Buchanan's Revenge Read online

  "Suit yourself, mister," the clerk said. "Take those stairs two flights up, and then take your chances."

  Buchanan climbed to the third floor and found himself in a crowded, noisy, highly fragrant dormitory. The four walls were lined with double bunks, some fifty of them, and five more-or-less even rows of iron cots filled the center area of the barracks-type room. Men's voices filled the air, men milled to and fro, played cards, drank whisky, read newspapers, slept soundly, just sat on the edge of their cots and stared into space.

  Buchanan worked his way toward a far corner, asked if a particular lower bunk was taken when he got there, tossed his hat on it when told it wasn't. He unhitched his gunrig then, emptied the cylinder of the Colt and sat down with it to do a little cleaning and adjusting. A fine piece of hardware, he thought, and was proud of it. But up in Aura, night before last, he'd detected a slight sluggishness in the mechanism. A man gets used to a hair-trigger and he's just plain spoiled by anything less.

  He worked on the trigger with the small blade in his jackknife, tightening the delicate mainspring infinitesimally, testing the action studiously, and as he worked, listened to the jabberwocky all around him.

  Chaz Murto, Buchanan learned, had lost three teeth in a brawl at the Lone Star Saloon.

  Jack Boyd, on the other hand, had cleaned up at Faro's place.

  And did everybody hear that the fiesta out to the hacienda had finally ended?

  No!

  Yes! They brought a load of, girls back as usual this morning but none went out again. What the hell was Leech's Army doing down here, anyhow? Somebody asked and Buchanan's head came up at mention of the name again.

  Leech, a man answered knowingly, was fixing to take over the whole border country. Set up the Republic of the Rio Grande, with him as major domo.

  He'll have to get past John Lime first.

  Looks like a filly did the job already.

  Say, did you see them together? Lime paraded her around town like he had the Queen of Sheba on his arm. Never saw the man smile before.

  And some looker, too. First girl I ever saw him take a shine to in public.

  "Excuse me," someone said close to Buchanan's ear and he turned to find a dapperly dressed man seated beside him on the bunk. The man stared at the Colt as if fascinated.

  "Howdy."

  "You sure like that gun, don't you?"

  "An old friend of mine," Buchanan said.

  "Never saw such loving care before. Use it much?"

  "Now and then."

  "Pretty good with it, though?"

  "Fair," Buchanan conceded. "Got a tendency to hit left of center."

  "How much left?"

  "A good sixteenth of an inch." He held up his thumb and forefinger, separated them the width of a .45 slug. "Missed that far night before last," he reported.

  "But you got him?"

  "Yeh."

  The little man stood up, extended his hand eagerly. "I'm Hal Harper," he said. "Own a blackjack table over at the Crystal Palace."

  Buchanan shook his hand, looked on him with interest.

  "My name's Buchanan," he said. "You deal blackjack?"

  "Honest Hal and an honest game," the gambler said.

  "I believe it. You got any customers name of Perrott? Two brothers? Fella name of Sam Gill?"

  Hal Harper shook his head. "Friends of yours?"

  Buchanan smiled. "Not exactly, no."

  "They owe you some money?"

  "Something like that." He flipped the cylinder open, satisfied at last with the trigger, and began dropping in the lead. Harper watched with great interest.

  "I don't place those names," he said. "Wish I could help you."

  "Thanks."

  "But you could help me, friend. About twenty-five dollars worth."

  Buchanan looked up from his loading. From time to time today he'd given a random thought to his sorry finances, reduced at the moment to one lonely dollar.

  "What would I do for the twenty-five?" he asked.

  "Keep an eye on me tonight. And that big gun handy."

  "Why?"

  "It's like this," the gambler said confidentially. "I've had a hardcase on my hands all week. A gunny with the blood in his eye, if you know what I mean."

  "On the prod," Buchanan said.

  "Right. And he's picked my game, personal, out of all the blackjack dealt in this town. Every night he's there, waiting for me.”

  "You beating him?"

  Harper shook his small head. "No, and that's the point. He's, I guess, five, six hundred into me. But some night, maybe tonight, things are bound to go my way. And, friend, I'm scared. So scared of what this jasper will do that I'd just about decided not to go to work tonight. Then," he said, "I got to watching you work that shooter and decided to make you this proposition. How about it, Buchanan?"

  Buchanan's eyes held the gambler's fast. "Proddy or not," he said, "this fella gets an honest deal?"

  "Never cheated another man in my life," Harper said and Buchanan believed him.

  Then I'd be glad to watch your game," he said, smiling. "And grateful for the twenty-five."

  "Well, fine! Say, I'm hungry. How about you?"

  "I would be," Buchanan admitted, "if I had an advance my night's wage."

  The gambler's hand darted beneath his coat, came back holding a thick roll of bills. He deftly peeled off two tens and a five, handed them to his new bodyguard.

  "And the meal's on me," Harper added. "I got an idea my luck is riding high."

  They left their lodgings, and enroute to the restaurant Hal Harper gave a rapid-fire account of his life and times. He'd been born in New York City, the first of nine children whose father had migrated from Ireland and joined the police force.

  "The old man's an Inspector now, but, of course, he disowned me a long time ago."

  Harper had left the crowded home in New York when he was fifteen, taken a job on the boat that plied the Hudson River to Albany.

  "Supposed to be working for the line," he said, "but what I really did was mark for the gamblers. Mark the passengers who had the best luggage and tipped big."

  He did that for a year, and when one of the gamblers invited him to come along down to New Orleans for the winter he accepted. "Is that town all they say?" Buchanan asked.

  "Ain't nobody said it all about New Orleans," Harper said, his voice wistful. j

  "How come you left?"

  "A woman," Harper said. "A Creole gal with a Creole husband. I wasn't going to be much good to her dead."

  He had declined the invitation to duel the husband, an expert swordsman, and left New Orleans for the West, via Missouri and Kansas.

  "Ever get to San Francisco?" Buchanan asked.

  "Ever get there? Friend, I spent the five happiest years of my life on the Barbary Coast. You can have Paris and London," Harper said, "if you'll give me that Frisco town!"

  "How come you left?"

  "A woman," Harper said. "Sweetest little gal I ever laid eyes on. Always smiling and good-natured."

  "She had a husband?"

  "Me," the gambler said sadly. "I married her. Never saw a person change overnight once they had a wedding ring.

  Wanted me to give up gambling. Wanted me to give up whisky. Started coming down to my game nights and raising three kinds of hell."

  A cantankerous wife had chased him clear out of California, made him miss the big gold strike and the chance of a lifetime to make his fortune. He'd tried his luck in Mexico for a time, then slowly drifted eastward along the Rio.

  "Now I'm in Brownsville," he said as they took their seats in the restaurant. "Going to build my stake to ten thousand and take another go at New Orleans."

  "That's my destination, too," Buchanan said. "Sometime soon, I hope."

  "Really?"

  "Got a friend there with a good deal. Fella named Duke Hazeltine—"

  "Duke? You know the duke?"

  "We've split a bottle or two. Met him over in El Paso."

&nbs
p; "Well, Duke Hazeltine is one of the best! A real gent."

  "Glad to hear you say so," Buchanan said, studying the menu the pretty little waitress had brought. "What's good?" he asked her.

  "The steak."

  "Is it long or thick?"

  "Thick," she said.

  "That's it, then. A little underdone on the inside, please."

  "Same here, Tillie," Harper said, then had his attention caught by something across the room. "Well, say, she is a looker!" he said enthusiastically.

  "Who?"

  "The blonde that just arrived with the man himself. Been hearing about her all afternoon."

  Buchanan turned his head to catch the grand entrance of Miss Cristina Ford and Sheriff Lime. His trail partner sad shed the boots and levis for a gown of gleaming blue silk, with a bustle in the back, and her golden-hued hair was piled atop her head in a maze of ringlets. She looked to Buchanan like one of those elegant paintings that hung in the posh bars of San Francisco.

  "How'd you like to spend an evening with that?" Hal Harper asked, his voice hushed.

  Buchanan turned his head back around, smiled to himself. "Be something to remember," he said.

  "Haughty as a queen, though," Harper said. "Cold. Wouldn't you say so?"

  "Never can tell," Buchanan said. "The way they look and the way they feel can be two different things."

  The dapper little gambler laughed. "Well, boy, you and me aren't likely to find out how she feels. She's way beyond our reach."

  "Miles and miles," Buchanan said.

  Their steaks arrived soon afterward, and though Buchanan gave his usual undivided attention to the meal, Hal Harper spent most of his time stealing glances across the room. Suddenly his eyes dropped to his plate and he stiffened.

  "You all right, Harper?"

  "I think I'm in bad trouble," the gambler murmured shakily. "John Lime is headed for this table."

  "Trouble about what?"

  "For staring at his woman. This is a hanging town and he runs it—"

  Buchanan put his fork down, swung his head around out of curiosity. The sheriff, sure enough, was making right for them. Then he was there.

  "Evening, Buchanan."

  "Hi, Sheriff. You know Hal Harper?"

  "I know his reputation," Lime said and Harper winced. "He deals an honest game. Miss Ford would like you and your companion to join us in a brandy."

  "Us?" Harper said. "Join you—?"

  "I'd enjoy it, Sheriff," Buchanan said, rising. "Thank you." Lime led the way back to his table. Harper tugged at Buchanan's sleeve, whispered to him urgently.

  "What's going on? What's this all about?"

  "Sounds like a free drink," Buchanan answered. "You said your luck was high tonight."

  "I know, but-"

  "Hello, Tom," Cristy said warmly.

  "Hello, Cristy. I see you made a trade for the shirt and pants."

  "No, not a trade. I kept them in case I go riding with a gentleman again. Won't you sit down?"

  Buchanan introduced her to the wide-eyed gambler and all three men took chairs around the table. Lime ordered brandy and then turned to Buchanan.

  "Cristina has told me your real purpose in Brownsville," he said in a less formal voice. "I admire it, Buchanan, up to a certain point."

  "What point is that?"

  "I enforce the law here. I am the constituted authority. You are not."

  "That's right, Sheriff. On the other hand, I'm not here to enforce any law. I just want to settle an account with three backshooters."

  "You're seeking justice," Lime said, the neat gold star on his vest glistening softly in the candlelight. "That is my department in Brownsville. Which is beside the point, actually."

  "How do you mean?"

  "It's my opinion that those three men are members of the Leech Gang. You won't find them in town."

  "Where will I find them?"

  "In a hacienda Leech is using for a temporary headquarters. And to ride out there would be foolhardy, to say the least. Leech has nearly forty men with him, every one of them a professional gunman and killer."

  "I'm not looking for everyone," Buchanan said mildly. "Just three."

  "They're a close-knit outfit, Buchanan," the lawman said. "That's been Leech's main strength for years along the border. Frankly, I wouldn't relish going after them with my own force. Not unless I commanded forty riders and didn't have to attack them in their lair."

  The brandies arrived. Cristy leaned forward toward Buchanan.

  "John is speaking good sense to you, Tom. I wish you'd heed it—and the advice I gave you about pressing your luck"

  "I thank you both," Buchanan said, raising his glass in a toast. "And though nobody here knew him like I did, I'd like to drink a toast to my friend and partner Rig Bogan."

  They all four sipped of their glasses.

  "Is that your answer?" Cristy asked him.

  Buchanan looked to John Lime.

  "What is this headquarters for?"

  "The merchants here—the exporters—feel that the Mexican custom officials are oppressing them. They've decided on a massive reprisal and hired Leech's so-called army to help them."

  "Massive reprisal? You mean smuggling?"

  Lime smiled. "As a law officer, Buchanan, I could hardly have knowledge of any smuggling and not report it to a higher authority. This is a reprisal action, undertaken unofficially by private citizens. Men, incidentally, of the highest standing and best reputation."

  "When does their smuggling come off?"

  Lime frowned. "Their free-trade venture will begin very soon. It's one of the conditions I laid down."

  "And where did you say this Leech bunch hangs out?"

  "Don't tell him, John!" Cristy said, and Lime's frown deepened at the girl's impulsive concern.

  "I don't intend to," he said. "I've been compelled to send fools to the gallows. I would never direct one to his own suicide."

  Buchanan tossed off the rest of his brandy, pushed his chair back.

  "Thanks again, Sheriff," he said, getting to his feet. He grinned down at Cristy. "I hope the hours suit you better in Brownsville, ma'am," he told her politely.

  "I'm sure they will," she said. "But isn't it past your bedtime? The sun has been down for hours."