Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  Barringer flicked at his hair. “Now wait. Nobody said nothin’ about givin’ me any help. Only one arm, maybe, in that pen. Now wait a minute.”

  “I’ve got to take a stage out at noon.” Buchanan took a step toward the barred door.

  “What kinda help?”

  The high voice held a plea. Buchanan returned to the vacant bunk, sat down, and spoke in a low, confidential tone.

  “You ever been in jail before now?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Never stole anything?”

  “Well... nothin’ much. Branded a calf or two, mebbe. This and that. Never had nothin’. Hadda get along somehow.”

  “All right. This last job, you boys got the worst of it. You made the mistake of comin’ back at me. That didn’t work and here you are.”

  “Sartain,” Barringer agreed.

  “Now what do you owe the people who put you up to it?”

  “I ain’t no ...”

  “Squealer,” said Buchanan. “But you got some sense in that thick skull somewhere. Must have. Who are you goin’ to hurt by talkin’ to me?”

  That took several moments to sink in. Then, “You put it like that. The boys is dead. I’m in bad trouble. Reckon it’s just me.”

  “You mind Billy Button?”

  “That stuck-up son.”

  “I remember when he was headin’ down the same road you’re onto. He minds it, too. Now supposin’ you were to testify in court that so-and-so offered to pay you for holdin’ up the stage.”

  “What then?” Barringer asked.

  “Supposin’ Billy offered to give you work on his place.”

  “He wouldn’t never. Hell, it was him shot me.”

  “He could have killed you,” Buchanan said.

  “Well ... I s’pose so.”

  “You know so. You know Billy’s a good man. You know he’s helped a lot of young fellows. You know me.”

  “You’re Buchanan. Everybody knows you.” The voice was now lower in pitch. The boy stared as though hypnotized.

  “You know Ebenezar Shaw. They’re tryin’ to steal his stage line. They’ll kill anybody gets in their way.”

  “That Gracie. Wouldn’t even look at a feller.”

  “Why should she, a bum like you?” Buchanan’s voice was sharp now. “Look at you. Think about yourself and your pals. No nice girl would ever look twice at you all. If you change your tune and straighten up, things might be different.”

  “They’ll kill me. He said ...”

  “Who said?” demanded Buchanan. “What was his name? What did he look like? Where did you meet him?”

  Barringer stammered, “I don’t ... I’m scared.”

  “You think they won’t kill you in prison? You think they’ll ever believe you won’t talk someday?”

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  “Don’t call on strangers when neighbors are near.” Buchanan again became kindly. “Tell me about it, boy.”

  Young Barringer squirmed. His eyes were clear green, his face showing a fuzz where someday a beard might grow. His mouth was a straight line. Then words poured from him.

  “We was campin’ north of town. It was not quite night, y’know? Just talkin’. Wishin’. This feller rode up. A big man. Nothin’ fancy. He had a bottle. Passed it around. Talkin’ about this an’ that. Hard times and all. Y’ know?”

  “What kind of horse was he ridin’?”

  “Uh ... a big bay. Kinda lame in the right off hoof, I seen later. He kept talkin’ about how there was ways to make a dollar. Showed us a bunch o’ money.”

  “How come you didn’t take it away from him?”

  “Never did think o’ that.” Barringer considered. “He just wasn’t the kind you did that to.”

  “Uh-huh. Big man with a gun.”

  “He was sweet talkin’. About how some important people wanted the stage robbed. Hold it up; take what the passengers had, the box, everything. Told us every little old thing to do. Kept passin’ that bottle.”

  “Uh-huh. Did the man have any scars or anything?” Buchanan asked.

  “Scars? No. Just this tough-lookin’ face on him. Smooth-talkin’ though. We was to meet him in Cruces, get the money, go down over the border. To a Mexican ranchero, he said. Safe place and maybe work for a hidalgo he knew down there. Said there were other men on the dodge down there. Said there was a man in El Paso would look out for us, a big man in business.”

  “He mention any names?”

  “Well ... when he’d had a few drinks outta that bottle he said somethin’ about Simple Simon, met a pieman. Y’know? That old thing?”

  “Simon, eh?” Buchanan said.

  “Well, then he shut up a minute. Then he said real big people were behind him and he’d take care of us good.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He said his name meant somethin’, too. Bullet.”

  “Bullitt.” This was unbelievable. “His name was Bullitt?”

  “That’s who we was to ask for in Cruces. Bullet. Like a password,” Barringer said.

  “You thought it was a password?”

  “What else?”

  “You’d know this man if you saw him?”

  “Couldn’t forget him, now could I?”

  Buchanan described in detail the man he had last seen tied up at the way station. Barringer listened, frowning. Then he said, “That could be him all right.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, let me tell you somethin’, son. You’re best off right here in this jail cell. I’ll talk to the marshal. You’ll be well taken care of. Could be, if you stay quiet and do what you’re told, you may not lose that arm. Could be, if all goes right, you may get off goin’ to the pen.”

  “You mean that?”

  “If someone would take responsibility for you.”

  “Aw, who’d do that?”

  “Could be Billy Button. Seein’ he shot you, the judge might listen to him,” Buchanan said.

  “Billy Button would do that?”

  “Billy’s got a big spread. His vaqueros come and go. He’s got a little boy that could be looked after if you do lose an arm. Think on that.”

  “Mr. Buchanan, I can’t even understand that,” the youth said.

  “Think hard on it. Think about what Coco said.”

  “You mean to pray? I dunno how to pray.”

  “I’m no preacher, boy. But I’ve seen fellows in worse shape than you and they came out pretty good. You look inside yourself and see if you can find somethin’. Take your time. Talk to the marshal. He’s a good man.” Buchanan paused, then said with emphasis, “But don’t talk to anyone else. No matter who promises you anything, don’t say a word. Don’t repeat what you’ve told me. If you do, anything might happen. Bullitt was right. There’s big trouble from tough folks out there. You understand?”

  “You’re makin’ me understand, I reckon. Nobody—not nobody—ever took time to explain or offer me nothin’ in my life before, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “I believe you, son, I believe you.”

  He left the boy lying on the cot, clutching his bad arm, and rejoined the others in the marshal’s office. He said, “Well, young Campbell, let’s take the stage out.”

  “Did he say anything?” asked Dave Darrin.

  Buchanan nodded and asked Coco, “You mind that jasper we hogtied with the man and his wife ... ?”

  “The thief.”

  “Name of Bullitt.”

  Coco rubbed his bent nose and described the man slowly and thoroughly. “He had a dangerous look about him.”

  “He got away; we knew that. So we’re damn sure he’s tied in with ASL,” Buchanan said.

  “Barringer told you that? He wouldn’t say a word to me,” said Dave Darrin.

  Buchanan produced some money. “Feed him better’n jail victuals. Watch him like a hawk. I’ll have Billy’s boys keep an eye out. And don’t let anybody know he talked.”

  “You figure they might want to do away with him?”

  “If they suspect he said a wo
rd, they’ll be after him.”

  Darrin said, “I’ll have to put on a night man.”

  “I’ll pay him,” said Buchanan.

  “You’re takin’ on a load, ain’t you?”

  Buchanan said, “In for a penny, in for a dollar. Also, I want Ebenezar up here. Maybe we can arrange for a spring wagon and mattresses or whatever it takes. I’ll talk to Doc Watson about it. Charlie Knife’ll be back on the job anytime now. ASL’s got plenty of money and plenty of brains behind its operation.”

  “You mean Simon?” asked Coco.

  “I mean a man named James Brady along with Simon. I mean we got to have every damn soul we know ready for any damn thing that comes down the pike.”

  Dave Darrin said, “I’ll do my part, Buchanan. Depend on that.”

  “I doubt the man Bullitt will show. And even if he should, how could you recognize him? If a stranger should happen along, though, don’t put him in there with Barringer, eh, Marshal?”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Keep the faith.”

  It was drizzling; the clouds were ominous. Buchanan and Coco ran down to the stage station where Cara was looking at the sky. Gracie was looking at Doug Campbell.

  The vaqueros picked up their knives and their coins and shrugged, going indoors.

  Cara said, “Ed Harper’s still drunk. We checked on him at the hotel.”

  “Uh-huh. Is everything ready?”

  Coco said, “It’s goin’ to come down cats and dogs.”

  “So—we got to make the run,” said Buchanan. “I’ll get my poncho. Doug?”

  “Oh, I bought him one when I saw the storm coming,” said Gracie.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” Doug Campbell was blushing again.

  Cara said, “That’s all beside the point. You’ve never driven through a flash flood, Tom. It can be hell.”

  “You just wait until it’s over.”

  “You can get caught in it and you know it.”

  “Then you go like hell.”

  “And drown everyone, even your stubborn self.”

  He said, “Can’t do that. Got things to do.”

  “I swear, Tom ...”

  “You swear too much. Let’s get on the road before it does send down those cats and dogs.”

  She threw up her hands. “You’re right. The contract. The damn contract. If we miss a run, ASL will yap at Washington.”

  The passengers were ready. There was Hank Allen, a tall, thin rancher, and a husky man named John Dugan.

  Buchanan walked around the horses. Avery from the mines stepped out into the rain and said in a low voice, “That fellow Dugan. He came to me about making our deliveries by special closed wagon, with guards.”

  “He’s with ASL?”

  “With our mine.” Avery paused, then said, “I turned him down. But there are eastern people over me.”

  “Thanks,” said Buchanan. “We’ll just keep it goin’.”

  “I wish you luck.” Avery melted into the increasing downpour. The horses were bigger and stronger than Buchanan had seen before. He wondered if they were swifter.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat. Young Campbell followed. They arranged the ponchos as best they could to allay puddles on the seat.

  Buchanan snapped the whip. The horses were veterans; they moved in perfect unison, and they were easy on the hands. The rain came steadily now, not driving. There was no wind, just the downpour. It was not too many miles to the narrow canyon. Buchanan used the whip again, and the horses increased their pace.

  Campbell said, “We’re goin’ to make this one.”

  They came to the beginning of Spanish Gorge. Buchanan looked at the sky and again he snapped the whip. He had been in flash floods, and he knew the sudden, unexpected danger of a flood down the steep sides of the rocky hills. The horses were not as swift as he would have wished but they were willing and sturdy.

  They challenged the downgrade, where it was the wiser custom to use the brake. Buchanan let them run. He heard the roaring water when it began. He whirled the whip around the ears of the leaders.

  The foaming stream came down. It was a river, teeming, driving with tremendous force, a wall of water. The four horses lowered their heads as Buchanan feathered the ribbons, giving them their head, retaining just enough control to keep them steady. The water tugged against the wheels of the stage as though ropes were holding it from going ahead. He shouted encouragement.

  It was frightening, but it was thrilling. Young Campbell was bending low, head into the driving rain. There was no way to judge the depth of the water; it was a case of plunging into danger, hoping against hope that luck would be with them.

  Now the pace slowed. It seemed as if the battle was lost. The four horses slipped, caught their balance, then stubbornly began to make progress. It was a grade; they were climbing. Now Buchanan knew why Cara had used this hitch. They were gallant and strong, these steeds, climbing. The water was wheel high and increasing. They were fighting it as if it were a mortal enemy.

  Buchanan shouted “EEEEyow!”and cracked the whip high in the air. Young Campbell echoed his glad yell. Ten yards, twenty yards, thirty yards, the water was still coming down—and then they were out of it, still in a storm but running free.

  Buchanan said, “Easy, babies, easy does it,” slowing them with care, giving them their breath.

  It was then that he saw the horsemen. They came out of the storm with guns blazing. Young Campbell was slow in getting up his gun. One of the horses flinched. These attackers knew enough to get the animals that pulled the stage.

  Buchanan went automatically for the shotgun. He sprayed buckshot. The riders came closer.

  From inside the coach there was a sudden burst of shots. Now it was the horse of a raider that went down, then another. Buchanan shot the third man out of the saddle. It all happened in an amazingly short span of time, he realized, drawing a deep breath. He reined in and climbed down fast, going first to the off leader. The horse whinnied, the sound of an abused child. Buchanan ran quick hands over it, looking through the rain for blood.

  It was a crease, he saw with deep thanks, a searing wound across the rear withers. So the rain had been a blessing, spoiling the aim of the attacker.

  Young Campbell was at his side. “I didn’t ... It was the rain. ... I don’t know.”

  Buchanan said, “It was, indeed. Don’t fret. It happens sometimes.”

  “I got off one shot.”

  “You did. I think you and the men in the coach did for ’em all.”

  The horses were more than willing to stand. The two men had come out of the coach, revolvers in hand, and were going to where the fallen bodies were strung out. Hank Allen drawled, “Kinda excitin’, warn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan.

  The man from the mines said, “Damnedest thing I ever was in. First that drive. Then these bastards.”

  “You men saved us,” said Buchanan.

  John Dugan turned over one of the bodies. There were several bullet holes in it. “You know this one?”

  “Nope,” said Buchanan. He did not know the second victim, either. “Just guns hired by ASL, our friendly enemies.”

  He came to the third man. There was a movement, a reaching hand. Buchanan stepped on it, peered down. “Uh-huh. Mr. Bullitt. The man who buys young fellers. Decide to earn your money your own self, did you?”

  Bullitt gasped, “Damn your soul to hell, Buchanan. The devil’s waitin’ for you.”

  “Should have killed you back there when we first met,” said Buchanan.

  “You haven’t killed me yet.”

  The lean rancher bent closer, wiping raindrops from his eyes. He said, “Lung shot.”

  As if in response Bullitt coughed and blood spouted from his mouth.

  Allen asked, “This the jasper put those kids up to it? The Huddlestons and the Barringer boy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The ranchman turned his hand over, the gun still in it.
“Might’s well finish him. He deserves worse. Boys. Dead boys now. You talk about hell, mister? Ha!”

  John Dugan said, “Let him die here.”

  “Alone,” said Allen. He pocketed his revolver. “Yep. Come on Buchanan.” He stared back toward the stage.

  Buchanan hesitated. The rain lessened for a moment, but the black clouds still hovered. It went against his grain to leave any human to die alone.

  John Dugan said quietly, “I know what you’re thinking. Think also of his victims. Let him go to his hell.”

  Buchanan turned, stony-faced. Bullitt might live an hour, two hours. The rain would wash away the blood, but it could not, he knew, wash away the man’s sins.

  The stage went on its way. No one suggested that it do otherwise.

  Eight

  The rain had swept down to El Paso, creating a muggy, uncomfortable atmosphere. In the room assigned to Slab Cider and Rye Dingle the air was sulfurous with curses. In the patio darkness the big man who had been brought from the East by James Brady prowled on cat feet.

  Slab Cider said in his quiet voice, “So we lost Bullitt. He was a drunk, boss. You knew that. You let him hire outta bars, and Buchanan gets them kind every time out.”

  Rye Dingle nodded agreement. Broderick J. Simon drank whiskey and stopped swearing. There was a small silence.

  Slab Cider said, “It’s time you turned us loose, boss. We been kept out of it long enough. No use in killing old Shaw, y’know. Just Buchanan and mebbe whoever’s along, like the nigra. That’ll fix the whole shebang.”

  Rye Dingle said, “Only way.”

  “You’ll need help.” Simon finished the drink.

  “We know where and when to get what we need,” Slab Cider said.

  “I’ve got that damned Brady on my neck. He won’t go back east, now. He’s possibly ready to wreck us all.”

  “He’s nothin’. Neither him nor that plug ugly he brought along. Needs be he can have an accident.”

  Simon considered. “I don’t like the way he looks at me. But hold off on that.”

  Dingle said, “Poker game got his dander up. Man hates to lose. At anything.”