world. And then Buchanan's heels clicked on the boards as he walked toward the bar. The tall man fished into his pocket, brought out two of his three hard-earned silver dollars and set them down. The barkeep stared at the money then raised his eyes to Buchanan's face. He looked to be in a state of shock.
"What," he asked, "is that for?"
"Double bourbon and a steak dinner. Damn fine cook you got, too. Hang on to him."
The laughter started deep in the bartender's stomach, came bubbling up and overflowed as a geyser of joyous re lief. Came from him and was echoed by the next man, the next, spread through that room like nothing else but a prairie fire. Buchanan gazed around at them, heard his simple statement repeated in gleeful tones, and told him self a second time tonight that East Texans were a curious breed.
Now a perfect stranger had hold of his hand and was pumping it like he was trying to raise water. His back was being whacked with great gusto, his forearms squeezed, and into his ears poured a torrent of praise that was not only damn foolish but plain embarrassing. Hell's holy bells, in this town they'd give you a medal for shooting fish in a barrel.
There was a hand suddenly resting in his huge palm that was neither calloused nor broad nor sweating. It was smooth and slim and coolly impersonal. Buchanan looked down, but not too far, into a pair of coppery-brown, frankly appraising eyes. The blonde Rig Bogan had taken a shine to. That everyone off the trail took a shine to. Including the recently departed Prado.
Their meeting seemed to cause a hush over the crowd. The other voices trailed away.
"I want to thank you for helping my brother," she said, with a certain emphasis on the word brother, Bu chanan thought, to make it crystal clear that she'd needed no particular help for herself. She could have handled Prado, Wynt, Sherm and the entire male species. With a well placed word, no doubt. Then she smiled, revealing rows of teeth that were as white and strong-looking as high-polished ivory. "And I'm sure," she added, "that the drink and the dinner are on the house."
The cool hand was withdrawn. The audience with the queen of Aura was concluded. But Buchanan, apparently, hadn't been dazzled in the fashion to which she was ac customed for she paused for an extra moment.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked.
"I want to have a talk with you," he said. Her eyelids went down, like a shade, and when they opened again the eyes were ten degrees colder.
"About Rig," Buchanan said.
"Who?"
"Rig Bogan." He gave her a sudden, violent shove away from him, one brief instant before the gun aimed at them above the doors blazed its vicious fury. Shoved the girl and ducked low himself as the assassin outside kept firing.
Buchanan cleared the Colt, aimed guessingly at the top of the door and threw out a reply. A second and a third. Then the hammer clicked once on the empty casing that had blown the bottle out of Wynt's fist, again on the one that had taken Prado to eternity.
But the three live slugs had driven the sniper's gun to cover and the silence now was golden. Buchanan's eye fell on the discarded shotgun nearby. He cradled it in his hands and moved swiftly toward the doors, shouldered one of them open and stepped into the street. Fifty yards to the south a single rider was running away, a man whose body tilted curiously in the saddle. Wynt, Buchanan guessed, who had to favor that busted collarbone. The shotgun might carry to him, but what the hell?
He turned, instead, and re-entered the saloon, laid the shotgun atop the bar and made his way to where the girl was seated after being helped from her rude fall.
"You all right?"
She nodded her head, managed a smile. "You move quickly when you have to," she said.
"Didn't mean to shove that hard. What's the matter?"
One moment she was staring at his middle and the next she had sprung to her feet. "You're wounded," she told him. "You're bleeding!"
He looked down at the
"What," he asked, "is that for?"
"Double bourbon and a steak dinner. Damn fine cook you got, too. Hang on to him."
The laughter started deep in the bartender's stomach, came bubbling up and overflowed as a geyser of joyous re lief. Came from him and was echoed by the next man, the next, spread through that room like nothing else but a prairie fire. Buchanan gazed around at them, heard his simple statement repeated in gleeful tones, and told him self a second time tonight that East Texans were a curious breed.
Now a perfect stranger had hold of his hand and was pumping it like he was trying to raise water. His back was being whacked with great gusto, his forearms squeezed, and into his ears poured a torrent of praise that was not only damn foolish but plain embarrassing. Hell's holy bells, in this town they'd give you a medal for shooting fish in a barrel.
There was a hand suddenly resting in his huge palm that was neither calloused nor broad nor sweating. It was smooth and slim and coolly impersonal. Buchanan looked down, but not too far, into a pair of coppery-brown, frankly appraising eyes. The blonde Rig Bogan had taken a shine to. That everyone off the trail took a shine to. Including the recently departed Prado.
Their meeting seemed to cause a hush over the crowd. The other voices trailed away.
"I want to thank you for helping my brother," she said, with a certain emphasis on the word brother, Bu chanan thought, to make it crystal clear that she'd needed no particular help for herself. She could have handled Prado, Wynt, Sherm and the entire male species. With a well placed word, no doubt. Then she smiled, revealing rows of teeth that were as white and strong-looking as high-polished ivory. "And I'm sure," she added, "that the drink and the dinner are on the house."
The cool hand was withdrawn. The audience with the queen of Aura was concluded. But Buchanan, apparently, hadn't been dazzled in the fashion to which she was ac customed for she paused for an extra moment.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked.
"I want to have a talk with you," he said. Her eyelids went down, like a shade, and when they opened again the eyes were ten degrees colder.
"About Rig," Buchanan said.
"Who?"
"Rig Bogan." He gave her a sudden, violent shove away from him, one brief instant before the gun aimed at them above the doors blazed its vicious fury. Shoved the girl and ducked low himself as the assassin outside kept firing.
Buchanan cleared the Colt, aimed guessingly at the top of the door and threw out a reply. A second and a third. Then the hammer clicked once on the empty casing that had blown the bottle out of Wynt's fist, again on the one that had taken Prado to eternity.
But the three live slugs had driven the sniper's gun to cover and the silence now was golden. Buchanan's eye fell on the discarded shotgun nearby. He cradled it in his hands and moved swiftly toward the doors, shouldered one of them open and stepped into the street. Fifty yards to the south a single rider was running away, a man whose body tilted curiously in the saddle. Wynt, Buchanan guessed, who had to favor that busted collarbone. The shotgun might carry to him, but what the hell?
He turned, instead, and re-entered the saloon, laid the shotgun atop the bar and made his way to where the girl was seated after being helped from her rude fall.
"You all right?"
She nodded her head, managed a smile. "You move quickly when you have to," she said.
"Didn't mean to shove that hard. What's the matter?"
One moment she was staring at his middle and the next she had sprung to her feet. "You're wounded," she told him. "You're bleeding!"
He looked down at the
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