Buchanan's Revenge

BUCHANAN'S
REVENGE

JONAS WARD

Copyright
© 1960 by Jonas Ward

One

Here’s to you,
partner," Rig Bogan told
Buchanan
with a glass raised high, "and here's to me. Who's gonna stop us now?”

Buchanan
grinned back at the shorter man, touched the
glass
with his own. "We're hell on wheels," he
admitted.

“There
is only one
sure
way to success," put in a third
voice, with a nasal Eastern sound that
contrasted sharply
with the soft Texan drawl of the other
two. “Hard work,” Banker
Pe
n
ney said. "Honest work."

His reproving
g
lance
lifted to the pair of eagerly poised
whiskies.
"Sobriety
the ban
k
er added.

“Damn well
to
l
d,
”
R
ig
Bogan said sincerely and drained
the glass, s
et it down smart
l
y atop the bar and refilled it
from the just
opened bottle. "Here's to you, partner," he
said to
B
uchanan again, h
is freckled, devil-may-care young
face a
glo
w with an irrepressible, contagious joy. "And
here’s to th
e
Double
-B Fast Freight! We deliver the goods,
by damn if we don’t!”

Banker
Pe
n
ney
cleared his throat noisily.

“I am confi
dent," he said, "that the Double-B Fast
Freight will safely
and economically deliver all of the ship-
consig
n
ed to its care. But unless you have re
ceived
a contract since we entered this foul-smelling
saloon…”

"Hell's bells, Mr. Penney," Bogan protested, "we just
took delivery on the damn wagon five minutes ago . . ."

"For which I paid out three thousand and three hun
dred dollars in hard cash, young man," the banker snapped
back.

"Two
thousand three hundred," B
o
gan countered. "Me
and Buchanan got a thousand of our own invested in
this business."

"Your note is for the amount I stated," Penney said. "It
includes the six mules, a year's rent on the freight yard, interest and
—ah—other risks connected with any new venture."

Tom Buchanan had been listening to this byplay with
an expression of quiet neutrality on his rugged, battle-
scarred face. Now he shifted his massive frame, getting the
banker's attention, and gazed down at the man out of eyes
that were uncommonly blue, deceptively tranquil.
"We know what we owe you," Buchanan said.

"Just so you do," the banker answered, unable to keep
a nervous tremor out of his voice whenever the occasion
arose to speak directly to this soft-spoken giant.

"And much obliged for the loan, too," Buchanan said.

Mr. Penney blinked. He seemed overwhelmed by the
simple gratitude. "Glad to've been able to help," he mur
mured, then let his pinched face break into one of its
rare, fleeting smiles. "You look at me, Mr. Buchanan, like
one of the few sound risks I've found since I opened my
little bank here in San Antonio."
"Rig and me'll pay you back."

"Sure will," Rig Bogan echoed. "Say, let's go have an
other look at that beautiful new wagon of ours." He
downed the drink in his hand and led the way eagerly out of the saloon.

"I
’
ll be getting back to my desk," the banker told Buchanan. "Good luck in your new venture."

"Thanks."

"And keep a tight rein on that partner of yours," Pen
ney added in a worried undertone. "I tell you frankly, if I
had known Bogan's background when we started negoti
ations, I doubt whether I would have taken the risk."

“Rig’s straightened
out," Buchanan said. "He's out of
prison to stay.”

"L
e
t
’
s
h
ope so," the little banker said fervently. "But
keep a close haul on him.
And watch his drinking."

“Sure,” Buchanan
promised and turned to follow Bogan
up the street.
A smile touched the big man's lips as he
recalled Penny’s
words. What the moneyman also hadn't
known a month ago
was that he was their last chance, that
every other lender
in San Antone had turned them down
flat.

Not that
made one whit of difference to Tom Bu
chanan whether
he
got into the freighting business or
not. The whole ve
nture, as a matter of fact, was in the
nature of a favor
for Rig's old daddy, the sheriff of Alpine
in West Texas
. B
u
chanan had run into Jessie Bogan dur
ing one
of hi
s infrequent visits to the Big Bend country a
year back.

“How’s your boy Rig?”
he'd asked sociably and the law
man’s expression
clouded over.

"
Rig’s servin
g time in Huntsville Prison," Jessie had told
h
i
m bl
eak
ly.
"Killed a man in a knife fight over to Hondo.
Killed a man in a knife fight over to Hondo. Killed him over a woman.”

"
What
I knew of Hondo," Buchanan had said, "that
ain’t so special.
Thirty days in the pokey, maybe, but not
shipped o
ff t
o
H
un
t
sv
i
l
le."

This was special,”
Bogan Senior had said. "The woman
was this man’s wife. And he
caught Rig dead to rights in
his own bedroom.”

"
Well, yeah,”
Bu
chanan had had to agree, embarrassed
for the old man.

“And the knife
didn't help none," the sheriff had added
with some bittern
ess. "Never knew a Texas jury to let up
on a knifer.”

“Guess not,”
B
u
chanan had agreed again. "When does
h
e
g
et
ou
t?'"

"S
i
x
months.
But I had to find that out on my own,
s
ame
as rest
of the story. The boy hasn't written me
a line.”

“Figured to spare you.”

“You reckon?”

"Sure."

The next day Jessie Bogan had invited Buchanan to
take supper with him at the Alpine House. The sheriff had
been in a remembering mood and he spoke of the men,
good and bad, who had made his career such a colorful one
in the Big Bend. Then, out of the blue: "You still got the
wanderlust, big fella, or are you fixin' to settle down?"

“I’
m moving on," Buchanan had admitted, smiling,
knowing that all sheriffs, everywhere, disapproved on
principle of the restless breed.

"Which direction this time?" Jessie Bogan had asked.

Buchanan had shrugged his great shoulders. "Seen Cali
fornia from tip to top," he said. "Thought I might have a
look at New Orleans. Met a fella in Paso last winter,
gamblin' man. Told me he had a proposition if I was ever
in his town."

"What kind of proposition?" the sheriff had asked
hawkishly.

"Same old thing," Buchanan had said. "His money, my gun."

"Got yourself honed pretty slick, have ya?" Bogan had snapped, making Buchanan grin again.

"Not so slick as you, Mr. Jess," he'd said.

"Bosh! Half the rannies I had to plug outdrew me. It's
lookin' at the badge that unsteadies 'em. Hope you never
shoot a peace officer, Tom Buchanan
!
"

"Hope I never have to, Sheriff."

Bogan had studied that broad, broken-nosed face across
the table and some of the sharpness went out of his own.
"So you're bound for the fleshpots of New Orleans?" he'd
asked, switching the subject back abruptly.

"Going in that general direction. If I get there it'll be
in easy stages."

"Got San Antone on your itinerary?"

"Not especially, Mr. Jess. Why?"

"Got a notion about my boy," the sheriff had said. "A
hunch he might head there himself when he gets out of
Huntsv
il
le."

"Pretty close to Hondo, don't you think?"
Bogan had nodded. "Too damn close. But I been
w
ritin’ back and
forth to Warden Almy, an old friend of
mine.
He
tells me
that Rig gets mail regular from a woman
by the name of
Ruth
S
tell.
From an address in San Antone." The
man’s face
darkened. "Sam Stell," he said, "happens
to be the man
Rig
knifed to death."

Buchanan
nodded. He'd seen no reason to com
ment.

“So I figure
that's where Rig will go first thing," Bogan
had gone on.
"And I was also thinkin' that if you hap
pened to be in
that neck of the woods six months from
no
w
you might
look the boy up."

"Sure will, if
I
can
," Buchanan had told him.

“Couldn’t make
it any more definite than that,
though?”

Th
e
big
man
had looked puzzled. "Mr. Jess," he'd said
then, i
f
you’ve
got something you want me to tell Rig
for you, why I’ll
make it a point to be in San Antone."

T
hen for
f
i
rst time, Bogan had smiled. He'd
seemed relieved
by Buchanan's offer
.

“I’m asking
for somethin' more than that, Tom. I'm
askin’ you
to st
ic
k with him for a spell, see him settled
down into some
honest work."

“Me?” Buchanan
had laughed. "A fine example I'd
make.”

“Rig’d listen to
anything you told him to do. That boy
thinks the sun
rises and sets on your account alone." As
the old man spoke he r
eached inside his
vest and
then he’d withdrawn
a worn, mildewed leather billfold.
He’ laid the thing
in front of Buchanan. "Half of what's
inside is for you,
Tom," he'd said. "Half is for my son."

Buchanan
h
a
d looked into the wallet. He'd counted ten
gold certificates
each wor
th a hundred dollars. He removed half of them, folded
them over and stuck them in the
pocket of his shirt
. Then slid the wallet back across the
table.