Buchanan Says No (14 page)

"Nothing important, Mr. Wilson. A local problem
.”

“
What in hell's going on in this town, anyhow? Never
so much buzzing around."

“
Really?" Power asked blandly. "Bella looks about the
s
am
e to me."

"Regular damn beehive," the buyer said. "Who's this
B
u
chanan gent? What's he do?"

“
He makes trouble
,”
Power said, his temper coming unstuck again. "A two-bit trail bum that makes trouble.
So
he's going to buy some."

Wilson was not a man who cared about anyone's prob
lems except his own, but there was something about what
Po
wer had said that did catch his interest.

"You say this Buchanan punches cattle?"

"I don't know what he does," Power answered, calming
himself with an effort. "How about a drink?"

Wilson shook his head. "Never mix drinking with busi
n
ess," he said curtly,

"If you're here on business," Powe
r
said, "let's go over
to the hotel."

"Use the office," Bernie Troy said, getting up. "I'll
move out of your way." He crossed the room and left, clos
i
n
g the door behind him.

I've got a crew rounded up
.”
Wilson said almost immediately. "Take us out to that place and I'll take delivery
of
the herd."

“
There's a man checking on the beef now," Power said.
"He ought to be back any time."

“
When?"

"Oh, by sundown at the latest."

Wilson shook his head. "I want my men to be on the
rail before dark. They're a rag-tag bunch, Power, and I
h
ave to allow plenty of time to make the railroad con
nection at Carson City."

Imperious fathead, Power thought. But I need that sale.

"Let's go, then," he said aloud, tossing off the rest of
the drink.

"Where's that agent of yours—Weston?"

"Called out of town."

The meat-buyer laughed, "Worst gambler
I
ever ran
across. Took him for nearly ten thousand last night
,”

"So I heard." Damn Boyd Western to hell, he thought Damn this one along with him. If it hadn't been for that
game, there'd be none of these troubles today.

"
I’
ll give you a crack at me next trip I make," Wilson said, and they left Troy's.

Power surveyed Wilson's riders, a motley crew of drift
ers and drun
k
s, and decided they were rag-tag indeed. Just
down-at-the-heels punchers, more than half of them not
even owning weapons of any sort, and he couldn't help comparing them with the kind of crew Durfee assembled
.
A good man, Bill Durfee. Best noncom in the whole damn
Army.

The party moved out of Bella and rode steadily along
the direct route to Indian Rocks.

Buchanan and Doc Brown were a good twenty minutes
ahead of them, but no matter how urgently they might
need speed, the ambulance was simply not made for it,

"Slow the pace, boy," the doctor kept calling to him.
"What good's this conveyance with no wheels to it?"

So Buchanan slowed down, and soon the horsemen
led by Frank Power began to overtake them.

"Where do you think you're headed?" Power demanded
when they were abreast of each other. His tone was ar
rogant, but the man was plainly puzzled by the presence
of Doc Brown.

"Bound for the canyon
,
' Buchanan told him, "Got
word that your errand boy delivered his message,"

"Word from who?"

"From Bill Durfee, Power. And I think you made your
self an enemy today."

Power pulled abruptly away, not wanting Wilson to
hear anything more.

"Who was that?" the meat-buyer asked
.

"That was Buchanan."

"Really? What's
h
e doing way out here?"

"Minding other people's business
,”
Power snapped,
"Come on, let's ride!"

Now he searched the wild terrain for some sign of Mike
S
an
doe, but they met no one else along the trail. What
had
happened?
H
e wondered worriedly
.
Why would Dur
fe
e
of all people, look to Buchanan for help?

Finally they arrived at the temporary camp and Power
saw
immediately that things were not as they should be
“Well,”
Wilson echoed his thoughts aloud.
“
Somebody pulled stakes in a big hurry
,”
he said, look
ing
at the smoking fire, the discarded poker
hands that
were
spread around in disorder. "Where's the beef at?"

"Up
canyon a ways," Power said uncertainly.

Wilson waved his crew to precede them in that direc
tion.

"How'd your men come to leave such an untidy camp?"
Wilson
asked Power then.

"They got paid off today," Power said, hoping the vague
exp
lanation sounded better than he felt about it.

“
Must be a real thirsty bunch."
”

A shout, ending in a strangled outcry, smothered the
sou
nd of his own voice and made him tighten involun
tary
on the reins. Then both men put their mounts
to
ward.

It was a scene of singular horror, made much more
of
fensive by the way it violated the ruggedly tranquil
reality of the setting. Low in the sky hung a great round,
r
ed
sun, tinting the canyon walls purple and blue, green-
-
on
the floor beyond its own verdant power. Some seven
h
undred head of cattle either rested there or still grazed—-
but
the arena belonged cle
arly to fifty-odd turkey buzzards
,
the males so glutted and sluggish that they either
c
ou
ldn't or wouldn't take to the air.

“
Good God, Power
!
What's the story here?"

The ex-brevet major, fighting to hold onto his ow
n

s
tomach, could only shake his head and try to look else
where but at those ravaged corpses.

One of Wilson's crew, half Indian by the look of him,
made a low inspection of each body and rode back to his
boss.

"Bushwhacked
.”
he said solemnly.

"Are they all dead?"

"
‘p
ears like it. Didn't none of them talk to me."

"But who are they? Do you recognize any of them.
Power?" Wilson asked, hollow-voiced.

Power shook his head again.

"Don't believe him, Wilson," said another voice, and
Boyd Weston rode up from behind them. "That's his
crew out there, and Power ordered this massacre."

"You're a goddam liar!" Power said, startled out of his
near nausea.

"Am I?" Weston said his mouth curling. "We'll let
Wilson judge you on that. Here," he told the buyer,
handing him a folded pi
ece of note paper. The writing
was a strong script and the form of address military.
Wilson read:

To; Durfee

F
r
om:
Power

Subject
Crew

Mike Sandoe works for me. He will assist you
in paying off the crew. You will take whatever
means necessary to prevent any man from rid
ing to Bella,

Frank
A.
Power

Wilson raised his eyes from the seemingly self-incrimin
ating order and looked out at the paid-off crew. He turned
to Boyd Weston.

"Where did you get this?"
'

"The killer Power sent out here had to scale the wall to
get out again. The paper fell out of his shirt."

And where's the man now?"

"Long gone," Weston said. "Headed back to Bella for
th
e next job Power has for him."

"What were you doing here?"

""I wanted to have a look at this stolen herd
,”
Weston
sa
i
d
.”
Now I want to warn you not to buy it. You do, and
I’ll
have federal marshals waiting at the stockyards. I'll
sta
nd up in court and describe every detail of the delivery."

"
Y
ou won't have to," Wilson said. "I want no part of
this
beef." He swung around to the dangerously still form
of
Frank Power. "I had no delusions about this deal,
Pow
er. But, my God, to order a thing like this—" He
started to ride
off, lifting his arm in a signal to his crew to move
bac
k down
canyon with him.

“I’ll
ride with you, Wilson," Boyd Weston said.

“N
o," Power said between his teeth. He had reached
ben
eath his coat, cross-drawn an ominous, big-ca
l
ibered
derr
inger. "Not you, Boyd," he said. "Move on
?
Wilson,
and
count yourself among the lucky."

"Don't be a fool, Power."

"Ride on or take a gutful of your own!"

Wilson wheeled his mount immediately, spurred it in
pursuit of the body of riders.

Power leaned forwar
d on his pommel, his face malevolent.
"You win the skirmish, Boyd," he said emotionally.

But you lose the war!"

“N
o, Frank. No. You wouldn't. Not in cold blood."

"Cold blood?" Power echoed, easing his horse to a right
a
ngle from Weston's. "This I do in heat." He fired the
first
cartridge carefully, aiming directly at the other man's
sp
ine. Boyd Weston shrieked, struggled desperately to s
t
ay in the saddle, then plunged headlong onto the can
yo
n floor. He tried to rise but his legs wouldn't respond,
a
nd all
h
e seemed able to manage to do was to roll over
helplessly on his back and stare up at the mounted man.

Power reloaded the sneak gun and pointed the muzzle
directly down into Weston's eyes. Power smiled.

"I'm not angry with you any more, Boyd," he said.

"Get me on my horse. Save me, Frank."

"The Lord is your savior, Boyd," Power told him cyni
cally. "He maketh you to lie down in green pastures. He
leadeth you beside the still waters."

"Don't kill me!"

"An act of mercy," Power said. "What the dragoons call
the coup de grace."

The gun exploded directly into Weston's face.

Frank Power turned and rode out.

Chapter thirteen

M.
Wilson and his crew passed them on the trail,
their faces marked with shock, their inclination to hurry
away. Then Frank Power and his handsome white stallion came into view, veered directly toward them, and stopped
squarely in Buchanan's path.

"You're wasting your time," he said. "There's nothing
you can do for them."

"I'll take Doc's word on that," Buchanan said.

"Suit yourself. But whatever else you do, don't come
back to Bella. You're the last man in that crew still alive,
Buchanan."

"Me and Bill Durfee."

"I can handle Durfee."

"And Sandoe can handle me?"

"Sandoe can handle you."

Buchanan kneed his horse close to Power's. For some
reason he was smiling.

"How much you going to pay him for the job, Power?"

“I’ll
give him five hundred
,”
Power said, and Buchanan
smil
ed in his face.

“What a
smart businessman you are," he said. "For four
hundr
ed last night I'd have been hell-and-gone for Frisco
by n
ow."

Buc
hanan did something then with his mount that
made
it move forward abruptly, that somehow caused
hi
m to jar Frank Power with a shoulder brush and
his hor
se to bump the white stallion rudely out of their
way.

He looked back with a grin that was not an apology
but a
challenge.

Dec Brown put the ambulance into motion and Frank
Pow
er chose to ride off toward Bella.

Then they reached the canyon, and unlike those who
h
a
d
come there before them, they got down and searched
each and
ev
ery body for some flickering sign of life. Buchanan could
f
ind no heartbeats, but he kept his thoug
h
ts to himself
until
the doctor was through. Brown finally looked up at
and
shook his head.

“
Been around battlefields," the medico said
?
"but I
n
ever saw this kind of sharpshooting."

Buchanan indicated the sprawled, faceless figure of
Boy
d Weston with a movement of his chin. "How about
that
kind?"

"Took it awful close up. That what you mean?"

"
Y
eah. How we going to get 'em under t
h
e ground?"

"Nothing but rock underneath us here. Strain must run

fi
ve miles or more."

"Pack any shovels?"

"Always do."

Buchanan personally rolled the dead into blankets,
leaded t
h
em into the back of the ambulance and covered
t
hem
over with a tarpaulin.

“I’l
l drive," he said then. "You fork the horse."

The Doctor
shook his head. "Thanks, son," he said, "but I'm
used t
o this." He mounted to the seat, picked up the reins.
"
I am
also some curious about what happened here
,”