he was smiled at, nodded to. Total strangers patted his back, gripped the hands that had felled Moose Miller and Mike Sandoe both, and went on their way uplifted. Buchanan was mystified by the first few encounters, then —when he understood the role he'd been cast in—un settled by it. Working off a debt for Little Joe was one thing; being the rally-round in a saloonkeeper's war was another.
The big man changed direction, started in search of Little Joe to get the matter straightened out when his at tention was caught by the sound of a horse pounding his way, fast. He looked up, and recognition of Bill Durfee was as swift as it was startling. Durfee, red-eyed from the hard ride, his unshaven face gray with trail dust, reined in abruptly.
"Buchanan, you with Frank Power or against him?"
"I'm not with him, Bill."
"Then, by God, lend a hand. Get a doctor out to Indian Rocks, Some of the boys might still be pulled through."
"Where's Sandoe?"
"Comin' back here to collect, the dirty murder in ' bastard!"
Buchanan nodded. "Grab yourself some rest, Bill," he said I’ll see what I can do." Five minutes later he led a d octor and improvised ambulance wagon out of Bella.
C hapter Tw e l ve
There was very little that happened that Bernie Troy did n ’ t know about—and he didn't like what he heard a bout the changed status of this Buchanan and the alli es he had made. There was nothing, in fact, about the rebellious atmosphere across the deadline that pleased him . For despite the lighthearted, almost holiday spirit alo ng Signal Street, Troy recognized the dead-seriousness of the competition, the solid support Burke and Little Joe were generating among a group that had previously been divided, unorganized, and easy to control.
Not that the Happy Times would survive. The place s h ould be wrecked, of course, and the champion of South Signal Street would spill his blood and die like any ordi nary man. That was his partner's department, and there w as nothing Frank Power did so well as crush opposition. Troy had no doubts about the future of their rival. What bothered him were the symptoms being displayed, the open defiance of the status quo.
There was an entirely different matter, though, that did gi ve the gambler malicious enjoyment. It involved Power, an d he was watching Power this very minute, studying him through the window of the office. It was all very much like a play, Troy thought, although one of the prin cipal actors was not on stage right now. That was Boyd Weston, and he had ridden away during Act One. Then the newspaper had been published, carrying the little ad, an d that had been the cue for Ruby Weston's entrance. She'd come out of Bella House and ridden down Signal Street dressed to the nines. Ruby had returned shortly, looking mysteriously triumphant about something. Now she was standing in the street before the hotel, where Frank Power had intercepted her. For Power's part, at least, it was a heated conversation. But Ruby Weston had only smiled that provocative smile of hers and coolly shaken her head half a dozen times. Then she had mounted her buggy a second time and driven away, to be followed immediately by a porter's wagon taking her lug gage away.
Power had glared after the little cavalcade, his face a study in frustrated rage and as Troy watched him he crossed back over to their own place with furious strides. The gambler swung his chair away from the window, picked up his copy of the Bulletin, and pretended to be reading when Power burst into the office. Without a word of greeting, his partner uncorked the decanter from the side boy and angrily poured out a tumbler - ful l .
"I see by the paper," Troy said conversationally, "that stock prices are up in Chicago ,”
"To hell with Chicago!" He jerked the paper from Troy's fingers, slammed his fist down squarely on Bu chanan's paid notice. "The nerve of that raggedy-pants son of a bitch! The colossal gall of the whole stupid lot of them!"
"How
The big man changed direction, started in search of Little Joe to get the matter straightened out when his at tention was caught by the sound of a horse pounding his way, fast. He looked up, and recognition of Bill Durfee was as swift as it was startling. Durfee, red-eyed from the hard ride, his unshaven face gray with trail dust, reined in abruptly.
"Buchanan, you with Frank Power or against him?"
"I'm not with him, Bill."
"Then, by God, lend a hand. Get a doctor out to Indian Rocks, Some of the boys might still be pulled through."
"Where's Sandoe?"
"Comin' back here to collect, the dirty murder in ' bastard!"
Buchanan nodded. "Grab yourself some rest, Bill," he said I’ll see what I can do." Five minutes later he led a d octor and improvised ambulance wagon out of Bella.
C hapter Tw e l ve
There was very little that happened that Bernie Troy did n ’ t know about—and he didn't like what he heard a bout the changed status of this Buchanan and the alli es he had made. There was nothing, in fact, about the rebellious atmosphere across the deadline that pleased him . For despite the lighthearted, almost holiday spirit alo ng Signal Street, Troy recognized the dead-seriousness of the competition, the solid support Burke and Little Joe were generating among a group that had previously been divided, unorganized, and easy to control.
Not that the Happy Times would survive. The place s h ould be wrecked, of course, and the champion of South Signal Street would spill his blood and die like any ordi nary man. That was his partner's department, and there w as nothing Frank Power did so well as crush opposition. Troy had no doubts about the future of their rival. What bothered him were the symptoms being displayed, the open defiance of the status quo.
There was an entirely different matter, though, that did gi ve the gambler malicious enjoyment. It involved Power, an d he was watching Power this very minute, studying him through the window of the office. It was all very much like a play, Troy thought, although one of the prin cipal actors was not on stage right now. That was Boyd Weston, and he had ridden away during Act One. Then the newspaper had been published, carrying the little ad, an d that had been the cue for Ruby Weston's entrance. She'd come out of Bella House and ridden down Signal Street dressed to the nines. Ruby had returned shortly, looking mysteriously triumphant about something. Now she was standing in the street before the hotel, where Frank Power had intercepted her. For Power's part, at least, it was a heated conversation. But Ruby Weston had only smiled that provocative smile of hers and coolly shaken her head half a dozen times. Then she had mounted her buggy a second time and driven away, to be followed immediately by a porter's wagon taking her lug gage away.
Power had glared after the little cavalcade, his face a study in frustrated rage and as Troy watched him he crossed back over to their own place with furious strides. The gambler swung his chair away from the window, picked up his copy of the Bulletin, and pretended to be reading when Power burst into the office. Without a word of greeting, his partner uncorked the decanter from the side boy and angrily poured out a tumbler - ful l .
"I see by the paper," Troy said conversationally, "that stock prices are up in Chicago ,”
"To hell with Chicago!" He jerked the paper from Troy's fingers, slammed his fist down squarely on Bu chanan's paid notice. "The nerve of that raggedy-pants son of a bitch! The colossal gall of the whole stupid lot of them!"
"How
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