Authors: Jonas Ward
"I never screeched in my life," she told him, her eyes
flashing danger signals.
"I take back the screeching" Buchanan said gallantly.
"And thanks for the hand last night."
"I'd do the same for anyone, believe me. May I leave
now?" she asked acidly,
"Sure," Buchanan said, and as she went from the stand
to walk out of the courtroom he was clearly beguiled. But so, too, was every other man present, and many quiet moments passed before the judge brought himself back from
his reveries and continued the business at hand.
"Bring the prisoners to the bar," he said, and the bail
iffs voice was an echo.
Buchanan and Sandoe left the enclosure and took their
places below the bench,
"Well, you're both guilty, that's clear enough," the
judge told them.
"Guilty of what?" Mike Sandoe demanded hotly*
"Of crossing the deadline—what do you think?"
"Nobody charged us with crossin
’
any goddam deadline!"
"You," the old man on the bench said, "are also guilty
of profanity, contempt and raising your voice. Fifty
dollars or fifty days," He turned to Buchanan. "Yo
u
rs is
twenty-five. Days or dollars, take your pick."
"Fifty dollars!" Sand
oe protested, but Buchanan shoul
dered him aside,
"It's a little steep, Judge," Buchanan said mildly. "All
things considered. But we
’
ll pay it and go our way as soon
as the bank opens."
Raucous laughter from the room broke over him at that
statement, and he looked around at the grinning faces,
curious at the disbelief.
"T
h
e bank's been open two hours," the judge said.
"Who's supposed to be good for the money over there?"
"That's between us and the party in question, fudge
,”
Buchanan said, and another derisive howl went up.
“
Take
‘
em back to their cell
,”
the judge said. "They can
w
ork it out for the town
,”
The bailiff moved toward them when another voice
spoke up.
“I’ll
pay the fifty-dollar fine
,”
Frank Power said in his strong, carrying voice.
"As you say, Frank
,”
the judge said. "Turn that one
loose. Put the big one back."
"Both or none
,”
Mike Sandoe said, "Put us both back.
You won't hold us after sundown
,”
The judge raised his gavel impulsively, then his face became indecisive when he marked the determined ap
proach of Frank Power toward the bench. The man
wanted no trouble with Bella's boss.
"
”I’ll
handle this
,”
Power said, and the gavel came down
again, softly, gratefully. Power stopped beside Mike Sa
n
doe, spoke to him in a confidential voice.
"I'm offering you work, gunfighter," he told him.
"What kind of work?"
"The one you know best
,”
Sandoe looked at him, smiled, "Hear that, Buchanan?
No more pushing wet beef."
"Just you, Sandoe. I pay gun wages
.
Fist fighters are
a dime a dozen."
"But we're buds," Sandoe protested. "We're a team
.”
Power shook his head. "You
,”
he said. "That's all I buy
,”
"You're right, Power
,”
Buchanan said. "This fist fighter
isn't for sale."
"Ah, hell
,”
Sandoe said. "Let's the three of us pull a
cork somewhere and talk this deal over."
'There's nothing to talk over
,”
Power said. "I want
the man who outfogged Sam Kersey." He gave Sandoe's
arm a man-to-man pat. "That's you," he said, and Mike
Sandoe grew visibly taller on the praise. His expression
seemed to change, too; it became bland, somehow older
and tougher. He turned to Buchanan.
"What should I say?" he asked lamely.
Buchanan smiled at him.
"Just say so long, Mike
,”
he told him, holding out
his big hand. "And keep a lid on that temper,"
"Don't worry about me, I sure wish— Well, you
know.
“
"I know. Good luck, kid."
"Don't call me—" Like that his mouth had tightened.
Then it relaxed and a choppy laugh broke from him. "Okay, Dad," he said. "Good luck to yourself."
The judge's voice came down to them. "Everything settled, Frank?"
"Everything's settled. Sandoe goes with me
.”
"Return his property, bailiff
,”
the judge said. "Put the
other prisoner back in custody
,”
Mike Sandoe took a step forward, putting Buchanan
behind him. "I got something to say, seem' I'm a free citizen and all"
"Say it, then."
"This is in the way of a public announcement," the
gunfighter said. "Like I was putting it in the newspaper
,”
"What do you mean?"
Sandoe cleared his throat, and when he spoke the words
went through that room cold and clear. "There's a cer
tain over-stuffed, pig-eyed, no-good son of a bitch present
who's got himself exactly one hour to clean up his per
sonal affairs. If he's still on the premises after that, Judge
?
I'm gonna open him up from his fat chin to his belly button."
There was a silence, and the judge looked down at Mike
Sandoe, then beyond him to Moose Miller. "I guess you made your intent plain, mister," he said matter-of-factly.
"It's up to the marshal to see no law is broken, Now
clear out of my court
,”
Frank Power led Sandoe away protectively, the high
bidder in possession of the auction's prize young bull,
and Buchanan watched them go feeling neither anger
nor
surprise at the abrupt realignment. What did give
t
h
e
tall man some concern as he trudged back to the cell
was
the nonappearance this morning of the money man, Boyd Weston—-and the growing suspicion that whoever
this Weston was, and wherever he was, the man Bu
chanan should be dealing with was Frank Power.
'The door of the cell closed behind him, the sound
bre
ak
ing his reverie and awaking him to a more urgent
problem.
"Let's eat
.
" he suggested to his jailer; and the cantan
kerous old man scowled up at him fiercely.
"You'll get no handouts in this calaboose, Mr. Ran
nihan. You work for your grub."
“
Then let's work
,”
Buchanan said agreeably.
"Ain't et yet myself. But
I'll
be back—and I hope you
know something about knocking trees down
,”
He left and Buchanan leaned back against a wall,
h
ooked his thumbs inside his belt, and tried to consider
his
situation philosophically. Was he better off than he'd
been in Yuma? Well, hardly. Was he worse off? More
than somewhat. No food, no tobacco, no money. The
plain fact was he had not improved himself physically, materially, or spiritually in the last forty-one days. He had
actually backslid—which was no easy chore, because he
had actually thought Yuma was rock bottom for him.
His own cheering words came back to him: "Man, you
’v
e
got no place to go from here on but up
,”
Incredibly, he'd
gone down.
The jailer came back, and Buchanan saw at a glance
that something had gone wrong for the man.
"Come outta there
,”
he said, unlocking the heavy door*
"Some damn fool has paid your fine."
"Too bad, old-timer, I was sure looking forward to
working for you."
The jailer spat. "If
I’m
any judge," he croaked, "you'll
be back by nightfall
.
"
"Keep my old bunk ready
,”
Buchanan requested, and
followed him to the marshal's office.
The lawman was waiting for him there, and so was
another man, whom Buchanan recognized vaguely as the
proprietor of Little Joe's Saloon. He recalled their
brief encounter the night before, but now he saw him
differently, as a private citizen instead of as a professional,
aproned barman; a chunky olive-skinned fifty-year-old, with curly, coal-black hair, full mustaches, and remark
able eyes about the same shape, color, and plaintiveness
as a spaniel's.
"Here's your property," Marshal Grieve said, indicating
the gunbelt and bolstered Colt. "My advice is to shake
loose of Bella pronto."
"Nothing I'd like better, once a few things get straightened out." He swung to Little Joe. "Much obliged, friend.
I'll see about paying you back immediate
,”
"No hurry, mister. The money's a kind of community
project."
"How's that?" Buchanan asked, buckling on the
weapon.
"We passed the hat. Anybody who's been shoved
around by Moose Miller was glad to give what he could."
The little man held the office door open and Buchanan
passed through it into the bright sunlight outside.
"A fine day," he said, filling his great chest with a
fresh supply of air. "A real fine day. Where does this
fellow Power headquarter?"
"Power?" Little Joe repeated. "Hell, if I'd kno
wn you was gonna run to Power, I’
d
hav
e let you rot
in
the pokey."
Buchanan laughed. "It's no social call," he explained,
"I'm trying to collect some money due me."
"For what?" Little Joe asked suspiciously.
"For forty days' hard labor. But for some damn reason
I can't get the right party to ante up."
"Take some advice, then, big fella. If Frank Power
doesn't want to accommodate you, don't press your luck
,”
"Where would I find him?
?>
"He went into Troy's with that sidekick of yours
.”
little Joe told him.
"And where do I bring you the twenty-five? Your
place?"
"I'll be at the Happy Times
.”
Little Joe said. "Trading
troubles with my friend Billy Burke."
"See you there
,”
Buchanan said, and started up Signal
Street to Troy's.
Chapter Seven
When Frank Power took Mike Sandoe into the cavern
ous gambling saloon, he draped his arm around the other man's shoulder, a negligent-looking gesture but one that
wr
ote the gunfighter's ticket in the town of Bella. Sandoe
h
ad arrived, he was an outsider no more, and until or un
less Frank Power signified something else, he was to be
accorded the proper respect.
There was hurried movement at the center of the bar
to make room for them, but Power seemed oblivious of
the deference as he walked Sandoe through the big room
and up to the door of the office lettered "Private—Mr.
Troy." He opened the door without knocking and ushered
Sandoe inside.
"Take the load off, Mike
.”
Power said familiarly in
dicating a chair beside the desk. He himself took the seat
behind it, got a cigar from the open box, and offered an
other to Sandoe. Power lit his own with a kind of thought
ful attention to the evenness of the flame, masking the
hawkish intensity with which he watched Mike Sandoe.
"How's Bill Durfee?" Power asked without preface, and
the suddenness of the question brought Sandoe up short.