by Jonas Ward
"Don't mind if I do."
"Seems to be your day for taking charity," Frank Power cut in sharply, on certain ground with Sandoe present.
“I pay my way," Buchanan told him, "And I will, once somebody forks over three hundred and eighty I got coming."
"By 'somebody' you mean Boyd Weston," Power said. “But as it happens, Weston isn't good for the money."
“No?"
“No. He had it but he lost it." “Tough luck," Buchanan said, "For him? But not for you?"
"I'll make out all right on the deal. So will the rest of the boys. We'll just take our wages in beef."
“Think again, mister. Boyd Weston was paymaster for that drive. He doesn't own the herd."
"You own it," Buchanan said, striking a match with a flick of his thumbnail. "And I bet you're going to tell me you sold it to a third party."
"Which happens to be the fact."
Buchanan blew out a slowly billowing cloud of blue smoke, seemingly oblivious of everything but the aroma of burned tobacco leaf. His attention came back to Power almost regretfully.
"And me and Durfee's other jolly riders—all we get out of the past forty days and nights are the pleasant memories of the trail?"
"The beef is sold, Buchanan. Sold intact. Until the new owner takes possession it's a matter of principle with me that it stays intact.”
"Or what?"
"Or what?" Power echoed, laying his hand over Mike Sandoe's shoulder. "Tell him, gunfighter," he said.
The command caught Sandoe by surprise, handed him a problem he hadn't anticipated. But then he felt the pressure of Frank Power's hand and the moment of indecision passed. Gone with it was the last capricious tie that he had fashioned between himself and Buchanan.
"There won't be any trouble about the beef,” he said with drawling assurance, looking steadily at the big man. "No trouble at all"
“Got your answer?" Frank Power asked, his voice cutting knifelike through the heavy silence,
Buchanan stared down at Sandoe, a craggy smile on his face. "Thanks, anyhow, for the smoke, kid,” he said. "You're a real sport."
"Stand you a drink, too, old buddy," Sandoe said, getting to his feet. "For the long road,"
Buchanan's eyes twinkled with some inner amusement. "The long road to Indian Rocks?" he asked, "You want to drink on that?"
Sandoe shook his head, "I guess not." he said,
"Then I'll be seeing you. Take care of yourself."
"Always do, Buchanan,” Sandoe said, and the big man left them.
He left Sandoe and Frank Power but not Troy's—for as he passed through into the gambling hall his attention was diverted for an instant to the Spanish-style balcony that overlooked the room from the opposite wall. Heavy drapes were pulled across the low railing, and Buchanan was certain that he had seen the muzzle of a scatter gun poked between the drapes, then quickly withdrawn.
A bushwhacker couldn't ask for a better setup, he thought, keeping to his route without changing stride, then bellying-up to a place at the farthest end of the bar. Frank Power came on through the room a second time, and in the mirror Buchanan noted how the shotgun had nervously appeared and disappeared at his entrance. Power went on out into Signal Street, his manner urgent and efficient.
Mike Sandoe remained in the little office, alone with
thoughts that were neither worldly nor weighty. A restlessness came over him, and the dimensions of the room gave him a feeling of restriction. He also decided that he was hungry, hungry as hell, but he knew that eating was to be a discomfort after what Miller's fist had done to his insides. He opened the door and stepped into the corridor thinking that the answer to his problems might be three good jolts of red-eye dispensed at the bar.
He had taken only two steps into the big room when he halted catlike, warned by some sixth sense that all was not as it should be. For if there was a plodding dullness to Mike Sandoe's ordinary thinking, his reaction to hazard was incalculably swift. Without even glancing above him to the balcony, he knew that there was his peril. He resumed walking, his hand only inches away from the low-slung butt of the Colt,
"Hold it right there!"
Sandoe heard Moose Miller's ragged-sounding command and kept walking. If he could get abreast of the drinkers at this end of the bar, if he could get in among them . . .
“I said hold it!”
Sandoe stopped, turned bleakly toward the balcony.
Miller stood revealed there now, so huge and grotesque that the big greener cradled in his arms seemed diminutive.
"Now both of you hold it," said a calm voice in that awfully still room, and Buchanan moved out from his place at the other end, his handgun hanging almost casually in his fist,
"Stay out of this!" Miller shouted down, "It's just between me and him.”
"It will be if you let go with that, boomer,” Buchanan warned. "You and him at one funeral,”
"But he's gonna kill me on sight! By God, everybody heard him!"
Buchanan swung his head toward Sandoe for an instant. “Speak up, Mike. You'd better talk treaty with this son."
Sandoe spread his empty hands, "I'm dead if I don't," he said ruefully. "Let's call this argument off."
"Your turn, Miller," the peacemaker said,
"You mean it, gunman?'' Miller demanded "I'm free to come and go in this town?"
"Free as the breeze, fat man. Just take me out from under that greener."
Moose Miller took a deep, relaxing breath, upended the barrels, and stepped backward. Then it happened. Mike Sandoe's hand swept down and up again. He fired three times without even sighting, drove two more slugs into the jerking, reeling hulk on the balcony. Miller died there and his unfired shotgun fell with a clatter to the floor of the bar.
Sandoe was moving sideways along the bar, swiftly, his eyes blazing with wild excitement while agile fingers pumped a fresh load of cartridges into the cylinder of the smoking Colt. He held it hip-high, ready for anything that might follow.
"Neat,” he said to Buchanan in a charged, admiring voice, "Neat, That squares us for Durfee."
Buchanan was desolate. He stood there and looked
bleakly into the killer's face, as deeply hurt by the raw treachery as if he had committed the thing himself. Mike Sandoe's mouth continued to open and close, words sounded, but the roaring in the big man's mind drowned them out. His left shoulder dipped, lazily it seemed to him, and the feel of his fist smashing that mouth closed was a deep satisfaction. Mike Sandoe went down without ever seeing what hit him.
Buchanan turned and walked from the place. On the sidewalk immediately outside he was confronted by an anxious Frank Power and Marshal Grieve. Something they saw in his eyes made them pull aside and let him pass unquestioned.
Chapter Eight
Bernie Troy had been a spectator to the whole affair, even a participant, after his fashion. His privileged seat was at a table in the corner, one commanding a full view of the action, and across his knees his hand still gripped the shiny new revolver that was supposed to have been the kicker if Moose Miller faltered.
But he had not counted on Buchanan's play, and what happened after that had been simply too sudden to follow, too risky for Gambler Troy to take a hand in.
And hardly was he absorbing the impossible fact that Miller was dead when he saw Buchanan hit Sandoe without heed of that murderous gun. Bernie Troy's chance was there, handed to him, but instead of emptying his .45 into the fallen figure, he was unable to do anything else but follow Buchanan's progress to the doors.
Then Frank Power was hurrying inside, going directly to Sandoe, helping him to his feet, and moving him back to the office.
Grieve spotted Troy came to the table directly,
"What the hell goes on here, Bernie? What happened?"
Troy shook his head and smiled wryly. "Nothing for you,” he told the lawman. "All things considered? I guess you'd have to call it a fair fight,”
"Miller was armed?"
Troy no
dded. "All he had to do was squeeze his finger,” he said. "One little touch and he could have died of old age." Troy pushed back his chair and got up. "I put the gun in the poor bastard's hands, Marshal, Too bad I couldn't have done his thinking for him, too,”
Grieve left him, went to the bar for verification of the shooting from other eyewitnesses, and Bernie Troy let his glance rise to the balcony. Four men were carrying the lifeless Moose Miller from there, and to Troy it was a bad omen, as if a hat had been tossed on a bed, a mirror broken. Like nearly all gamblers, he was realistic about everything in life but luck—and from the day he had hired Miller, all his luck had been good. But this could mean the end to the winning streak, and he told himself that if he were as smart as he thought he was, this was the time to quit.
But he knew he wasn't going to take his winnings and go. From the start the idea of the game had been winner take all. Bernie Troy knew it, and Frank Power knew it.
Frank Power, at the moment, was having his hands full with Mike Sandoe.
"Slugged me,” the gunman muttered unsteadily. "Sneaked one-—no damn reason at all ...."
"Forget your private fights,” Power told him sharply. "You've got work to do."
'That's the last punch hell ever throw," Sandoe went on, doggedly attentive to his own business. "Teach that big fist-fighter something. . . ."
"Drink this,” Power said, handing him a tumbler of whisky. "It'll clear your head." Sandoe drained the glass.
“Now I want you to listen," Power went on. "Do we have a deal or don't we? Are you a gunfighter or some punk drifter?"
"You know what I am,”
"Then start acting like one. How much money did you
Make out of Moose Miller? How much do you think I'm going to pay you to go gunning for Buchanan when there's something more important that I want you to do?"
Sandoe said nothing.
"All right, then!" Power jerked his head to the money sack he had carried inside. "This is the payroll for the crew. Ride it out to Durfee pronto."
Sandoe looked at it. "A dime for every dollar they got coming”
"Right. And it's your job to see they take it and like it.”
"What about the herd?"
The buyer will take possession when I tell him it's peaceful out there. That's what you're going to tell me."
“I’ll tell you," Sandoe said, hefting the sack.
“I’ve got a fast bay tied out back," Power said, opening the door. "Don't spare it getting to Indian Rocks."
"Give me fifteen minutes for grub."
“No more than that," Power said impatiently. He shoved a folded piece of paper into the pocket of Sandoe's shirt. "Show that to Durfee by way of explaining things."
They left the office, Sandoe turning to the rear entrance, Power walking toward the front of the place. He found his partner and Grieve in conversation at the turn of the bar and stopped beside them.
"Sorry about what happened, Bernie," he said, no sorrow evident in his voice. "One of those things that couldn't be avoided."
"I think it could, Frank," Troy answered.
Power smiled. "This isn't New York State," he said.
"No," Troy agreed. "It's Bella. A nice closed town until last night.
"Still closed, Bernie. Right, Marshal?"
"I hope so," Grieve said, frowning. "Between the two of them, those drifters have cut into the enforcement of any deadline."
"You'll have Sandoe to side you by nightfall"
"From what I've heard in here," Grieve said, "I'll take the other one."
Power's face tightened. "That one's no good to you or to me," he said. "He's what I'd call an undesirable." ·
"Little Joe doesn't think so. He and his friends bailed him out."
"Little Joe and his friends count for nothing in this town," Power said. "If that Buchanan character is still in Bella when Sandoe gets back, I want the two of you to run him out." Having given one order, he turned his attention to Bernie Troy. "And next time you see a man betting what isn't his, I'd appreciate your shutting down the game."
Now Troy smiled. "I didn't know Boyd Weston was associated with you in a business way," he said.
"I'll make it a point to keep you better informed," Power told him, and abruptly moved away from them and out of the place.
He crossed to Bella House, irritated with his partner, with Grieve, with the almost regular emergence of the nobody named Buchanan into every conversation. In thirty seconds last night, at the door of Ruby's room, he had had as much of Buchanan as he wanted in a lifetime.
Thinking of Buchanan reminded him of another troublemaker he had known in the Army. It was some years ago, but this other man? Lieutenant Hamlin, had Buchanan's mulish stubbornness when he had hold of something he thought was right. Major Power would never forget Hamlin’s daily carping about the shortages at the quartermaster's depot, the sale of whisky to the goddam Indians, and the charges against Sergeant Major Durfee that made old Bill forgo a stinking court-martial and accept a dishonorable discharge.
Hamlin hadn't had the gall to poke his nose any further mo that business, but word must have got back to Washington, because he was ordered almost immediately to support to Colonel Kearney, at Santa Fe, and that meant combat duty. Worse, the orders were addressed to Captain Power, ignoring the temporary majority he'd been granted, and that put the handwriting plainly on the wall. Power had played the old Army game lone enough to know that Steve Kearney was going to use him ignobly in the expedition into California. He knew that he had gone about as far as Washington was going to let him go, and promptly resigned his commission.
His commission, not his connections—especially those in the Quartermaster Corps. It was a time of great concern for the Army under Kearney, what with Fremont making the expedition to California a pointless one and when there is indecision at headquarters, you can be sure there is chaos all along the chain of command. Power had no trouble to speak of in getting his hands on a sizable supply of Army weapons, even less making contact again with ex-Sergeant Major Durfee. The Mexicans and Indians who were Colonel Kearney's enemies got the rifles. Power and Durfee got cows. The beef, in its turn was sold to the Army with kickbacks and bribes all up and down the line.
The money literally poured in, but Frank Power was wise enough not to display any of it. Instead he came to Bella, a town that was accessible but not prominent, and "bought" the faro table at the original Troy's. There wasn't too much play then, too many places were competing for what gambling and drinking business there was, so Bernie Troy was happy to sell a small piece of the place and Power had the front he needed. So far as Bella was concerned, he was just another faro dealer eking out a precarious living. Then the Army demand for beef began slacking off-—there were mounting complaints about rotten animals—and Power began selling to private buyers from the Midwest. These were men like Wilson, who had bid for contracts to supply beef for the railroad labor and didn't care where they got it so long as it was cheap.
Power decided it was time to take off the wraps. He and Troy built their place opposite the hotel, set up the deadline and let nature take its course. There had been resistance, but none of it organized, and whenever it did look threatening, the measures against it were swift and thorough. The next logical step was to apply the pressure to Bernie Troy, point out to him that Bella had become too rich a prize to share.
But the problem of the immediate moment was Boyd Weston and as he climbed to the lobby of Bella House he almost relished the task at hand. Almost, because he couldn't be sure that Weston's failure to pay off the crew was going to be handled satisfactorily out at Indian Rocks. Weston, therefore, might still have hurt his operation, and he was too angry with the blundering fool to enjoy himself. He walked up the four flights and knocked briefly on the door of 46.
"Who is it?" Weston asked sulkily.
"Power. Open up."
"I'll come over to the place tonight, Frank. I don't want to see anyone right now."
&nbs
p; Power made a brutal decision then. He took a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, and twisted. The door swung open, shoving Boyd Weston backward, and the bigger man stepped through.
"You'll see me now, you lousy thief!"
"It wasn't stealing, Frank. Just bad luck. I'll pay it back." Weston wore the same shirt and trousers he had played poker in, had slept in for a few hours this morning. Now, unshaven, pale, with deep purple rings beneath his eyes, he looked physically ill as he glanced from Power's face to the key in Power's hand. "Where did you get that?" he asked.
Powers own silent gaze went beyond him to where Ruby Weston lounged against the window sill.
"Tell him, Ruby," he said.
Weston swung around to his wife. "Tell me what?"
"Why can't you just fire him and be done with it?"
The dark-haired woman asked with annoyance in her voice.
"What is this? What's going on between you two?"
"Oh, Boyd, for heaven's sake! No scenes, please!"
“No," Power said. "A scene would be good right here.
I spent the night with your wife, Weston. When I sent
you to Sacramento last month I spent every night with
her. At your place. In your bed." Power smiled. "Don't
just stand there, man! For crissake, do something about it.”
It was Ruby that Weston turned to. "You bitch. You cheap, whoring bitch." Power pulled him around by the shoulder and hit him in the face with his balled fist. Weston stumbled backward and would have gone down except for the table that braced him.
" Now do something else," Power told him. "Do something to me,"
Weston shook his head and fear shone in his face, blood began to flow from his lips.
“Then I'll tell you what you're going to do," Power said. "You're going to leave Bella, leave it for good. You won't ever come within a hundred miles of this town. Understand all that?"
Weston nodded, watched dumbly as Power took a folded document from his coat pocket.
