kitchen.
"Drink while you're waiting?"
"How much is the bourbon?"
"Two bits,"
"And how big is the steak?"
"One pound."
Buchanan frowned, deliberating between his keen thirst and his voracious hunger. The bartender waited patiently, almost sympathetically.
"A double bourbon," Buchanan said. The drink was poured in an outsize glass and Buchanan looked his thanks. "Better not let the boss catch you," he said good- naturedly and the barkeep smiled.
"I'm the boss," he said.
"In that case I'm twice obliged, friend. Where do you want me to eat that steak?"
"Any table that suits you."
Buchanan took the drink to one in the rear, sat down in almost complete darkness. The cook brought the steak out within minutes, stood by during the first cut to see if it was too rare. Buchanan's big grin assured him.
"You don't fool me," the big man said.
"Please?"
"You're no restaurant cookie. You worked on a ranch."
"That right, that right. But better here now. Sleep every morning way past dawn. You own big ranch?"
"Not quite yet," Buchanan admitted, taking another cut of meat.
"But by-an'-by," the cook said.
"Oh, sure."
"Big, big ranch. Fifty thousand acre."
"At least."
"Hundred thousand cattle."
"Thereabouts."
"You want other steak now?"
Buchanan suddenly broke into laughter. "No," he said, enjoying the joke on himself. "Can't afford another steak."
The Chinaman laughed along with him. "You still get big ranch," he said and retreated to his kitchen. Buchanan went on with his meal, was draining the last of the strong black coffee when the door at the head of the stairs opened and a girl stepped from the room beyond. Just before she closed the door again he had a glimpse of a bedstead, a table with a pitcher and wash bowl on it, and through Buchanan's mind passed the half-melancholy, half-unpleasant picture of the faceless man still lying there, passed out drunk.
He looked at her now, watched her descend the rather steep stairs, and reminded himself that he was going to need but one look to tell him the answer about herself and Rig Bogan.
Well, he hedged now, she sure wasn't another Ruthie Stell. Not physically, at any rate. This time Rig had gone for the tall, blonde type, with a pale and expressionless face that was like a beautiful mask. A complete change- about from Ruthie Stell, Buchanan conceded, but what man wouldn't try to change his luck after the way that affair had worked out?
Now she was at the bottom of the stairs, turning right and walking toward the card table, and Buchanan had used up that one look by a long margin as he studied the interesting motion of her lithe body beneath the well fit ting, short-skirted dress. Who, he asked himself, did she remind him of? And just as she was being seated at the table he remembered.
This girl looked and walked like a woman he had seen in San Francisco. An actress named Roxanne something- or-other. He had seen her twice. Once on the stage, as the heroine of the stupidest play that was ever written. And seen her again the very next night, entering a restaurant on the arm of Dan P. White, the richest man in California. She'd gone on a trip around the world with him, Buchanan had heard, and that was two long years ago. Funny he should have remembered that particular face and that particular walk after all this time.
A gun went off somewhere up the street. A second one, a third, probably a dozen shots in all, and Buchanan was somewhat surprised at the frightened reaction they caused here in this saloon. Couldn't they tell the sound of a .45 being fired into the air? The men at the bar had all swung around to face the swinging doors. The players at the table all held their cards as if frozen. Even the mask- like face of the girl dealer showed emotion —and it was fear. As he watched she turned her head toward the bar and Buchanan caught the anxious glance that she ex changed with the bartender.
Well, that's East Texas for you, he thought. Last night, up in Shelby,
"Drink while you're waiting?"
"How much is the bourbon?"
"Two bits,"
"And how big is the steak?"
"One pound."
Buchanan frowned, deliberating between his keen thirst and his voracious hunger. The bartender waited patiently, almost sympathetically.
"A double bourbon," Buchanan said. The drink was poured in an outsize glass and Buchanan looked his thanks. "Better not let the boss catch you," he said good- naturedly and the barkeep smiled.
"I'm the boss," he said.
"In that case I'm twice obliged, friend. Where do you want me to eat that steak?"
"Any table that suits you."
Buchanan took the drink to one in the rear, sat down in almost complete darkness. The cook brought the steak out within minutes, stood by during the first cut to see if it was too rare. Buchanan's big grin assured him.
"You don't fool me," the big man said.
"Please?"
"You're no restaurant cookie. You worked on a ranch."
"That right, that right. But better here now. Sleep every morning way past dawn. You own big ranch?"
"Not quite yet," Buchanan admitted, taking another cut of meat.
"But by-an'-by," the cook said.
"Oh, sure."
"Big, big ranch. Fifty thousand acre."
"At least."
"Hundred thousand cattle."
"Thereabouts."
"You want other steak now?"
Buchanan suddenly broke into laughter. "No," he said, enjoying the joke on himself. "Can't afford another steak."
The Chinaman laughed along with him. "You still get big ranch," he said and retreated to his kitchen. Buchanan went on with his meal, was draining the last of the strong black coffee when the door at the head of the stairs opened and a girl stepped from the room beyond. Just before she closed the door again he had a glimpse of a bedstead, a table with a pitcher and wash bowl on it, and through Buchanan's mind passed the half-melancholy, half-unpleasant picture of the faceless man still lying there, passed out drunk.
He looked at her now, watched her descend the rather steep stairs, and reminded himself that he was going to need but one look to tell him the answer about herself and Rig Bogan.
Well, he hedged now, she sure wasn't another Ruthie Stell. Not physically, at any rate. This time Rig had gone for the tall, blonde type, with a pale and expressionless face that was like a beautiful mask. A complete change- about from Ruthie Stell, Buchanan conceded, but what man wouldn't try to change his luck after the way that affair had worked out?
Now she was at the bottom of the stairs, turning right and walking toward the card table, and Buchanan had used up that one look by a long margin as he studied the interesting motion of her lithe body beneath the well fit ting, short-skirted dress. Who, he asked himself, did she remind him of? And just as she was being seated at the table he remembered.
This girl looked and walked like a woman he had seen in San Francisco. An actress named Roxanne something- or-other. He had seen her twice. Once on the stage, as the heroine of the stupidest play that was ever written. And seen her again the very next night, entering a restaurant on the arm of Dan P. White, the richest man in California. She'd gone on a trip around the world with him, Buchanan had heard, and that was two long years ago. Funny he should have remembered that particular face and that particular walk after all this time.
A gun went off somewhere up the street. A second one, a third, probably a dozen shots in all, and Buchanan was somewhat surprised at the frightened reaction they caused here in this saloon. Couldn't they tell the sound of a .45 being fired into the air? The men at the bar had all swung around to face the swinging doors. The players at the table all held their cards as if frozen. Even the mask- like face of the girl dealer showed emotion —and it was fear. As he watched she turned her head toward the bar and Buchanan caught the anxious glance that she ex changed with the bartender.
Well, that's East Texas for you, he thought. Last night, up in Shelby,
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