Buchanan Says No (18 page)

"There'll be another to take my place
,”
Buchanan told
'm. "From now on the town of Bella is open to every
one.”

"What was that sheriff's name you mentioned?"

“
Jeff Sage. A real gent."

Grieve nodded. "Must be quite a place
?
Alpine, West
Texas."

"Cow town
,”
Buchanan said. "No growing pains like
thi
s one."

“
I'll drop Sage a line. Tell him it was nice knowing
you for almost two nights running."

Grieve broke off to
see the figure of the meat-buyer, Wilson, hurrying toward
hi
m.

"What's he want?" Grieve asked
?
his voice queru
lous.

"Marshal, how much jurisdiction you got?" Wilson
demanded.

*The town of Bella. Why?"

"I had nothing to do with it
,”
the man blurted. "All I
wanted from Frank Power was to buy his cattle."

"What are you talking about?"

"The massacre! Out there in some box canyon, whatever the place is called."

"Indian Rocks," Buchanan said quietly and Wilson looked up at him sharply.

'That's right. And you can tell him I had nothing to
do with it."

'You say a herd was massacred?" Grieve broke in.

''Herd? These were
men,
Marshal Men like you and
me. Every one of 'em murdered."

"Is that right, Buchanan?"

"The Doc and I buried eight punchers and Boyd Wes
ton. Who got bushwhacked and who died fighting I
wouldn't know."

"What in the name of God is happening here?" Grieve
a
sked. "Nine men!"

Buchanan had moved away from the wall with the grace
of a panther, angled swiftly toward the faro table. Frank

Power was coming from the opposite direction, purpose
fully, his fist wrapped around the derringer, his hagga
rd
gaze on the girl whose hu
sband he had killed with it scant
hours before. Ruby Weston gave a short gasp as she sa
w
him. The players nearest to her scrambled for safety.

"Get up, Ruby
,”
Power said unevenly, "You're leav
ing."

"No," she said, unable to mask the fear she felt. "No.'

"I said,
get
up
!”

Buchanan stepped squarely between them. 'The lady
doesn't want to, Power
,”

Power brought the gun up.

Ruby Weston came out of the dealer's chair.
|

"Move away from him, Buchanan! He'll kill you!*"

It was Power who moved, putting the table between
them. "Interfere this time in my affairs," he said, "and
you'll get a bullet right between your eyes. Walk ahead
of me, Ruby."

"You're safer where you are," Buchanan told her.
:

"Walk, Ruby!"

She shook her head.

"No?" Power said. "You prefer the company of this
lousy saddle bum?"

"Yes."

"Then look the part of a whore! Give them a rea
l
show!" And without warning he reached his fingers into the low front of her gown and ripped it away, baring the
girl to the waist.

Buchanan's arm moved in a brief arc and the palm-
bladed blow struck Power at the base of the neck. The
massive body jackknifed forward and his head struck
among the chips and cards on the table.

Ruby Weston, arms crisscrossed over her naked breasts,
moved quickly against Buchanan. He threw his arm over her shoulders and started with her through the wide-eyed
crowd.

"Watch it!" someone shouted, and two guns went o
ff simul
taneously.

A bullet streaked past Buchanan's head and he whirled
even
as Frank Power was falling, his face bloodied, the
der
ringer in his hand still curling smoke.

Buchanan looked toward the wall then, to the gray face
of
Grieve, to the
.
44 hanging at his side. The marshal
cam
e away from the wall and would have passed Buchanan
an
d Ruby without a word.

"Thanks, mister
,”
Buchanan told him softly.

^“
Thanks for what?" the lawman asked. "Where do I
go from here?"

"
I’l
l give you a hand," Buchanan said and Grieve stared
a
t him angrily.

"You?" he said, his voice rising, laced with derision.

"What the hell do I want with a fist fighter?" He turned
en his heel and left the saloon.

Then Ruby Weston spoke.

"Take me out of here," she said. "I've got to get some
clothes on,"

Three hundred in the kick, M
i
ke Sandoe thought lug
g
ing the saddlebag to the bar, throwing it up beside his
elbow. He poured a drink from
th
e bottle, turned
a
round
wit
h
it
.
The place was practically deserted now. Just a few
o
ld lushes at one table, men who didn't care anymore
what was happening, a quiet penny-ante game in progress
un
der the balcony where he'd got Moose Miller this
morning.

He raised his
eyes;
saw himself staring into that big
g
reener's barrels. He saw Bud Carew drawing again, saw
Frank Walsh
ri
ding crazily into his s
ig
hts. . . .

The hell with that! That was death. What he wanted
w
as li
f
e. He remembered walking
i
nto the Happy T
i
mes, seeing all those girls, hearing their squeals of laughter. That
w
as life. B
i
ll Durfee's face swam crazily before his eyes.

He finished off the drink, started to pour another when
the sound of the shots from the Happy Times burst into
the silence of Troy's. Thirty seconds later came the first
eager news
bearer.

"Frank Power is dead! Marshal Grieve plugged him
when he had that big buck dead to rights!"

"What big buck?"

"Buchanan! And boys, I seen it with my own eyes!"

"Come over here," Mike Sandoe told the man, and he
went to the gunfighter obediently. "Tell it to me slow, the
way it happened."

The story poured from the frightened man's mouth even
as others flocked through the doors, came together in
groups, and exchanged their eyewitness accounts of the great event.

Sandoe listened to it and a grandiose idea took form
in his mind. The strongman was dead, the job was vacant.
Why not? Who was there to challenge Mike Sandoe if he
stepped in and took over? Not Buchanan. Not Grieve.
Only Bernie Troy.

Troy had gone promptly to the office, opened the safe,
and got out the partnership agreement. He put a flame to
it, and with that simple act took over sole ownership of Troy's. This, the gambler knew, was a time to think out
everything very clearly and very quickly. Opportunity was
striking loud and clear.

Think! he told himself. Decide. Make the right moves
now, while everybody is still in a state of shock, still talk
ing about it.

The competition down the street would have to be
wiped out. But not tonight. Not even tomorrow. He would
send to Sacramento, import a gun crew that would wreck
the Happy Times. A week's time at the most. . . .

Sandoe—that was something that had to be taken care
of immediately, and without making Moose Miller's fatal
mistake. Troy pulled the desk drawer out, picked up the
shiny new Colt, and checked the load. This big gun was
hardly his favorite weapon, but nothing less would do.
The hand that held the revolver began to shake and he set
it down again on the desktop. From the decanter he
poured himself a man-sized drink and downed it quickly.
The whisky warmed his stomach, firmed him, and he
hefted the .45 a second time. Now he could hold it at
arm's length without trace of a tremble.

Troy slipped out of the office, advanced cautiously to
the drapes that separated this small foyer from the main
room beyond. He parted them very slightly, peered toward
the bar.

Mike Sandoe stood with his heavy-muscled back square
ly to him. The distance was not more than twenty-five
feet. Troy pushed the gun barrel through the opening, thumbed the hammer back. So intense was his concentra
tion on the single target that he didn't see Carrie James
cross directly into the line of fire until it was almost too
late.

Just in time he held off the trigger squeeze, and in the
same instant Sandoe swung around toward the girl, grinning wolfishly. His arm snaked out, circling the redhead's
slim waist, and drew her up against his body roughly.

Carrie had seen the gunfighter at the bar as soon as she entered the place, but she had passed unmolested through
Troy's so many other nights that it never occurred to the
girl to stay out of his vicinity. Now she realized her mis
take and struggled to break the powerful grip, and to
keep his reeking mouth from closing down on her own,

Bernie Troy burst from his hiding place.

"Let go of her!" he shouted wildly. "Take your filthy
hands off her!"

Still holding tight to Carrie, Sandoe looked up. What
impressed him most was the gun in Troy's hand, and his reaction was purely automatic. In an instant his own hand was filled. Carrie screamed, struck out to deflect his aim
even as the Colt roared. Troy's slim body was spun com
pletely around and he fell with his back to them. Then,
from another direction, Sandoe was given a second com
mand,

"Drop it, killer!" Grieve warned him in a tight voice.
"You're through!"

Sandoe swung the terrified, half-hysterical girl as a
shield. Grieve had his own protection, the bar, and all that was visible was his head and the arm that held the cover
ing gun.

"Drop it!" the marshal said again, knowing that he
should have fired the first time, when he had the man in
his sights. Now, with Sandoe holding the girl that way, it
was a stand-off. That was his second mistake.

Sandoe fired past the girl's head, heedlessly. The slug
broke Grieve's forearm and a second came so fast he could
not e
ven drop out of sight. He took t
hat one in the collar
bone, close to the neck, and with the vision of Sandoe
closing in for the kill he summoned what strength he had
to half stumble, half crawl through the bartender's private
door. He was in the storeroom now, and using the piled
cases of whisky to support himself, Grieve made his way
out into the alley. He leaned his weight against the building then, too weak even to protest mentally the steady
bleeding that was taking his life.

There's no one left, the lawman thought bitterly. Not
a gun in town to stop the dirty killing bastard. If he'd only
let him have it when he had the chance. If he'd only
guessed the black depths of the man's treachery, the ani
mal's instinct for survival that would let him gamble
with the girl's safety. God help her now. There was no one
else who could.

Grieve had edged along the side of the building toward
the alley's end. Now he staggered out into the middle of
Signal Street and fell there, A Bella man, one of those
fleeing Troy's in fear of his life, recognized the still figure
and knelt beside it.