by Jonas Ward
Either Mrs. Weston didn't see him for what he was— a common barroom brawler, a Peeping Tom at the bathroom keyhole—or else she didn't ask any more of a man besides that lazy grin and those impossible shoulders.
Carrie'd had two skirmishes with Mr. T. Buchanan-last night in the corridor, this morning in court—and if there was one to keep at full arms' length, he was it. For a single girl In a wild town like Bella it was vital to maintain poise and self-confidence. Buchanan had chipped away some of that precious reserve, very nearly made her lose her temper twice. Him and that expression in his eyes, as though they shared some secret. . , .
There were other footsteps on the stairs, urgent-sounding and they broke through her concentration.
"Buchanan? Which room you in, Buchanan?" It was Little Joe's voice, high-pitched, excited, and Carrie went to her own door, pulled it open, But Buchanan had heard the summons, too, and he came out into the corridor. Carrie immediately withdrew her head, for Buchanan was naked to the waist, clothed in nothing but his underwear.
"What7s up?" she heard him say, as nonchalant as Little Joe had been concerned.
"He said you weren't coming back!"
"Who said?"
"Durfee!"
"Well, here I am,"
"Big as life," Little Joe said joyously. Then he became solemn, hesitating,
"Durfee," he said, "is dead. He was taking your place, Buchanan. We hired him because he said he could handle Mike Sandoe."
"Don't feel responsible for that fight," Buchanan told him, seeing in his mind the massacre at Indian Rocks, understanding the problem Sandoe faced with a lone survivor loose, an eyewitness. "They had their private reasons." he said,
“What about you?"
"Me? What do you mean?"
"I mean are you still willing to work?"
'That's what I came back here for/7 Buchanan said, laughter lurking close to the surface. "Not that I wouldn't buy off if I could just raise the twenty-five,”
“Ah, to hell with it!" Little Joe said abruptly. "I got Durfee on my conscience. I sure don't want you. Our deal is scrapped, Buchanan. Ride out while you're still in one piece."
Buchanan shook his head. "Go open the Happy Times," he said quietly. "I’ll be along."
Little Joe stared up at him, the chest and shoulders of him, the battle-tested, broken-nosed, blue-eyed calmness of him, and he let himself forget the cold destruction hanging at Mike Sandoe's gunbelt
"All right," Little Joe said. "By God, we'll try it again!"
Carrie heard the saloonkeeper leave and bits of the conversation she had just listened to echoed in her mind. It was true, then, about the gunfight earlier tonight. The man named Durfee had been working in the Happy Times, and had been killed by Frank Power's latest gunman. And now they were going to give him a second victim. . . .
Buchanan's voice startled the girl out of her reverie; Buchanan's off-key baritone filling the whole boarding-house with the verse of some chanty while water splashed noisily in the tub. Of a sudden the redhead began to laugh. She sat down on the edge of the bed and kept on laughing. For she had a perfect picture of what it was like in there, with the likes of Buchanan accommodating himself in a tub that she herself found confining.
The serenade ended, leaving a depressing, melancholic silence that sobered Carrie and made her realize what a cull, uninteresting place the Green Lantern had really been all these months. That was a disquieting discovery to make, one that caught her unprepared, for it implied that there was something missing in her life, that perhaps she wasn't quite so self-sufficient as she liked to think.
And for some reason she saw Ruby Weston in Buchanan's room again, except that this time the memory hurt a little, and wouldn't go away when she wanted it to. How many girls had flocked to answer that ad, anyhow? And how did Buchanan come to choose Ruby Weston?
She found herself out in the corridor, walking toward the closed door of that suddenly intriguing room. Now she stopped, hesitantly, asked herself if she knew what she was doing out there, if she knew where she was going. The answer was a shaky no, but then she was moving forward again, with a kind of pleasant roaring sound in her ears and no consciousness at all of the floor passing beneath her feet,
She halted a second time, directly before the door, and listened. It was quiet in there, strangely so, and she was in the act of putting her ear directly against the panel when the whole door swung open.
It was quite a different Buchanan standing there, a formidable one, and there was nothing aimless or easy-going about the bigness of him. For a long moment he stared down at her, then the bleakness in his eyes melted into the good-humored twinkle that had marked their encounter in court this morning.
"Didn't mean to jump you,” Buchanan said easily. "That cat-footing sounded like somebody else."
"Mike Sandoe?" she asked, still not recovered.
"Somebody like that. What can I do for you?"
She shook her head from side to side but no word passed her throat. What could he do for her? she thought giddily,
"Nothing," Carrie said aloud, and as she spoke her body began to rock forward and back of its own volition. Buchanan's hands came up, braced her by the shoulders. You feel all right?"
She felt wonderful. She said, "Can I deal faro at the Happy Times?"
He shook his head. "We got one."
'Ruby Weston. What's so special about her?"
At that he shrugged. "She fills the bill," he said.
"How about me?"
"Can't tell," Buchanan said, and a smile began to form. Can't tell what?"
Buchanan still held her shoulders beneath his palms. Now he ducked his head and kissed her half-parted lips. I guess you fill the bill, too," he told her then.
The redhead's eyes were smoky. "What made you think you could do that to me, Buchanan?"
"Half the fun, Carrie, is finding out."
"And what do you think would happen if you tried it again?"
Buchanan cocked his head at her. "Dealer," he said, That’d be pushing my luck,"
"Push it."
The big man was actually surprised. He kissed her a second time, tentatively, then warmed to it, gave it all the attention it deserved.
A slim hand tapped him on the shoulder. Ruby Weston asked, "Is this where the line forms?"
Buchanan looked up slowly, took in the enjoyably startling figure sheathed in red satin, and grinned.
'You're next," he said, and Carrie, who had not moved, abruptly shoved herself out of his embrace. She gazed coolly at Ruby, appraised the fancy gown, then tossed her head.
"Take over if you can.” she said. "I was all through with him anyhow." She made the return journey to her own room with a hip-swinging gait that was meant to show her disdain, but which Buchanan enjoyed for its provocative rhythm.
She closed the door behind her, then crossed to the darkened window. She was standing there, looking down at the street, when Buchanan came out of the house, Ruby Weston hanging onto him possessively.
Life didn't make any sense at all, Carrie James thought out of the experience of twenty years of living. To be made such a fuss over from San Francisco to Bella—then to have to fight for one man she wanted for herself.
Emboldened by the considerable whisky he had taken aboard, and fortified by the justification he felt, Frank Power crossed from Bella House to Troy's in search of Mike Sandoe. With each stride he experienced an old, familiar feeling in his thighs, a sense of running things, as it had always been when he toured the parade ground as battalion commander.
He pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the big room, stood importantly with hands on hips while he surveyed the activity and peered through the heavy pall of smoke. Bernie Troy materialized at his side.
"I'm glad you got back."
"Why? What big troubles have you got?"
"They opened the Happy Times tonight."
"It was closed tight when I came through,”
"They still opened it."
"Without Buchanan?"
"With someone else. Bird name of Durfee."
"Durfee?"
"Sandoe went over and killed him," Troy said. "But Sandoe didn't wreck the place. Now I hear they're getting ready to open again."
"Was Ruby Weston there?" Power asked tightly.
"With bells on," his partner said, watching the bigger man's expression. "They tell me she looked real fine,”
Power's jawline tightened, "I'm looking for Sandoe,” lie said. "Where is he?"
"Playing poker."
"With what?"
"He lugged in a saddlebag full of money."
Rage leaped up into Power's face. He saw the gun-fighter's back then, and beside his chair the saddlebag that held the payroll. He squared his shoulders, walked angrily to the card table.
"I want to see you,” he said crisply, and Mike Sandoe looked around at him lazily.
"Be with you when I finish this hand." Sandoe said, and the insolence snapped what was left of Power's short temper. He snatched the cards from Sandoe's fingers and threw them to the floor.
"You're not with me at all!" he shouted savagely. ”You goddam blundering fool, you're through!"
The game ended abruptly as the five other players shoved their chairs back, got to their feet and out of the way.
Sandoe sat as he was, measuring Power, noting that he wore no gun at his belt.
"I can explain how it happened out there," he said.
"To hell with your explanations! That gun of yours cost me fifty thousand dollars today. You going to explain the money back to me?"
"Speak low,” Sandoe told him, an ominous edge creeping into his voice, "Watch your words careful."
The liquor glittered in Power's eyes,
"I said you were through. That's as careful as you'll ever hear it from me,”
"Hey, boys!" cried a voice from the entrance. "They're back in business at the Happy Times!"
Whoops and hollers followed that glad announcement. Forgotten was the argument between Frank Power and Sandoe as all of them broke for the street. Power swung around himself, spotted the man who had brought the news, and went to him.
"Is there a lady dealing faro?" he asked,
"I'll say there is!" The courier turned and joined the exiting crowd.
Power watched them. Then he, too, started forward.
"You better take me with you,” Mike Sandoe called after the retreating figure, but there was no invitation. "To hell with you, then,” the gunfighter snarled. "I got mine."
And he did the three-hundred-odd still in the saddlebag. Suddenly affluent, Sandoe strode to the bar. Three hundred dollars! He thought. Hell, this country boy can wheel and deal with that kind of money in his kick!
Chapter Sixteen
The second opening of the Happy Times was neither grand nor gala. It was quiet and businesslike, which suited Little Joe very well, even it if didn't please the theatrical flair of Billy Burke, Little Joe especially liked the solid, unobtrusive presence of Buchanan, who took a post along the wall that kept him handy to the faro table and the cash register, but out of the customers' way. Ruby Weston also seemed to enjoy him there, smiling at him wickedly from her dealer's place and giving the impression that she was having the time of her life,
Marshal Grieve was also on the premises this time, worriedly.
"What's happening to that deadline of yours?" Buchanan asked him.
"The one who had this job earlier found out about it,” the lawman said. "And so will you."
"There'll be another to take my place,” Buchanan told 'm. "From now on the town of Bella is open to everyone.”
"What was that sheriff's name you mentioned?"
“Jeff Sage. A real gent."
Grieve nodded. "Must be quite a place? Alpine, West Texas."
"Cow town,” Buchanan said. "No growing pains like this one."
“I'll drop Sage a line. Tell him it was nice knowing you for almost two nights running."
Grieve broke off to see the figure of the meat-buyer, Wilson, hurrying toward him.
"What's he want?" Grieve asked? his voice querulous.
"Marshal, how much jurisdiction you got?" Wilson demanded.
*The town of Bella. Why?"
"I had nothing to do with it,” the man blurted. "All I wanted from Frank Power was to buy his cattle."
"What are you talking about?"
"The massacre! Out there in some box canyon, whatever the place is called."
"Indian Rocks," Buchanan said quietly and Wilson looked up at him sharply.
'That's right. And you can tell him I had nothing to do with it."
'You say a herd was massacred?" Grieve broke in.
''Herd? These were men, Marshal Men like you and me. Every one of 'em murdered."
"Is that right, Buchanan?"
"The Doc and I buried eight punchers and Boyd Weston. Who got bushwhacked and who died fighting I wouldn't know."
"What in the name of God is happening here?" Grieve asked. "Nine men!"
Buchanan had moved away from the wall with the grace of a panther, angled swiftly toward the faro table. Frank
Power was coming from the opposite direction, purposefully, his fist wrapped around the derringer, his haggard gaze on the girl whose husband he had killed with it scant hours before. Ruby Weston gave a short gasp as she saw him. The players nearest to her scrambled for safety.
"Get up, Ruby,” Power said unevenly, "You're leaving."
"No," she said, unable to mask the fear she felt. "No.'
"I said, get up!”
Buchanan stepped squarely between them. 'The lady doesn't want to, Power,”
Power brought the gun up.
Ruby Weston came out of the dealer's chair. |
"Move away from him, Buchanan! He'll kill you!*"
It was Power who moved, putting the table between them. "Interfere this time in my affairs," he said, "and you'll get a bullet right between your eyes. Walk ahead of me, Ruby."
"You're safer where you are," Buchanan told her. :
"Walk, Ruby!"
She shook her head.
"No?" Power said. "You prefer the company of this lousy saddle bum?"
"Yes."
"Then look the part of a whore! Give them a real show!" And without warning he reached his fingers into the low front of her gown and ripped it away, baring the girl to the waist.
Buchanan's arm moved in a brief arc and the palm-bladed blow struck Power at the base of the neck. The massive body jackknifed forward and his head struck among the chips and cards on the table.
Ruby Weston, arms crisscrossed over her naked breasts, moved quickly against Buchanan. He threw his arm over her shoulders and started with her through the wide-eyed crowd.
"Watch it!" someone shouted, and two guns went off simultaneously.
A bullet streaked past Buchanan's head and he whirled even as Frank Power was falling, his face bloodied, the derringer in his hand still curling smoke.
Buchanan looked toward the wall then, to the gray face of Grieve, to the .44 hanging at his side. The marshal came away from the wall and would have passed Buchanan and Ruby without a word.
"Thanks, mister,” Buchanan told him softly.
“Thanks for what?" the lawman asked. "Where do I go from here?"
"I’ll give you a hand," Buchanan said and Grieve stared at him angrily.
"You?" he said, his voice rising, laced with derision.
"What the hell do I want with a fist fighter?" He turned en his heel and left the saloon.
Then Ruby Weston spoke.
"Take me out of here," she said. "I've got to get some clothes on,"
Three hundred in the kick, Mike Sandoe thought lugging the saddlebag to the bar, throwing it up beside his elbow. He poured a drink from the bottle, turned around with it. The place was practically deserted now. Just a few old lushes at one table, men who didn't care anymore what was happening, a quiet penny-ante game in progress under the balco
ny where he'd got Moose Miller this morning.
He raised his eyes; saw himself staring into that big greener's barrels. He saw Bud Carew drawing again, saw Frank Walsh riding crazily into his sights. . . .
The hell with that! That was death. What he wanted was life. He remembered walking into the Happy Times, seeing all those girls, hearing their squeals of laughter. That was life. Bill Durfee's face swam crazily before his eyes.
He finished off the drink, started to pour another when the sound of the shots from the Happy Times burst into the silence of Troy's. Thirty seconds later came the first eager news bearer.
"Frank Power is dead! Marshal Grieve plugged him when he had that big buck dead to rights!"
"What big buck?"
"Buchanan! And boys, I seen it with my own eyes!"
"Come over here," Mike Sandoe told the man, and he went to the gunfighter obediently. "Tell it to me slow, the way it happened."
The story poured from the frightened man's mouth even as others flocked through the doors, came together in groups, and exchanged their eyewitness accounts of the great event.
Sandoe listened to it and a grandiose idea took form in his mind. The strongman was dead, the job was vacant. Why not? Who was there to challenge Mike Sandoe if he stepped in and took over? Not Buchanan. Not Grieve. Only Bernie Troy.
Troy had gone promptly to the office, opened the safe, and got out the partnership agreement. He put a flame to it, and with that simple act took over sole ownership of Troy's. This, the gambler knew, was a time to think out everything very clearly and very quickly. Opportunity was striking loud and clear.
Think! he told himself. Decide. Make the right moves now, while everybody is still in a state of shock, still talking about it.
The competition down the street would have to be wiped out. But not tonight. Not even tomorrow. He would send to Sacramento, import a gun crew that would wreck the Happy Times. A week's time at the most. . . .
