Buchanan 18 Read online

  The judge looked exceedingly stern in his black woolen suit and black foulard cravat—stern but dry-eyed, for in all truth Simon did not feel the stunning loss that another father might. The boy Roy had always been a problem to him, a cause of worry and annoyance rather than filial pride. In adolescence he had been incorrigible, turning not to deeds of simple and forgivable mischief but to downright meanness and willful destruction. Simon had whipped him, whipped him brutally, but that only seemed to goad his peculiar son into fresh acts of vandalism.

  Manhood had brought no improvement. Roy had turned sly and mysterious in his comings and goings, sleeping off his liquor by day, doing God-knew-what by night, and apparently content to contribute nothing but his physical presence as the son of the man who owned Agrytown.

  And with irritating frequency during the past two years, stories had come back to Simon about Roy’s rake-helling with women, far and wide, and not caring particularly whether he was trespassing with some other man’s wife or maiden daughter.

  Simon Agry rang up a total on his son and found him a liability, both now and in the important future that Simon saw for himself. But, fate had stepped in, fate that had befriended Simon from the day he had hit this country in his desperate escape from Kentucky law. It had been Mexican country then, and so safe that when the war started he had actively helped the federal government. But the handwriting was on the wall, America had a destiny to fulfill, and Simon’s adroit switch had left him looking like a patriot all the time. He ended up with Agry County and the money to quiet the embezzling charges still outstanding in Kentucky.

  Although the man had no feelings about the death of Roy Agry, he certainly felt something about the incident itself. What he felt was outrage and insult, for if the son of Simon Agry wasn’t safe from attack in Simon Agry’s town, then who the hell was? He’d set that little matter straight with a vengeance.

  There was a stirring in the room and the judge looked up from his harsh thoughts to see that the prisoners were being led to the bar. These two had been arrested by Lew, all right. God, the big one might have been caught in a stampede from the sight of his face. And he favored that right side, Simon knew, because the ribs were cracked.

  A thin smile touched the corner of his mouth at the appearance of Don Pedro’s precious son. Simon had been one of the two hundred guests at the gala christening for Juan del Cuervo. The gifts had filled the rancho, the imported wines had poured like river water, and the fiesta lasted a week. And all for what? So that the kid could grow up and put on enough weight to have his neck broken at the end of a rope.

  “This here court’s in session!” Waldo Peek bawled raucously. “You two sons gonna plead guilty?”

  Simon Agry brought his gavel down sharply. “The bailiff will shut up and sit down somewhere,” he said. “Now, then. Which of you two is known as Buchanan? Step forward.”

  Buchanan, manacled ankle and wrist to Juan, couldn’t step forward independently. He presented himself to the court with a half-hearted wave of his free arm.

  “Where do you hail from, Buchanan?” Simon asked him.

  “West Texas, U.S.A., Judge.”

  “And where you headed?”

  “North.”

  “What’s your occupation?”

  Buchanan didn’t answer at once.

  “Well?”

  “I’m trying to think, Judge.”

  “That seems to be quite a chore for you,” Simon said, and the courtroom laughed appreciatively. Even Buchanan smiled, though it hurt like hell to disturb that raw skin on his cheeks.

  “I’m not a thinker, Judge,” he said agreeably. “But I grew up chasin’ cows?”

  “Whose cows?”

  “My dad’s,” Buchanan said, “till the drought and the bank wiped us out. Then I ramrodded a while for a little border spread. Damn rustlers picked the outfit clean, though. I crossed the border after that and tried to stake myself to a herd of my own.”

  “By rustling?” Simon Agry asked sarcastically.

  “Why, no sir. By fighting.”

  “Oh! You’re a fighter, are you? What kind of fighting?”

  “Most every kind there is,” Buchanan said. “Providing there’s money in it. I kept drifting further west until I met up with a Mex general in Sonora—”

  “Campos?”

  “The same. You know him, Judge?”

  “Just by his black reputation,” Simon Agry said piously, naturally adding nothing about his gunrunning partnership with the bandit.

  “And now I’m here,” Buchanan said. “So I’m not sure what my occupation is.” There was more laughter, but Simon’s gavel shut it off quickly.

  “You’re charged with being an accessory to the murder of Roy Agry,” Simon said. “How do you plead?”

  “His getting shot was none of my business,” Buchanan said. Simon glanced toward his brother Lew.

  “You got some questions, Sheriff?”

  “Yeah.” Lew Agry came and stood squarely in front of Buchanan, their eyes almost on a level. “Mister,” he said, “wouldn’t you really say you made a living as a gunman?”

  Buchanan had been deferential to the judge of this court of law. Now, with a slight squaring of his shoulders, he shed that submissive air and a hard light shone in his pale green eyes. His fingers worked themselves back and forth into fists.

  “I’ve turned a dollar with a gun,” he answered, his voice deceptively mild.

  “And you’ve put in a lot of jail time?”

  “I’ve been in jail.”

  “So the fact is, you’re just another hardcase on the dodge?”

  “In a way. But I owe the law nothing in the States.”

  “What about the law in Agrytown?”

  “I told the judge how I stand on that charge.”

  “And I heard. Now tell the judge about the fight you picked with Roy before he was shot.”

  “Nothing to tell.”

  “You didn’t knock him down?”

  “That was no fight. I picked him right up—”

  “And got him drunk?”

  “He was a man full-grown,” Buchanan said. “I offered him a drink and he wanted the whole bottle. He was still working on it when I went across to the hotel and turned in.”

  “Isn’t the fact of the case,” Lew Agry said, “that you were the advance agent in this killing? Weren’t you sent into town ahead to either goad Roy into a gunfight or get him so drunk he couldn’t defend himself?”

  “No,” Buchanan said simply, with no elaboration or anger.

  “But the plan misfired, didn’t it? You two pulled off the killing, all right. You got that done. But Del Cuervo ran smack into the law, didn’t he? And you come out of your hiding place and tried to break him free, didn’t you?” The questions had come hard and fast and Buchanan let the echo of Agry’s loud voice die away before he answered.

  “The gun shots woke me out of a sleep,” he said. “I looked out the window to see this kid here taking a bad licking from that ape over there.” He looked at Waldo Peek and drew his glance away with an obvious effort. “So I dealt myself a hand,” Buchanan finished, “and landed here.”

  “You always sleep with your boots on, mister?”

  “In this town I do. I wouldn’t want to buy ’em back for ten dollars each boot.”

  “You don’t like this town?”

  “I don’t like several of its citizens.”

  “Me included?”

  “You especially. And him.” He looked again at Peek, who grinned and spat on the sawdust floor contemptuously.

  “You’d like to kill me, would you?” Agry asked.

  “I’d like to give you just what you give me, man.”

  “Take the law into your own hands, that it?”

  “Not the law. You.”

  Agry turned from him and stalked toward the wide-eyed men in the jury chairs. Every one of them would have shelled out good money to see the fight this prisoner wanted with Lew Agry.

  �
�That’s the case against this ranny,” the sheriff-prosecutor told them arrogantly. “He’s a gunman and a Mex lover. He came into town last night by way of the Del Cuervo ranch. He came to kill an Agry because the Del Cuervos are still fighting the war they lost. Those dirty Mexicans hate us all. They’re dreaming day and night of marching back into California, knifing and back-shooting every man of us and having our womenfolk.” Agry paused and walked slowly along the line, looking intently into each face. “I’m the law in this county,” he said meaningfully, letting it sink in. “I arrested this killer in the act of cheating justice. I want a verdict of guilty so’s we can hang him as a lesson to every other Mex lovin’ son of a bitch around.”

  There was a frightened silence in the room for many long moments after Lew Agry had walked back to his seat. Someone near the saloon doors clapped, but no one picked it up. From the bench, Simon Agry had been studying his brother’s performance with close attention. Lew bore careful studying. He was smart, he was ruthless, and he never did anything without a good reason. What was the reason for such dramatics to hang this Buchanan? He wouldn’t have thought the man worth it.

  And Simon also remembered Lew’s word and the tone of his voice when he said, “I’m the law in this county.” Lew needed a little dressing down, a little head shrinking before he stepped too far out of line, and Carbo had to cut him down for good and all.

  “Sheriff,” Judge Simon Agry said, “I notice that this prisoner has no legal representation.”

  “He’s getting a trial, isn’t he?” Lew Agry said, his surprise showing on his face. “What’s he need a lawyer for?”

  “You don’t seem to know too much about the law that you claim to be,” his brother said. “California’s a new state, but it’s run under the same Constitution that governs all the others. You’ve heard of the Constitution, haven’t you, Sheriff?”

  Lew Agry rose to his feet, glowering, saying nothing. It was as though he were fighting a battle to say nothing to the man on the bench above him.

  “This prisoner’s guaranteed due process of the law,” Simon said. “I aim to see he gets it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you don’t have a case, Sheriff.” The brothers locked glances, held them, and after a moment that seemed suspended somewhere in time, Lew Agry looked away.

  “You don’t have a case,” Simon repeated, rubbing Lew’s nose in it. He rapped the gavel. “Buchanan, you’re not guilty, by a directed verdict of this court. Collect your belongings and vamoose.”

  “Thanks for the kind words, Judge,” Buchanan said. “If it’s not asking for too much, though, I’d like to put in something else.”

  “I wouldn’t press my luck if I were you,” Simon said, his tone blunt and dismissive.

  Buchanan didn’t seem to notice. “I know, Judge, that it was your flesh and blood that was killed in this saloon last night—”

  “This case isn’t being judged on any personal bias,” Simon said sternly. “This court is neutral. Justice is blind.”

  “Yes, sir. But this kid here had his reasons—”

  “No! Por Dios, no!” Juan cried and Buchanan looked at him in vast wonder.

  “What do you mean?” he asked in Spanish.

  “You are free, Buchanan,” came the answer in the same language. “Go. But say nothing about me. Nada!”

  “You have to give yourself a chance, hombre! You have to tell these people how it was.”

  “Never! These people would not agree it was just cause. But that is only a part of it. Do you not understand, amigo, that it is not possible to disclose my reason? My own life is not worth my sister’s happiness. I ask you, as a man, to let me decide this thing for myself.”

  Buchanan shrugged, turned back to find Simon Agry staring at Juan strangely. He guessed then that the judge knew Spanish and understood the facts. Buchanan couldn’t make up his mind about this man—he looked one thing and acted another—but he couldn’t suppress the feeling of confidence he had that Juan, too, would be freed now that Agry had heard about his son. That feeling was short-lived.

  “You are Juan del Cuervo?” Simon asked brusquely.

  “As you know.”

  “You will address this court with respect, Mex!” Simon roared at him, startling the entire room with the unexpected vehemence.

  “I am Juan del Cuervo,” the young man said.

  “You stand charged with the unprovoked murder of one Roy Agry,” Simon said. “You are accused of drawing a gun against Roy Agry, and without insult or bodily harm being done to you, of shooting Roy Agry until he was dead. How do you plead?”

  “I killed your son, Señor Simon,” Juan said.

  “Without cause?”

  “I hated him,” Juan said.

  Agry’s only betrayal of his knowledge, that Buchanan could see, was an ugly tightening of his massive jawline.

  “Then your formal plea is guilty?”

  “It is as I said.”

  Simon’s head swung to the jurors.

  “You heard the prisoner. He confesses that he killed Roy Agry for no reason but that he hated him. For the record of this trial I want the jury to vote whether they believe his confession or don’t believe it. Take the vote.”

  The jurors looked at each other in puzzlement. Did they believe that the Mex boy had killed Simon’s son? Is that what Agry wanted them to vote on?

  “What’s your verdict?” Simon asked the foreman. That one stood up, glanced at the eleven heads and spoke.

  “He did it, all right,” he said. “When’s the hanging?”

  Simon stared down at Juan.

  “You’ve been found guilty of murder by a jury of twelve freeholders of Agry County, California. At an hour before sunset this day you’ll be taken to a place of the high sheriff’s choosing and hung by the neck until you’re dead.” Simon raised the gavel. Buchanan’s voice intervened.

  “Don’t he get a chance to say a last word? How about a visit from his family?”

  “Mister, don’t try the patience of this court—”

  “The boy ought to get to say good-by,” Buchanan went on insistently. “He’s got folks who love him. He’s got a sister—”

  “No!” Juan shouted brokenly. “No! I do not want them. Hang me now!”

  In the midst of that scene at the bench, the saloon doors parted and another Mexican entered the courtroom. The short, solid old man was unarmed, but there was something about the set of him that made every other man in the place move a hand defensively toward his own weapon.

  “Gomez! Get out of here. I do not want you!” Juan called.

  Gomez did not even glance at Juan, nor at Buchanan, who seemed to have a special talent for getting underfoot. He ignored them both and addressed himself to Simon Agry.

  “Señor,” he said, “I would speak to you in private.”

  Lew Agry, who had moved to intercept the intruder, now grabbed him roughly by the arm.

  “What kind of trick is this, Mex? How many men you brought with you?”

  “I am alone,” Gomez said, still talking to Simon. “Will you hear what I have to say?”

  “Don’t listen to him, Si,” the sheriff said, ignoring the dignity of the court. “He’s trying to make a deal.”

  Simon’s eyes were speculative. “Take your prisoner, Sheriff,” he said and brought the gavel down twice. “Court’s adjourned!”

  Lew Agry and Waldo Peek led both men away, still bound together, and Gomez moved as though to block them.

  “Come back to my office,” Simon ordered sharply, his voice carrying to Gomez and no farther. “And you’d better have something to say!” Simon climbed down from the table set atop the crates and made his way toward the room he kept for private parties in the rear of the saloon. Gomez followed him inside and closed the door, watching as Agry poured himself a drink from the bottle on the desk. All the way back to Agrytown Gomez had worried about Don Pedro’s idea of ransoming Juan. It was not a sound plan for the very simple
reason that his patrón had very little to offer Simon Agry that would be impressive.

  Oh, Don Pedro was comfortably fixed. His family would never miss a meal or be unable to stage a fiesta for their numerous days of celebration. But the principal source of the man’s money, in these days of postwar depression for a humbled Mexico, was the proceeds from his estates in far-off Spain. These monies came in irregularly, roughly semiannually, and for the past two years the segundo had made them do almost exclusively for the maintenance of the vast ranch and Don Pedro’s two expensive households.

  But ransom was an immediate thing. In exchange for one item you gave over another item, in lump sum. Don Pedro had no such emergency fund, neither in cash, horses nor cattle. And even if he pledged the don’s solemn word to the contract, Gomez knew that Simon Agry would scoff at any ransom paid in installments. Agry judged all men by his own standards, and by his standards Don Pedro would be a fool to keep on paying for Juan’s safe return once that return was an accomplished fact.

  So he watched Simon pour himself a drink and another idea came to him, one he had only wishfully considered on the ride from the ranch. It would be a trade—Simon Agry for Juan del Cuervo. But first Agry would have to be as firmly in his possession as Juan was in theirs. And before even considering that, and out of loyal obedience to Don Pedro, he must make an honest effort at bargaining.

  “What’s on your mind, Gomez?” Simon asked him gruffly. He knew Del Cuervo’s man from the old times, the old, desperate times when the Rancho del Rey’s foreman had made it a dangerous and frustrating pastime to rustle Don Pedro’s stock. All that vast range, all that beef the invading American army needed—and always Gomez out-thinking him, waiting for him. In damp weather Simon’s hip still ached from the wound inflicted the night he had personally led the raid.

  “I have come to purchase the freedom of Don Pedro’s son,” Gomez said.

  “Impossible,” Simon said, lowering himself heavily into the chair before the desk. “A jury has convicted him of murder. Of murdering my son.”