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“I believe you.” Brady spoke heartily. “This episode is ended. You win.”
Myra asked, “You’ll trust this man? He threatened to kill me.”
“He had nothin’ but a deuce in the hole, ma’am,” said Buchanan. “He was bluffin’.”
“You knew that,” said Brady. He looked at Myra. “I shall miss our talks. They provided me with the only pleasure I have enjoyed since coming here.”
“You’ll move out of here right now,” she said. “Indeed. My man will pack at once.”
Stroutmire appeared in the doorway. “All clear, Tom. You want me to take this one in?” he asked, nodding at Brady.
“Afraid not. No proof of a crime.”
The marshal said, “Good. The hoosegow will be crowded as it is. Adios for now.”
“That, I reckon, does it,” said Buchanan when the marshal had departed. “I’ll be checkin’ with you at the hotel tomorrow.”
“So be it.” Brady arose and went to the door. He paused, turned, and said, “The small stage lines are doomed, you know. If not today, then very soon.”
Cara Shaw said, “Sufficient unto the day, mister. Meantime you’re gettin’ off easier than I like. Why don’t you skedaddle?”
Brady bowed and vanished.
“Easterners,” said Cara. “No way to reckon on ’em.”
Buchanan looked at Myra Simon. “So now you don’t have to run. You’ve got cash; this place is yours.”
She said, “I’ll be closing this place. Concita and I, we’ll be going to New York. I purely love New York.”
“First there’s Maria.” Concita was grinning. “We must do something about the slut.”
“Oh, yes. Indeed.” Myra Simon’s chin set in a hard line. “A few debts to pay.”
“One thing,” said Buchanan. “That satchel. Just cash? Is that all?”
“Well, no.” She dimpled. “Stock in ASL. I managed to find out where Broderick had hidden it. I imagine it’s worth a lot more than the cash, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “Adios, ma’am. Like I thought, you are one smart lady.”
They departed, Cara and Coco and Buchanan. The rain had stopped. Cara leaned against Buchanan.
“I killed them. I actually did it. Oh, Tom.”
He put an arm around her. “Kill or be killed. If anybody knows how you feel, it’s me.”
She was weeping. He had never known her to shed tears. He held her tight as they made their way through the night. Soon it would be dawn and a sun would be shining and the danger was past.
Eleven
It was a clear, sunny, cool afternoon, and Billy Button was giving a party. Billy never did things by halves or even three-quarters. Half the town of Encinal cavorted, ate, and drank on his expanse of grama grass cut for a lawn. There was a mariachi band and the vaqueros danced with the fair ones or with one another and Buchanan looked on with huge satisfaction. Beside him was Cara Shaw in a divided skirt, soft leather boots and a paisley shirt.
He said, “Look at your pa, there.”
“He’s a disgustin’ old mess.”
Ebenezar was propped in a convenience made from half a huge cask and soft cushions. He had a big glass of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. He was singing along with the band in a cracked voice, in terrible Spanish.
Young Campbell had Gracie by the hand and was drawing her near. Buchanan said, “Oho. Looks like business.” Cara said, “Why not? I was married at her age.”
“Hope she has better luck.”
“Luck? Well ... I did get her.”
Young Campbell was saying, “We thought ... I mean we want ... I mean me and Gracie ...”
“As everybody knows,” Cara said. “Far as I’m concerned it’s on your heads. Now go and ask Ebenezar.”
Gracie spoke up. “We already have. He said to ask you.”
“So you don’t need to ask anymore.”
Gracie threw her arms around her mother; then the two of them ran off.
“That was simple,” said Buchanan.
“He’s goin’ to drive for us. It’ll be okay. Or it won’t. Everybody should have a chance,” Cara said.
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan.
“Exceptin’ you. And you never did tell me what happened to Charlie Knife.”
He told her.
She said, “Coco told me that owl story. How an owl looks wise because he don’t know how to look scared. I dunno.”
“Never did deny it. Look at young Barringer with Dave Darrin. All cleaned up, talkin’ to Billy.”
“We’re not goin’ to prefer charges.”
“Billy will take care of him. Billy and the vaqueros.”
“Yeah.” She paused, then said, “You’re not an owl, Tom. Brady did keep his word. We got a telegram from back east.”
“That figured.”
“No. You were smart. You even knew Ebenezar wasn’t going to cash in. You kept tellin’ me all the way home.”
“Had to. You were comin’ apart,” Buchanan said.
“I stopped comin’ apart when you ran it all past me, all the terrible things those men had done. Reckon that was boilin’ in me when I fired at those two.”
“Executions. Saved the law a job. Saved our lives. Stroutmire couldn’t do it. Had to do it ourselves. Don’t like it; never did like it. Must be done.”
He fell silent. There had been too much killing. There seemed often to be too much killing. All the events that had occurred since he had paid off Ebenezar’s debts raced through his mind. Too much blood for one small stage line. Not too much for the crimes that had been committed, though.
Coco came galloping up with little Tommy on his shoulders. The child shrilled, “You have to see the colt. Come right now.”
“Uh-huh.” Buchanan went with Cara at his side. Ramon was at the stable door, grinning.
“The baby, he got a white nose.”
They all went to the stall. Samantha the mare rolled her eyes, then was quiescent. The colt wobbled to them, whinnying.
“White hair. See it?” Tommy was excited.
Buchanan knelt and took the colt’s head in his hands. There were indeed tiny white hairs beginning to show along the shapely long nose.
“A blaze. Can I call him Night Blaze?” the boy asked.
“Don’t make much sense,” said Coco. “But it sounds good.”
“A campfire, a forest afire at night,” said Buchanan. “It’s a hiyu name, Tommy.”
“I knew it! I knew it!” The boy threw his arms around the colt. Coco watched, smiling, nodding.
Buchanan said, “You know, I recollect where I first saw that owl story now.”
“What you mean?” Coco was all innocence.
“It was in a newspaper. After the Donegal fight when you got knocked down. There was a reporter feller there name of Peter Dexter. Good man. He wrote it about you.”
Buchanan walked out of the stable with Cara as Coco laughed. They strayed in the sunshine, away from the sound of the party. They followed the cold stream that provided Billy with water for the house.
She said, “Oh, Tom, there was a time.”
“We keep sayin’.”
“A good time. And a bad time.”
“Now we’re pardners, sort of.”
She hugged his arm. “I like that. You’re a wanderin’ man. And I ain’t a sweet little homebody. But we are a pair.”
“A pair to draw to,” said Buchanan.
They walked on. It was serene and they felt fine together and it was again a good time.
About the Author
William Robert Cox (1901-1988) was a writer for more than sixty years, and published more than seventy-five novels and perhaps one thousand short stories, as well as more than 150 TV shows and several movies on film. He was well into his career, flooding the market with sports, crime, and adventure stories, when he turned to the western novel. He served twice as president of the Western Writers of America, and was writing his fifth Cemetery Jones novel,
Cemetery Jones and the Tombstone War, when he passed away. He wrote under at least six pen names, including Willard d’Arcy, Mike Frederic, John Parkhill, Joel Reeve, Roger G. Spellman and, of course, Jonas Ward. Under the Ward byline, he wrote sixteen adventures in the Buchanan series, all of which will be published in ebook by Piccadilly Publishing.
The Buchanan Series
By Jonas Ward
Buchanan’s War
Trap for Buchanan
Buchanan’s Gamble
Buchanan’s Siege
Buchanan on the Run
Get Buchanan
Buchanan Takes Over
Buchanan Calls the Shots
Buchanan’s Big Showdown
Buchanan’s Texas Treasure
Buchanan’s Stolen Railway
Buchanan’s Manhunt
Buchanan’s Range War
Buchanan’s Big Fight
Buchanan’s Black Sheep
Buchanan’s Stage Line
… and more to come every month!
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