Buchanan Says No

by Jonas Ward

  "Buchanan, you with Frank Power or against him?"

  "I'm not with him, Bill."

  "Then, by God, lend a hand. Get a doctor out to Indian Rocks, Some of the boys might still be pulled through."

  "Where's Sandoe?"

  "Comin' back here to collect, the dirty murderin' bastard!"

  Buchanan nodded. "Grab yourself some rest, Bill," he said I’ll see what I can do." Five minutes later he led a doctor and improvised ambulance wagon out of Bella.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was very little that happened that Bernie Troy didn’t know about—and he didn't like what he heard about the changed status of this Buchanan and the allies he had made. There was nothing, in fact, about the rebellious atmosphere across the deadline that pleased him. For despite the lighthearted, almost holiday spirit along Signal Street, Troy recognized the dead-seriousness of the competition, the solid support Burke and Little Joe were generating among a group that had previously been divided, unorganized, and easy to control.

  Not that the Happy Times would survive. The place should be wrecked, of course, and the champion of South Signal Street would spill his blood and die like any ordinary man. That was his partner's department, and there was nothing Frank Power did so well as crush opposition. Troy had no doubts about the future of their rival. What bothered him were the symptoms being displayed, the open defiance of the status quo.

  There was an entirely different matter, though, that did give the gambler malicious enjoyment. It involved Power, and he was watching Power this very minute, studying him through the window of the office. It was all very much like a play, Troy thought, although one of the principal actors was not on stage right now. That was Boyd Weston, and he had ridden away during Act One. Then the newspaper had been published, carrying the little ad, and that had been the cue for Ruby Weston's entrance. She'd come out of Bella House and ridden down Signal Street dressed to the nines. Ruby had returned shortly, looking mysteriously triumphant about something. Now she was standing in the street before the hotel, where Frank Power had intercepted her. For Power's part, at least, it was a heated conversation. But Ruby Weston had only smiled that provocative smile of hers and coolly shaken her head half a dozen times. Then she had mounted her buggy a second time and driven away, to be followed immediately by a porter's wagon taking her luggage away.

  Power had glared after the little cavalcade, his face a study in frustrated rage and as Troy watched him he crossed back over to their own place with furious strides. The gambler swung his chair away from the window, picked up his copy of the Bulletin, and pretended to be reading when Power burst into the office. Without a word of greeting, his partner uncorked the decanter from the side boy and angrily poured out a tumbler-full.

  "I see by the paper," Troy said conversationally, "that stock prices are up in Chicago,”

  "To hell with Chicago!" He jerked the paper from Troy's fingers, slammed his fist down squarely on Buchanan's paid notice. "The nerve of that raggedy-pants son of a bitch! The colossal gall of the whole stupid lot of them!"

  "How you going to handle them, Frank?" Troy asked, his voice a goad. "If Kersey and Bowen were available, and if you'd kept that killer off Miller . . ."

  "If, if, if! I'll handle the Happy Times. Mike Sandoe is on his way back to town right now."

  "On his way back from where?"

  "None of your goddam business!" There was a sharp knock on the door. "Come in," Power snarled, and then his face worked itself quickly into something more pleasant. The visitor was his important customer for the beef.

  "Could hear you clear out to the bar?" Wilson said, "What's all the shouting for?"

  "Nothing important, Mr. Wilson. A local problem.”

  “What in hell's going on in this town, anyhow? Never so much buzzing around."

  “Really?" Power asked blandly. "Bella looks about the same to me."

  "Regular damn beehive," the buyer said. "Who's this Buchanan gent? What's he do?"

  “He makes trouble,” Power said, his temper coming unstuck again. "A two-bit trail bum that makes trouble. So he's going to buy some."

  Wilson was not a man who cared about anyone's problems except his own, but there was something about what Power had said that did catch his interest.

  "You say this Buchanan punches cattle?"

  "I don't know what he does," Power answered, calming himself with an effort. "How about a drink?"

  Wilson shook his head. "Never mix drinking with business," he said curtly,

  "If you're here on business," Power said, "let's go over to the hotel."

  "Use the office," Bernie Troy said, getting up. "I'll move out of your way." He crossed the room and left, closing the door behind him.

  I've got a crew rounded up.” Wilson said almost immediately. "Take us out to that place and I'll take delivery of the herd."

  “There's a man checking on the beef now," Power said. "He ought to be back any time."

  “When?"

  "Oh, by sundown at the latest."

  Wilson shook his head. "I want my men to be on the rail before dark. They're a rag-tag bunch, Power, and I have to allow plenty of time to make the railroad connection at Carson City."

  Imperious fathead, Power thought. But I need that sale.

  "Let's go, then," he said aloud, tossing off the rest of the drink.

  "Where's that agent of yours—Weston?"

  "Called out of town."

  The meat-buyer laughed, "Worst gambler I ever ran across. Took him for nearly ten thousand last night,”

  "So I heard." Damn Boyd Western to hell, he thought Damn this one along with him. If it hadn't been for that game, there'd be none of these troubles today.

  "I’ll give you a crack at me next trip I make," Wilson said, and they left Troy's.

  Power surveyed Wilson's riders, a motley crew of drifters and drunks, and decided they were rag-tag indeed. Just down-at-the-heels punchers, more than half of them not even owning weapons of any sort, and he couldn't help comparing them with the kind of crew Durfee assembled. A good man, Bill Durfee. Best noncom in the whole damn Army.

  The party moved out of Bella and rode steadily along the direct route to Indian Rocks.

  Buchanan and Doc Brown were a good twenty minutes ahead of them, but no matter how urgently they might need speed, the ambulance was simply not made for it,

  "Slow the pace, boy," the doctor kept calling to him. "What good's this conveyance with no wheels to it?"

  So Buchanan slowed down, and soon the horsemen led by Frank Power began to overtake them.

  "Where do you think you're headed?" Power demanded when they were abreast of each other. His tone was arrogant, but the man was plainly puzzled by the presence of Doc Brown.

  "Bound for the canyon,' Buchanan told him, "Got word that your errand boy delivered his message,"

  "Word from who?"

  "From Bill Durfee, Power. And I think you made yourself an enemy today."

  Power pulled abruptly away, not wanting Wilson to hear anything more.

  "Who was that?" the meat-buyer asked.

  "That was Buchanan."

  "Really? What's he doing way out here?"

  "Minding other people's business,” Power snapped, "Come on, let's ride!"

  Now he searched the wild terrain for some sign of Mike Sandoe, but they met no one else along the trail. What had happened? He wondered worriedly. Why would Durfee of all people, look to Buchanan for help?

  Finally they arrived at the temporary camp and Power saw immediately that things were not as they should be “Well,” Wilson echoed his thoughts aloud. “Somebody pulled stakes in a big hurry,” he said, looking at the smoking fire, the discarded poker hands that were spread around in disorder. "Where's the beef at?"

  "Up canyon a ways," Power said uncertainly.

  Wilson waved his crew to precede them in that direction.

  "How'd your men come to leave such an untidy camp?" Wilson asked Power then.

  "Th
ey got paid off today," Power said, hoping the vague explanation sounded better than he felt about it.

  “Must be a real thirsty bunch."”

  A shout, ending in a strangled outcry, smothered the sound of his own voice and made him tighten involuntary on the reins. Then both men put their mounts toward.

  It was a scene of singular horror, made much more offensive by the way it violated the ruggedly tranquil reality of the setting. Low in the sky hung a great round, red sun, tinting the canyon walls purple and blue, green--on the floor beyond its own verdant power. Some seven hundred head of cattle either rested there or still grazed—-but the arena belonged clearly to fifty-odd turkey buzzards, the males so glutted and sluggish that they either couldn't or wouldn't take to the air.

  “Good God, Power! What's the story here?"

  The ex-brevet major, fighting to hold onto his own

  stomach, could only shake his head and try to look elsewhere but at those ravaged corpses.

  One of Wilson's crew, half Indian by the look of him, made a low inspection of each body and rode back to his boss.

  "Bushwhacked.” he said solemnly.

  "Are they all dead?"

  " ‘pears like it. Didn't none of them talk to me."

  "But who are they? Do you recognize any of them.

  Power?" Wilson asked, hollow-voiced.

  Power shook his head again.

  "Don't believe him, Wilson," said another voice, and Boyd Weston rode up from behind them. "That's his crew out there, and Power ordered this massacre."

  "You're a goddam liar!" Power said, startled out of his near nausea.

  "Am I?" Weston said his mouth curling. "We'll let Wilson judge you on that. Here," he told the buyer, handing him a folded piece of note paper. The writing was a strong script and the form of address military. Wilson read:

  To; Durfee

  From: Power

  Subject Crew

  Mike Sandoe works for me. He will assist you in paying off the crew. You will take whatever means necessary to prevent any man from riding to Bella,

  FRANK A. POWER

  Wilson raised his eyes from the seemingly self-incriminating order and looked out at the paid-off crew. He turned to Boyd Weston.

  "Where did you get this?" '

  "The killer Power sent out here had to scale the wall to get out again. The paper fell out of his shirt."

  And where's the man now?"

  "Long gone," Weston said. "Headed back to Bella for the next job Power has for him."

  "What were you doing here?"

  ""I wanted to have a look at this stolen herd,” Weston said.”Now I want to warn you not to buy it. You do, and I’ll have federal marshals waiting at the stockyards. I'll stand up in court and describe every detail of the delivery."

  "You won't have to," Wilson said. "I want no part of this beef." He swung around to the dangerously still form of Frank Power. "I had no delusions about this deal, Power. But, my God, to order a thing like this—" He started to ride off, lifting his arm in a signal to his crew to move back down canyon with him.

  “I’ll ride with you, Wilson," Boyd Weston said.

  “No," Power said between his teeth. He had reached beneath his coat, cross-drawn an ominous, big-calibered derringer. "Not you, Boyd," he said. "Move on? Wilson, and count yourself among the lucky."

  "Don't be a fool, Power."

  "Ride on or take a gutful of your own!"

  Wilson wheeled his mount immediately, spurred it in pursuit of the body of riders.

  Power leaned forward on his pommel, his face malevolent. "You win the skirmish, Boyd," he said emotionally.

  But you lose the war!"

  “No, Frank. No. You wouldn't. Not in cold blood."

  "Cold blood?" Power echoed, easing his horse to a right angle from Weston's. "This I do in heat." He fired the first cartridge carefully, aiming directly at the other man's spine. Boyd Weston shrieked, struggled desperately to stay in the saddle, then plunged headlong onto the canyon floor. He tried to rise but his legs wouldn't respond, and all he seemed able to manage to do was to roll over helplessly on his back and stare up at the mounted man.

  Power reloaded the sneak gun and pointed the muzzle directly down into Weston's eyes. Power smiled.

  "I'm not angry with you any more, Boyd," he said.

  "Get me on my horse. Save me, Frank."

  "The Lord is your savior, Boyd," Power told him cynically. "He maketh you to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth you beside the still waters."

  "Don't kill me!"

  "An act of mercy," Power said. "What the dragoons call the coup de grace."

  The gun exploded directly into Weston's face.

  Frank Power turned and rode out.

  Chapter thirteen

  M. Wilson and his crew passed them on the trail, their faces marked with shock, their inclination to hurry away. Then Frank Power and his handsome white stallion came into view, veered directly toward them, and stopped squarely in Buchanan's path.

  "You're wasting your time," he said. "There's nothing you can do for them."

  "I'll take Doc's word on that," Buchanan said.

  "Suit yourself. But whatever else you do, don't come back to Bella. You're the last man in that crew still alive, Buchanan."

  "Me and Bill Durfee."

  "I can handle Durfee."

  "And Sandoe can handle me?"

  "Sandoe can handle you."

  Buchanan kneed his horse close to Power's. For some reason he was smiling.

  "How much you going to pay him for the job, Power?"

  “I’ll give him five hundred,” Power said, and Buchanan smiled in his face.

  “What a smart businessman you are," he said. "For four hundred last night I'd have been hell-and-gone for Frisco by now."

  Buchanan did something then with his mount that made it move forward abruptly, that somehow caused him to jar Frank Power with a shoulder brush and his horse to bump the white stallion rudely out of their way.

  He looked back with a grin that was not an apology but a challenge.

  Dec Brown put the ambulance into motion and Frank Power chose to ride off toward Bella.

  Then they reached the canyon, and unlike those who had come there before them, they got down and searched each and every body for some flickering sign of life. Buchanan could find no heartbeats, but he kept his thoughts to himself until the doctor was through. Brown finally looked up at and shook his head.

  “Been around battlefields," the medico said? "but I never saw this kind of sharpshooting."

  Buchanan indicated the sprawled, faceless figure of Boyd Weston with a movement of his chin. "How about that kind?"

  "Took it awful close up. That what you mean?"

  "Yeah. How we going to get 'em under the ground?"

  "Nothing but rock underneath us here. Strain must run

  five miles or more."

  "Pack any shovels?"

  "Always do."

  Buchanan personally rolled the dead into blankets, leaded them into the back of the ambulance and covered them over with a tarpaulin.

  “I’ll drive," he said then. "You fork the horse."

  The Doctor shook his head. "Thanks, son," he said, "but I'm used to this." He mounted to the seat, picked up the reins. "I am also some curious about what happened here,”

  Buchanan was looking past the older man's head to the cattle strung out all along the canyon floor. When he continued to gaze fixedly that way, the doctor cleared his throat and spoke again.

  "What do you see, Buchanan?"

  "Beef.” came the delayed answer. "Lazy, shiftless, no account beef."

  "Worth plenty to somebody, though, eh?"

  "Plenty."

  "Ten thousand dollars, would you say?"

  "Fifty."

  The doctor pursed his lips, whistled softly. "Who owns the herd?" he asked.

  "Me," Buchanan said. "And the cargo you're freighting."

  Doc Brown let his mind absorb that.
He said, "I got the impression Frank Power was also an interested party."

  Buchanan smiled. "Now you've answered your first question," he said. "There's what you would call a dispute going on."

  "With Power ahead," Doc Brown said from his experience. "As is usually the case." He got a pipe going then, sucked on it thoughtfully as the funeral procession passed out of Indian Rocks.

  Some ten miles farther on, and with dusk closing in over the barren land, the two men laboriously buried the dead. It was not easy work, and Buchanan made sure he did most of it, relegating the doctor to straw boss.

  "Anything you want to say over them?" Brown asked

  Buchanan shook his head. "Never did have much to say to them," he told the other man quietly. "They wouldn't expect any more from me than to bury them decent."

  "You've done that," Brown said, turning to the wagon.

  He drove on for a quarter of a mile, and when he looked I back he saw that Buchanan was still at the grave site. After a quarter mile the doctor glanced back again. Buchanan was gone.

  "That's what I’d do, was I young and strong,” the doctor said aloud, "I’d get mine—and to hell with Frank Power.”

  Mike Sandoe had spotted the dust raised by the first party outbound from Bella and given it a wide berth. The man had no way of knowing that Frank Power was not awaiting his return to town, and the carnage he had left behind was still so vivid in his mind that any group of horsemen was to be avoided.

  Because of conscience? A feeling of guilt? He smothered the thought harshly. What had happened back there had teen, forced on him.

  But damn Bud Carew, anyhow, for trying such a fool THING. And Mayer, and Walsh—the whole hotheaded lot of them. What he should have done, he reflected now to take care of Durfee when he had the chance. Best to leave no witnesses to a thing like that.