Buchanan's Revenge (6 page)

Buchanan went off to his dinner in considerably better spirits than the dark mood that had gripped him up in San
Antone. Hell, he told himself, a lot of things could have gone wrong to delay old Rig. Lose a wheel, a sick mule,
bad weather. Maybe he had trouble getting a full load
for the return trip. Buchanan blamed himself, now, for
attaching so blamed much importance to that eight days
business. Since when, he demanded, are you such a
Johnny-on-the-spot?

He ate leisurely, rode out of Beeville at a far easier and
less determined pace than he'd ridden in. He was feeling so good, in fact, that he kept looking up the trail, half-
expecting to see the Double-B Fast Freight rolling his
way.

But he
didn't see it. It was midnight when he reached
Shelby, just the time when things seemed to be opening
up in that rugged burg, and Buchanan entered the
crowded lobby of the only hotel, shouldered his way to
the desk.

"Full up, mister," the clerk told him and Buchanan got the curious notion that the dapper little man enjoyed de
livering such a message.

"That's all right," he said, "like to see the register,
though."

"What for?"

"Looking for a friend that might be in town." He ex
tended his hand for the open book but the clerk moved it
aside.

"What's his name?"

"Bogan."

"Ain't here."

"You can tell without even looking?"

"Maybe it ain't worth my while to look."

Buchanan studied him more closely now, wondering
what made people like this one tick. And wondering
where he got his confidence from. He reached out again, not for the register this time but for the clerk himself. He
took the man by his collar and was preparing to lift him
bodily from behind the desk when there was interference from the rear. A gun barrel in his ribs and a gruff voice at
his shoulder.

"Leggo of Henry," it said.
^:
,

Buchanan didn't, but he paused to look into the tough
face of the gunman. Or maybe not a gunman, unless
that tarnished deputy badge on his shirt was a local joke. But there was whisky in him, and the click of the gun-
hammer cocking was not funny at all.

"You gonna let Henry down?"

Buchanan did, not gently.

"That mouth of Henry's must keep you busy fulltime," he told the deputy.

"Just keep your own mouth shut up tight," was the
surly, uneven reply.

"That's telling him, Jake," Henry said encouragingly.

"What's his beef, anyhow?" Jake asked the clerk.

"Just another damn troublemaker off the trail," Henry
explained. "Thinks he's running things."

"You think you're running things?"

"I think if you don't pull that gun out of my ribs you're
gonna eat it," Buchanan warned him. The deputy leered,
shoved the barrel deeper. Buchanan's forearm dropped
like a cleaver and his elbow clamped tight. The deputy
grunted, dropped the forty-four to the wooden floor.
Buchanan kicked it deftly away, and so far as he was
concerned the incident should have ended right there.

Except that in brawl towns like Shelby the law are
wolves, they travel in packs, and the gun
-
butts that began
crashing down on Buchanan's skull and neck and shoulders
were being wielded by old hands at the game of gang-up.
He sunk to his knees, groggy-eyed, and they still kept slash
ing at him. He fell over on his side and the one who
smashed the toe of his boot into his face was Jake. Except
that Buchanan was beyond caring.

He was brought to justice as soon as he was able to
stand again and murmur his name through bloody lips.
The trial was in the back room of a saloon, before a judge
so drunk he could hardly keep his head up. The bailiff
read the charges
—disturbing the peace of Shelby, resisting
lawful arrest and atrocious assault and battery. Jake was a
witness and so was Henry, who turned out to be the sher
r
iff
’
s nephew. The case was open and shut and the judge
handed down a unanimous verdict.

"Guilty," the bailiff explained. "A hundred dollars or
a hundred days in the mine."

Naively, Buchanan reached for his money. It was
gone, and now he remembered that he had ridden into
Shelby with exactly the amount of the fine.

"You already paid, ranny. Now mount up and get the
hell out of this town. We don't abide troublemakers."

Jake and two friends escorted him out of the saloon,
stood by like a trio of grinning apes as he climbed stiffly
into his saddle. The night air seemed to clear Buchanan's head and he straightened his seat, made a slow turn with
the horse. That brought him abreast of the three watch
ful deputies.

"Got some business south of here, boys," he said softly,
managing a special smile of his own, a smile of anticipa
tion. "But I'll be back one of these days. Count on it." He
right-reined, all but brushed their faces with the filly's
high rump and trotted out of Shelby with his quiet promise hanging in the night air.

Buchanan made his camp for the night just off the
trail, arose with the dawn and pushed on. The traffic
grew heavier as the new day got older, but none of the
northbound freighters he questioned had knowledge of
the Double-B wagon or its driver. These men, in fact,
seemed to be without any knowledge of what might be
coming along their back trail. Or were they evasive? Then
it occurred to him that these were a lonely breed unto
themselves, one for another, and that he probably looked
like their common enemy: the man with the sheriff's
order in his pocket, the hen on their wagons and their
goods for a payment missed.

"The Double-What Fast Freight? Rig Who? Never
heard of them, and I been hauling this route for ten
years..."

But in Robstown there was freely given information
about the bright red wagon, and in Bishop and Kingsville.
Passed through a week or so ago. Remembered the color
of the paint and the happy young cuss that drove her.
Looked like he was sitting on top of the world in that seat.

No, he hadn't come back this way again. And today,
Buchanan noted unhappily, would make the ninth day.

Even if Bogan had been here in Kingsville this after
noon he had another two long days travel to reach San
Antone.

A man don't tell his partner he'll be back in eight days
when he isn't even going to make it in eleven. Or twelve.
Or ever.

Buchanan, broke moneywise, busted in spirit, limped
into Aura on a dragging, leg-weary horse. They were both
also very hungry and he got off and walked her the
length of Main Street to the stable.

"We need
a meal," he told the owner.

“I’l
l work for
both of us."

The man, graying, in his sixties, peered through the darkening light at the face with its fresh bruises and old
battle
scars.

"Well, you're different, anyhow."

"Different?"

"You ain't swaggerin' in like you had the money then
go off and deadbeat me for the feed and service."

"So how about it?"

"Ain't hardly enough this afternoon to buy my ownself
supper. Especially since those three deadbeats came
through town."

"You mean those stalls are all cleaned out?" Bu
chanan asked mildly. "The floor's soaped and hosed? To
morrow's hay all forked and waiting for that big train I
passed outside Kingsville?"

"How big a train?"

"Ten span, mister," Buchanan lied glibly. 'Twenty
mules that looked like they were accustomed to the best."

"Twenty head? Well!"

"Not to mention the damn carriages that clogged the
trail out of Corpus Christi."

"Clogged?"

"One of those electioneering parties," Buchanan said.
"Fella said it was Sam Houston campaigning for the Sen
ate again. But I didn't see any sign of Houston myself."

"General Houston coming this way?"

"Not on my say-so," Buchanan said. "Though he could
have been sleeping in that big gold coach in the middle.
You've taken care of Sam's coach, haven't you?"

“
Here? In this stable? I've sure heard about the General's coach, but I never had the honor of servicing it."

"Well, how about it, mister? You got enough work for
two meals?"

"I sure have! Just lead that horse to the trough, son,
and get busy on them dirty stalls. Soap and pail's over
there in the corner somewhere. Give the floor a good
wash. And don't forget tomorrow's hay. Better pitch it
clear to the roof, all them mules comin'!"

He left the premises to Buchanan altogether, no doubt
to spread the word about The Great God Houston, and
as the teller of tall tales fell to with the manure shovel, the hard brush and the powerfully odorous lye soap he
had good reason to suspect that he had overcooked his
own goose.

But he saw to it that the filly got hers. She ate at the
head of the table that evening, got bathed, curried and
combed, a stall with a thick mattress of clean, fresh straw,
a headway that faced west
—so she wouldn't have the
glare of the morning sun—and an ear-scratching to top it
off.

After two hours his work was done
—everything short
of painting the stable—but when the owner still didn't
return to pay him Buchanan's patience began to wear
thin. As thin as his hunger was large. He wandered into
the man's cluttered cubbyhole office and sat down in a
sagging straw chair. On the desk was an invoice sheet
bearing the name of the Aura Livery Co., Jason Hix,
Owner, and Buchanan's glance went idly down the en
tries penciled onto it. One of the entries all but jumped
up from the page.

"Double-B Freight," he read, "San Antonio. 6 mules.
Feed p.m. & a.m. R. Bogan. $6
—Pd. in full."

There were three other entries grouped under the same
date, a date just one week ago tonight, and reading the
words again he realized that instead of being surprised
that Rig had fed the animals and stayed overnight in
Aura he should be reassured. For it meant that his partner
was right on schedule
;
so far as the southbound trip was
concerned. He read the other names for that date. "Fred
Perrott. Horse. Feed p.m. & a.m. $1
—Deadbeat."

Deadbeat, Buchanan thought. That's an ugly word. But right below was a second one, a Jules Perrott, and he had
skipped town without paying a dollar. Father and son?
Buchanan wondered. Brothers?
And a third deadbeat. Somebody named Sam Gill.

"Say, fella!" the liveryman's voice broke in, "you got
this place looking just fine!"
Buchanan got up out of the chair.
"About given you up," he told him.

"Got into the blackjack game over to the saloon and
lost track of the time. Sure some job you did here, though.
How much do I owe you?"

"Whatever's the price of a meal in town," Buchanan
said. "And I eat pretty hearty, too," he added.

"Imagine you do, furnace that size to stoke. Let's see
now. You can get steak, spuds and pie at the saloon for a
dollar. Probably want seconds on everything, won't you?"

"It's likely."

'Two dollars, then?" "Fine."

"And one extra for good measure," Hix said, handing
Buchanan three silver dollars.

"Two is fair," the tall man said. Hix smiled up at him. "I won a little in the game," he said slyly. "In fact, the
whole three dollars is on the dealer."

Buchanan accepted the coins. "See you lost three a
week ago," he said.

"How's that?"

Buchanan glanced at the ledger. "The deadbeats," he
said.

"Oh, them skunks. Not only cheat a man but get ornery
about it." Hix looked at Buchanan sadly. "Liked to've had
you here that morning," he said. "Wonder how hard
they'd talk then."

"The fella with the mules paid, though," Buchanan
said.

"On the barrelhead."

"You talk to him at all?"

"The night he drove in I did. Dished out the feed for
his mules himself." Hix shook his head. "Looked like reg
u
lar donks to me," he said, "but he was real particular.
And that red wagon! Why, he spent one solid hour out
back just scrubbing that thing till it shined like new." The
remembering made the old man chuckle. "I joshed him
some about that, told him he acted like it was all paid
for."

"What did he say to that?"

"He said no, there was a long ways to go yet. But he
said it was going to be paid for, and then he was going to
get another, just like it. Sure had the vinegar in him, that
one."

"But you haven't seen him since?"

"No," Hix said, his face becoming puzzled.

"What is it?"

"You ask me if I've seen that driver and it reminds me
that he should have been back from Matamoros three,
four nights ago. Least, that's what he planned. Said this
was his lucky town."

"Lucky?" Buchanan repeated. "What did he mean?"

"Don't rightly know," Hix said, then smiled. "But he
did take a real shine to Cristy."

"
Who?"

"Cristina, the pretty gal that deals the games over at
the saloon. Everybody calls her Cristy," Hix said, "and I
guess just about everybody off the trail shines up to her.
Just like the fella we're talking about. Say, do you know
him?"

"I'm his partner," Buchanan said.

"Why, sure!" Hix said. "Sure you are! Ten feet tall he
said you was and ate wildcat raw for breakfast." The man
laughed. "I think he even put you up a notch over that
red wagon and them six mules." The smile faded. "Ain't
nothing gone wrong, is there?"

"That's what I came down the trail to find out," Bu
chanan said. "Right at the moment, though, I'm going to
hunt up that steak you mentioned." He went out of the
stable and moved up Main Street. On the corner was the
saloon, just that
—SALOON—and he went inside.

Went in expecting no surprises and getting none, for if
Buchanan had seen this place once in his travels he had
seen it a hundred times. A bar against the wall with men
hunched over their beers and their whiskies. Tables with
older drinkers, men who spoke occasionally to their com
rades but for the most part just sat and stared into space,
lost in some reverie of the past, some memory of a
missed chance. And another table, larger than the rest
and better lighted, where the nightly game was played.
Blackjack, Hix had said, but the four men sitting around
it now were dealing stud. And there was no Cristy, "the
pretty gal that deals the games."

Well, Buchanan wasn't going to shine up to her. But he
damn well intended to find out what Rig meant by calling
this his lucky town. Buchanan figured that one look would
tell him if Bogan had found himself a second Ruthie
Stell, if he was so delayed getting back because he was
selling Magee's cotton on his own and their wagon along
with it. One look would tell him that, and then a few
hard questions to find out what their plans were, where
die figured to join him.

There was a stairway in the back of this saloon, nothing
as wide and fancy as Queenie's, but it led directly to a
room and the door to that room was shut tight.

"I'd like the steak and potatoes," Buchanan told the
bartender, a fellow about his own thirty years and clean
shaven. "Not too done." The order was relayed to a
Chinaman in the kitchen.

"Drink while you're waiting?"

"How much is the bourbon?"

"Two bits,"

"And how big is the steak?"

"One pound."

Buchanan frowned, deliberating between his keen thirst and his voracious hunger. The bartender waited patiently,
almost sympathetically.

"A double bourbon," Buchanan said. The drink was
poured in an outsize glass and Buchanan looked his
thanks. "Better not let the boss catch you," he said good-
naturedly and the barkeep smiled.

"I'm the boss," he said.

"In that case I'm twice obliged, friend. Where do you
want me to eat that steak?"

"Any table that suits you."

Buchanan took the drink to one in the rear, sat down
in almost complete darkness. The cook brought the steak
out within minutes, stood by during the first cut to see if
it was too rare. Buchanan's big grin assured him.

"You don't fool me," the big man said.

"Please?"

"You're no restaurant cookie. You worked on a ranch."

"That right, that right. But better here now. Sleep every
morning way past dawn. You own big ranch?"

"Not quite yet," Buchanan admitted, taking another
cut of meat.

"But by-an'-by," the cook said.

"Oh, sure."

"Big, big ranch. Fifty thousand acre."

"At least."

"Hundred thousand cattle."

"Thereabouts."

"You want other steak now?"

Buchanan suddenly broke into laughter. "No," he said,
enjoying the joke on himself. "Can't afford another
steak."

The Chinaman laughed along with him. "You still get
big ranch," he said and retreated to his kitchen. Buchanan
went on with his meal, was draining the last of the strong
black coffee when the door at the head of the stairs
opened and a girl stepped from the room beyond. Just
before she closed the door again he had a glimpse of a bedstead, a table with a pitcher and wash bowl on it, and
through Buchanan's mind passed the half-melancholy,
half-unpleasant picture of the faceless man still lying
there, passed out drunk.