Buchanan Says No

by Jonas Ward

  And he saw it through their eyes, as Buchanan had seen it when he heard it from Frank Power. All that risky work and no money, a puncher's lousy forty dollars for forty hot days and forty long nights of trail-driving a hangman's herd. Mayer and Carew wouldn't stand still for any measly handout and a mouth-warning to steer shy of the beef and Bella both.

  Where did Power come off being so glib about this assignment? How would Buchanan handle it? As soon as he thought that question he spotted the trap in it. The answer was that Buchanan wouldn't handle it at all, would never throw down on some brothers of the trail for Power's money.

  Ah, to hell with him, Sandoe thought, but without much conviction of his own invincibility. Caution, he told himself. Go easy and live longer.

  He veered abruptly to the right. Though this new course would be roundabout, it offered protection from any snap-trigger sentry Durfee might have posted along iii direct route to the camp. A half hour's riding brought him to Indian Springs, and now he followed the narrow, twisting stream until he heard the first sounds of the cattle from within the canyon.

  Having once tasted caution, Sandoe developed an appetite for it. He put the bay at a walk, eased it along gently toward the canyon mouth. Five minutes later he slipped the Winchester from the saddle and dismounted altogether, looping the reins over a shale split on his side of the wall and going the rest of the way on his own legs.

  He got inside and scrambled to an overhanging shelf, giving himself a look-see at the herd only when he had the cover of the ridge. Every passing moment now brought surprise to Mike Sandoe, surprise at the discovery that his cat quick reflexes were just as adaptable to this kind of stealthy attack as they were to the usual frontal assault. He hadn't known he had it in him, and he credited it to his account as an asset.

  Very abruptly, a mounted figure separated itself from the small sea of milling animals inside this natural stock-x:d and Sandoe levered the rifle. The herd guard was a gray-faced, melancholy figure as he made his weary way around the cattle, merely going through the motions of hazing them away from the canyon mouth. It was Bud Carew, and so long as he kept his eyes turned downward, Sandoe was content to let him close the distance between them. Then Carew was passing directly below the shelf and a moment later his sag-shouldered back was to Mike Sandoe.

  "Whoa up, Bud,” Sandoe told him unexcitedly. "You're cropped on."

  Carew halted, but where most men would screw their

  heads around to see who it was, this middle-aged veteran very deliberately wheeled his jaded-looking horse full circle.

  That done, Carew stared balefully up at the man with the

  rifle, content to let Sandoe do the explaining.

  "Hard lines, Bud," he told him. "The jasper with the payroll ain't gonna make it this trip."

  "So we all figured," Carew said, then shrugged. "But we've already whacked up this beef among ourselves."

  Sandoe shook his head. "Another party owns the herd."

  "And you're reppin' for this party?"

  "For the seller," Sandoe said. "Your share comes to forty dollars,"

  The rifle jumped in Sandoe's hands and roared death in the same instant that the mild-mannered Bud Carew snatched at his handgun. The 30-30 slug took the other man in the heart at a distance of fifteen feet, knocked him sideways from the saddle, and killed him immediately.

  "Have it your way," Sandoe told the sprawled figure contemptuously. Then he roamed the area with his keen eyes for Harv Mayer, the dead man's crony. Mayer spotted him first and put a bullet from his own rifle only inches away from Sandoe's head. Sandoe ducked beneath the overhang and found himself with a problem. He could see Harv now, but the rider was near the herd's center and some fifty yards distant. A possible miss, a shot like that, and a very probable hit for one of the animals. He was here to protect Power's property, not slaughter it.

  Mayer threw another, and the slug ricocheted harmlessly off the shelf. It was going to be a standoff, Sandoe saw, and then Mayer decided to make a break for help. His mount picked its way out of the herd, and when Mayer reached a clearing he kicked it to a run and laid his own body along the horse's neck. Sandoe beaded the target, led it with a mental calculation that was second to nature, and squeezed. The impact of the slug made Mayer sit up very erect in the saddle for a grotesque moment, and then the horse seemed to run right out from under him. Mayer took the fall on his collarbone, and with a hand clutched at his torn side tried to rise and stagger forward. Sandoe fired again and that was all.

  For Harv Mayer that was all. As for the cattle nearest the shooting wanted out. One finger of the herd pointed its way to the canyon mouth and in a matter of seconds the narrow exit was racked with bawling, snorting beef on the hoof. Another group spooked down canyon toward Durfee's camp, trampling the hapless Mayer almost beyond recognition. From the safety of his shelf? Sandoe watched the stampede in blind, ineffective fury. He could neither get down from his place nor stop it from where he was, only stand there and vent his rage at the stupid, wall-eyed beasts.

  At the campsite they heard the first deep sounds of it, like some ground swell, and reaction was immediate. Walsh and Keller threw their cards aside. The other three players bounded up right behind them. Bill Durfee, sleeping it off in the chuck wagon, stuck his head through the tarp and roared his painful anger at the disturbance.

  “What the keerist goes on?"

  Somebody's runnin’ off our herd!" Walsh shouted, sprinting for his mount

  'Your herd? My herd!" Durfee yelled, scrambling from the wagon. He followed in their wake, but some distance behind, and was only swinging into the saddle when the others were already pounding up the canyon to meet the trouble. Their charging horses, popping six-guns, and blood-curling whoops intimidated the cattle, broke the back of the stampede, and turned it around, But there was still a steady exodus from the mouth, and Ernie Keller spotted the figure of Mike Sandoe immediately.

  "There's the son of a bitch!" he trumpeted, emptying hiS Colt at the shelf.

  Sandoe levered and fired, levered and fired, Ernie Keller went down, Frank Walsh acted like a wild man, sending his horse full tilt at the canyon wall, and Sandoe knelt there on one knee, waited for him, and killed him.

  "Get the bastard! Get him!" came Durfee's maddened voice above all that sound, but Sandoe excused the man's ignorance of the new setup and concentrated his murderous fire on what remained of the crew. He himself seemed indestructible, protected not only by his niche among the craggy rocks, but by some unholy dispensation. Easily half a hundred slugs came winging up at his fortress, but not one so much as scratched his flesh. Then the massacre was over, though Durfee didn't know it and waited for his own end with an empty Remington hanging from his gnarled fist.

  "Frank Power sent me out to help you," Sandoe called down to him, and Durfee stared at the gunman with a sickish look of horror on his face.

  "Help me?" he asked strangely. "You're helping me?"

  "Ah, hell!" Sandoe said. "That ramstammin' Bud Carew forced my hand, Bill. I was givin' him the boss man's message when he went for the cold deck." He started to move down from his shelf. "Then Harv Mayer put his two cents in. After that you all came at me."

  Durfee was watching him and shaking his head from one side to the other.

  "Power sent you to do this?"

  "He sent me to pay them off," Sandoe answered irritably. "He didn't restrict me none."

  "You and the Major work pretty close now? Is that it?"

  "Close enough," Sandoe said, suspicious of Durfee's hard tone. "He needs me. Hey, where you goin'?"

  Durfee had swung his mount away from Sandoe, almost contemptuously. Now he looked back briefly over his shoulder. "Any man that needs a mad dog doesn't have Bill Durfee pullin' for him,” he said, and raised the horse to a trot. Behind him came the dread click of a cartridge being levered into place. Durfee sat straighter in the saddle, waited ramrod-stiff for the shot.

  "Go to hell, old man!" Mike Sandoe shouted instead,
lowering the rifle disdainfully. The reprieved Durfee rode down the canyon and out of sight.

  Sandoe turned then to the problem of getting back to his own horse. The cattle were stalled in the opening now and he guessed that the front runners, their panic quieted, had simply stopped to graze, thereby halting the procession. But unless he wanted to climb over their backs,

  there was nothing for it but scaling the wall and dropping

  down on the other side. It was a half hour's hard pre-

  carious work to do it, and once it was done he had no

  patience left for the job of chousing the strays back inside Indian Rocks. He told himself they were safe enough until

  the new owner came with a crew to collect them.

  What he wanted was to get back to Bella, What he wanted was a bottle to cut this black African thirst he had.

  Sandoe wouldn't admit that he had to get this place and this day out of his mind very quickly,

  Boyd Weston watched him throw a leg up and ride off without a backward glance. Then Weston led his own horse from its concealment and approached the canyon mouth warily. He had heard a great many things but seen only the cattle streaming out. Now a sense of uneasy quiet hung over all and he was consumed with a strong curiosity to know what had taken place inside those walls.

  Chapter Eleven

  Better leave the door open," Buchanan said, and Ruby Weston smiled from the entrance to the small room.

  “If that's the way you want it,” she said.

  "That's the way the landlady wants it. What can I do for you?”

  Ruby, decked out in a green outfit that made a display of her flawless figure and dark beauty, held aloft a copy of the Bulletin.

  “Is this ad you ran serious?'' she asked him,

  "Sure it's serious."

  She dropped her glance from his face to the newspaper " “Wanted." she read. " 'Nice-looking girl with good shape to deal faro . . “That's me,” she told him. "I'm also over eighteen, Mr. T. Buchanan, and I can stand all the gaff Bella has to offer. When do I start?"

  Buchanan leaned back in his chair, sat there surveying her very frankly for a long moment. Then he smiled.

  "I'll let you know, Mrs. Weston," he said.

  "Let me know right now."

  "There's other applications,” he said. "This little town is popping at the seams with unemployed lady faro dealers."

  "Not with my qualifications."

  Buchanan cocked his head. "They were easy to look at.” he said.

  "Oh,come now, Buchanan. If you're really serious about giving Troy's some competition, how could you do better than with Frank Power's mistress?"

  "That's a point, I guess, But what do you figure to get out of it?"

  "Money," she said. "Independence. I want to know what it feels like to call the plays the way you men do.”

  "Yeah," Buchanan said. "Us men."

  "You wouldn't know about that, would you?"

  "Lady, you are looking at the original monkey on the stick. I don't even get to sleep where I want to lately." He looked beyond the girl in the doorway to the red-haired Carrie James, who stood on the landing and stared into the room with open curiosity in her lively face. Then Carrie and Ruby exchanged glances and the redhead turned, disdainfully, and walked to her own room.

  "The big attraction at Troy's,” Ruby said. "Do you think I can compete?"

  "You haven't got the job yet."

  "But I want it very much."

  "I'll let you know,” Buchanan evaded. "You still staying at the hotel?"

  "Yes," she said, "but I think I’ll take a room here. Closer to the Happy Times."

  “You're a lot surer than I am,” Buchanan said* "There's

  other applications."

  And I'd have safe escort back home each night.” she

  said smiling,

  Buchanan held her steady gaze, "There's safe,” he said, "and there's safe."

  Her smile became warmer, bolder,

  “You know, I have an idea I misjudged you last night, Buchanan. You're more man than I figured."

  “I might even be more than you're figuring on now,"

  “ That would be interesting,” she said. "Something else that’s interesting is how you expect to fight Frank Power and stay alive."

  "Little Joe didn't say,” He said, and Ruby laughed.

  "The Happy Times Saloon won't be exactly dull? will it?"

  "Not exactly, Mrs. Weston."

  "You like to "Mrs. Weston' me, don't you? Rub my nose in it,”

  It's the only name I have for you.’ Buchanan said. “Mrs. Boyd Weston*"

  "Say 'Ruby. "

  "Mrs. Ruby Weston,”

  She moved from the doorway, came to stand directly beside the chair where he sat.

  "When was the last time you kissed a woman? Buchanan?"

  "A good-looking one?"

  “A woman."

  "Over in Yuma," he told her thoughtfully. "The eighth of June."

  "How was it?"

  "Real good."

  This is the twentieth of July. You want to kiss another one?”

  "Sure,” he said, coming out of the chair, upsetting it as she moved up against him. Her arms encircled his neck and Buchanan treated himself to a deep whiff of musk-perfume before kissing her as well as he knew how.

  "Close that damn door," Ruby Weston said huskily "Lock it"

  Buchanan sniffed her again, "Kiss any men lately?" he asked cheerfully,

  "Just now. Are you going to close the door?"

  "He most certainly is not,” said a determined voice behind them. It was the landlady, and she had in tow still another prospective faro dealer. "Just what is your game? Mr. Buchanan?" the landlady asked archly.

  Buchanan grinned away her indignation.

  "Wish you'd apply for the job, Mrs. Cole,” he told her. "Like to show you how these interviews go."

  "Oh, no, you won't!" the woman protested, actually taking a step backward,

  Buchanan turned to the girl with her.

  "Afraid it's taken, honey,” he said. "Mrs. Weston here fills the bill."

  "In that case,” Mrs. Cole said, "I'll escort the lady downstairs."

  "As a matter of fact,” Ruby said? "I'd like a room in your house,”

  "We're filled up."

  "Oh, it doesn't have to be fancy," the dark-haired girl told her airily. "I'll go up to Bella House now and have my things sent down."

  Ruby left Buchanan's side and proceeded down the corridor with such regality that the landlady's protests got locked in her throat.

  "I think I'm going to rue the day I ever set eyes on you," she said to Buchanan instead.

  "The way business is picking up?"

  "Hmph! Monkey business I call it."

  He was left to himself then and he closed the door. And that defined the room's dimensions, made the tall man feel contained, boxed-in. That and the perfumed woman scent in his nostrils made restlessness complete. Buchanan had no place to go but he wanted out, and he went from the Green Lantern boardinghouse to Signal Street.

  There was something heady and exciting down there, too. Something special in the very air of Bella itself. The irde ad in the Bulletin proved to be the news item that Editor Creamer predicted it would, and coupled with the rumors pronged activity at Little Joe's place and the Happy 7 restaurant, it set people to talking, got citizens to gathering in street-corner groups with something else to discuss but the weather and bad times,

  And whatever the excitement was, the handbills that Little Joe had created gave it a boost. They were throwaways, set in circus type and illustrated with a defiant style above crossed flags, dotted with pointing fingers and generous use of double, triple, and even quadruple exclamation points. Most of all, there was something solid and reassuring about "The South Signal Street Merchants' Association." It was a catch-all, and every man and woman on the wrong side of the deadline considered themselves to be automatically members, with full voting privileges and a share o
f the responsibility.

  With the result that Little Joe and Billy Burke found themselves overwhelmed with help and advice. Redecorating both establishments became a community project. Walls were not merely washed of their dirt, they were painted over. Drapes were hung, rugs laid, and from the storage room of the livery stable came a long-forgotten but truly decorative back-bar mirror.

  Buchanan looked in at the Happy Times, found it almost approximating the "New! Gala ! ! Glittering ! ! ! Saloon & Gambling Palace ! ! ! !" described in the handbills. He didn't know that his bosses, the founders of the S.S.S.M.A., had also accepted help of a more personal nature, that the girls from Big Annie's were offering their services as barmaids for the duration of opening week as a special accommodation for the overflow crowd of gents expected. Or that the barber and the blacksmith's helper volunteered their fiddle and piano playing.

  Buchanan especially didn't know about the changes that had been made in his own character. Whereas this morning he was generally known as a homeless drifter who'd spent the night in jail for rough-necking, this afternoon he'd been transformed into a champion. As he strolled the street he was smiled at, nodded to. Total strangers patted his back, gripped the hands that had felled Moose Miller and Mike Sandoe both, and went on their way uplifted. Buchanan was mystified by the first few encounters, then —when he understood the role he'd been cast in—unsettled by it. Working off a debt for Little Joe was one thing; being the rally-round in a saloonkeeper's war was another.

  The big man changed direction, started in search of Little Joe to get the matter straightened out when his attention was caught by the sound of a horse pounding his way, fast. He looked up, and recognition of Bill Durfee was as swift as it was startling. Durfee, red-eyed from the hard ride, his unshaven face gray with trail dust, reined in abruptly.