Buchanan Says No (6 page)

He got out of bed, dressed again, and went back to the
place, wondering what in hell brought Weston to start
gambling at nine o'clock in the morning. He had expected
the man to join the game the night before, had seen him
having supper at Bella House with Power and the meat buyer. But Weston had separated from them then, come
over to the bar for his customary brandies, then ridden out
in the direction of his little ranch.

How come? Bernie Troy didn't know. He didn't know
a lot of things about Boyd Weston, and he especially
didn't know what the relationship was between Weston
and Frank Power. His partner's seduction of Mrs. Weston
was something he followed with great interest, enjoying their "chance" meetings, the studied politeness in public,
but he suspected that Power had more use for the
woman's husband than merely getting him out from un
derfoot. Frank was too direct for that.

So Troy had to know what Weston did for Power.
Bernie could not hope to compete on a basis of physical strength, or even the force of his own character. A slim,
small-boned, sardonic-eyed man of forty, he had gradually
drifted westward from New York State, with extended stopovers in St. Louis, New Orleans, Chicago, and Dodge
City, and not only survived, but prospered on wits and
guile alone. From childhood Troy had been possessed
with curiosity, insatiable curiosity about everything and everyone. He fed it, during every minute of every waking
hour, and the compulsion to
know
gave him information that was a very potent weapon against any adversary.

Such as Frank Power. Oh, they were partners, all right,
and cordial. In the office safe was his copy of the partner
ship agreement, a plainly worded legal document duly signed and witnessed. The agreement read, in part: ". . .
and to be in effect and inviolable during the full and
natural lives of the aforesaid partners, and thereafter to
their surviving heirs and/or assignees forevermore. . . ."

"Forevermore," however, could mean tomorrow or the
day after in this part of the world. Bernie Troy hoped not,
because he was still vulnerable, he still needed Power to
consolidate his position. And before he could himself
eliminate the other man, Troy had to learn all the details
of Power's sudden emergence as the big middleman in the
cattle business hereabouts.

Boyd Weston might be the key that unlocked the door.
Therefore the instructions that he be informed each time
Weston came around. There was also the fact that Wes
ton was an atrocious gambler who drank in direct ratio to
his losses. He drank because he lost and he lost because
he drank—and the more he did of both, the uglier he got.
Troy's staff couldn't handle him as they would any other
bad actor for the simple reason that he was sponsored by
Frank Power
.
That of itself was enough to keep Bernie on
the premises whenever Mr. Boyd Weston was cutting
loose.

So Troy came back to the game and watched Weston's
lock start off surprisingly good, then turn sour as soon as
the buyer from Chicago learned he was winning at least
50 per cent of the time on pure bluff. Wilson took him down the line then, and at calling time there sat Boyd Weston with a handful of nothing.

"You must be very lucky at love
,”
Wilson had com
mented dryly at the end of one hand, and Weston's lean
head had shot up quickly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he'd asked in his
nasal, belligerent tone, his sensuous, full-lipped mouth
turned more sulky-looking than usual,

The Chicagoan had regarded him speculatively for a
long moment, his eyes hooded and thoughtful
,
t
hen he
had briefly smiled.

"No offense, young fella," he'd said, "Somebody deal."

Twice during that long day Boyd Weston left the game.
On each occasion it was to visit the bank, and both times
he returned with a sizable roll. Bernie Troy hadn't realized
Weston's credit stood so high at the bank, but just as
curious was the fact that though the total amounts he re
turned with were fairly substantial, it all came in bills of
small denomination. And after the second trip it even in
cluded coins, silver and gold.

Which eventually ended up in front of Wilson or one
of the dozen others who took part in the game from one
hour to the next. Troy, of course, was then called on to ex
change the cumbersome coins and small bills for big ones,
and have the trouble of carting it all back to the bank.

It didn't make very much sense until Troy recalled that
punchers almost universally preferred their pay in money
that could be easily cashed in out-of-the-way places,
hon
kytonks
and brothels. He knew, too that a great many of
them shared with crib girls a distrust for paper. Hard money was safe money. You couldn't burn it, tear it, or
have it blow away. And to prove its worth, all you did was
let
it bounce on the most convenient rock,

A payroll, then, Troy decided, for a trail crew. A meat buyer had come to town. Where was the beef? Not penned
near Bella, or word o
f
it would have been passed around
as an item of interest. His thoughts went to t
h
e money
again, and he went into his office to see just how much
he had exchanged so far. It was seven o'clock when he did
that, and the total was $8,400, with Weston still out there betting from the contents of two gunny sacks. Another
thousand left, Troy guessed rather accurately. Perhaps two.

That was some payroll, the gambler told himself. That
was some trail crew. Troy would
h
ave liked very much to
see that herd, and he would have liked very much to know
just how particular a man Mr. Wilson was.

He went back outside with a little more zest for the
game, happy now that he had found out some things he
wasn't supposed to know. The money, of course, was from
his partner's private account—and obviously not entrusted
to the likes of Boyd Weston for poker stakes. It was some
crew's wages, plus bonuses for what must have been un
usual work.

Troy watched Weston rather carefully then, marked the
increasing signs of worry as he reached into the gunny
sacks each time for fresh stakes. Wilson left the game
briefly for supper, and while he was gone Weston's hands
improved. Three fair-sized pots in a row came to him.
The anxiety vanished from his face, his eyes grew brighter,
and he was the familiar arrogant young man they had all
grown to dislike intensely since his arrival in Bella six
months ago.

Wilson returned, eyed the increased pile of chips before
Weston, and rubbed his palms together expectantly. He
sat down, the dealer announced a free-betting hand of
seven-card stud, and Lady Luck promptly deserted Boyd
Weston for her old friend from Chicago. Wilson took
great chunks out of the pile and Weston was soon buying
a fresh stack from the dwindling gunny sacks.

Nine o'clock came,
and then
ten, and Bernie Troy waited
impatiently for the big hand that would clean Weston
ou
t. A plan had formed in his mind hours before, a
scheme to turn Weston's rather serious troubles to his
own advantage. . . .

The door to the private room opened and one of the
housemen motioned to him. Sam Kersey had just been
shot across the street. No
?
not from behind. Straight on,
and his gun clear of the holster. And no
,
Marv Bowe
n
had been no help. Bowen was out cold.

"Where the hell's Fred Grieve?"

'The marshal braced them, Mr. Troy, and nobody else
had any hankerin' to help him. But the two that done it
just walked away from him and went on inside Bella
House."

"What did they look like?"

"Bums," the houseman said, "A medium-sized bum and
a very big bum. And they didn't give two damns about the deadline."

"You actually saw them go in the hotel?"

"Just as natural as sin."

"Is Frank Power in town?"

"Arrived an hour ago. What do you want we should do,
Mr. Troy?"

Troy's mind had been clicking throughout the inter
view, gathering in stray bits of information, adding them,
totaling a sum. In his office and on the poker table was
what he had decided was a payroll. But since Weston had
gambled it away here all day, someone obviously hadn't
got paid. Two bums hit town, bums possessed of some
fine skills, but strangers to Bella, or they wouldn't have
gone up against Kersey and Bowen just like that. They
cross the deadline but they don't come to the gambling
saloon, the natural lure. Instead they go for the sedate,
almost forbidding Bella House.

Why? Because they have no money, that's why. Boyd Weston has their wages, and by asking they can learn that
Mrs. Boyd Weston, at any rate, is at the hotel. What's
more natural than to look for a husband where his wife is?

"What do you want we should do?" the houseman
asked.

Bernie Troy was smiling, and he was imagining what
might very well be happening in Mrs
.
Weston's room at
this moment.

"We?" he asked innocently. "What business is it of
ours if Frank Power's gunmen take a licking? Teach
^‘
em a
little humility." He went back inside, more pleased than
before. Now he had information about this affair that not
even Boyd Weston had. Things, he thought, were shaping
up nicely, but he could still use that shave and a c
h
ange
of linen. Funny, though, how he wasn't so tired any more. Or particularly anxious to give Weston a hand up. Let the
poor sucker get himself out of the jam.

Troy found the pace of the game slowed, found Weston
almost desperately hoarding his last funds and still trying
to win a pot. Wilson
b
et against
h
im relentlessly, crowded
him to the exclusion of every other player. Troy watched
that and wondered about it, knowing the meat buyer to
be a smarter gambler than that, asking himself w
h
y the
man
b
acked poor
h
ands
h
imself for no other purpose than
to see the both of them lose.

The game inc
hed
along. Weston had to take an oc
casional pot, and he did, dragging the inevitable to an
almost boring climax. When the gunny sacks were empty,
Troy had decided long b
efore, that would be it for Weston. No I
OU’
s, no credit from t
h
e house.

He drifted back outside, restlessly, and looked over the
play and the drinking in the public room. He took the
watch from his vest pocket, checked the time, and decided
to wait out here a while longer.

She arrived exactly on time, her red hair shooting its own lights back at the chandeliers, her free
-
gaited
,
hip
swingi
ng
figure charming every eye, and just by the con
fident,
purposeful look of her discouraging anything be
yond
a wistful, prayerful sort of thought.

But speech was free, and those who called to her as she
passed by were rewarded with a provisional smile, an easy
wav
e of the hand. A group broke from the bar and headed
fo
r places at her table; others purposely held back to
enj
oy the wonderful view from the rear.

'It's hard on a man to go home after seein' that
,”
said
on
e mischievously.

"Aye," agreed his friend, "It's labor enough even to
catch your fair breath."

The first prize—that was what Bernie Troy called her
to himself. A conquest. His had been a life, was still a
life, in which women had played a more than usually im
portant part. Most had been the round-heeled sorority
sisters of Ruby Weston, and the one thing he had learned
from them was that a Frank Power could take a dozen
Mrs. Westons and never know what it was to bed a single
Carrie James.

Exactly what it was that made one woman soar above
the rest, Troy couldn't say. But when he saw it he knew it and this particular redhead had it to burn. Now he cut
his
way through the crowd, intercepted her smoothly before she took her seat.

"Dinner tonight, Carrie?" he asked in a voice made
husky merely by the nearness of her pinkish-white voluptu
ousness.

"In your rooms?" she said, her expressive eyes very wide.

"Yes."

"With the candle on the table again? The burgundy?"

"Cold and sparkling."

"I guess not, Mr. Troy. That one time was for all time
.”
The smile softened it, made it seem almost that the invita
tion had been accepted rather than flatly declined.

"You're a good girl, Carrie," Troy told her with dryness.
"Nearly too good to be true."