Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  Inside the mansion Myra Simon stood in the fold of the heavy curtain where she had hidden during the dialogue between her husband and James Brady. Her personal maid, unobtrusive always, the girl named Concita, was not far away. They exchanged glances, then went together upstairs to Myra’s boudoir.

  Myra said, “We’ve known Mr. Simon was not strictly honest in business. But that he is dishonorable—that’s another matter.”

  Concita, who spoke good English only when in Myra’s company and who otherwise smiled and said little, replied, “But you know he is dishonorable.”

  “With that slut?” Myra laughed. “Yes. But that is convenient. Between liquor and Maria he has stopped, almost, using me.”

  “You are very patient.”

  “Patience is a virtue.” She sighed. “Not that I prize my virtue, especially when I am with Buchanan.”

  “Ah, si señora. Buchanan. I have also seen him.”

  “The woman, Cara. My friend in Las Cruces told me about them, an old story. Cara Shaw has him now, I’d bet.”

  “A legend in his own time. But not a Casanova. That is the word about Buchanan.”

  “What would I do without you, Concita?”

  “You would survive,” said the girl dryly. “You would find a way.”

  “If only so much of my money were not tied in with his. That, as you know, is perplexing,” Myra said.

  “Difficult, yes. But not impossible to deal with.” Concita’s parents had been killed in the Mexican difficulties. She was schooled but not convent-bred. She went on, “You have saved me from working the saloons. You have brains no one suspects. You will prevail.”

  “With your help.” They embraced. They were slightly daunted but not truly scared.

  Myra had been swept off her feet, by the dash and daring of the younger Broderick Simon. It had taken time to see through him. He was clever; he was thoroughly involved in his ambition. He might have been a great man, she thought wistfully, had he tempered his ambition with thoughts of others, if he had devoted himself to the deep problems of the railroads and not turned to actions that were against the individual.

  It also had taken her years of deep thought to arrive at these present conclusions, to learn to seek cover beneath her airy presentation of herself. If she could only confide in Buchanan, she thought—but she dared not. This was her private war.

  Buchanan was tired, but he needed relaxation before turning in. Cara had hired an experienced stage-line man named Donley to handle the El Paso station, and all was in order. It was time for a drink where he was known. He hied himself to the Cowboy Saloon. There were the usual number of afternoon patrons, and at the far end of the bar a small, extremely dapper man in gray tailor-made clothing, and tiny, shiny boots. He was smoking a long, thin cheroot. He was quite handsome. When Buchanan began to exclaim in recognition he motioned for silence.

  Buchanan, puzzled, strolled down and took a place a few feet from this individual. The bartender slid a bottle and a shot glass before Buchanan.

  The small man said out of the corner of his mouth, “Howdy, Tom. Big table needs attention.”

  Buchanan swung easily around and hooked his elbows on the bar, lounging, pretending slight interest. There at the big poker table sat Broderick J. Simon, a stout man flashing diamonds, a freighter with a red beard called, for obvious reasons, Red Barber, and a townsman whose name was Don Ruckles, a businessman. The action seemed steady but not exciting.

  Buchanan said, “So?”

  “Been watchin’. Brother-in-law.”

  “The eastern dudes?”

  “Correct.”

  “The one with the long nose don’t like me very much.”

  “All the better.”

  “Rye Dingle’s layin’ doggo,” said Buchanan. “On the high stool.”

  “He worked for them?”

  “For the nose. Name of Simon. Bad news.”

  “The diamonds?”

  “Never met him,” said Buchanan.

  “Nice setup,” said the little man.

  To the casual observer they seemed to be strangers newly met, engaged in desultory barroom conversation.

  “Can’t keep you out of it nohow, I expect,” said Buchanan.

  “Why should you? Shall we dance?”

  “Been a long time since the last fandango,” said Buchanan.

  “Hiyu fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Always and always.”

  “I’ll lead.”

  “You always did,” Buchanan told him. He poured himself another drink, watching his old friend meander toward the table. It was hard to keep from grinning at the diffidence of the approach, the hesitant query as to whether the game was open, if he might sit in for a few hands. Buchanan edged closer as the little man was invited to sit down, wanting to overhear the dialogue.

  The newcomer bought chips and played a few unexciting hands. Then he said mildly, “Five-handed is okay, but six is better. Wonder if there’s another gambler in the house.”

  It was Buchanan’s cue. He strolled over, nodding to Simon, who blinked once, then said, “Ah. Buchanan. I heard you had some trouble on the road. I’m sorry. Is Mr. Shaw recovering?”

  “He’ll do. A tough old bird. He’ll outlive us all.” He made it as offhand as he could manage.

  Simon said, “Will you join us?”

  “Uh-huh, a pleasure.”

  “Allow me to introduce Mr. James Brady.”

  “Howdy,” said Buchanan. “Red ... Mr. Ruckles.” He took a chair between Ruckles and Simon. The house man gave him a stack of chips amounting to five hundred dollars.

  Simon said to the little man, “I don’t believe we got your name, sir?”

  “Me? I’m Luke Short.”

  Barber and Ruckles started, then sat erect in their seats. They seemed to become more alert, more interested.

  Simon said, “We’re playing pot limit, Mr. Buchanan. Western poker. Your game, I take it.”

  “Uh-huh.” This was a charade to be enjoyed to the hilt.

  Simon was dealing. “Five card stud,” he announced, and dealt the hole cards, then six face up.

  Buchanan looked at a trey in the hole and a nine showing. Ruckles had a king of spades. Brady showed a jack, Barber a ten spot, Luke Short a queen, and Simon the ace of diamonds.

  “Ace bets fifty,” said Simon.

  Buchanan folded. Ruckles met the bet. Brady did likewise. Luke shook his head.

  Simon dealt again. No one paired. Again fifty dollars was bet and called, Simon’s ace on top.

  On the next round Ruckles paired his kings. Brady, showing a sequence in hearts called the bet. Simon checked. Ruckles bet a hundred dollars.

  Barber dropped. Simon was smiling, rattling his chips with his left hand. He dealt again. No one showed betterment, but Brady drew another heart.

  Ruckles said, “It’s worth the pot.”

  There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the rattle of Simon’s chips. Then Brady said, “I raise five hundred.”

  “And I bet the pot,” said Simon triumphantly.

  Ruckles looked stunned. After a moment he said, “Well, could be a heart flush. Could be aces. Could be anything. But I have to call.”

  Simon said, “Ha! Two aces here, gentlemen. I don’t believe in four flushes, Mr. Brady.”

  Brady folded his cards and buried them in the deck. “You’re right. I was bluffing.”

  Ruckles lifted a shoulder. “Beats my two kings.” He arose. “Sorry, men, I have another engagement which I hope is more profitable.”

  He departed. Luke said, “So, five-handed is still not bad.”

  Brady said, “Biggest pot yet to my friend, here. I do hope we get some more fast action.”

  “What goes around comes around,” said Luke.

  They played a couple of small ones, Luke playing them close to his vest, very cautious. He won his share of hands. Barber also seemed to become lucky. Brady was calm, cool, but Simon showed irritation as he lost a couple of pots, whi
ch took away his winnings.

  Luke gathered the deck. His every move was almost painstakingly slow. He said, “Draw poker, open on anything?” He dealt swiftly. Brady’s eyes never left his hands, Buchanan noted. Mr. Brady was a cool character, possibly a big gambler from the East imported by Simon. It was an interesting setup. Brady squeezed out his cards. He had a pair of jacks and misfits. He said, “Open for twenty.” Everyone played.

  Buchanan said, “Three to me.”

  Barber also took three cards.

  Brady said, “Just one, please.”

  Simon took three.

  Luke said, “One to me.” At the same time his toe gently touched Buchanan’s boot.

  Buchanan eyed his draw. He had bettered with a pair of tens. He said, “Bet twenty.”

  Barber said, “Gotta raise fifty.”

  Brady, still expressionless, said, “Raise fifty.” He was handling his chips with some clumsiness. They rattled in the silence. Onlookers were turning their attention to the play as the stakes rose, Buchanan noted.

  Simon said, “And fifty to you, Mr. Short.”

  Luke appeared to hesitate, stroking his red mustache. Then he said, “Have to do it again.”

  Buchanan said, “Me too, gents.” It was a lovely pot, he thought, really beautiful, too bad his hand could not win.

  Barber sighed. “Too strong for me. Know when to fold, my daddy taught me.”

  Brady said, “Fifty is a nice sum. Once more.”

  “And I raise fifty,” said Simon.

  Luke sighed. “No sense to this, but it’s fascinatin’, ain’t it. Another hundred.”

  Buchanan said only, “Raise,” as he put in his chips.

  Now Brady paused. He stared at Luke, then at Buchanan. He said, “Three cards to Mr. Buchanan. One to me. Three to Mr. Simon. And only one to Mr. Short. Now we know only a fool would go this far with two pair. Therefore someone has filled.”

  “You figure real good,” said Luke Short. “Your bet.”

  Brady probably had the hand, Buchanan thought. He had played too long with his chips, this man with no apparent nerves. Simon had obeyed that signal and raised on nothing much, certainly not a winner. Brother-in-law.

  Which was exactly what Buchanan had been doing since Luke’s toe touch on his boot. So everyone was cheating a bit.

  What he knew, which was unbeknownst to Simon and Brady, was that Luke Short, honest gambler, could do things with a deck of cards that were beyond the average stage magician’s ability. The slower and more deliberately he dealt, the more tricks he was able to manage. He had never been known to use this ability except against sharpers, but he had no conscience when the occasion demanded action.

  Brady said, “I bet the pot.”

  Simon looked around the table. He made a wry face. He said, “I’m afraid I went too far. That last round ...” He folded his hand and slid it where it would be promptly hidden.

  Luke lifted one shoulder. “I call and raise the pot.” Now men were really circling. They did not come too close, but their eyes were round and bright. Gambling blood was at a feverish pitch. Side bets were made. No one was ordering drinks at the bar. Rye Dingle slipped down from the high chair and moved into the forefront of the circle.

  Buchanan said, “Too rich for me.” He pushed back from the table to get both hands free. He was sore from the long stagecoach drive. He worked his fingers, watching Simon’s gunner.

  Brady was studying not his hand but Luke’s face. He did not smile; he did not frown. He sat and stared. Finally he said, “I’m a stranger in town. Maybe I don’t know the western game. Therefore ... I call your bet, sir.”

  Now the entire saloon herd waited with bated breath. Luke’s delicate hands worked his cards into a fan. He laid them before him.

  There was an audible gasp that filled the saloon. Luke said, “Nine, ten, jack, queen, king ... of spades.”

  For a moment it seemed that Brady would crack wide open. There was tremendous force behind those cold eyes, Buchanan thought. This was a powerful man who knew control. Time posed on a pinpoint.

  The stout man shook his head. “Too good.” He shoved his unseen cards to the dealer. “I think I’ve had enough. I now realize that I was incorrect in underestimating the western game.”

  Simon’s long nose had turned red at the tip. His mouth was ugly. He dared not speak, Buchanan knew. He and his partner had been beaten at their own game. They had attempted to make a big pot for themselves and they had walked into a trap and they knew it. Rye Dingle moved behind Simon, ready for action. Buchanan had his hand on a huge silver belt buckle that contained the deadly double-barreled derringer. Over behind the bar the barkeep had his hand on a sawed-off shotgun.

  Luke said in his quiet manner, “Sorry to break up the game so soon, gents. Cash me, please.”

  The houseman went to the box for the money. Now everyone was talking, exclaiming. Barber laughed in his red beard and said, “Luke Short. I’m proud to have sat in, win or lose. Somethin’ to tell my grandchildren someday if I live so long.”

  Simon arose. Brady sat a moment, then asked, “Is there something I should know?”

  “Just that you went up against the best—and the most famous and the squarest gambler in the country, Mr. Brady,” Barber said.

  Simon snapped, “A fact well known to Mr. Buchanan, of course.”

  “And to every son in the West,” said Barber. He stretched. “So I’ll have a drink on him.”

  “For the house,” said Luke, smiling sweetly, a carefree little man having fun. “Buchanan?”

  “Anytime, sir,” said Buchanan.

  The tension had been broken. Only Simon showed emotion. Try as he might, he could not manage to adopt a light demeanor. He went to the bar, Rye Dingle close behind him, and drank with the crowd, but the worm was in him and no one could miss it. He had lost face and he knew it. He muttered to Rye Dingle, who discreetly withdrew, sliding through the crowd of merrymakers into the night. Brady was calm, smiling a cold smile.

  In an hour it was over, and Brady came to Luke and extended his hand. “I have a story to tell back home. I had a winning hand, you know. I didn’t know who you were, but I sensed something when I called you. Some other time, maybe.”

  “I get around very little these days. Come to Fort Worth anytime,” Luke said.

  “I may do that.” Brady led Simon from the saloon.

  Luke said, “So. Enough for me. Gentlemen, goodnight.”

  He left. Buchanan waited two minutes, then finished his drink, waved to the crowd, and followed.

  It happened a hundred feet from the hotel. Two men came out of the shadows. They held revolvers. Luke Short put up his hands.

  Buchanan moved with his usual celerity. He came in swinging, disdaining to use a firearm. Luke ducked, then drew a .38 from his leather-lined rear pocket and used it as a club, raking it across the face of the robber not taken by Buchanan.

  The two men went down like tenpins. Buchanan kicked the one who made a move. The other lay quite still.

  Luke said, “Do we call the law?”

  “Why bother?”

  “Upward and onward,” said Luke.

  They went into the hotel where Luke had a pair of rooms—one in case he was asked for a private game. Luke counted out the night’s winnings. He made his calculations, then split the money into two piles. “That’s about right, compadre. Thanks for bein’ so prompt out there.”

  “You were ready for it.”

  “Certain. That feller Simon, he’s bad medicine, all right. Brady—he’s dangerous.”

  “So is Simon in his ratty-way.” Buchanan pocketed the money. “Those two bushwhackers, they’re only part of what he buys. Somehow or other he finds every jasper who’s ready to sell out. He’s got an army of ’em, I figure.”

  Luke shook his head. “Not my game. Wish I could help you, but my acquaintance with rats is too small.”

  “Wouldn’t want you in this,” said Buchanan. He accepted a drink from a bottl
e produced by his old friend and mentor. He had known Luke since the days in Dodge City, Kansas, when Bat Masterson was the youngest sheriff in the West and they had all three been carefree and reckless. Buchanan had learned about the cards from Luke, all he would ever need to know. He was not quite as clever as his teacher, but he could deal a hand and spot a cardsharp. He grinned and said, “I ain’t about to ask you how you got that straight flush. Nor what Brady held, although I’d bet it was a high full or small fours.”

  “You’ll never know,” said Luke, lighting a cheroot.

  “Suits me. I got to sleep. This drivin’ a stage is somethin’ else again.”

  “I’ll hold a good thought for you and Ebenezar. Heard all about it, of course. Had a mornin’s mornin’ with Stroutmire. Notice he wasn’t around tonight.”

  “He’s aging.”

  “Ain’t we all?”

  They shook hands and Buchanan departed, going down the back stairs, feeling a bit like a crook but chuckling deep inside. There were times when it paid to know how to beat the odds. And, he added to himself, to be lucky enough to have a friend around at such a time.

  James Brady sat in a large chair in the house that Broderick J. Simon had built and sipped brandy, listening to Mrs. Simon prattle on about New York and how she wished her husband could be transferred to headquarters there and how she would love to go to the opera and the fine restaurants that she remembered from a visit in her salad days. His mind was occupied with several notions that had occurred to him during the course of his stay in El Paso. His diamonds flashed in the lamp light, which he was aware did not impress this lady of the frontier.

  In the enclosed patio Simon spoke to Rye Dingle. “How in the hell did it go wrong?”

  Dingle said, “Buchanan.”

  “Damn his soul to hell. He was in cahoots with that little devil of a cardsharp.”

  “You should’ve let me and Slab handle it.”

  “And if you went wrong, people, knowing you work for me, would lay it at my door. Please do not tell me my business.”