Buchanan's Revenge (3 page)

Boga
n
's
li
q
u
ored eyes widened. "By Christ, you believe
it, don’t you?
You believe the story we made up . . ."

“Nothing was
made up! You had me on the bed and
Sam came in!
He said some mean, nasty things and you
killed him.”

“He
sai
d
for you to take the dress you got married in
and get out o
f his house," Rig told her in a monotone. "I
w
as
drunk but
I
re
member that. Next thing I knew I had
a knife, and y
ou were
screaming your head off and pushing
me
toward the old man…”

“
L
ies,
li
e
s "* s
h
e screamed now and Buchanan had his
own opinion
of how it could have been that wild night.

“
You're a dirty, lying sonofabitch!"

An animal sound broke from Bogan's throat, but before
he could get at her Buchanan's arm encircled his chest,
held him off.

"How about that fresh air, old buddy?" he asked him.

“Y
eah," Rig said. "It suddenly sounds real good."

"Go on, get out!" Ruthie screeched furiously. "And
don't think you're ever coming back! Not if you crawl to
me on your knees!"

"Don't hold your breath till that happens, ma'am,"
Buchanan advised her. "This boy don't know the meaning
of the word." He took Bogan out of there, with her voice following them clear up the street, and then it was grate
fully silent, with a comfortable silence between the two
men. Finally Rig broke it.

"Crazy," he said.

"What is?"

"Ruthie. Ruthie believing that story about the knife.
Hell, she made it up her own self that very night."

"Forget it, Rig. You're square with the law and you're
square with her. Startin' a clean slate."

Bogan laughed, sounding for a moment like the one he
knew in the Big Bend. "The warden said something like that the day I left," he said. "It sounds different coming
from you."

Two

Buchanan
had taken
a room at the San Antonio Hotel,
b
u
t fo
r
a reason he didn't bother to explain to himself
that night he bought an
extra blanket, rented a horse for
Rig, loaded supplies on a pack mule and took off for the
Plateau. Bogan didn't protest the trip, asked no questions,
and though he slept fitfully beneath the stars, he was
u
p at dawn when the aroma of fresh eggs, bacon, and
strong coffee revived old memories of camping out.

They spent the morning fishing trout out of the cold
mountain stream, hunted in the afternoon. Rig had the Winchester at the start, but when he missed his first four
chances he traded the rifle for Buchanan's Colt. He
couldn't hit with Old Reliable, either.

"What I wouldn't give for a drink," he said shakily.

"Here,"
Buchanan
said, offering his canteen.

"Who the hell wants water, man?"

"Not
me," Buchanan grinned. "Tha
t’
s why I filled this
with straight Kentucky bourbon." Bogan took the can
teen, sniffed it suspiciously, then drank.

"Had you figured wrong, Buchanan," he said then. "Fig
ured you took me up here for the holy roll."

"Pass the jug, boy, to a thirsty man," Buchanan told
him, taking the canteen and tilting it in direct propor
tion to his size.

"You drink regular?" Bogan asked.

"Every chance I get."

"Don't seem to bother you none. Not
—not like some
fellas."

"Well, I learned me a good trick about whisky."

"A trick?"

"Don't ever drink whisky when things are going bad,"
Buchanan said sagely. "A beer, maybe, just to cut the dust.
But the red eye only when the going is good."

"Yeah," Bogan said thoughtfully, "but how do you keep
things going good?" and Buchanan laughed uproariously.

"That," he said with glee, "is another trick altogether."

That brought Bogan into the little joke, and Buchanan
noted with satisfaction that his laughter was genuine, un
restrained. It sounded like it might have been a long
time since the other man had had a reason to laugh. They passed the canteen back and forth until it was dry, rode
back to their campsite, ate a huge supper and were asleep
in their blankets before eight o'clock.

They lived in the mountains for the next forty-five days,
took their survival from the land when Buchanan's sup
plies gave out, and the change in Rig Bogan was marvel
ous. At least Buchanan thought so, though not a direct
word on the subject passed his lips.

On the morning, for instance, that his "patient" de
cided on his own hook to shave, Buchanan commented
that seeing the freckles again was the first time he was
sure that this was the bona fide Rig Bogan and not an
imposter. That was the same morning Rig washed his
clothes, went about the camp stark naked until they dried
and earned himself the nickname "Apollo" for the next
week.

And when Bogan's nerves steadied down, when he
could sight and fire the rifle and the revolver with some
semblance of his Big Bend learning, ride out alone and
return with his share of the next day's food
—even then Buchanan's praise was on the light side and wryly humor
ous, never indicative of the deep pride he felt in the
other man's rehabilitation.

He considered his own role in the affair as of relative
ly small importance, as a happy chain of events that re
united two boyhood chums again, for Buchanan sincerely
believed that, sooner or later, Rig Bogan would have halted
his downhill slide on his own and made the same physical and mental recovery that he'd achieved during these, past
six weeks.

But even though he declined any credit, Buchanan
still thought it wiser not to tell Rig he was worth a thou
sand dollars. He thought so because he was afraid Rig
would misjudge his present poverty against the thousand
and think he had a lot of money. Which he didn't. It was
only good for what Mr. Jess had said, to get him settled
down into some honest work.

So Buchanan kept mum and waited hopefully. And on
the forty-fourth day his hopes were answered.

"Jezuz," Rig said during dinner. "Jezuz, I wish I had
me a little money."

"What would you do with money?" Buchanan joshed.

"I'd buy me a wagon, that's what. And mules."

"You? Driving a wagon?"

"It's a damn good business," Bogan said with some
warmth. "Especially out of San Antone, with all that Mexican trade."

"Yeh?" Buchanan asked doubtfully.

"I know what I'm talking about," Bogan insisted.
"That's what I was doing when I met Ruthie, driving a
wagon. Full load down and a full load back."

"Your own wagon?"

Bogan shook his head. "The Argus Express Company,"
he said. "But I was starting to save up for my own. Not a
big one or anything fancy. Just a little old wagon, painted
bright red." His face saddened. "Then I met Ruthie on the Hondo run. Seems like everything went bad from
then on."

"How much does a wagon cost?"

"Oh, five or six hundred. Another hundred for mules."

"How much would you make on a trip?"

"Well, you wouldn't want to take a little wagon clear
down into Mexico," Bogan explained. "You'd run a kind
of shuttle service."

"How much would you make?" Buchanan asked again.

"A living," Bogan answered. "In a year or two you'd be
doing real good."

"A year or two?" Buchanan echoed gloomily. "What
about a three-team wagon?"

"Six mules? Why, man, that's where the big money is.
You take a load of cotton, and hoes, and axes
—every
thing they're yammering for down there—and you clean
up. Course," he added, "you got to slip past the damn
customs."

"How come?"

"How come? Because those thieving Mex politicians
and generals want their cut. Just about wipes out your
profit before you make final delivery of the shipment."

"A little smuggling on the side, that it?"

Bogan shrugged. "Everybody does it," he said. "Some
times you get caught and sometimes you don't."

"And if you do?"

"Well, first they fine you. Take your wagon and your
goods. Then they shoot you."

Buchanan, who probably knew as much about smug
gling as any man on either side of the Rio Grande, was
not asking his questions to seek information. He was lis
tening to Bogan's tone of enthusiasm, studying the
younger fellow's sincerity.

"Sounds chancey to me, Rig," he told him now.

"Sure, and that's why the payoff's so big. But what the
hell difference does it make? I can't even make the down
payment on a wheel, let alone a team of mules."

"Forget those one-team wagons," Buchanan said.
"Takes too long. How much is six mules and a wagon?"

"Why?"

"Because you and me got a thousand to invest."

"You and me
—a thousand?"

"If you want to go into the freight business, and I
guess it's as good as any."

"You mean we'll buy a wagon?"

"Start at the top," Buchanan grinned, "and work our
way down."

He told Rig Bogan the story of the money then, of the
meeting with old Jessie back in Alpine, and in the morn
ing they rode down out of the Plateau and started their almost futile search for a loan that would put them in
business.

And this morning they had their wagon, a thing of
beauty to Rig and painted about the reddest red Bu
c
hanan had ever seen. DOUBLE-B FAST FREIGHT, it
said on either side in bold white letters. T.
Buchanan
—
R.
Bogan—Owners. Wagon No.
1.

"Ain't she the prettiest thing ever?" Rig wanted to
know, running his hand over the smooth panel. "Sure
gonna
break my heart the first mud we slosh through."

"Mr. Penney won't mind, though," Buchanan said.

“
Look yonder, Tom," Bogan said, his voice urgent. "I
thi
nk I see our first customer."

Buchanan turned to find a portly, prosperous-looking
gent making his way into the yard. "You know him, Rig?"

"Honest John Magee," Bogan told him. "Biggest cotton
bro
ker
in the market. Better let me do the negotiatin',
partner."

"Help yourself, only don't drive too hard a bargain
t
h
e first time."

Honest John Magee came up to them and surveyed
each
man
silently from head to toe.

"My name is Magee," he said then, curtly, speaking di
rectly
to Buchanan. "When can you leave for Mata
moros?”

“
Mr. Bogan handles those details," Buchanan said.

"I know all about Mr. Bogan," the broker said. "I'm
asking you.
When can you take my cotton to Mata
moros?”

"Well, about five minutes, I guess. That right, Rig?"

""There's a few other matters to discuss first
.
" Rig said
importantly. "Do you want this cotton shipped on a com
m
ission basis?"

“I
pay a dollar a mile," Magee told Buchanan. "Take it
or
leave
it"

Buchanan looked at Bogan. Rig said, "Do we take this
throu
gh customs at Matamoros or slip across the river at
O
l
mito?"

"Honest John Magee isn't in the smuggling trade. He
pa
ys
the legal tariff."

"In that case, Mr. Magee," Rig said, "we'd prefer to
take
this on a ten per cent commission."

"A dollar a mile," Magee snapped at Buchanan. "Take it or leave it!"