Buchanan 17 Read online

  “Race Koenig’s eyeglasses. Good God. Can’t you stay away from anything in pants?”

  “He just came up here to ask where Mike went with the crew,” she said.

  “And he had to take off his glasses for that? What else did you give him besides a smile and a kiss?”

  She said hotly, “You wouldn’t believe the truth if it hit you in the face.”

  “Try me.”

  “Race didn’t touch me.”

  He picked up the spectacles. His mouth worked. Antonia said, “He took them off to rub his eyes—he had dust in his eyes.”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s no point in talking to you,” she said. She sat down in front of her mirror and picked up a brush. “Just look at my hair,” she muttered.

  Quick moved to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Sorry,” he murmured. He bent down to kiss the back of her neck.

  She slipped deftly away. “No more of that. Not until you make your promises good. I’m tired of waiting.” She turned and looked up at him. “You look like your face could hold a three-day rain. It went wrong again, didn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing important,” he said.

  “What a shame. And here I was hoping something dreadful had happened.”

  “Quit carping at me, will you?”

  Her dark eyes were shrewd. “What was it this time? Did one of Madam’s hookers make a sucker out of you again? Or was it Scotty’s faro table?”

  “Never mind,” he said, snappish.

  “You’re a born failure, Steve.”

  He said, “Damn it, I can make it work without money if I have to.”

  “Then do it. Because I’m getting sick and tired of this hayseed desert and I’m in a mood to go East and kick up my heels.”

  “And leave all this behind?” he said, incredulous.

  “All what?” she demanded. “I’ve never gotten a thing from you but promises, Steve.”

  He began to grin. “Not this time. I was in town this morning, had a talk with Ford, the lawyer. You know how he showed up here so mysterious-like from out West? I got the word yesterday. He’s wanted in California. Something to do with a mining combine paying him off to cover up some evidence that would’ve set some farmer free. The farmer got hanged, and the mining combine paid Ford off, but then the grangers got proof against him, and he had to light out of California. If the California law knew where to find him, they’d come down here and extradite him before you could say Abraham Lincoln.”

  Yawning, Antonia patted her lips. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “It ought to. Ford’s the lawyer who drew up Mike Warrenrode’s last will and testament.”

  “So?”

  “Mike’s will is in Ford’s safe. Or at least it was until this morning.”

  Shrewd interest began to gleam in her eyes. “Go on, Steve.”

  “Mike’s leaving everything to his daughter.”

  “Marinda?”

  “Marinda. He didn’t leave a penny to you, honey.”

  She cursed. “The old bastard.”

  It made him laugh out loud. “I thought that would make you feel good.”

  “The bastard,” she said again. “I’m his daughter too, and he knows it and he knows I know it, but he’s too damned proud to admit it.” She banged her fist down on the commode. The brushes rattled; she said, “He’d cut me off without a penny just to keep his name out of the mud.”

  Quick was smiling quietly; he watched her shoulders begin to shake. Her voice came up, muffled. “I’ve stuck all this out for all this time—for nothing. Jesus.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Quick said. His smile became a grin, slashing across his face. When Antonia looked up, he drew a folded document out of his shirt. “Guess what?”

  Her breath caught in her chest. Her eyes widened, glistening-damp; she finally said, “That’s it? That’s Mike’s will?”

  “The one and only copy,” Quick said with satisfaction.

  “Give it to me.”

  “When I’m ready.” He put it back into his shirt and buttoned up. “When I’m ready, querida, and not before. You dance to my tune if you want this piece of paper, understand?”

  Her face closed up and became hard. She said, “What tune, Steve?”

  “Easy. You stay away from Race Koenig and anything else that wears pants. You do what I tell you to do.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “If you’re going to be my wife—”

  “You don’t love me. You never have.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t hide it, Steve. Not when you’re making love to me. A woman can tell. Why do you care?”

  “Because you and me, we’re getting married.” He went over to the bed to pick up his hat and stopped there to look back at her. “Do exactly what I tell you to do, querida, because I won’t let anything go wrong this time. I don’t aim to end up with nothing left but a fistful of busted dreams. Not this time.”

  She gave him a look that seemed meek, docile, agreeable. It was an act, he knew; she was a hell of an actress. She said, “How did you get the will?”

  “Told the lawyer I’d let the California authorities know where to find him if he didn’t come across. It was easy. We didn’t have to pay him off after all.”

  She purred. “You’re so clever, Steve.” His eyes ran up and down her body; and he walked out of the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him.

  He was grinning comfortably when he went into the parlor. He poured himself a drink at the sideboard and tossed his hat on the dining table. Then he got himself comfortable in the massive overstuffed chair that Warrenrode had used until the stampede had crippled him. With his dusty boots propped up on the leather ottoman, Steve Quick sat in the smell of his own sweat and brooded toward the bull buffalo head above the mantel.

  There had been a time when it had been fine between him and Antonia. Their pulses had raced together, and everything had been good. But somehow it had settled quickly, like dregs. He needed her to get his hands on the ranch; and she needed him, because he hadn’t been stupid enough to reveal his plan to her. Without him, she would lose out to the other daughter, Marinda—the legitimate daughter.

  He’d marry her, all right, and he’d get his hands on Warrenrode’s cattle empire. But he couldn’t stand her anymore. Now and then he lusted for her body; the rest of the time she disgusted him. He’d have plenty of time to get rid of her after the wedding.

  It was all working out. But Steve Quick couldn’t help feeling rotten. The way Warrenrode treated him, like some kind of lackey. You’d think the old bastard was some kind of tin god. To the manor born, for Christ’s sake. Him with his useless legs. Take him out of his wheelchair, and he was helpless as a bogged steer. But he treated Steve Quick like dirt.

  All that would change. Maybe by marrying Antonia he wasn’t really going to become Warrenrode’s son-in-law. Antonia claimed that Warrenrode was her father, but Warrenrode never admitted it. But if he hadn’t sired her, then why did he pay all her bills and give her the run of the ranch? It wasn’t as if he figured to bed with her. You couldn’t see the old man tossing in the hay with Antonia, not with his legs all useless from the Apache-started stampede that had smashed his spine.

  It would work, Steve Quick decided. He lifted the glass and drank.

  The front door opened. Startled, Quick lifted his head to look over the back of the chair. He saw Race Koenig’s tall silhouette in the doorway. Koenig was blinking to get his eyes used to the dimness.

  Quick said, “If you’re looking for your spectacles, they’re in ’Tonia’s room.” His voice was dusty-dry.

  “Knew I left them someplace around here,” Koenig said agreeably. He went back down the hall.

  Quick’s blood warmed up, ready to boil. He hated Koenig’s guts, ever since old Warrenrode had passed Steve Quick over and given Koenig the job of fo
reman. That kind of thing didn’t rest easy with an ambitious man, and Steve Quick was nothing if not ambitious. But the real thing was, Koenig had got onto the inside track with Marinda. Marinda was the logical key to Pitchfork, but she didn’t even have the time of day for Steve Quick. Not with Koenig around.

  Koenig came forward from the hall, hooking his glasses on, one ear at a time. He said mildly, “Better not let the old man catch you sprawled out that way, like as if you owned the place.”

  Pretty soon I will, Quick thought. What he said was, “Don’t let it get you all spooky, all right?”

  “Suit yourself,” Koenig said, unruffled.

  “Just where in hell did all of them go, anyway?”

  “We got word the Army’d picked up Sentos and some other Apaches. Mike went after them.”

  “Still out to kill himself some Indians,” Quick said. He uncoiled from the chair and went to the sideboard to refill his glass with whisky.

  Koenig said, “That’s the old man’s private stock.”

  “Any skin off your nose, four-eyes?”

  “Don’t heat up so fast, Steve.”

  Quick’s lip curled. “You’ve got a bad habit, Race. You get in the way.”

  He went back to the chair and arranged himself insolently asprawl. “How come you didn’t ride with the pack?”

  “Had to stay back and mind the place. Besides, I don’t cotton to killing. Indians or anybody else.”

  “You always was a coward,” Quick said. “Afraid to die, ain’t you?”

  “I’m only afraid of dying badly, if it comes to that. What’s in your craw today, anyway?”

  That was when Marinda came into the room. She must have been in the kitchen; she was drying her hands on a towel. She was a beautiful creature, light-skinned and blonde, as fair as Antonia was dark. She only glanced at Quick; she went toward the front door and stopped to brush Koenig’s lips with a kiss, then went on outside, saying something about bringing in the wash.

  When she was gone, Quick smirked at Koenig. “Think you’ve got it all set up for you, ain’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Slide in real easy. Marry Marinda and get the old man’s inheritance.”

  Koenig picked up his hat and said, “You’ve got a mind like an angleworm, Steve—all twisted up.” He went toward the door.

  Just before Koenig’s hand reached the latch, Marinda’s piercing scream reached in from the yard.

  Startled, Quick bounced out of his chair. Antonia was coming into the room, her mouth open to protest a question; and Race Koenig was yanking the door open, plunging outside.

  Quick ran to the door and stopped, looking out. Before him was the tableau of the yard—the barns, bunkhouse, cook shack, corrals, windmill. Marinda was over by the wash line beside the cook shack. She had her hand to her mouth; she was staring toward the horse barn. Koenig was running toward her.

  Quick felt weight behind his shoulder—Antonia. She was pouring questions at him insistently, but he didn’t pay any attention. He was trying to see what Marinda was staring at with such terror. Whatever it was must be out of the line of his sight, beyond the side of the barn. He went out onto the porch.

  Koenig stopped in his tracks halfway across the yard and slapped his hip where his gun ordinarily would hang. He had no gun on. He stood there, raising his fists, and a gunshot boomed from the direction of the barn. Koenig staggered back, dazed. A wicked line appeared at his temple. He sagged like a drunk and fell down.

  Frozen bolt-still, Steve Quick stood at the edge of the porch. Antonia came up and grasped his arm in fear. He saw Marinda walking backward, staring toward the barn as if mesmerized. She kept backing up until the cook shack wall stopped her.

  That was when the two men appeared at the corner of the barn—two Apache Indians, an old one in a stovepipe hat and a young one with a Winchester rifle.

  The young one turned the rifle toward Steve Quick. Quick’s heart caught in his throat. He looked around wildly; he heard Antonia whimpering beside him. There was no place to take cover; the door was ten feet away, and the Indian’s gun muzzle was staring down his throat. The old Indian in the tall hat shuffled across the yard toward Marinda, whose wide eyes watched helplessly.

  Quick didn’t move a muscle. Antonia whined; and he said out of the side of his mouth, “Will you shut up? Will you just shut up?”

  The old Indian went up to Marinda and nudged her. In terror she came forward, prodded by the Indian. The old man stopped her in the middle of the yard. His stovepipe hat tipped back; he was looking up at Quick.

  “Get me horses,” he said.

  Quick stammered. “What?”

  “Horses,” the old man said impatiently. “Three horses, from there.” He pointed toward the corral. “Make them ready and bring them here.”

  Quick frowned. The old Indian’s knife glittered in the afternoon sun. Marinda stood with her spine straight and her eyes closed, frightened but silent. The old Indian said, “Go now, and remember my knife.”

  Quick thought rashly, Go ahead—kill her, get her out of the way for me. But the young buck’s rifle was aimed right down his throat; that was what propelled him across the yard, out of Antonia’s fluttering grasp, and into the corral. He cursed and raged, trying to rope-catch three skittish horses; it seemed to take forever. Finally he had them saddled. He led them out of the corral. The young Indian took the reins away from him and waved the rifle, and Quick walked stiffly back toward the house with his back braced against the expectation of a bullet.

  He reached the porch without being shot. Antonia grabbed him; her whole body was trembling without control. But the Indians seemed much more interested in the blonde Marinda.

  The old man poked Marinda with the tip of his knife. She jerked back and opened her eyes. The old Indian gestured toward the horses and forced Marinda to mount up. Then he mounted a horse beside her. The young one got up on the third horse, training his rifle all the while on Quick. On the ground, Race Koenig was beginning to stir.

  The old man said gravely, “I am Sentos. You will tell the man who does not walk that Sentos has taken a daughter for the two sons Sentos lost.”

  Without any more talk, the Indians wheeled their horses and galloped out of the yard, leading Marinda’s horse by the reins.

  Antonia whimpered and sagged against the front wall of the house, clutching Quick’s sleeve. He pried her fingers loose and looked at her in disgust. He looked after the Indians, watching the distance absorb them, and finally he could see nothing of them but their dust cloud. He turned back to Antonia. Breath was lurching in and out of her as if she had been dragged half drowned from the sea. He slapped her face, one cheek and then the other, and said harshly, “Quit blubbering, for Christ’s sake. They’re gone.”

  “My God,” she breathed; she shook her head, as if to clear it. “My God, Steve.”

  “Pull yourself together,” he said. “Hell, querida, that old Indian just dumped this whole ranch into our hands, don’t you see that?”

  Her eyes came around to him, baffled. “What?”

  “Sure. Sentos just made off with old Mike’s heir-apparent. Don’t you get it? Those Indians will pass her around from one hut to another until they get tired of playing with her. In a little while they’ll barbecue our darling Marinda. They did us a goddamn big favor.”

  He waved his hand toward the yard, where Race Koenig was trying to get to his feet. “Better get a towel or something and bandage him up.”

  Warrenrode and the crew had arrived, their horses played out, in time to see Quick and Antonia helping Koenig into the house. Warrenrode had exploded, and Quick had listened with unusual patience while Warrenrode had lectured him. “Why in the goddamn hell didn’t you get on a horse and go after the bastards?”

  Now, with Warrenrode ensconced in his wheelchair and Koenig lying back on the divan, Quick stood by the fireplace and spoke in an even tone. “I didn’t chase after them for the same reason you ain�
�t chasing after them right now. It’s useless to try to catch up to Apaches in that desert. You know it as well as I do.”

  “Mister, you haven’t been working for me long enough to talk to me like that.”

  “Sorry,” Quick muttered darkly.

  “Be sorry somewhere else, then. I’m sick of lookin’ at you.”

  “Sure,” Quick said. He headed for the door.

  Warrenrode’s bull-throated voice caught him as if by the elbow and turned him around again. “No, dammit, stay here. We’ve got to think this damned thing out. Race, are you clearheaded enough to pitch in?”

  “I reckon,” Koenig said. He struggled to sit up. His head was half hidden by a thick bandage. His eyeglasses were lop-sided.

  Warrenrode always tended to talk in a voice other men would have reserved for use at the height of a stampede; and now, in his rage, his voice was even louder than usual. “That son of a bitch Injun didn’t say anything about ransom?”

  “No,” Quick said.

  “Are you sure?” Warrenrode insisted.

  “Look, who was here—you or me?”

  Distraught, Warrenrode seethed. Quick had no sympathy for his suffering. Warrenrode gave him a burning glance. “I wish I could find just one man with spine all the way up. You didn’t even lift a finger, did you?”

  “With a rifle aimed at my Adam’s apple?”

  Warrenrode muttered, “I’ve got to get her back.” He shouted at Quick, “Bring me a drink and be quick about it. Live up to your name for once.”

  Quick sauntered over to the sideboard and made a drink. He could hear Warrenrode muttering to himself, “That big son of a bitch Texan. He knows that redskin. By God, he made this happen, and he can damn well make it un-happen.” He lifted his voice. “Boat. Jim Boat, get in here.”

  Antonia drifted to the door and called Jim Boat’s name. In a moment a sawed-off cowboy waddled bow-legged into the room, and Warrenrode hurled his voice at Boat.

  “That big Texan that let the Injuns loose. What was his name?”

  “Name was Buchanan. Prob’ly still is.”

  “Race,” Warrenrode said to Koenig, “how bad does your head hurt?”

  “Not too bad.”