Authors: Jonas Ward

Buchanan Says No (12 page)

His thoughts had carried him along Signal Street in
leisurely fashion, without particular notice of his sur
roundings, but as he turned into the lane housing the
Green Lantern there was something about another rider
astride another horse that made him pause and watch.

It was Boyd Weston, moving at a stolid, defeated pace,
his eyes staring morosely ahead out of a face that was
haggard and pale. And though this was Buchanan's first sight of the man, he felt an extrasensory certainty that this
was Weston
.

Hope you know where the hell you're going, he thought.
You with your tail between your legs, Hope you keep clear
of them cats at Indian Rocks, . . .

Chapter
T
en

Boyd Weston never saw Buchanan, never even knew
there was a Buchanan. He rode on out of Bella without
any realization of what had been happening in the town during the past twenty-four hours. Except, of course, for
the poker game. That was still a nightmare in his mind.

He was very acutely aware, though, of his wife and Frank Power. That situation was real, and he had been
dealt with badly. Whatever remorse he might have felt
about losing the crew's payroll was drowned in the sharp,
hurtful memories of the vivid scene in the hotel room,

To go like this was a bitter and inglorious comedown
for someone who had been riding the crest. Until six
months ago he had spent the twenty-five years of his life
awkwardly and ineffectively stumbling toward some vague
ly defined "position." Marrying the beautiful Ruby and moving his bride to the inheritance in the Territory hadn't
given him any purpose. But meeting Frank Power had.

Being
around Power made him feel important, made him
count
for something—and the knowledge now of how
Power
had used him was twice the humiliation it might
have
been.

B
oyd Weston was foggily, sluggishly determined to do
someth
ing about it. How he was going to hurt Frank
Power
was unclear, but it did have its starting point out at
Indian Rocks. Power would hurt plenty if anything hap
pened
to $50,000 worth of beef.

So
he rode that way, and not knowing about Buchanan,
h
e

d
idn't know about Mike Sandoe. He especially didn't
know t
hat he might be working at cross-purposes with a
single-minded gunfighter.

Sandoe himself pushed along at a swifter pace, length
ening the distance between them. This was a lot of horse
that
Power had put under him, smooth-gaited, and as the
miles
passed beneath them and the signs of civilization
disap
peared, the rider's mind was free to consider his mis
sion.
It was the first time, in fact, that he had been able
to
think about the job ahead without the intrusion of
other
matters.

And now, as Buchanan had done, Sandoe remembered
the
tense and surly impatience that lay on Durfee's crew
wh
en last he was part of it. As he raced out of Bella, his
nat
ural instinct was merely to ride into camp, tell the
r
annies the facts of life, and just let nature run its
course.

But
what course would it take?
He
asked himself. These
wer
e no punchers or squarehead farmers he was visiting.
T
h
e
y
were working gunhands. Boys the likes of Frank
W
a
lsh and Ernie Keller hadn't come by their sizable reps
b
ec
a
use they'd backed down from any fights. Sandoe knew
what
a treacherous little son Harv Mayer was with that
t
h
row knife. And Bud Carew—a cool, sleepy-eyed cus
tomer who spotted you the first shot for a careful one.

Well,
h
ell
!
What kind of party was Frank Power send
ing him on, anyhow? That was a capable gang of warriors
he'd been riding with for two years, and he felt a twinge
of chagrin that he hadn't appreciated their true worth until
now.

Sandoe also felt a twinge of something else, an all-aloneness, and it would be a comforting thing to have the
rhythmic hoof
beat of another horse just off his left shoulder. Nice to glance over and see the big, solid figure of
Buchanan riding there. . . .

"To hell with Buchanan!" he shouted aloud in a snarl
ing voice that startled the bay into ear-pricked attention
.
Who needed Buchanan? Who needed anybody? He was
Mike Sandoe, the gunfighter. No help wanted.

That mood fed him for another five miles, but with
each minute that brought the sharp-rising canyon walls of
Indian Rocks closer, the warning bell of caution sounded more clearly in his mind. Walsh and Keller were no fools.
After this much stalling around for payday, they'd be primed for somebody with bad news.

And he saw it through their eyes, as Buchanan had
seen it when he heard it from Frank Power. All that risky
work and no money, a puncher's lousy forty dollars for
forty hot days and forty long nights of trail-driving a
hangman's herd. Mayer and Car
e
w wouldn't stand still for
any measly handout and a mouth-warning to steer shy of
the beef and Bella both.

Where did Power come off being so glib about this as
signment? How would Buchanan handle it? As soon as he
thought that question he spotted the trap in it. The
answer was that Buchanan wouldn't handle it at all, would
never throw down on some brothers of the trail for Power's money.

Ah, to hell with him, Sandoe thought, but without
much conviction of his own invincibility. Caution, he told
himself. Go easy and live longer.

He veered abruptly to the right. Though this new
course would be roundabout, it offered protection from
any s
nap-trigger sentry Durfee might have posted along iii direct route to the camp. A half hour's riding brought
him
to Indian Springs, and now he followed the narrow,
t
w
i
sting stream until he heard the first sounds of the cattle
fro
m within the canyon.

Having once tasted caution, Sandoe developed an ap
peti
te for it. He put the bay at a walk, eased it along gently
towa
rd the canyon mouth. Five minutes later he slipped
th
e
Winchester from the saddle and dismounted alto
geth
er, looping the reins over a shale split on his side of
t
h
e wall and going the rest of the way on his own legs.

He got inside and scrambled to an overhanging shelf,
giving
himself a look-see at the herd only when he had
th
e cover of the ridge. Every passing moment now brought
sur
prise to Mike Sandoe, surprise at the discovery that his
cat
quick reflexes were just as adaptable to this kind of
ste
althy attack as they were
to the usual frontal assault. H
e hadn't known he had it in him, and he credited it to
his
account as an asset.

Very abruptly, a mounted figure separated itself from
th
e small sea of milling animals inside this natural stock-
x:d and Sandoe levered the rifle. The herd guard was a
g
ray-faced, melancholy figure as he made his weary way
a
round the cattle, merely going through the motions of
ha
zing them away from the canyon mouth. It was Bud
Carew, and so long as he kept his eyes turned downward,
Sandoe was content to let him close the distance between
them. Then Carew was passing directly below the shelf
and
a moment later his sag-shouldered back was to Mike
S
a
ndoe.

"Whoa up, Bud
,”
Sandoe told him unexcitedly. "You're
cropped on."

Carew halted, but where most men would screw their

hea
ds around to see who it was, this middle-aged veteran
very
deliberately wheeled his jaded-looking horse full circle.

That done, Carew stared balefully up at the man with the

rifl
e, content to let Sandoe do the explaining.

"Hard lines, Bud," he told him. "The jasper with the
payroll
ain't gonna make it this trip."

"So we all figured," Carew said, then shrugged. "But
we've already whacked up this beef among ourselves."

Sandoe shook his head. "Another party owns the herd."

"And you're reppin' for this party?"

"For the seller," Sandoe said. "Your share comes to
forty dollars,"

The rifle jumped in Sandoe's hands and roared death
in the same instant that the mild-mannered Bud Carew
snatched at his handgun. The 30-30 slug took the other
man in the heart at a distance of fifteen feet, knocked him
sideways from the saddle, and killed him immediately.

"Have it your way," Sandoe told the sprawled figure
contemptuously. Then he roamed the area with his keen
eyes for Harv Mayer, the dead man's crony. Mayer spotted
him first and put a bullet from his own rifle only inches
away from Sandoe's head. Sandoe ducked beneath the
overhang and found himself with a problem. He could see
Harv now, but the rider was near the herd's center and
some fifty yards distant. A possible miss, a shot like that,
and a very probable hit for one of the animals. He was
here to protect Power's property, not slaughter it.

Mayer threw another, and the slug ricocheted harmless
ly off the shelf. It was going to be a standoff, Sandoe saw,
and then Mayer decided to make a break for help. His
mount picked its way out of the herd, and when Mayer
reached a clearing he kicked it to a run and laid his own
body along the horse's neck. Sandoe beaded the target, led it with a mental calculation that was second to nature, and
squeezed. The impact of the slug made Mayer sit up very
erect in the saddle for a grotesque moment, and then the
horse seemed to run right out from under him. Mayer
took the fall on his collarbone, and with a hand clutched
at his torn side tried to rise and stagger forward. Sandoe
fired again and that was all.

For Harv Mayer that was all. As for the cattle nearest
the
shooting
wanted out. One
finger of the herd pointed its way to the canyon
mouth
and in a matter of seconds the narrow exit was
racked with bawling, snorting beef on the hoof. Another
group
spooked down
canyon toward Durfee's camp, tramp
lin
g the hapless Mayer almost beyond recognition. From
th
e safety of his shelf
?
Sandoe watched the stampede in
blind,
ineffective fury. He could neither get down from
hi
s place nor stop it from where he was, only stand there
and
vent his rage at the stupid, wall-eyed beasts.

A
t
the campsite they heard the first deep sounds of it,
like
some ground swell, and reaction was immediate.
W
al
sh and Keller threw their cards aside. The other three
players
bounded up right behind them. Bill Durfee, sleep
ing
it off in the chuck wagon, stuck his head through the
tarp
and roared his painful anger at the disturbance.

“W
hat the keerist goes on?"

Somebody's runnin
’
off our herd!" Walsh shouted,
s
pri
nting for his mount

'Your herd?
My
herd!" Durfee yelled, scrambling from
th
e wagon. He followed in their wake, but some distance
b
e
h
ind, and was only swinging into the saddle when the
others
were already pounding up the canyon to meet the
t
r
o
uble. Their charging horses, popping six-guns, and
blo
od-curling whoops intimidated the cattle, broke the
bac
k of the stampede, and turned it around, But there
was
still a steady exodus from the mouth, and Ernie
Keller
spotted the figure of Mike Sandoe immediately.

"There's the son of a bitch!" he trumpeted, emptying
hi
s
Colt at the shelf.

Sandoe levered and fired, levered and fired, Ernie Keller
wen
t down, Frank Walsh acted like a wild man, sending
his
horse full tilt at the canyon wall, and Sandoe knelt
t
here
on one knee, waited for him, and killed him.

"Get the bastard! Get him!" came Durfee's maddened
v
oic
e above all that sound, but Sandoe excused the man's
ignorance of the new setup and concentrated his murder
ous
fire on what remained of the crew. He himself seeme
d
indestructible, protected not only by his niche among th
e
craggy rocks, but by some unholy dispensation. Eas
ily
half a hundred slugs cam
e winging up at his fortress, but
not one so much as scratched his flesh. Then the massacre
was over, though Durfee didn't know it and waited
for
his own end with an empty Remington hanging from his
gnarled fist.

"Frank Power sent me out to help you," Sandoe called
down to him, and Durfee stared at the gunman with
a
sickish look of horror on his face.

"Help me?" he asked strangely. "You're
helping me?"

"Ah, hell!" Sandoe said. "That ramstammin' Bud
Carew forced my hand, Bill. I was givin' him the boss
man's message when he went for the cold deck." He
started to move down from his shelf. "Then Harv Mayer
put his two cents in. After that you all came at me."

Durfee was watching him and shaking his head from one
side to the other.

"Power sent you to do this?"

"He sent me to pay them off," Sandoe answered ir
ritably. "He didn't restrict me none."

"You and the Major work pretty close now? Is that it?"

"Close enough," Sandoe said, suspicious of Durfee's
hard tone. "He needs me. Hey, where you goin'?"

Durfee had swung his mount away from Sandoe, almost
contemptuously. Now he looked back briefly over his
shoulder. "Any man that needs a mad dog doesn't have
Bill Durfee pullin' for him
,”
he said, and raised the horse
to a trot. Behind him came the dread click of a cartridge
being levered into place. Durfee sat straighter in the
saddle, waited ramrod-stiff for the shot.

"Go to hell, old man!" Mike Sandoe shouted instead,
lowering the rifle disdainfully. The reprieved Durfee rode
down the canyon and out of sight.

Sandoe turned then to the problem of getting back to
his own horse. The cattle were stalled in the opening
now
and he guessed that the front runners, their panic
qui
e
t
ed, had simply stopped to graze, thereby halting the
proc
ession. But unless he wanted to climb over their backs,
there
was nothing for it but scaling the wall and dropping
down
on
the other side. It was a half hour's hard pre-
ca
r
io
us work to do it, and once it was done he had no
pati
ence left for the job of chousing the strays back inside
Indian
Rocks. He told himself they were safe enough until
the
new owner came with a crew to collect them.

W
hat he wanted was to get back to Bella, What he
wan
ted was a bottle to cut this black African thirst he
had.

Sandoe wouldn't admit that he had to get this place
and
this day out of his mind very quickly,

Bo
yd Weston watched him throw a leg up and ride
off
without a backward glance. Then Weston led his own
horse
from its concealment and approached the canyon
mou
th warily. He had heard a great many things but seen
only
the cattle streaming out. Now a sense of uneasy quiet
hun
g over all and he was consumed with a strong curiosity
to
know what had taken place inside those walls.