Authors: Jonas Ward
Miller stood revealed there now, so huge and grotesque
that the big greener cradled in his arms seemed diminu
tive.
"Now both of you hold it," said a calm voice in that
awfully still room, and Buchanan moved out from his
place at the other end, his handgun hanging almost cas
ually in his fist,
"Stay out of this!" Miller shouted down, "It's just between me and him
.”
"It will be if you let go with that, boomer
,”
Buchanan
warned. "You and him at one funeral
,”
"But he's gonna kill me on sight! By God, everybody
heard him!"
Buchanan swung his head toward Sandoe for an instant.
“
Speak up, Mike. You'd better talk treaty with this son."
Sandoe spread his empty hands, "I'm dead if I don't,"
he said ruefully. "Let's call this argument off."
"Your turn, Miller," the peacemaker said,
"You mean it, gunman?'' Miller demanded "I'm free
to come and go in this town?"
"Free as the breeze, fat man. Just take me out from under that greener."
Moose Miller took a deep, relaxing breath, upended the
barrels, and stepped backward. Then it happened. Mike Sandoe's hand swept down and
u
p again. He fired three
times without even sighting, drove two more slugs into
the jerking, reeling hulk on the balcony. Miller died there
and his unfired shotgun fell with a clatter to the floor of the bar.
Sandoe was moving sideways along the bar
,
swiftly, his
eyes blazing with wild excitement while agile fingers
pumped a fresh load of cartridges into the cylinder of the smoking Colt. He held it hip-high, ready for anything that
might follow.
"Neat
,”
he said to Buchanan in a charged, admiring
voice, "Neat, That squares us for Durfee."
Buchanan was desolate. He stood there and looked
bleak
ly into the killer's face, as deeply hurt by the raw
tr
eachery as if he had committed the thing himself. Mike
S
a
nd
o
e's mouth continued to open and close, words
s
oun
ded, but the roaring in the big man's mind drowned
th
em out. His left shoulder dipped, lazily it seemed to him,
and the feel of his fist smashing that mouth closed was
a
deep satisfaction. Mike Sandoe went down without ever
seeing what hit him.
Buchanan turned and walked from the place. On the sidewalk immediately outside he was confronted by an
anxious
Frank Power and Marshal Grieve. Something they
saw
in his eyes made them pull aside and let him pass
unquestioned.
Chapter Eight
Be
rn
ie Troy had been a spectator to the whole affair, even a participant, after his fashion. His privileged seat
was
at a table in the corner, one commanding a full view
of
the action, and across his knees his hand still gripped
the shiny new revolver that was supposed to have been
the kicker if Moose Miller faltered.
But he had not counted on Buchanan's play, and what
happened after that had been simply too sudden to fol
l
ow, too risky for Gambler Troy to take a hand in.
And hardly was he absorbing the impossible fact that Miller was dead when he saw Buchanan hit Sandoe with
out heed of that murderous gun. Bernie Troy's chance was
th
ere, handed to him, but instead of emptying his .45 into
th
e fallen figure, he was unable to do anything else but
follow Buchanan's progress to the doors.
Then Frank Power was hurrying inside, going directly to Sandoe, helping him to his feet, and moving him back
to the office.
Grieve spotted Troy came to the table directly,
"What the hell goes on here, Bernie? What happened?"
Troy shook his head and smiled wryly. "Nothing for
you
,”
he told the lawman. "All things considered? I guess
you'd have to call it a fair fight
,”
"Miller was armed?"
Troy nodded. "All he had to do was squeeze his finger
,”
he said. "One little touch and he could have died of old
age." Troy pushed back his chair and g
o
t up. "I put the
gun in the poor bastard's hands, Marshal
,
Too bad I
couldn't have done his thin
ki
ng for him, too
,”
Grieve left him, went to the bar for verification of the
shooting from other eyewitnesses, and Bernie Troy let his glance rise to the balcony. Four men were carrying
the lifeless Moose Miller from there, and to Troy it was a
bad omen, as if a hat had been tossed on a bed, a mirror
broken. Like nearly all gamblers, he was realistic about
everything in life but luck—and from the day he had
hired Miller, all his luck had been good. But this could mean the end to the winning streak, and he told himself
that if he were as smart as he thought he was, this was the
time to quit.
But he knew he wasn't going to take his winnings and
go.
From the start the idea of the g
ame h
a
d been winner
take all. Bernie Troy knew it, and Frank Power knew it.
Frank Power, at the moment, was having his hands full
with Mike Sandoe.
"Slugged me
,”
the gunman muttered unsteadily.
"Sneaked one-—no damn reason at all
...
."
"Forget your private fights
,”
Power told him sharply.
"You've got work to do."
'That's the last punch hell ever throw," Sandoe went
on, doggedly attentive to his own business. "Teach that
big fist-fighter something. . . ."
"Drink this
,”
Power said, handing him a tumbler of
whisky. "It'll clear your head." Sandoe drained the glass.
“Now
I want yo
u
to listen," Power went on. "Do we
have
a deal or don't we? Are you a gunfighter or some
punk
drifter?"
"You know what I am
,”
"Then start acting like one. How much money did you
Make
out of Moose Miller? How much do you think I'm
going
to pay you to go gunning for Buchanan when there's
somethin
g more important that I want you to do?"
S
an
doe said nothing.
"A
l
l right, then!" Power jerked his head to the money
sack he had carried inside. "This is the payroll for the
crew.
Ride it out to Durfee pronto."
San
doe looked at it. "A dime for every dollar they got
coming”
"Right. And it's your job to see they take it and like
it.”
"
W
hat about the herd?"
The buyer will take possession when I tell him it's
peac
eful out there. That's what you're going to tell me."
“I’ll
tell you," Sandoe said, hefting the sack.
“
I
’ve
got a fast bay tied out back," Power said, opening
th
e door. "Don't spare it getting to Indian Rocks."
"Give me fifteen minutes for grub."
“
N
o
more than that," Power said impatiently. He
s
ho
ved a folded piece of paper into the pocket of Sandoe's
shirt.
"Show that to Durfee by way of explaining things."
They
l
eft the office, Sandoe turning to the rear entrance,
Pow
er walking toward the front of the place. He found
h
is partner and Grieve in conversation at the turn of the
bar
and stopped beside them.
"Sorry about what happened, Bernie," he said, no sor
row
evident in his voice. "One of those things that couldn't
be
avoided."
"I think it could, Frank," Troy answered.
Power smiled. "This isn't New York State," he said.
"No," Troy agreed. "It's Bella. A nice closed town until
l
ast night.
"Still closed, Bernie. Right, Marshal?"
"I hope so," Grieve said, frowning. "Between the two of
them, those drifters have cut into the enforcement of any
deadline."
"You'll have Sandoe to side you by nightfall"
"From what I've heard in here," Grieve said, "I'll take
the other one."
Power's face tightened. "That one's no good to you or
to me," he said. "He's what I'd call an undesirable."
·
"Little Joe doesn't think so. He and his friends bailed
him out."
"Little Joe and his friends count for nothing in this
town," Power said. "If that Buchanan character is still in
Bella when Sandoe gets back, I want the two of you to
r
u
n him out." Having given one order, he turned his at
tention to Bernie Troy. "And next time you see a man betting what isn't his, I'd appreciate your shutting down
the game."
Now Troy smiled. "I didn't know Boyd Weston was as
sociated with you in a business way," he said.
"I'll make it a point to keep you better informed,"
Power told him, and abruptly moved away from them and
out of the place.
He crossed to Bella House, irritated with his partner,
with Grieve, with the almost regular emergence of the
nobody named Buchanan into every conversation. In thirty
seconds last night, at the door of Ruby's room, he had had as much of Buchanan as he wanted in a lifetime.
Thinking of Buchanan reminded him of another trou
blemaker he had known in the Army. It was some years
ago, but this other man
?
Lieutenant Hamlin, had Bu
chanan's mulish stubbornness when he had hold of some
thing he thought was right. Major Power would never
forget Hamlin
’s
daily carping about the shortages at the
quartermaster's depot, the sale of whisky to the goddam
Indians, and the charges against Sergeant Major Durfe
e th
at made old Bill forgo a stinking court-martial and ac
cep
t a dishonorable discharge.
Hamlin hadn't had the gall to poke his nose any further mo that business, but word must have got back to Wash
ing
ton, because he was ordered almost immediately to
s
up
port
to Colonel Kearney,
at Santa Fe, and that meant com
bat duty. Worse, the orders were addressed to Cap
tain Power, ignoring the temporary majority he'd been granted, and that put the handwriting plainly on the wall.
Power
had played the old Arm
y game lone enough to know
that Steve Kearney was going to use him ignobly
in
the expedition into California. He knew that he had
g
on
e about as far as Washington was going to let him go,
a
nd promptly resigned his commission.
His commission, not his connections—especially those
i
n
th
e Quartermaster Corps. It was a time of great con
cer
n for the Army under Kearney, what with Fremont
making
the expeditio
n to California a pointless one and
when there is indecision at headquarters, you can be
sure
there is chaos all along the chain of command. Power
h
ad no trouble to speak of in getting his hands on a
siza
ble supply of Army weapons, even less making contact
again
with ex-Sergeant Major Durfee. The Mexicans and I
ndians
who were Colonel Kearney's enemies got the
ri
fl
es. Power and Durfee got cows. The beef, in its turn
was
sold to the Army with kickbacks and bribes all up
an
d down the line.
The money literally poured in, but Frank Power was
wis
e enough not to display any of it. Instead he came to
Bella, a town that was accessible but not prominent, and
"bought" the faro table at the original Troy's. There
wasn't too much play then, too many places were compet
ing for what gambling and drinking business there was
,
so Be
rn
ie Troy was happy to sell a small piece of the
place and Power had the front he needed. So far as Bella
was
concerned, he was just another faro dealer eking out a
precarious living. Then the Army demand for beef began
slacking off-—there were mounting complaints about rot
ten animals—and Power began selling to private buyers from the
Midwest
. These were men like Wilson, who had
bid for contracts to supply beef for the railroad labor and
didn't care where they got it so long as it was cheap.
Power decided it was time to take off the wraps. He
and Troy built their place opposite the hotel, set up the
deadline and let nature take its course. There had been resistance, but none of it organized, and whenever it did
look threatening, the measures against it were swift and
thorough. The next
logical
step was to apply the pressure
to
Bernie
Troy, point out to him that Bella had become
too rich a prize to share.
But the problem of the immediate moment was Boyd
Weston and as he climbed to the lobby of Bella House
he almost relished the task at hand. Almost, because he couldn't be sure that Weston's failure to pay off the crew
was going to be handled satisfactorily out at Indian Rocks.
Weston, therefore, might still have hurt his operation,
and he was too angry with the blundering fool to enjoy
himself. He walked up the four flights and knocked briefly
on the door of 46.
"Who
is
it?" Weston asked
sulkily
.
"Power. Open up."
"I'll come over to the place tonight, Frank. I don't
want to see anyone right now."
Power made a brutal decision then. He took a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, and twisted. The door
swung open, shoving Boyd Weston backward, and the
bigger man stepped through.
"You'll see
m
e now, you lousy thief!"
"It wasn't stealing, Frank. Just bad luck. I'll pay it
back." Weston wore the same shirt and trousers he had
played poker in, had slept in for a few hours this morning.
Now, unshaven, pale, with deep purple rings beneath his
eyes, he looked physically ill as he glanced from Power's
face
to the key in Power's hand. "Where did you get
th
at?" he asked.
Powers
own silent gaze went beyond him to where
Ru
by Weston lounged against the window sill.
"Tell him, Ruby," he said.
Weston swung around to his wife. "Tell me what?"
"Why can't you just fire him and be done with it?"
Th
e dark-haired woman asked with annoyance in her voice.
"What is this? What's going on between you two?"
"Oh, Boyd, for heaven's sake! No scenes, please!"
“
No," Power said. "A scene would be good
ri
ght here.
I spent the night with your wife, Weston. When I sent
you
to Sacramento last month I spent every night with
h
er. At your place. In your bed." Power smiled. "Don't
just
stand there
,
man! For crissake, do something about
it.”
It was Ruby that Weston turned to. "You bitch. You
cheap, wh
o
ring bitch." Power pulled him around by the
shoulder and hit him in the face with his balled fist.
Weston stumbled backward and would have gone down
ex
cept for the table that braced him.
" Now
d
o something else," Power told him. "Do some
t
h
ing to me,"
Weston shook his head and fear shone
i
n his face,
bl
ood began to flow from his lips.
“
Then I'll tell you what you're going to do," Power
s
ai
d.
"You're going to leave Bella, leave it for good. You
won't ever come within a hundred miles of this town.
Understand all that?"
Weston nodded, watched dumbly as Power took a
folded document from his coat pocket.
"Something else you're going to do is sign over that
ranc
h."
"No
,”
Weston said, showing some spark of defiance.
"
I’ll
sell it to you."
"You sold it to me last night. This is just a formality."