by Jonas Ward
"Why don't you tell them the truth?" Sandoe murmured to him furiously when Miller was returning to the bench.
"What makes you think they want the truth?" Buchanan answered, and sat back in his chair.
The three who had worked on him with the bungstarters3 gave their testimony in the unrecorded trial, and except for marking their likenesses in his memory, Buchanan had no cross-examination. He looked more interested however, when the next witness was called.
"Miss Carrie James to the stand,” Bailiff Jenkins said with unconscious lechery in his voice, and tried to escort her to the chair. She shook him off and sat down with her back half turned to Buchanan.
"What happened as you saw it, Carrie?" the judge asked
The girl turned, pointed briefly at Sandoe.
"That one came in to gamble when he should have been sleeping it OFF somewhere. That one"—pointing even more briefly at Buchanan—"tried to get him out. Miller came up then and I guess maybe he didn't see how it was. Anyhow, that's when the real trouble started."
''Which one did the insulting, Carrie?" the judge asked, and it was obvious that her answer to that would weigh very heavily with him.
But Carrie shook her head. "Neither,” she said very definitely. "One of them might have got around to something, but neither of them gave the other the chance."
"Any questions?" the judge asked Buchanan.
"Yeah," the big man said this time. "Tell me something, Carrie. Did I dream it, or was there a lot of caterwauling going on overhead just before my lights were turned out?"
"The name is Miss James," she said in a low voice, "And what, exactly, is caterwauling?"
"Well," Buchanan said, spreading his hands, "I don't mean it the way we say on the range. Like, you know, when a cow's all heated up—"
The judge came down with his gavel, shutting off the outburst of guffawing from the rear.
"I mean," Buchanan went on as though there had been no interruption, "a lot of screechin* and screamin'. Was that you, Carrie?"
"I never screeched in my life," she told him, her eyes flashing danger signals.
"I take back the screeching" Buchanan said gallantly. "And thanks for the hand last night."
"I'd do the same for anyone, believe me. May I leave now?" she asked acidly,
"Sure," Buchanan said, and as she went from the stand to walk out of the courtroom he was clearly beguiled. But so, too, was every other man present, and many quiet moments passed before the judge brought himself back from his reveries and continued the business at hand.
"Bring the prisoners to the bar," he said, and the bailiffs voice was an echo.
Buchanan and Sandoe left the enclosure and took their places below the bench,
"Well, you're both guilty, that's clear enough," the judge told them.
"Guilty of what?" Mike Sandoe demanded hotly*
"Of crossing the deadline—what do you think?"
"Nobody charged us with crossin’ any goddam deadline!"
"You," the old man on the bench said, "are also guilty of profanity, contempt and raising your voice. Fifty dollars or fifty days," He turned to Buchanan. "Yours is twenty-five. Days or dollars, take your pick."
"Fifty dollars!" Sandoe protested, but Buchanan shouldered him aside,
"It's a little steep, Judge," Buchanan said mildly. "All things considered. But we’ll pay it and go our way as soon as the bank opens."
Raucous laughter from the room broke over him at that statement, and he looked around at the grinning faces, curious at the disbelief.
"The bank's been open two hours," the judge said. "Who's supposed to be good for the money over there?"
"That's between us and the party in question, fudge,” Buchanan said, and another derisive howl went up.
“Take ‘em back to their cell,” the judge said. "They can work it out for the town,”
The bailiff moved toward them when another voice spoke up.
“I’ll pay the fifty-dollar fine,” Frank Power said in his strong, carrying voice.
"As you say, Frank,” the judge said. "Turn that one loose. Put the big one back."
"Both or none,” Mike Sandoe said, "Put us both back. You won't hold us after sundown,”
The judge raised his gavel impulsively, then his face became indecisive when he marked the determined approach of Frank Power toward the bench. The man wanted no trouble with Bella's boss.
"”I’ll handle this,” Power said, and the gavel came down again, softly, gratefully. Power stopped beside Mike Sandoe, spoke to him in a confidential voice.
"I'm offering you work, gunfighter," he told him.
"What kind of work?"
"The one you know best,”
Sandoe looked at him, smiled, "Hear that, Buchanan? No more pushing wet beef."
"Just you, Sandoe. I pay gun wages. Fist fighters are a dime a dozen."
"But we're buds," Sandoe protested. "We're a team.”
Power shook his head. "You,” he said. "That's all I buy,”
"You're right, Power,” Buchanan said. "This fist fighter isn't for sale."
"Ah, hell,” Sandoe said. "Let's the three of us pull a cork somewhere and talk this deal over."
'There's nothing to talk over,” Power said. "I want the man who outfogged Sam Kersey." He gave Sandoe's arm a man-to-man pat. "That's you," he said, and Mike Sandoe grew visibly taller on the praise. His expression seemed to change, too; it became bland, somehow older and tougher. He turned to Buchanan.
"What should I say?" he asked lamely.
Buchanan smiled at him.
"Just say so long, Mike,” he told him, holding out his big hand. "And keep a lid on that temper,"
"Don't worry about me, I sure wish— Well, you know. “
"I know. Good luck, kid."
"Don't call me—" Like that his mouth had tightened. Then it relaxed and a choppy laugh broke from him. "Okay, Dad," he said. "Good luck to yourself."
The judge's voice came down to them. "Everything settled, Frank?"
"Everything's settled. Sandoe goes with me.”
"Return his property, bailiff,” the judge said. "Put the other prisoner back in custody,”
Mike Sandoe took a step forward, putting Buchanan behind him. "I got something to say, seem' I'm a free citizen and all"
"Say it, then."
"This is in the way of a public announcement," the gunfighter said. "Like I was putting it in the newspaper,”
"What do you mean?"
Sandoe cleared his throat, and when he spoke the words went through that room cold and clear. "There's a certain over-stuffed, pig-eyed, no-good son of a bitch present who's got himself exactly one hour to clean up his personal affairs. If he's still on the premises after that, Judge? I'm gonna open him up from his fat chin to his belly button."
There was a silence, and the judge looked down at Mike Sandoe, then beyond him to Moose Miller. "I guess you made your intent plain, mister," he said matter-of-factly. "It's up to the marshal to see no law is broken, Now clear out of my court,”
Frank Power led Sandoe away protectively, the high bidder in possession of the auction's prize young bull, and Buchanan watched them go feeling neither anger nor surprise at the abrupt realignment. What did give the tall man some concern as he trudged back to the cell was the nonappearance this morning of the money man, Boyd Weston—-and the growing suspicion that whoever this Weston was, and wherever he was, the man Buchanan should be dealing with was Frank Power.
'The door of the cell closed behind him, the sound breaking his reverie and awaking him to a more urgent problem.
"Let's eat." he suggested to his jailer; and the cantankerous old man scowled up at him fiercely.
"You'll get no handouts in this calaboose, Mr. Rannihan. You work for your grub."
“Then let's work,” Buchanan said agreeably.
"Ain't et yet myself. But I'll be back—and I hope you know something about knocking trees down,”
He left and Buchanan lea
ned back against a wall, hooked his thumbs inside his belt, and tried to consider his situation philosophically. Was he better off than he'd been in Yuma? Well, hardly. Was he worse off? More than somewhat. No food, no tobacco, no money. The plain fact was he had not improved himself physically, materially, or spiritually in the last forty-one days. He had actually backslid—which was no easy chore, because he had actually thought Yuma was rock bottom for him. His own cheering words came back to him: "Man, you’ve got no place to go from here on but up,” Incredibly, he'd gone down.
The jailer came back, and Buchanan saw at a glance that something had gone wrong for the man.
"Come outta there,” he said, unlocking the heavy door* "Some damn fool has paid your fine."
"Too bad, old-timer, I was sure looking forward to working for you."
The jailer spat. "If I’m any judge," he croaked, "you'll be back by nightfall."
"Keep my old bunk ready,” Buchanan requested, and followed him to the marshal's office.
The lawman was waiting for him there, and so was another man, whom Buchanan recognized vaguely as the proprietor of Little Joe's Saloon. He recalled their brief encounter the night before, but now he saw him differently, as a private citizen instead of as a professional, aproned barman; a chunky olive-skinned fifty-year-old, with curly, coal-black hair, full mustaches, and remarkable eyes about the same shape, color, and plaintiveness as a spaniel's.
"Here's your property," Marshal Grieve said, indicating the gunbelt and bolstered Colt. "My advice is to shake loose of Bella pronto."
"Nothing I'd like better, once a few things get straightened out." He swung to Little Joe. "Much obliged, friend. I'll see about paying you back immediate,”
"No hurry, mister. The money's a kind of community project."
"How's that?" Buchanan asked, buckling on the weapon.
"We passed the hat. Anybody who's been shoved around by Moose Miller was glad to give what he could." The little man held the office door open and Buchanan passed through it into the bright sunlight outside.
"A fine day," he said, filling his great chest with a fresh supply of air. "A real fine day. Where does this fellow Power headquarter?"
"Power?" Little Joe repeated. "Hell, if I'd known you was gonna run to Power, I’d have let you rot in the pokey."
Buchanan laughed. "It's no social call," he explained, "I'm trying to collect some money due me."
"For what?" Little Joe asked suspiciously.
"For forty days' hard labor. But for some damn reason I can't get the right party to ante up."
"Take some advice, then, big fella. If Frank Power doesn't want to accommodate you, don't press your luck,”
"Where would I find him??>
"He went into Troy's with that sidekick of yours.” little Joe told him.
"And where do I bring you the twenty-five? Your place?"
"I'll be at the Happy Times.” Little Joe said. "Trading troubles with my friend Billy Burke."
"See you there,” Buchanan said, and started up Signal Street to Troy's.
Chapter Seven
When Frank Power took Mike Sandoe into the cavernous gambling saloon, he draped his arm around the other man's shoulder, a negligent-looking gesture but one that wrote the gunfighter's ticket in the town of Bella. Sandoe had arrived, he was an outsider no more, and until or unless Frank Power signified something else, he was to be accorded the proper respect.
There was hurried movement at the center of the bar to make room for them, but Power seemed oblivious of the deference as he walked Sandoe through the big room and up to the door of the office lettered "Private—Mr. Troy." He opened the door without knocking and ushered Sandoe inside.
"Take the load off, Mike.” Power said familiarly indicating a chair beside the desk. He himself took the seat behind it, got a cigar from the open box, and offered another to Sandoe. Power lit his own with a kind of thoughtful attention to the evenness of the flame, masking the hawkish intensity with which he watched Mike Sandoe.
"How's Bill Durfee?" Power asked without preface, and the suddenness of the question brought Sandoe up short.
"Durfee looked snake-bit, last I saw of him," he answered after a moment.
"You been riding for him very long, Mike?"
"Three drives."
"So you knew about not coming into Bella?"
"I knew,” Sandoe said, and there was a pause while both men savored the aroma of cigar smoke. When Power spoke again his voice was reminiscent, his words seemingly apropos of nothing very important.
"Don't suppose you ever tasted the good old Army life, did you?"
"Not me."
"The Army's a great teacher," Power said. "More efficient than the civilian way. Less wasted motion,"
"I guess."
"Taught me something that's been turned into pure gold. Discipline. Learn the Army way, Mike, and you're three jumps ahead of every civilian you'll meet."
"Meaning I shouldn't have jumped the traces last night?"
"Bill Durfee's a good man?" Power told him. "I go back a ways with Bill. He soldiered under me against Santa Anna. Been working together ever since we decided to make our fortunes on the outside."
"Durfee don't talk much about the Army," Sandoe said.
"Bill figures the army's changed, gone soft. Look how the politicians are treating Fremont after all he did for ‘em in this territory." Power waved his arm. "No matter. What I was getting around to was this: How’d you like to go back to Indian Rocks again?"
"Back to Durfee?" Sandoe asked. He shook his head, "No," he said, "I'd as lief old Bill and me met on some neutral ground. He's got too many guns to side him out there."
"That's the problem, Mike. Bill has got to tell those boys the bad news about their money. I want you to help
him explain what happened to it, how it's no fault of Bill's."
"Why don't this Weston tell it himself?"
"No, I got other plans for that bird. Your first job for me is to make sure that crew scatters. I'll give you what cash I can spare and you and Bill can pay them off ten cents on the dollar."
"Buchanan included?"
"No," Power said with some warmth. "That one's got the last dime he'll ever earn from me. In fact, if he's still in Bella when you and Bill get back, your second job will be to move him out."
"You keep a man busy."
"And pay him prime wages." He looked up as the door swung open. "Come on in, Bernie," he said to Troy. “Shake the hand of Mike Sandoe, a new man I just hired,”
Bernie Troy did briefly.
"Mr. Troy and I are partners here, Mike,” Power explained.
''Oh,” the gunman said, "'Then I guess I'm sorry about the little trouble last night."
Troy looked past him to Frank Power,
"I came in to see you about some crazy talk I just heard. Something about this new man of yours giving Moose his papers,”
"Don't worry about it, Bernie.” Power said. He turned to Sandoe. "Mr. Troy needs Miller to keep the peace. We'll let bygones be bygones."
"The hell we will," Sandoe said, and the words brought a stain of color to Frank Power's strong jawlinef set a nerve to jumping spasmodically in his temple.
"We were talking about discipline," he said, obviously under great pressure to let that voice thunder.
"We were talking business,” Sandoe answered brashlye "What's between me and Lardbelly is personal and private."
"Miller won't be armed,” Bernie Troy said then, and Mike Sandoe laughed at him,
"I don't care if he's bare naked, mister. The next time I see that son of a bitch I'm goin' to kill him."
Troy swung on Power. "Frank, I'm holding you responsible."
"You're not holding me anything,” the big man snapped irritably. "This time Miller used those big hands on the wrong man."
"Then you back him?"
"I'm out of it, God damn it! Didn't you hear him say it was personal?"
Bernie Troy turned on his heel and left
the office without another glance at either of them. The door closed behind him with a slam, and Power, still furious at Sandoe's flat insubordination, didn't trust himself to speak immediately. Instead he walked to the window and stood looking out at Signal Street for a long moment, recollecting how Soldier Sandoe would have fared under Brevet Major Power some five years ago. The bull whip and the stockade—probably have him shot if it occurred on bivouac, He turned from the window to find Citizen Sandoe smoking imperturbably.
"First things first, Mike," Power said with control "I'll go down to the bank and draw the crew's payoff. Wait here for me." He went out, and was making his way back through the long barroom when the entrance was unexpectedly filled by the rough-hewn figure of Buchanan.
Power stopped short and his first thought was that the man had broken jail. But there was nothing of the hunted about the casual way he came inside the place. He looked, instead, just the opposite—and Power understood then that if either of them was on the defensive, it was himself. He half turned toward the office he had just left.
"A word with you, Power!" Buchanan called, and every head in the place turned, astonished that anyone addressed Frank Power in that tone of voice. Power turned back, and against his will his eyes dropped to those outsized hands that had wreaked such havoc on Moose Miller last night.
He made himself look up, trade Buchanan's deceptively tranquil gaze with an unafraid expression of his own.
"If you've got something to say to me," Power said too forcibly, "say it in the office." Now he made the complete turn and retraced his route with an arrogant disdainful stride. Buchanan shrugged and followed.
"After you," Power said, throwing the door open.
Mike Sandoe, his feet hooked over the desktop, raised his head in surprise.
“Hey! Who busted you out?"
"They threw me a tag day,” Buchanan told him.
"Well, have a cigar, then,” the gunman said, passing ewer the box.
