Buchanan Says No (15 page)

Buchanan was looking past the older man's head to t
he
cattle strung out all along the canyon floor. When he co
n
tinued to gaze fixedly that way, the doctor cleared h
is
throat and spoke again.

"What do you see, Buchanan?"

"Beef
.”
came the delayed answer.
"Lazy,
shiftless, no
account beef."

"Worth plenty to somebody, though, eh?"

"Plenty."

"Ten thousand dollars, would you say?"

"Fifty."

The doctor pursed his lips, whistled softly. "Who owns
the herd?" he asked.

"Me," Buchanan said. "And the cargo you're freight
ing."

Doc Brown let his mind absorb that. He said, "I got the
impression Frank Power was also an interested party."

Buchanan smiled. "Now you've answered your first
question," he said. "There's what you would call a dispute
going on."

"With Power ahead," Doc Brown said from his experi
ence. "As is usually the case." He got a pipe going then,
sucked on it thoughtfully as the funeral procession passe
d
out of Indian Rocks.

Some ten miles farther on, and with dusk closing in
over the barren land, the two men laboriously buried the
dead. It was not easy work, and Buchanan made sure he
did most of it, relegating the doctor to straw boss.

"Anything you want to say over them?" Brown aske
d

Buchanan shook his head. "Never did have much to
say to them," he told the other man quietly. "They
wouldn't expect any more from me than to bury them
decent."

"You've
done that," Brown said, turning to the wagon.

He drove on for a quarter of a mile, and when he looked I back he saw that Buchanan was still at the grave site. After
a
quarter mile the doctor glanced back again. Bu
chanan
was gone.

"That's what
I’
d do, was I young and strong
,”
the
doctor
said aloud, "
I’
d get mine—and to hell with Frank
Power.”

Mi
ke Sandoe had spotted the dust raised by the first
part
y outbound from Bella and given it a wide berth. The
m
an had no way of knowing that Frank Power was not
awaiting
his return to town, and the carnage he had left
behind
was still so vivid in his mind that any group of
hor
semen was to be avoided.

Because of conscience? A feeling of guilt? He smothered
th
e thought harshly. What had happened back there had teen, forced on him.

But damn Bud Carew, anyhow, for trying such a fool
thing
.
And Mayer, and Walsh—the whole hotheaded lot
of
them. What he should have done, he reflected now
to
take care of Durfee when
h
e had the chance. Best to
leave no witnesses to a thing like that.

Which, boiled down, was the real essence of his surly
d
iscontent
Durfee would spread the word far and wide,
his own version of the affair. "Mad dog"—that's what
they
had called him, and in his mind he could hear the
arc of a bitch saying it again, over and over down in
Y
um
a
,
San Antone, clear back to Dodge.

"M
ad dog? Christ almighty, he didn't want to carry that

bran
d! Being a gun
hand was one thing. Big men lik
e

Fra
nk Power came looking for your services, bid you up.
People
treated you proper, made you feel like somebody
who
counted. But "mad dog" was a death warrant. Your
pr
ofessional rep was
gone;
warriors you had no quarrel
with at all came at you just to be heroes.

If he'd only given it to Bill Durfee! Who'd be able to
k
n
o
w then about his protected niche on that
canyon
?
That his was the only rifle working? That taking out
that tough crew had been no more risky than shooting
fish in a rain barrel?

But some fine night he'd brace Bill Durfee, come in on
him at a saloon
?
El Paso maybe, when the sawed-off little
bastard was spewing his pack of lies about Mike Sandoe.
He'd spot Durfee first draw, to prove to the barflies he
never was no mad dog, and then he'd gut-shoot him, leave
him just enough life to tell the true story of how it had
been at Indian Rocks.

And it was the truth! God help the man who said
different! Sandoe rode on steadily toward Bella, self-right
eously, a big chip growing on his shoulder.

There was a difference, discovered Little Joe and Bill?
Burke, between thumbing your nose at Frank Power
within the shadow of Tom Buchanan and defying the
man and his organization with Buchanan gone, God knew
where.

The meeting in the street between their peace enforcer
and the wild-eyed, explosive-looking character named
Durfee had been anxiously reported to the founders of
the brave new S.S.S.M.A., as well as the disquieting news
that Buchanan had promptly ridden out of town with Doc
Brown and the ambulance.

The Bella ambulance was associated in every mind with
violence of some kind—and violence went hand in glove
with Power, Troy, and the deadline. Enthusiasm for the
chances of the Happy Times diminished noticeably as
each hour passed and still Buchanan was among the miss
ing. The idea was still as bright and glittering as ever. It
just grew further from their grasp.

Finally Little Joe couldn't stand the not-knowing; he
had to find out the why and wherefore of Buchanan's
desertion. The agent of it, the block-shaped, bull-necked
Durfee, had taken his jaded horse to Osgood's and so far
as anyone knew had never left the livery. Little Joe went
there, his mind worried and melancholic. Sam Osgood led
him
to the hayloft, climbed the ladder behind him, and
i:c the service of shaking Durfee awake.

Du
rfee lay face down on a pungent blanket, seemingly
c
o
l
d to the world, but hardly had Osgood's hand con
tact
ed his shoulder when the sleeping trail boss whirled
over
on his back and pointed the long snout of hi
s Rem
ington
between the liveryman's eyes.

"What the hell do you want?" Durfee growled.

O
sgood could only stare down that black hole into
eternity.

L
ittle Joe spoke.

“
We want Buchanan," he said. "Where'd you send
hi
m?"

"Wh
atta you want him for?" Durfee swung the gun on
Joe.

"He was going to help us
,”
Little Joe said accusingly,

u
ntil you packed him off."

"Help you how?"

"Help us break the deadline, that's how. Where'd you
send
him?"

The acid sharpness went out of Durfee's eyes, dissolved
into a speculative expression. Durfee knew as much as he
ne
eded to know about Frank Power's operations. He knew
at about the deadline. Now he lowered the Remington to
a
more amiable angle and he smiled, although a smile on
fat scarred and battered visage was a wolfish grimace
so
mething short of heartwarming.

Break the deadline," he said. "Now, there's an idea."

"With Buchanan," Little Joe said persistently. "Where
is he?”

“I
sent the lad on an errand of mercy," Durfee ex
plained. "But anything Buchanan can do, boys, his boss
on do better. What's the deal?"

Little Joe shook his head skeptically. "No offense," he
s
ai
d. "
But
we hired Buchanan."

To do what? Give Frank Power a hard time?"

"No," Little Joe said. "To keep Power and his wrecking
crew off our backs until we establish ourselves."

"I can do that
,”
Durfee said positively.

"You can? You know anything about a gunman name
of Sandoe?"

Durfee nodded. "I know Mike Sandoe," he said. "Know
him from top to bottom
,”

"And you can handle the likes of him?"

"Can and will, bucko. What's my pay?"

"Twenty-five dollars," Little Joe said automatically, and
Durfee squinted up at him.

"Twenty-five? You're asking for gun
work! What the
hell's this twenty-five dollars?"

"It suited Buchanan," Little Joe said.

"Ah, what does he know about such things? Buchanan's
no warrior."

"Exactly what is he, then?" Little Joe asked. "I've been
wondering about that since he hit town last night."

"That one doesn't know his own self what he is," Dur
fee said. "He goes where the wind blows and the tide
flows. But me, now, that's a different proposition. I'm the
man for the job at hand—forty a day and found."

"But we already gave the job to Buchanan," Little Joe
said, unhappily loyal, not wanting to admit that this hard-
looking Durfee was the better man for the work.

"Suit yourself, then," Durfee told him. "And good luck
to you when you break Frank Power's deadline."

Little Joe left him and reported the conversation to
Billy Burke. His partner had been nipping all day, and at
this particular time in the late afternoon he was at the
stage where he was eight feet tall and there was no prob
lem that didn't have a simple solution.

"There's not a thing to worry about," Burke said.
"Nothin' at all. All that matters is that we open our doo
rs
as promised. Who guards the tables makes no difference
,”

Little Joe disagreed with that, but so rosy and serene
was his friend's world that he went away rather than paint
in storm
clouds on the horizon. His steps took him back t
o th
e hayloft, and against his better judgment he told Bill
Du
rfee he was hired until Buchanan returned.

If he does
,”
Durfee commented, hinting at some
kno
wledge of Buchanan that Little Joe didn't have.

Wh
erever it was you sent him," Little Joe said, "he'll
com
e back. We
’v
e already paid him the twenty-five."

Durfee laughed. "Where I sent him, mister, there's
fifty
-dollar bills all over the ground. You might see Bu
cha
nan again, but don't count on it."

Chapter fourteen

The new Happy Times Saloon & Gambling Palace
threw
open its doors to the public an hour after sundown.
That momentous event was preceded by a torchlight
parade and snake dance that boldly crossed the deadline,
wheeled in front of Bella House, and came back down
Si
gnal Street again. The feature of the parade was a
ga
udily painted wagonette, driven by Billy Burke and piled
to overflowing with Big Annie's girls, whose generous dis
plays
of starched petticoats and dimpled knees brought an
a
ppreciative audience spilling out of both the hotel and
Troy's. And when the wagonette swung around it took
Troy's customers with it.

There was something contagious about that wagonful
o
f happily shrieking females, something that shouted
Ma
r
di Gras and sent the sports of Bella crowding into the
Happy Times hell-bent for a night to remember. Billy
Bur
ke stood the first drink to all comers, a gesture that
pri
med the pump almost beyond the three bartenders'
abi
lity to keep abreast of the orders. The orchestra swung
fro
m one lively air to another, and if the piano was tinny
if
an
d the fiddle scratched, there were no critics to complain.