Buchanan Says No

by Jonas Ward

  Which, boiled down, was the real essence of his surly discontent Durfee would spread the word far and wide, his own version of the affair. "Mad dog"—that's what they had called him, and in his mind he could hear the arc of a bitch saying it again, over and over down in Yuma, San Antone, clear back to Dodge.

  "Mad dog? Christ almighty, he didn't want to carry that

  brand! Being a gun hand was one thing. Big men like

  Frank Power came looking for your services, bid you up. People treated you proper, made you feel like somebody who counted. But "mad dog" was a death warrant. Your professional rep was gone; warriors you had no quarrel with at all came at you just to be heroes.

  If he'd only given it to Bill Durfee! Who'd be able to know then about his protected niche on that canyon? That his was the only rifle working? That taking out that tough crew had been no more risky than shooting fish in a rain barrel?

  But some fine night he'd brace Bill Durfee, come in on him at a saloon? El Paso maybe, when the sawed-off little bastard was spewing his pack of lies about Mike Sandoe. He'd spot Durfee first draw, to prove to the barflies he never was no mad dog, and then he'd gut-shoot him, leave him just enough life to tell the true story of how it had been at Indian Rocks.

  And it was the truth! God help the man who said different! Sandoe rode on steadily toward Bella, self-righteously, a big chip growing on his shoulder.

  There was a difference, discovered Little Joe and Bill? Burke, between thumbing your nose at Frank Power within the shadow of Tom Buchanan and defying the man and his organization with Buchanan gone, God knew where.

  The meeting in the street between their peace enforcer and the wild-eyed, explosive-looking character named Durfee had been anxiously reported to the founders of the brave new S.S.S.M.A., as well as the disquieting news that Buchanan had promptly ridden out of town with Doc Brown and the ambulance.

  The Bella ambulance was associated in every mind with violence of some kind—and violence went hand in glove with Power, Troy, and the deadline. Enthusiasm for the chances of the Happy Times diminished noticeably as each hour passed and still Buchanan was among the missing. The idea was still as bright and glittering as ever. It just grew further from their grasp.

  Finally Little Joe couldn't stand the not-knowing; he had to find out the why and wherefore of Buchanan's desertion. The agent of it, the block-shaped, bull-necked Durfee, had taken his jaded horse to Osgood's and so far as anyone knew had never left the livery. Little Joe went there, his mind worried and melancholic. Sam Osgood led him to the hayloft, climbed the ladder behind him, and i:c the service of shaking Durfee awake.

  Durfee lay face down on a pungent blanket, seemingly cold to the world, but hardly had Osgood's hand contacted his shoulder when the sleeping trail boss whirled over on his back and pointed the long snout of his Remington between the liveryman's eyes.

  "What the hell do you want?" Durfee growled.

  Osgood could only stare down that black hole into eternity.

  Little Joe spoke.

  “We want Buchanan," he said. "Where'd you send him?"

  "Whatta you want him for?" Durfee swung the gun on Joe.

  "He was going to help us,” Little Joe said accusingly,

  until you packed him off."

  "Help you how?"

  "Help us break the deadline, that's how. Where'd you send him?"

  The acid sharpness went out of Durfee's eyes, dissolved into a speculative expression. Durfee knew as much as he needed to know about Frank Power's operations. He knew at about the deadline. Now he lowered the Remington to a more amiable angle and he smiled, although a smile on fat scarred and battered visage was a wolfish grimace something short of heartwarming.

  Break the deadline," he said. "Now, there's an idea."

  "With Buchanan," Little Joe said persistently. "Where is he?”

  “I sent the lad on an errand of mercy," Durfee explained. "But anything Buchanan can do, boys, his boss on do better. What's the deal?"

  Little Joe shook his head skeptically. "No offense," he said. "But we hired Buchanan."

  To do what? Give Frank Power a hard time?"

  "No," Little Joe said. "To keep Power and his wrecking crew off our backs until we establish ourselves."

  "I can do that,” Durfee said positively.

  "You can? You know anything about a gunman name of Sandoe?"

  Durfee nodded. "I know Mike Sandoe," he said. "Know him from top to bottom,”

  "And you can handle the likes of him?"

  "Can and will, bucko. What's my pay?"

  "Twenty-five dollars," Little Joe said automatically, and Durfee squinted up at him.

  "Twenty-five? You're asking for gun work! What the hell's this twenty-five dollars?"

  "It suited Buchanan," Little Joe said.

  "Ah, what does he know about such things? Buchanan's no warrior."

  "Exactly what is he, then?" Little Joe asked. "I've been wondering about that since he hit town last night."

  "That one doesn't know his own self what he is," Durfee said. "He goes where the wind blows and the tide flows. But me, now, that's a different proposition. I'm the man for the job at hand—forty a day and found."

  "But we already gave the job to Buchanan," Little Joe said, unhappily loyal, not wanting to admit that this hard-looking Durfee was the better man for the work.

  "Suit yourself, then," Durfee told him. "And good luck to you when you break Frank Power's deadline."

  Little Joe left him and reported the conversation to Billy Burke. His partner had been nipping all day, and at this particular time in the late afternoon he was at the stage where he was eight feet tall and there was no problem that didn't have a simple solution.

  "There's not a thing to worry about," Burke said. "Nothin' at all. All that matters is that we open our doors as promised. Who guards the tables makes no difference,”

  Little Joe disagreed with that, but so rosy and serene was his friend's world that he went away rather than paint in storm clouds on the horizon. His steps took him back to the hayloft, and against his better judgment he told Bill Durfee he was hired until Buchanan returned.

  If he does,” Durfee commented, hinting at some knowledge of Buchanan that Little Joe didn't have.

  Wherever it was you sent him," Little Joe said, "he'll come back. We’ve already paid him the twenty-five."

  Durfee laughed. "Where I sent him, mister, there's fifty-dollar bills all over the ground. You might see Buchanan again, but don't count on it."

  Chapter fourteen

  The new Happy Times Saloon & Gambling Palace threw open its doors to the public an hour after sundown. That momentous event was preceded by a torchlight parade and snake dance that boldly crossed the deadline, wheeled in front of Bella House, and came back down Signal Street again. The feature of the parade was a gaudily painted wagonette, driven by Billy Burke and piled to overflowing with Big Annie's girls, whose generous displays of starched petticoats and dimpled knees brought an appreciative audience spilling out of both the hotel and Troy's. And when the wagonette swung around it took Troy's customers with it.

  There was something contagious about that wagonful of happily shrieking females, something that shouted Mardi Gras and sent the sports of Bella crowding into the Happy Times hell-bent for a night to remember. Billy Burke stood the first drink to all comers, a gesture that primed the pump almost beyond the three bartenders' ability to keep abreast of the orders. The orchestra swung from one lively air to another, and if the piano was tinny if and the fiddle scratched, there were no critics to complain.

  Then came the high point of the young evening, the entrance by Ruby Weston, which could be described only as splendiferous.

  Ruby was dressed just right for the occasion, in a skintight gown of shining scarlet satin that boasted the most intriguing and ingenious décolletage Bella had ever seen. She came into the room from the rear, on the arm of a bow-tied, check-suited Little Joe, and amid standing applause was seated at
the dealer's place. There was a stampede to gamble at that table, or merely to gaze, and those who weren't quick had to content themselves with the other games. This was not without its own pleasures, for the sportive, mischief-eyed barmaids circulated everywhere, averaging three friendly pats on their uncorseted rumps for every glass of whisky they served. The Happy Times, everyone agreed, was indeed a happy place to be.

  If there was a dissenter, that was Little Joe. Up until the last he had held out hope that Buchanan would step through those doors. Now, with the grand opening an accomplished fact, with the games in full swing and the bar a bedlam, the man still glanced that way. What worried him about Durfee he couldn't say. He looked capable, he moved around, the gun slung low on his hip seemed to say "Professional—No Nonsense." But Durfee was simply not Buchanan in Little Joe's eyes, and soon now—when he came back—Frank Power would move against them.

  And that was all Mike Sandoe was waiting for, word from Frank Power. He had ridden into Bella, his mind sullen, and gone directly to Troy's to give Power his version of the incident at Indian Rocks. But from Bernie Troy he got the curtly spoken news that Power had left hours earlier, in company with the meat-buyer and a crew. Sandoe realized then that that had been the party he had avoided on the trail, and he didn't like the development at all. It wasn't going to look good when they came into the canyon cold, seeing the end of it without anyone to explain the beginning.

  "What's your trouble, gunfighter?" Bernie Troy asked him. anxious to know if Sandoe's mean expression reflected any grief for Power.

  *'Nothing I can't take care of. Put a bottle of your best :~ the bar,” Dudey little bastard, he thought, remembering that he owed Troy something for his part in arming Moose Miller this morning.

  Troy set the bottle and a glass before him, watched him slug it from the neck, morosely. Then there was a commotion out on Signal Street, and that turned out to be Billy Burke crossing the deadline with his wagonload. The exodus from Troy's began and Bernie himself went out to have a look at the competition. He came back to Sandoe.

  "What are you waiting for, gunfighter?"

  Sandoe set the bottle down, wiped his mouth, and looked down at the gambler curiously,

  '"What am I what?" he asked.

  "The deadline is broken. What are you going to do about it?"

  "'I'm gonna do what the money man says to do. And if you know what I think about you," Sandoe added, you'll get in that office of yours and hide."

  Troy smiled thinly. "I'm safe," he said. "The custom protects me." He pulled the lapels of his coat apart, showed he was weaponless.

  "Get away from me, Troy. Hide from me." He turned his back, tilted the bottle another time.

  'You're the one that's hiding, gunfighter."

  Sandoe looked over his shoulder. "Frank Power calls the plays," he said. "If you're in such a goddam hurry to kill Buchanan, go down there and do it your own goddam self."

  "Buchanan? Buchanan left town. They've got somebody named Durfee waiting to meet you."

  “You said Durfee? Durfee's here in Bella?"

  "Know him from somewhere?"

  "Yeah," Sandoe said, setting the bottle to one side. "Yeah, I know Bill Durfee." He was walking away as he spoke, and as he walked he hitched at his holstered gun, made it ride easily with the roll of his stride. He went out of Troy's, turned down Signal Street, and kept to the shadows until he was opposite the noisy, riotous Happy Times. He crossed over, catlike, peered inside, and then slipped through the batwing doors.

  Durfee had just finished a tour of the room, had just arrived back at the bar to accept the offer of a drink from a customer. He and his benefactor were chatting, all out shouting to be heard above the din, when all at once Durfee found his own voice to be the loudest sound in that suddenly quiet place. He broke off in mid-sentence and turned around.

  "Durfee,” Mike Sandoe said into the hushed and nervous silence, "you're a lying son °f a bitch!"

  Durfee stepped away from the bar, cleared his right arm. He was calm and sure, and the liquor he had just drunk spread a warm confidence that reached from his belly to the tips of his fingers. He took in the spread-legged, belligerent figure some thirty feet across the room, and what his eyes saw was not the killer on the ledge at Indian Rocks this afternoon, but the punk kid he had taken on five years ago, ridden herd on, cracked the whip over and watched jump. Man to man, Mike Sandoe just didn't stand a chance,

  "Come on, Durfee! I'm waiting on you!"

  Durfee knew too much about gun fighting to let himself speak, It was all concentration, concentration on one thing only: drawing. He drew, actually cleared the Remington. Sandoe's gun thundered three times before Durfee triggered once.

  And it wasn't murder. Everyone who saw the shooting saw that Durfee lost his life with his gun out and up. Overmatched, fighting out of his class, that was what the crowd decided about Bill Durfee.

  Then Sandoe did a curious thing—or at least Little Joe thought it was. Instead of ordering the Happy Times to shut down, the gunfighter merely backed his way to the doors and left the place without uttering another word.

  "Now what do you make of that?" Billy Burke asked his partner.

  Little Joe shook his head. "Don't know, Billy. The feller acted like he was paying Durfee a visit personal. Trouble is he'll be back."

  The shooting had sobered Burke considerably. Now he nodded agreement to Little Joe's gloomy prediction,

  "Maybe we can recruit another guard,” he said.

  "After that exhibition?"

  "No, I guess not." Burke swung from Little Joe and faced the subdued room. "Ladies and gents," he announced, "for your own safety we are suspending business as of right now. Please cash in your chips and have the last drink of the night on the house!"

  Frank Power returned to Bella within the hour, and as he pushed his tiring mount along Signal Street he noted with satisfaction that the Happy Times was shuttered. At least one thing had gone right today, he thought bitterly, pulling in to the hitch-rail before Bella House, dismounting, and going inside the hotel. There were other matters to be set straight, including Mike Sandoe and Ruby Weston, but not until he had rid himself of this trail dust and these clothes, and settled his jangling nerves with several hookers of private sour mash.

  Chapter fifteen

  Doc Brown heard himself being overtaken fast, and when he twisted around on the wagon seat he was vastly surprised to see the tremendous figure of Buchanan,

  "How goes it, Doc?" Buchanan asked cheerfully.

  "Fine,” Brown told him. "At peace with the world. Didn't expect to see you again, though."

  "Why not?"

  "Had you figured for the cattle business,” he said. "Thought you'd cut out what critters one man can manage and push on to another country."

  "Wish I could,” Buchanan said. "But I owe a week's work in Bella."

  "Where you been the past hour, then?"

  "Chousing those strays back into the box. Kept thinking about them mavericks—-ten thousand dollars wandering around footloose."

  The doctor laughed. "Man's got to protect his interests,” he said.

  "Yeah," Buchanan said. "Mine comes to a nifty four hundred."

  "Good for you. And listen, son—if you're in a hurry, ride on. This horse knows the way home even if I don't."

  "Much obliged, Doc. Fact is, I'm late as hell." He leaned down and wrapped his great arm around both the doctor's shoulders, and there was a moment of comradeship that the older man would never forget. Then Buchanan was riding away, swallowed by the dark night, and soon he arrived in Bella, which looked no different to him this night than it had last. The activity, what there was of it; was confined to the north end of the street, to Bella House and Troy's. The south end was subdued and quiet, submissive-looking, but of course he could not know about the torchlight parade, the grand opening of the Happy Times and its sudden closing with the sudden death of Bill Durfee. Buchanan was fooled by the apparent sameness of the town just as Frank
Power had been before him and like Power, he wanted first to bathe the dirt out of his skin. He went directly to his room at the Green Lantern.

  Pretty Carrie James watched him ride up, looked down it him from her window as he tied the horse to the rail, heard his sure, man-sized footsteps as he mounted the staircase to the second floor.

  The sight and sound of Buchanan disturbed the girl for some reason that she didn't understand mad£ her feel restless, uncomfortable. She realized then that she had felt that way, more or less, all this day. The trouble was rooted in the fact that she had been left out of the excitement that gripped South Signal Street, that despite the fact that she lived on this side of the deadline, it was assumed that her sympathies and loyalty were owned by Troy's.

  But they weren't. In Carrie's thinking, the right people in Bella were all located on the wrong side of the deadline. When she first learned of the plan to compete with Troy's, she wanted to pitch right in, do what she could to help Little Joe and Billy Burke make a go of it.

  The stumbling block was Buchanan, Buchanan and that ad he'd run in the paper. Imagine—"WANTED: nice-looking girl with good shape!'' The redhead just guessed h did and just as brazen as printing such an announcement is the way he held interviews in his room like some sultan out of the Arabian Nights.

  She turned from the window impatiently, trying to channel her thoughts into some other direction. But she could hear him retreating down the corridor, hear the door to his room open and close behind him, and she remembered how the two of them had looked to her in that room—Buchanan and Ruby Weston.