one than that in Frisco, Nine floors, straight up.”
"Man!"
They climbed to the fourth floor and went on down the corridor to Room 46. Buchanan rapped his knuckles on the door, waited, and knocked again.
"Who is it?" asked a woman's voice then7 and Buchanan marked the hesitancy, the worry.
I want to see Boyd Weston," he said.
"He's not here. Go away."
"It's important I see him, ma'am."
"There was no immediate reply, and they could hear a murmured conference beyond the thin panel. Instinctively, Like some animal oversensitive to danger, Mike Sandoe got away from the door and flattened himself against the wall. Buchanan eyed him curiously.
"What do you want to see him about?" the woman
“Its a little money matter, ma'am," Buchanan said, embarrassed. "I'm owed some wages, is all." That brought on another powwow inside the room, and then the door was opened to reveal the face of Ruby Weston. Buchanan smiled.
"Wages for what?" she asked, her manner hard and brusque to cover the start this unkempt, unshaven character had just handed her, At the sound of her voice Sandoe moved back into view, startling her anew. She took a backward step and would have closed the door against them except that a man of Buchanan's own dimensions eased her aside and filled the doorway.
"You Boyd Weston?" Buchanan asked.
"No," Frank Power said without hesitation "I'm not,”
"Then we're sorry to have troubled you,"
"You probably will be," Power told him. "How did you get this far?"
"Oh," Buchanan said. "You're Frank Power."
"I'm Power. Were you two responsible for the gunplay I heard in the street?"
"I guess. The kid here did a little damage to one of your alley-jumpers."
Power looked at Sandoe then, appraisingly.
"That good, are you?"
"Passing fair," Sandoe said. "Town life just took your man's edge off, that's all"
Power seemed to like that, for he was smiling when he spoke to Buchanan again.
"Why all the interest in Boyd Weston?"
"Money, like I told the lady. Where would I find the man?"
"Boyd's across the street," Power said, "but he's very busy. What do you figure he owes you?"
"Four hundred dollars apiece," Buchanan answered.
"For what?"
"For services rendered."
"On the trail?"
Buchanan's eyes narrowed at the knowingness of the question.
"For services rendered," he repeated.
"Boyd's good for it," Power said, "but the bank is closed. How much do you need to tide you over for the night?"
"You're taking quite an interest in our business, aren't you?"
For a moment Power's square jaw jutted forward and he seemed about to pick up the gauntlet. Then, from behind, Ruby's hand gripped his arm and his body relaxed.
"Boyd's a friend of mine," he said. "I wouldn't want to see him dunned in a public place." He produced a
handsome leather billfold and took four gold certificates from it. "Here's forty dollars, friend," he said. "I'm running close to the line myself tonight."
“And who do we see for the rest?" Buchanan asked. “You or Boyd Weston?"
“I don’t owe you anything,” Power said. "Now or at any time."
Buchanan turned to Sandoe, found him staring past Power at Ruby Weston.
"What do you say, Mike?"
"What?" the gunfighter asked, pulling his eyes away with an effort.
“We got an offer of twenty now and the rest tomorrow. Or we can go across the street and see Boyd Weston for all of it."
"Whatever you say, Buchanan."
"We’ll take this,” Buchanan told Power. "And thanks, seeing as how you're doing it for a friend."
"In Bella,” Power said, "I'm a good friend to have."
The remark brought a thoughtful expression to Buchanan’s mobile face, the threat of it dimming the good-naturedness that was nearly always lurking there. When that was gone he looked like a half-fed panther. He turned away from the door and began retracing his steps to the Fairway. Mike Sandoe followed after a moment.
Back on Signal Street again, all was reasonably quiet. there was no sign of the bodyguards or even a suggestion at the recent incident.
"Here's yours,” Buchanan said, handing Sandoe two of the ten-dollar notes.
"Yeah," Sandoe said, jamming them in his pocket, his thoughts on something else. "Say, what do you think was the setup upstairs?"
"You heard the man," Buchanan said, moving south along the street. "Her husband's a friend of his."
"Damn! I wish he was a friend of mine."
'On that ticket," Buchanan said dryly, "Boyd Weston could get elected mayor. Well, I'm ducking in here, Mike."
