Buchanan's Revenge (4 page)

"Payable when?"

"Half now, half when I see the invoices signed by
Manuel Gomez of Matamoros."

"Rig?"

Bogan shrugged.

"You got a deal, Magee," Buchanan told him. "Where
do we pick up the goods?"

"At my warehouse. Good day to you." The rich broker
strode away, full of his own importance, and the two
partners watched his exit with a kind of embarrassed silence between them.

Buchanan spoke into it.

"Makes a lot of noise, don't he?"

"Yeh."

"Didn't rile you, did he?"

"Some," Bogan admitted, his voice subdued. "Guess I
got a lot more atoning to do in this town."

"To hell with that, boy," Buchanan told him. "You can
strut the yard like any rooster present."

"No I can't. If it'd been Bogan's Fast Freight old Magee
wouldn't've trusted me to deliver an old sow to Austin."

"Tell you what we'll do, pard," Buchanan said. "We'll let old Honest John deliver his own damn cotton to Matamoros. We don't need him."

"Yes we do, Tom. That's a three-hundred-dollar job.
And if he don't fill the wagon I can maybe wangle a couple
or three small shipments extra. Another fifty dollars,
maybe, not to mention a full load coming back up from
Brownsville and Corpus Christi. We need Magee real
bad."

Buchanan grinned, slapped him on the back. Talk like that was music to the big man's ears, reassured him of
Bogan's new hold on life, meant that the time was com
ing soon when he himself could fade out of the picture,
leave this dull freighting business and resume his natural
life again.

"Well," he said happily, "let's go pick up the damn
cotton then. And whatever else these mules are gonna haul
to Mexico."

"One thing first, though, Tom."

"What's that?"

"I'd admire to handle our first job myself."

"Why don't we both take the trip?"

That ain't good business," Bogan said. "When one
partner's on the road the other one's busy at headquar
ter lining up more jobs."

"Well, if that's the way it's done. But I'd be glad to flip
yoa
for the chore."

"I don't look on it like a chore, Tom. I know you don't
r
ea
l
l
y
have much heart for freighting
..."

"Sure I do!"

"You ain't foolin' me none," Rig said. "Business matters
don't
suit you. Sittin' on a highboard behind six slow mules
ain't your style."

"Boy, you don't know some of the work I've done. Not
by
half ..."

"But I like freighting," Bogan went on. "Sounds
strange from Jessie Bogan's son, but I'd rather pull freight
from one place to another than anything else I can think
o
f."

That
’
s fine, Rig. That's great!"

"Then there's no objection to my driving this ship
ment?"

"Not from this hoss," Buchanan said and a smile of
relief
came over his face. "Truth be known, Rig, I was
dreadin'
the prospect."

They drove together to load Magee's cotton, and Bu
chanan rode along while Rig made a tour of the depots,
talking
fast and picking up consignments of odds and ends
that
crammed every last square inch of the red wagon.
T
h
ey returned to the little office of the Double-B Fast
Freight Company then and had a drink for a smooth
journey.

"Don't see how you can miss, Rig," Buchanan told him
warmly
. "You've got the stuff."

"Thanks to a couple of gents," Bogan said. "You and
my Pa."

"Ever write to him?"

"Going to," he said. "Enclosing a draft on Mr. Pen
ney's bank for one thousand dollars, signed by R. Bogan.
Never wrote one. Have you?"

"Hell, no, I haven't," Buchanan laughed.
"
nor
cashed
one. I ain't even used to these gold certificates."

"Can't beat hard money," Bogan agreed, setting down
his glass on a filing cabinet. "Well, partner," he said then, "I got to go see Se
n
or Manuel Gomez, Matamoros, Mex
ico." He extended his hand and Buchanan's enveloped it.

"Sure you don't want company?"

"Positive. You just line up a payload for the Double-B
and have it ready to go in about eight days from now."

"That's when you'll be back?"

"Approximate," Bogan said. "With the wagon jam-
packed."

Buchanan saw him off, watched until the red wagon was
just a speck in the distance, then walked back into the of
fice, feeling strange and restless, looking all about himself
and wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.
He looked at the shiny new desk with a perplexed expres
sion, approached it warily and then, just to see what it
felt like, carefully lowered his six-and-a-half-foot frame into
the chair.

How? he marveled. How do they do it? He could hear
old Penney
—"I'll be getting back to my desk"—-and sit
ting behind this one he wondered how a man could do it.
Yet they were everywhere, in every town he'd ever visited.
Hundreds and hundreds of them, thousands and thou
sands—living, breathing men who spent their entire lives
trapped in a chair like this one, staring at four white
walls and a ceiling, not knowing what it was to be your
own man in this big, wonderful country. And free.

Buchanan got himself out of that chair, quick, and was
on his way clear out of the office when the door burst open
and flushed, angry-eyed Honest John Magee confronted
him.

"So, by God, it is true!" the man roared.
Buchanan frowned, cocked his head quizzically. "I thought I made it clear," Magee raged, "that my cot
ton was consigned to you!" He pointed a finger accusingly
at Buchanan's eyes. "You!" he repeated. "Not that shift
less, double-dealing ex-convict you've taken up with." The
lou
d voice trailed away and some protective sixth sense
warned it to hold still. The threatening finger, an ef
fective weapon everywhere else in San Antonio, was meek
ly withdrawn. For there had once been a night, around a
poker table in Dodge, and Honest John had seen a man
look at another the way this tall man was looking down at
him.
Something about the way the cards were dealt,
Magee
recalled very vividly now, and violence had fol
lowed
swiftly.

"Began," Magee said in a subdued, conciliatory tone,
ha
s a poor reputation in this town."

"Bogan's my partner," Buchanan answered. "His rep
is mine."

“I’
d still feel better if you were delivering my cotton."

"Mister," Buchanan told him, "Bogan will be back
in in eight days. And you've got the privilege of buying
th
e first drink."

“
Is that what he said, eight days?"

"Right."

"I wish I had your confidence in him," Magee said.

"J
u
st have the cork out of the bottle," Buchanan re
plied and the worried broker turned and walked out.

That
next week was a drag. Buchanan came to the
Aright yard each morning at seven, entered the office and
■ft there for as long as he could stand it. Then he would
p
r
ow
l
t
h
e streets of San Antone, restlessly, without pur
pose
and the sight of the huge, shoulder-swinging figure
made
many an onlooker think uneasily of a brooding lion
let
loose among them.

Buch
anan was also of some concern to the local law,
Marsh
al Grieve. Like most good peace officers in a melt
ing
pot of a town like this one, Fred Grieve was a re
formed
drifter and border rider himself. He could spot the
type
at a glance, that wildness, the easy bravado, and he
had
alerted his twelve constables for something special in t
he
way of trouble half an hour after the big man rode in
and
began asking for Rig Bogan. Buchanan had made a
true
prophet of the lawman by his performance in
Qu
e
e
nie's over in Spanish
town. That was as special as you
could ask for, even in San Antone, and Grieve had called in his off-duty force, waited for the twister to really rip.

But then the perplexing things had happened, the contradictions that disturbed the marshal deeply. Instead of
leading the fractious Bogan into real trouble, the drifter had taken the ex-convict out of town altogether, up into
the Plateau, his two trailers reported. Waiting for the
rest to gather, Grieve decided, and waited himself for a
raid on one of the banks. But no. Six weeks go by and the
two friends return
—Bogan so tanned and fit he was almost
unrecognizable—and though they visited the banks, and
other merchants, there was nothing against the law in
trying to borrow money.

Then surprise number two. The Double-B Fast
Freight, red wagon, yard, office and all. If Fred Grieve
was a betting man, and if he had a hundred dollars, you
would have gotten long odds that no breed of tomcat
like this Buchanan from West Texas would ever get
mired down in the freight business. But, by the harry, he was
—and with no less than Honest John Magee for a
customer.

Last of the contradictions about Buchanan, and prob
ably the most unsettling to a plain-thinking, plain-speaking
man like the marshal, was that he had yet to see the other
man packing the tool of his trade. Grieve admitted, only
to himself, that he could have made a few minor errors in
judgment about Buchanan's purposes in coming to San
Antone. But not about Buchanan being a gunfighter. He
couldn't be wrong about that.

So the marshal asked him, stopped him in the middle
6f State Street and put it to him pointblank. This was the
afternoon of the fourth day that Rig Bogan had driven
out with the wagon.

"What's your game, bucko?" Grieve asked, and Bu
chanan looked from the silver badge to the leathery face
in surprise. A moment before being accosted his mind had
been full of thoughts about New Orleans, the prospect of
busy days and busier nights, a life where a man had something to occupy himself. Not, by God, this owning a damn
freight business.

"My game?" he said to the marshal.

"You own a gun, don't you?" .

“Y
eh."

"And you know how to use it, don't you?"

Buchanan nodded.

"And if someone needed that gun real bad," Grieve
west on, "they could hire it, couldn't they?"

"You
mean to say with all those constables of yours ..."

"He
ll
, I ain't talking about me hiring it."

Then what are you talking about?"

“
Abo
u
t you," the marshal said. "You might have sold
Ma
g
ee and Penney on you being a freighter, bucko, but
you
don't fool me for two minutes."

""What do you figure I'm up to, marshal?"

"It
’ll
develop soon, I expect. Your kind don't play the
waiting game
for long. But when it happens," Grieve told
him, “I’ll
be right there to take a hand. Remember it."

Buchanan
smiled. "Fair enough," he said. "Thanks for
the advance
notice."

"
Welcome.
And you can start packing that shooter any
time.
Ge
t
your cards out where folks can see them."
G
riev
e left Buchanan standing in the middle of State
Street, walked
away with the feeling that he had scored
some victory
over the big man. Buchanan shrugged off
the conver
sation and continued his restless tour.

The
fifth
day passed. The sixth. The seventh. Bu
chanan was
at the yard and waiting as dawn appeared on
the morning
of the eighth day. In his mind he went over
the little s
peech he had prepared for Rig, the one in which
it
he turned o
ver the business and wished him luck. Rig
would protest
some, try to give him some money, but to
no
avai
l
.
Then Rig would understand that the best thing
he could do
for him was to let him be on his way.

Mid-morning came,
p
assed into afternoon, and there was no sign of
Rig. The northbound stage pulled in but the
driver had
seen
n
othing of a red freight wagon.

“Remem
b
e
r passing it a week or so ago," the fellow said,
“Going south
with a load of cotton. That the one?"

That was the
one all right. Shadows grew longer, dusk
fell, and a dis
a
ppointed Buchanan bought himself a quart
o
f bourbon and took it to the bar at the San Antonio
Hotel. The bottle was some two fingers lighter when
company arrived.

"I see you're buying the first drink," Honest John
Magee said pointedly.

"Help yourself, mister," Buchanan told him glumly.
"He'll be here tomorrow, sure."

"Will he?"

"Bright and early. He knows he's expected."

Magee downed his drink, raised h
i
s eyes to Buchanan's
face. "Bogan ever tell you about working for the Argus
Express Company?" the broker asked in a careful voice.

"Sure he did. Why?"

"Ever say why he was fired?"

"On account of the trouble he got into
—killing that fellow in Hondo . . ."

Magee was shaking his head. "He was fired a month
before that happened," he said. "For stealing."

Buchanan studied the speaker. "I hope you can back
that up," he said quietly.

"The law was never brought into it," Magee answered.
"It was settled quietly by Amos Ferguson, who owned
Argus, and Bogan. Seemed that Amos knew B
o
gan's father from someplace. A sheriff, isn't he?"

Buchanan nodded. "What was Rig accused of stealing?"

"A shipment of axes. A wagonload of them. His story
was that he was jumped by agents between here and Hondo. A story that didn't hold up so far as old Amos
was concerned."

"Why not?"

Magee poured them both a drink. "A fellow comes to
you with patches in his britches and you give him a job
for seven dollars a week. His room and board are five,
and he buys himself some boots and work clothes. Then a load he's delivering gets hijacked. Axes. Easy to get rid of
and impossible to identify."

"So?"

"So you happen to be over in Hondo one Saturday
night. Sitting at a dark table in the back of this saloon is
this seven-a-week driver of yours. He's sitting with this
married woman and the/re drinking good whisky, not beer. And instead of those work pants and worn boots
he's sporting an outfit that must have cost sixty dollars.
And when he leaves the place he and the woman drive
off in a brand new shiny rig. Well, what would you think
happened to those axes?"

Buchanan seemed absorbed in the three interlocking
circles his finger was tracing on the bar
top. But Magee
hadn't invented any story about Rig. Why should he? And "the little he had seen of Ruthie Stell was enough to know that she was the woman men like Bogan turn bad over.
Buchanan met the other man's gaze, looked deep into it.

"You figure your cotton is gone?" he asked him.

"It was worth ten thousand in gold to my customer in
Matamoros," Magee replied. "That's an awful lot of temp
tation for the wrong man."

Buchanan set his empty glass down, swung away.

"Where you going?" Magee called after him.

"South, mister. To Matamoros. But I will be back."

"I know you will," the broker said.

Buchanan rode out of San Antone within twenty min
u
tes. On his hip rode a Colt. In the saddle boot was a
Winchester. Marshal Grieve watched him go with satis
faction.

That," he said aloud, "is more natural."

Three

I
n a country
of big men, they called this one Big Red.
In a fierce society where only the strongest had the
right to lead, no man of his band ever challenged the rule
of Big Red Leech. And it had been that way for three
years now, ever since the end of the war when Leech, with
customary boldness, declared that his personal spoils of
victory was the deserted mission near El Indio. Rechrist
ened Fort Leech, fortified with cannon and manned by
ten hand-picked veterans of the First Missouri Cavalry,
Leech sallied forth from this stronghold to pillage, rob,
rape and kidnap the Mexican population for fifty miles around. Those who could move out of the region did so in
terror. Those who couldn't, and wanted to survive, made
arrangements with Leech to pay him a regular tribute, a
tax, and for that enjoyed "protection," both from the
Leech Gang and the roving Mexican bandits. There were
a few towns, though, that resisted. These he leveled, ruth
lessly, and when the Governor of the State of Coahuila
sent his personal army against Fort Leech, the ex-Missouri
c
avalryman leveled that, too.

For three years he took everything he wanted
—their
money, their food, their wine, their women—and with
stood every effort to drive him out or capture him. The
gang, however, changed personnel from time to time and
for various reasons. Some got themselves killed, either by
Mexicans or by a fellow bandit. Some grew weary of the
hot, humid climate and crossed over into Texas and
headed north. Some even fell out with Big Red and
either just did get away or filled a fresh grave. Others, like
the Perrott brothers and Sam Gill, left the gang for brief
periods
—leaves of absence—and went to raise hell else
where.

All this was known about Leech to the delegation of
four merchants who had chartered a stage in Browns
ville
and were journeying to see him. They had gotten
word to Fort Leech that they had a proposition for him
and Leech, curious, not only guaranteed them safe entry
and return but had them personally escorted across the
Rio.

They were men of strength in their own right, these
fo
u
r. That they were still survivors of the jungle that
wa
s Brownsville proved that. But the nearer they got to
Fort Leech the more their apprehensions grew, the more
they doubted the wisdom of the long trip to this rattler's
n
est
.
Supposing he didn't accept their proposition and
decided instead to hold them all for ransom. Ezra Owens
could just see his partner back in Brownsville laughing up
r
o
a
ri
o
usly at such a demand. Bert Bronsen thought
about being held, too, but he was even more concerned
about the tales of Leech's monumental drinking bouts,
dru
nks that were reputed to last for weeks on end, and
when the fog of whisky finally cleared there was carnage
al around. Leech, it was said reliably, had personally
kill
ed a hundred men in the
past three years. Even in Brown
sville, Bronsen knew, life wasn't that cheap a
commodi
ty
. Not even their legendary sheriff, John Lime,
slaugh
tered in that style. The other two businessmen in
t
he delegation, Ed Boone and Brad Hagood, told them
selve
s they would be happy to be on their way back.

Then they were entering the
converted mission itself, starin
g out at the up-to-date fortifications, the ready-look
ing arr
ay of cannons and U.S. Army-stolen equipment,
and it w
as too late now to be worrying about being in the
hands of
Big Red Leech. The coach was driven into a
court ya
rd, where a few men lounged in the shade, some
still wearing
remnants of the uniform they had fought
t
h
e
war in, but for every male present there were at least
half
d
ozen girls in
evidence—Mexican, Indian, even
African
and the envoys wondered if Leech was experi
menting
along the lines of that Brigham Young fellow
over in Utah.
■<

A light-skinned, sloe-eyed Negress, in fact, opened the
massive door to the main house to them, startling them
with the uninhibited casualness of her bared torso. Nor
could she be wearing much more below than the bright-
flowered skirt, they decided, as the girl led them down the
corridor. She stopped at a pair of double doors and
knocked softly.

"Come on in!" a voice bellowed from the room beyond
and she threw the doors open. Their first view of Red Leech made the descriptions of him seem pale and
inadequate. From the place where his great booted feet
were planted on the tile floor the red-bearded, green-
eyed behemoth appeared to rise until it almost seemed
that his great thatch of red hair brushed the ceiling. In
one freckled fist he held a demijohn of wine by its throat,
in the other a tortilla that had been baked to his own pro
portions. There were two other men in the room, mere six-
foot, two-hundred pounders, and the same ratio and inter
mixture of females they had seen outdoors. In Matamoros,
Bert Bronsen recalled strangely, there was an old recluse
who kept cats. Scores and scores of cats. Cats wherever your glance happened to fall. Leech kept women. Every
size and shape and coloring
—and each one naked to the
waist.