by Jonas Ward
"Something else you're going to do is sign over that ranch."
"No,” Weston said, showing some spark of defiance. "I’ll sell it to you."
"You sold it to me last night. This is just a formality."
He unfolded the paper, took it to the writing desk in the corner. "Come on, gambler. Write your lousy name."
"It's all I have left."
"You never earned it,” Power told him harshly. "You inherited it. And you never did a damn thing with it after that. Sign your name, Boyd."
Weston looked to his wife and she returned the glance impassively. He walked slowly to the desk and Power all but put the pen into his lax fingers.
"Right there,” Power said, and Weston scrawled his signature at the bottom of the transfer. "Now get the rest of your things and start riding."
"I'm beat, Frank,” he complained. "I haven't eaten for twenty-four hours. I need sleep."
Power took him by the arm and hustled him across the room. "I said get your things and ride. You're lucky to be getting that much chance." He shoved the other man into the bedroom and waited threateningly in the doorway,
Weston returned in a few moments wearing his black coat and flat-topped hat. Power dogged him back across the room to the front door. He pulled it open.
"Stay clear of Bella,” he said in his crispest voice. "Remember that."
Weston went out of the room without another word and Power closed the door and locked it. He turned to the woman, his face pleased and arrogant.
"What's next on the agenda?"
"You didn't mention last night that you were stealing my ranch,” Ruby Weston said.
"That's a funny word to use to me."
"It wasn't intended to be funny. Are you going to give me the place?"
"No,” he said? "you're going to live here in town. Where the bright lights are."
"And you?"
I’ll be in town, too, But I'm also going to stock my new ranch,”
“What a nice future,” she said. "For you."
“And you, Ruby,” he told her, "You're in it," He was
moving toward her and his voice grew huskier.
"No," she said when he would have embraced her.
"What the hell do you mean, no?"
“I have the feeling I've been had,” she said with cold anger. "I don't want to be manhandled on top of it."
'"This is Frank you're talking to, Ruby,” he said warningly, but her manner only became more aloof.
"Good-by, Frank," she said. "Call on me when you have one of two propositions, A marriage certificate or a
deed to the ranch with my name on it."
I'll call on you tonight,” he said, biting off each word. "When you've taken a good long look at the situation you're in."
"My situation is all right,” she said. "I won't want for anything in this man's town,"
“But you will," he told her. "Because I'll kill the man who comes near you." He swung on his heel then and strode out of the room, straight-backed and furious.
Chapter Nine
The edginess was still riding Buchanan as he went south from Troy's to where his benefactor waited at the Happy Times. Knocking Mike Sandoe down hadn't been enough, What that slippery son needed was the full treatment,
the chance to carry his arm in a sling for three months and learn some humility.
To hell with it. And after that to hell with Bella and Mr. Tinhorn Power, Buchanan's sole and abiding concern from here on in was the lien he had on those eight head out at Indian Rocks. But he owed Little Joe an explanation and the assurance he would get back the twenty-five dollars. He pushed on inside the saloon and found his man talking to another at the all but empty bar.
"There he is," Little Joe said warmly, waving him over to them. "Billy Burke,” he told his companion, "grab hands with a man here. His name is Buchanan,”
"And he does it proud,” the boss of the Happy Times said, exchanging a hearty grip. Burke was a man of medium build with florid coloring and an outsized paunch that marked him as one of his own best customers. "A drink all around for the lad that whipped Moose Miller."
"Miller's dead."
"No! Well, the day gets brighter and brighter as it goes along,” Burke said then, his brogue carrying a festive air. "Drink up so's we can pour another."
"You did it?" Little Joe asked hesitantly, and Buchanan shook his head.
"I shilled it," he said gloomily.
"For Sandoe?"
Buchanan's shoulders shifted restlessly beneath his shirt. He lifted the shot of whisky and tossed it off.
"I’ll need that loan extended," he said to Little Joe. "Until I can dispose of some property."
"While you're at it," Billy Burke said, "dispose of some property for me. Namely, the Happy Times Saloon." He had taken two drinks and now poured out another all around. "A toast to Frank Power and Bernie Troy," he said. "Twin salts of the earth. May they blister in hell for eternity and a month."
"Second the nomination," Little Joe said.
Buchanan had nothing to add and drained his glass a second time.
"I'll send you the money, Little Joe," he said, turning away. "My thanks to both of you.”
"Hey, boys, things are popping!" shouted a voice from
the entrance, It was an old man, eyes dancing, but at sight of the towering Buchanan he stopped short and swallowed nervously.
"Meet Harry Rowe," Little Joe said, "This is Buchanan."
'"Don't I know it," Rowe said, "I just now seen him commit suicide."
"What's that?" Little Joe asked.
"What I said. He like to have knocked that kid killer loose from his head. If that ain't suicide, then ask the late Moose Miller," Harry Rowe shook his own ancient head from side to side. "You should have finished what you started, mister,” he advised Buchanan solemnly, "Nobody leaves a rattler to get a second go at him."
"That particular one is welcome," Buchanan told him, a little wistfully, it seemed to Little Joe, He reached out and put his hand on the big man's arm.
"Mike Sandoe don't scare you none?"
Buchanan looked down? surprised. "Not that I know of." he said.
*And Frank Power, You'd take him on?"
""Already have,"
"How do you mean?"
That property I mentioned. There's two different ideas about who owns it,"
"Let's go into the back room," Little Joe said after a moment. "You too, Billy. I just birthed an idea."
Billy Burke pot the bottle and three glasses on a tray and led the way to the room past the deserted gambling tables and dusty roulette wheel. The trio took seats around a table, but when the host began to provide another drink Little Joe stopped him.
"Let's leave a little room for some clear thinking." he said.
“Not my kind of thoughts," Burke said.
"Well, maybe misery does love company,” Little Joe told him. "As a starter, Friend Billy, what would you say to a partnership? You and me,”
"Fine," Burke said without hesitation. "You take half my losses and I'll take half yours."
'Then what do you say if I bring all my liquid stock-over here, chop up my bar for kindling, and launch a respectable quiet restaurant with me as chef and major-domo?"
"Fine,” Burke said again. "We'll always have food and drink, partner."
"And then we’ll break the deadline," Little Joe said then, and this time Burke only stared at him. It was seconds after he drank his drink before he found his voice.
"Worthless as I am," he said to Little Joe, "I still have a hankering for life. Also, I remember sitting in this same room the night Zed Jackson decided he'd break the deadline, God rest his brave soul."
"Zed Jackson," Little Joe explained to the silent, half-attentive Buchanan, "owned a crap game and crib house next to the livery. The night Billy refers to was six months ago, and Zed walked into Troy's with two half-drunk toughs and began to solicit the trade. They merely got beat up and thrown into the street. Two nig
hts later Zed tried it again. They discovered his body about ten miles west of town."
Buchanan shrugged, nodded his head impartially. Little Joe returned to his conversation with Burke.
"We're not going to do it Zed's way," he said. "We're just going to offer the gents and ladies of Bella the same and more than they now get at the hotel and Troy's. The food in our new restaurant will be good, and there'll be plenty of it. The atmosphere will be what they call refined and congenial. And after a fine supper, an evening of sport, entertainment, and what-have-you in the good old Happy Times. That, my friend, is honest competition."
"For twenty-four hours," Billy Burke said. "Our two places will be wrecked and us with them the next night."
"They will," Little Joe said, "if the wrecking party gets past Buchanan, here,”
Buchanan had been trailing his finger through a whisky splash on the tabletop. Now his head came up.
“if what?" he asked.
"You said Power and his gunman don't scare you none," Little Joe said.
"Yeah, but-"
"And you've also got a debt of twenty-five dollars. I’m offering you a job. Sort of special peace officer for the South Signal Street Merchants’ Association. What do you say?”
“I say you're crazy. I never peace-officered in my life."
"Then forget it," Little Joe said unhappily, "and no hard feelings."
"I'd like to help you,” Buchanan protested. "But it's not my line of work."
"Wouldn't pan out, anyhow,” Billy Burke said. "Stopping Frank Power would take a troop of cavalry."
"No," Little Joe said, all his animation gone. "What it takes is somebody who'll spit in Frank Power's eye. Who'll shove his killer's gun down his throat?" He waved his hand despondently. "Hell, forget it," he said. "Don't listen to a sick and tired old man dreaming out loud."
Buchanan's chair scraped into the silence and he stood tip. Pushing wet beef at night for nothing wasn't enough. Now somebody mistook him for a goddam bouncer in a goddam saloon. No, sir! The only thing that made sense was to cut out those eight Chihuahuas he owned and point for Frisco.
"I'll send you your money,” he told Little Joe, and went out.
Billy Burke poured out two more glasses, put his arm around his friend's shoulder.
44It wouldn't have worked," he said.
Little Joe pushed the liquor aside. "Yes, it would," he said. "That fellow could have swung it. I don't know much, but I know that."
A long shadow fell across the table, blocking out the sun. Little Joe looked up into the battered, broken-nosed, wearily smiling face of Buchanan.
"How many nights did you figure on getting for that twenty-five dollars?" he asked from the doorway,
"A week," Little Joe said. "Two at the most,”
"You get one."
"You mean it? You'll back us up?"
"One week."
Little Joe's fist pounded impulsively on the fable,
"Hear that, Billy?"
Burke nodded, "Well," he said, "who wants to live forever? Here's a drink to the—what'd you call it, Little Joe?"
"The South Signal Street Merchants' Association."
"It's got a good solid ring to it. Down the hatch, boys,”
They emptied the glasses and then Little Joe spoke again.
"I've just had another idea,” he said. "Besides some pretty little waitresses in the restaurant, what we need is a female faro dealer. Another Carrie James."
"There ain't another between here and Chicago,” Burke said, "and you know it,”
"Well advertise for one in the Bulletin.” Little Joe answered, "and see what turns up. Maybe two female dealers will equal one Carrie." He got up. "Boys," he said, "we got work to do, I'll go rearrange my place and see about some handbills. Billy, get somebody to put brush and soap to the saloon and equipment. New candles in the chandelier," He swung to Buchanan, "You probably got the best eye for a shapely woman,” he said. "Hiring the faro dealer is your department/"
They left then, each to his assigned work, Buchanan went down to the office of the Bulletin, learned that the weekly was published this very afternoon, and persuaded the owner-editor-printer to take his ad. The man, Creamer by name, read what Buchanan wanted inserted. Tell you what," he said. “I’ll ran it on page one at no extra charge." 'Much obliged."
"It's mutual, mister. And any time you got another red-hot news item like this, just shoot it right in."
Buchanan looked puzzled, then reread the brief ad he'd composed in his straightforward fashion.
WANTED: Nice-looking girl with good shape to deal faro at Happy Times Saloon. Must be over 18 and able to stand the gaff up to a certain point. Apply T. Buchanan, Green Lantern Boardinghouse, or on premises.
"What's the news in that?” Buchanan asked.
Creamer smiled wickedly and snatched up the ad,
"Not a thing, mister," he said. "You just declared war."
From the street outside came the sound of a horse rounding by, fast, and Buchanan swung his head to catch a glimpse of Mike Sandoe's familiar figure rushing out of town.
"Frank Power's brand-new gunny/" the newspaperman said musingly. "Wonder where he's going in such a hurry."
Buchanan didn't answer as he moved out of the office and onto Signal Street again. Nor did he have to wonder about Sandoe's destination. Bill Durfee and the crew must be straining at the leash something fierce by this time. Somebody had to take the bad news out to them, and it was a cinch Frank Power wouldn't do it personally.
Buchanan considered that assignment professionally and found it something less than choice. He guessed that Sandoe most likely packed some token payroll, but if the big man was any judge of character, that would be about the same as tossing scraps to eight hungry wildcats.
His thoughts had carried him along Signal Street in leisurely fashion, without particular notice of his surroundings, but as he turned into the lane housing the Green Lantern there was something about another rider astride another horse that made him pause and watch.
It was Boyd Weston, moving at a stolid, defeated pace, his eyes staring morosely ahead out of a face that was haggard and pale. And though this was Buchanan's first sight of the man, he felt an extrasensory certainty that this was Weston.
Hope you know where the hell you're going, he thought. You with your tail between your legs, Hope you keep clear of them cats at Indian Rocks, . . .
Chapter Ten
Boyd Weston never saw Buchanan, never even knew there was a Buchanan. He rode on out of Bella without any realization of what had been happening in the town during the past twenty-four hours. Except, of course, for the poker game. That was still a nightmare in his mind.
He was very acutely aware, though, of his wife and Frank Power. That situation was real, and he had been dealt with badly. Whatever remorse he might have felt about losing the crew's payroll was drowned in the sharp, hurtful memories of the vivid scene in the hotel room,
To go like this was a bitter and inglorious comedown for someone who had been riding the crest. Until six months ago he had spent the twenty-five years of his life awkwardly and ineffectively stumbling toward some vaguely defined "position." Marrying the beautiful Ruby and moving his bride to the inheritance in the Territory hadn't given him any purpose. But meeting Frank Power had.
Being around Power made him feel important, made him count for something—and the knowledge now of how Power had used him was twice the humiliation it might have been.
Boyd Weston was foggily, sluggishly determined to do something about it. How he was going to hurt Frank Power was unclear, but it did have its starting point out at Indian Rocks. Power would hurt plenty if anything happened to $50,000 worth of beef.
So he rode that way, and not knowing about Buchanan, he
didn't know about Mike Sandoe. He especially didn't know that he might be working at cross-purposes with a single-minded gunfighter.
Sandoe himself pushed along at a swifter pace, lengthening the distanc
e between them. This was a lot of horse that Power had put under him, smooth-gaited, and as the miles passed beneath them and the signs of civilization disappeared, the rider's mind was free to consider his mission. It was the first time, in fact, that he had been able to think about the job ahead without the intrusion of other matters.
And now, as Buchanan had done, Sandoe remembered the tense and surly impatience that lay on Durfee's crew when last he was part of it. As he raced out of Bella, his natural instinct was merely to ride into camp, tell the rannies the facts of life, and just let nature run its course.
But what course would it take? He asked himself. These were no punchers or squarehead farmers he was visiting. They were working gunhands. Boys the likes of Frank Walsh and Ernie Keller hadn't come by their sizable reps because they'd backed down from any fights. Sandoe knew what a treacherous little son Harv Mayer was with that throw knife. And Bud Carew—a cool, sleepy-eyed customer who spotted you the first shot for a careful one.
Well, hell! What kind of party was Frank Power sending him on, anyhow? That was a capable gang of warriors he'd been riding with for two years, and he felt a twinge of chagrin that he hadn't appreciated their true worth until now.
Sandoe also felt a twinge of something else, an all-aloneness, and it would be a comforting thing to have the rhythmic hoof beat of another horse just off his left shoulder. Nice to glance over and see the big, solid figure of Buchanan riding there. . . .
"To hell with Buchanan!" he shouted aloud in a snarling voice that startled the bay into ear-pricked attention. Who needed Buchanan? Who needed anybody? He was Mike Sandoe, the gunfighter. No help wanted.
That mood fed him for another five miles, but with each minute that brought the sharp-rising canyon walls of Indian Rocks closer, the warning bell of caution sounded more clearly in his mind. Walsh and Keller were no fools. After this much stalling around for payday, they'd be primed for somebody with bad news.
