by Jonas Ward
As the door opened to emit a gale of noise and smoke and warm odors, a figure exited, hesitated, then slipped by and was gone like a shadow in the night. The light in his eyes, Buchanan blinked and stared.
“Wasn’t that Charlie Knife?”
Coco said, “The Apache?”
“The renegade bastid,” said Buchanan. “What’s he doin’ down here? It ain’t exactly safe for him if Stroutmire sees him.”
“The marshal ain’t as young as he was,” said Coco. “It might have been Charlie. Been years.”
“His own people disowned him. He’s wanted everywhere. How come he’s in El Paso? It’s a wonderment.”
“I’m still hungry,” said Coco.
The restaurant was jammed to the low-hanging smoky rafters. There was scarcely room at the bar to order tequila and wait for a table. Men called out. Coco was given a cheer.
He said, “I’d ruther have a bowl of chili.” He sipped at his glass of tepid milk, ignoring the four ounces of fiery liquor someone had sent over.
Buchanan was into the disregarded second drink when Mama Casino, slender, handsome, bustling, came to them. “Please, Señor Buchanan, I have an invitation for you,” she said in her native tongue.
“To eat?” asked Coco.
“Indeed. The private room.” She flashed white teeth.
“Lead on,” said Buchanan. “And cursed be he who first cries ‘Hold, enough.’ Or somethin’ like that from Will Shakespeare.”
“Comes of readin’ them little blue books by campfire light,” grumbled Coco. “Always readin’.”
“Haldemann’s,” admitted Buchanan. “Madame knows of the cowboy’s library.”
“Free with Bull Durham,” she said. “From them I learned the English. Somewhat.”
The private room was off to the right of the bar, next to the outer door of the restaurant. Mama opened it with a flourish and, beaming, said, “The señors Buchanan and Bean.”
There were four people at the ample table. They were Broderick J. Simon; the big man, Slab Cider; the gunner, Rye Dingle; and a beautiful blond lady of definite, rounded proportions and large blue eyes. Simon was on his feet, smiling. His nose was red and swollen. He extended a hand and said, “Buchanan, my apologies. I am afraid I was deep into my cups. I am told that I was far wrong.”
Buchanan took the proffered hand. It was warm, dry, strong. “Impossible to deny an open confession, sir.”
“And Mr. Bean, you are included ... You have met my employees. Now meet my lady, Mrs. Myra Simon.”
They bowed, removing their hats. Mama Casino waved a hand and waiters came. There were bottles of wine on the table, two empty chairs. Simon continued, “We would be honored if you would join us. It is always good for men of substance to dine and wine together.”
Buchanan, about to refuse, experienced a change of mind drawn from instinct. He had long since learned to obey this little voice, which often wordlessly bade him to follow the line of least resistance. Coco, sensing semi approval, took a seat. Buchanan was placed beside the blond woman, facing Simon’s somewhat distorted smile. It was amazing, Buchanan thought, that he should recover his sobriety in such a short period of time.
The waiter brought steaming bowls of redolent chili and a platter of crisp tortillas. Simon raised his wineglass and said, “To all of us, good health, the greatest boon nature can supply.”
Everyone acknowledged the toast. Coco fell to with gusto, Buchanan with more ease, savoring the flavor of the dish.
Mrs. Simon’s voice was light, breathy. “I understand Mr. Bean is to be congratulated—”
Her husband broke in, “No need to remind me, my dear. I will never again bet against him. By the way, Buchanan, I understand Ebenezar Shaw is a friend of yours.”
“Uh-uh,” said Buchanan. Again he felt the little signal. Neither Dingle nor Cider offered a word; they seemed to fade into the background, silent as stones.
“I’m afraid I have a sad duty to perform tomorrow in regard to Shaw,” said Simon. “Did he confide in you?”
“Uh-uh,” said Buchanan.
“In the interest of my company, Amalgamated Stage Lines.”
“Uh-uh?” Buchanan gave it a rising inflection, now, frowning at the man across the table.
“Yes. We are combining the remaining, useful, necessary stage lines in the interest of good business and fair play to passengers, the mails, the freight, et cetera. It is a modern idea which will revolutionize the business world, we believe.”
“Like the big railroads,” said Coco. “They sure rooked many an honest farmer and businessman.”
Every eye turned upon him as he calmly continued to dig into his chili.
Buchanan said, “We’ve known a few who got hurt by the railroads. In the name of ‘big business,’ and ‘best for the country’. Seems, like everything else, there’s two sides to the question.”
“You’re not thinking of the James boys and the Youngers?” Simon’s lips curled.
“Uh-uh,” said Buchanan. “Frank James and Cole Younger rode with Quantrell. That’s bad enough for me. I’m speakin’ of people we know.”
“Big business is the future,” said Simon. “We all have to face it.”
“That may be. But little business settled the West,” said Buchanan. “People came here to be on their own, to fulfill a dream. They’re to be considered.”
“I see you’re not a businessman.” Simon smiled. “Although my information is that you are well fixed.”
Buchanan shrugged. “That may be. Fishin’ and huntin’, those are my dreams. The open country. Where I call home, it takes a small stage line to get there. Ebenezar does it as good as anybody in the country.”
“Too bad. He seems a fine old man. But his time is past, I fear.”
“Could be. Then again, maybe not.” Buchanan closed the subject. “This is the best chili in the West; we all agree on that.”
Coco said, “I’m about to have another helpin’.”
The conversation dwindled. Dingle and Cider contributed little more than nods and grunts in agreement with every opinion advanced by Simon. Mrs. Simon smiled faintly and ventured nothing.
Buchanan finally said, “It’s been a pleasure.” He drew money from his pocket.
Simon exclaimed, “No! No! You are my guests. Perhaps we will meet under jollier circumstances.”
“Thanks,” said Buchanan. He bowed to the blond lady. “A real pleasure.”
He followed Coco out of the dining room, waved to Mama Casino. She came to him.
Buchanan asked, “Was that Apache renegade Charlie Knife in here tonight?”
“Why, yes. Just for a moment. He spoke with Mr. Simon.”
“Thanks,” said Buchanan.
In the street he was silent as they went toward the stage station. Coco was dealing with the two big bowls of hot chili. Buchanan began to hurry, Coco keeping pace without question.
They came to the stage station. It was lighted within by a small lamp. Buchanan opened the door. Ebenezar was slumped in a barrel chair.
Buchanan rushed to the side of the old man.
Ebenezar started, almost fell out of the chair. He blinked and said, “I was waitin’ up for you. Everything okay?”
Buchanan drew a deep breath. He said, “Uh-uh. Only lock the door.”
“Wha’ for? Never do lock it.”
“Just do me a favor,” said Buchanan. He led Coco to the bunks in the next room.
Buchanan had trouble going to sleep. He knew too much about Charlie Knife. He had seen too many dead bodies with throats sliced from ear to ear. And he had heard those inner warnings too often that evening in connection with Broderick J. Simon, his self-effacing wife, and the two peculiarly silent henchmen, Rye Dingle and Slab Cider.
He would have to investigate the big business plan that would swallow all the little remaining stage lines. Mail and freight contracts were their bread and butter—passenger trade no longer made for large profits. He would have to send telegrams
to Washington, where he was not unknown.
And he would have to look after his hide, he knew, and those of Coco and Ebenezar—and quite possibly the home folks in Encinal. Big business, as witness the railroads and the amalgamated mining interests, had long, dangerous tentacles.
Two
Early on the air was clear, light clouds stood high above the distant mountain peaks, and the Cowboy Saloon opened so that Marshal John Stroutmire could have his mornin’s mornin’ in peace. Buchanan found him at the bar.
Stroutmire wore a city sombrero under which his white hair made a fringe, a loose jacket, tight trousers with high-heeled boots—he was not a tall man—and an ornate Wyatt Earp long-handled Colt revolver in an equally ornate holster. However, Buchanan knew, under the marshal’s arm was a .38 S & W, which he could still produce with deadly speed. He was half showpiece and half shrewd, experienced lawman.
Buchanan said, “Howdy, John. Have one on me.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” He drank it in a cup of steaming coffee—for his health, he maintained. “Heard you was in town. How’s Coco?”
“Just fine. Wanted to ask you a couple questions.”
“Anything you need, Tom. Like always.”
“You knew Charlie Knife was in town?”
The marshal nodded, his luxuriant white mustache quivering. “The bastid. He’s here and he’s there, but he ain’t never where I can get a hand on him. Got two warrants on him.”
“He was in Mama Casino’s last night palaverin’ with a feller named Broderick J. Simon.”
“That drunk Yankee. Rye Dingle. A big moose callin’ hisself Slab Cider. They been spreadin’ themselves some.”
“I figured.”
“You and that Simon. Anything I should know about?” Stroutmire asked.
“Just that he wants to own all the stage lines. And he talked, like I say, with Charlie Knife. I got Coco watchin’ Ebenezar Shaw right now.”
Stroutmire sipped the hot coffee. The odor of good whiskey was strong. “Trouble is, Tom, they ain’t done anything yet. Since the railroad came, we get all kinds. Big business, they calls it. Wheelin’ and dealin’. City’s gettin’ together a police force. My job won’t be nothin’. Maybe you could put in a good word for me up at Encinal or somewhere.”
Buchanan said, “So you don’t know anything that might help.”
“I know Charlie Knife’d cut his mother’s throat for a penny—or outta plain meanness. I know Dingle’s got a half dozen notches in his gun. I heard Simon beats his wife when he’s drunk.”
“He can sober up quicker’n most.”
“A slicker. I know these things, but what can I do about ’em? Simon, he’s got the dinero. He wants more. Can’t do nothin’ about that. Dingle don’t even show his gun. That Cider feller, he talks sweet as a little girl. Charlie Knife, he skiddoos like a ghostie.” Stroutmire paused. Then he said, “Have you got somethin’ for me to go on?”
“Not yet. I’m headin’ home. If I find out anything, I’ll send you a wire.”
“You do that,” said the old marshal. “And if I see Charlie Knife, it’ll be the last time he slices a throat.”
They parted. Buchanan returned to the stage station. He and Coco had eaten an early breakfast; the next order of business would be the payment of Ebenezar’s demand note.
He was just in time. Simon, Cider, and Dingle were in the stage station with Coco and Ebenezar. Simon was staring at the money on the desk between them.
Buchanan said, “Mornin’, gents. Everything on the up and up?”
Simon whirled around. There was no sign of last night’s smooth good nature. “This is your doings, I take it, Buchanan?”
“Doin’s? What doin’s?”
“It isn’t good enough.” Simon whipped out a document. “Your note to the bank, Shaw. I now own it. It is due.”
Buchanan said mildly, “Oh, my. Another piece of paper. Ebenezar, you are a caution. How much this time?”
“Two thousand dollars!” said Simon.
Buchanan reached for a buckle inside his black trousers. He slicked out his money belt. Coco was following suit. They counted out the cash together.
“Nineteen hundred, two thousand. You got any other little problems this mornin’?” asked Buchanan.
Rye Dingle’s hand crept nervously to his shoulder holster. Slab Cider seemed about to burst into action, all two hundred and fifty-odd pounds of him. Simon’s cheeks were pink; he took a deep breath. He picked up the cash, counting it with care.
He laid the demand notes on the desk. He said, “Gentlemen, I believe this business is completed. I wish you luck, Shaw, with your new stagecoach. Thank you, one and all.”
He smiled, nodded, and walked out behind his cohorts. Buchanan watched him go with some wonder, shaking his head. He said, “Talk about a chameleon. Put that man on a piece of Scottish plaid and he’d go crazy.”
“Changes colors like a rainbow,” Coco agreed.
“He’s got those two bully boys mesmerized,” said Ebenezar. “Around him they’re little lambs.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “What kind of piece you got for a shotgun these days?”
“Haven’t brought along a shotgun for a long time. Apaches don’t want us. Ain’t been robbers around for years.”
Buchanan said, “This trip will be different. Get me somethin’ with authority. I’ll be back in time for the trip. Coco?”
They walked slowly toward the hotel where they had left their carpetbags. Buchanan paid the bill, then went up to the room, took out both of his Colt revolvers and began wiping the oil from them.
Coco said, “Bad trouble ahead. That man Simon, he’s ten kinds of trouble. Guns, always guns when there’s trouble.”
“Charlie Knife.”
“Simon’s got two fellers you know are real bad. Yet around him they’re like chillun.”
“The man’s got a wife scared to death of him.”
“The man wants Ebenezar’s stage line,” said Coco, summing up. “Oh, there’s trouble ahead, all right, all right.”
“Seems like every time we head for Billy and Nora and little Tommy there’s a bugaboo lurkin’ in the shadows.” Buchanan strapped on his revolvers. He disliked wearing them, yet they fit like a pair of gauntlets around his narrow hips. Few professionals had ever tried him, all had failed. His name was enough to awe the best of them, the ones with brains and sensibilities. But there were always the crazies—and there were always the likes of Charlie Knife.
They walked to the stage station and deposited their gear in the neat and gaudy coach. The passengers had arrived and were climbing into the tonneau. There was the ubiquitous drummer, a man in a checkered suit representing American Tobacco Company; young Douglas Campbell, an Encinal youth, a sometime cowboy; a stranger who divulged nothing about himself, a middle-aged man in range garb.
And then there was Mrs. Broderick J. Simon, escorted by Slab Cider. She smiled brightly at Buchanan and said in a catchy voice, “It’s a nice day for travel, isn’t it? My friend, Mrs. Holley the seamstress, is in Las Cruces, and I am dying to see the new designs. She gets her fashions direct from Paris. It’ll be fine riding with you and Mr. Bean; I’ll feel really safe with two such formidable gentlemen. Help me up, Slab, please. I do like to sit facing forward if the other passengers don’t mind. I get seasick riding backward, you know. Thank you, thank you, everyone.”
The drummer was overly solicitous, while young Doug shrugged and grinned at Buchanan. The silent man gave no indication that he was aware of Mrs. Simon’s presence. She flounced, arranging her skirts and petticoats, beaming upon one and all. Cider looked at Buchanan, rolled his round eyes upward, then down, and caught sight of the two guns. He said, “Loaded for bear, Buchanan?”
“Uh-huh.” Buchanan walked away, examining the six horses in their intricate trappings. They were matched pairs. The leaders, about eight hundred pounds each, were sorrels. The swings were a bit heavier, twin chestnuts. The wheelers were the big ones, aroun
d twelve hundred pounds apiece, grays. The lines were new, running up from each horse’s bit to the driver’s perch. Everything was in apple pie order. Ebenezar knew his business; he was a stickler for perfection.
At Buchanan’s elbow Slab Cider said, “The old man does things up right, don’t he?”
“Uh-huh.” Buchanan stroked the nose of the near leader.
“Not much freight this trip.” The big man’s voice was conciliatory, but there was an undercurrent not to be ignored.
“Uh-huh.”
“The money you put up, it saved his bacon.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you makin’ a partnership deal with him?”
“Reckon that’s between him and me.”
“Oh, certain. None of my damn business.” The smile was ingratiating. “Mr. Simon likes to know things. Me, I just work for him.”
“Uh-huh.” Buchanan ended the exchange. He went into the office and closed the door firmly behind him.
Ebenezar greeted him, saying, “Tom, I only got this greener and a Spencer. We ain’t needed guns before. Don’t reckon we’ll need ’em now. This here’s all plain business.”
“‘Plain’ ain’t the word. ‘Dirty’ is more like it.” Buchanan examined the old sawed-off shotgun and found it in good enough condition. He loaded it with buckshot and slipped shells into a possibles-sack he found on a corner table.
“If you’re hintin’ about Simon, would the man send his wife along if he meant mischief?”
“You been around, you seen plenty, Ebenezar. Man like Simon, you reckon he couldn’t have more’n one woman?”
Ebenezar stroked his stubby beard. “Like as not,” he admitted.
“Then mind your way. Sleep with one eye open. Let me see the Spencer.”
It was a .56-50, eight shot, carrying a .50-caliber bullet. It used tapered shells, smaller at the mouth of the case than at the rim. It was a fine gun and in excellent shape.
“Used it against injuns in my time,” said Ebenezar.
“It’ll do,” said Buchanan. He carried the guns to the coach and deposited them within his easy reach. He would sit at the left of the box. The driver sat on the right, a huge brake pedal convenient to his foot.
