Free Buchanan's Revenge by Jonas Ward Page A

stable.
    This, he reflected, would have been about the time t hat Rig would have departed Aura seven mornings ago the other three would have slept off their drunk till mid-mo rn ing, ridden out of town at a defiant, hung over gallop.
    Five
    T he country south of Aura was stark and rugged, sparse ly settled, and Buchanan traveled through it at a pace that was deceptively casual. He was trying to put himself in Rig Bogan's place a week ago, to think the other man's thoughts as he hit the trail again after a pleasant night of leisure and winning at cards. I'd be feeling pretty good about now, Buchanan mused. That money I won would have a comforting feel inside my shirt and I'd be telling those mules that it took some talent to break the bank at blackjack.
    But would I give a thought to my back trail? Buchanan w on dered. Every so often would I give a look over my shoulder to see if I was having company along this lonely stretch? Buchanan glanced back himself, saw nothing but empty flatland, and decided that even a man half-cautious would be hard to surprise here.
    But within the hour the terrain changed, became hilly, and a few miles further south there was a junction in the trail. A rider had a choice of turning almost due east along level ground or ascending a long, sharp incline if he was determined to continue south. What did a freight driver do here? What was Rig's choice? Did the flat trail even tually work its way southward again? Did the route up the face of this small mountain lose a man time or gain it?
    Me, Buchanan decided, I'd take the hills as they came, prov ided I was still headed in the right direction. He put th e undaunted filly to the steep climb. When he reached the top, though, he wasn't so sure. The trail up here was narr ower, hemmed in by heavy brush, and didn't look as used as the one below. He followed it slowly, his mind nagged by the certainty that he would eventually have to turn back, start all over again down at the junction. Twen ty minutes later he reined in, started to swing the animal around, when the blazing morning sun caught the patch of bright red paint and made it glisten in his eye.
    Buchanan kneed the horse to the edge of the trail, peered straight down. There, lying on its side at the bot tom of the gorge, was the forlorn wreckage of the wagon. The words DOUBLE-B FAST FREIGHT appeared to mock Buchanan's gaze. He dismounted, started to work his way down the steep, jagged side, hoping against hope that there was no more to the story than the toppled wagon. But there was more. Rig Bogan's lifeless, bullet- riddled body lay fifty feet from his beloved red wagon ; half-hidden by the jutting boulder that had arrested his plunge from the trail above, and Buchanan's examination of it was expressionless, unemotional. Six times he had been shot, from the back of the head to the base of the spine, and it was not likely, Buchanan thought, that he had lived long enough to even realize what had happened to him.
    A deep, pent-up sigh escaped the tall man's cavernous chest and he turned away from his murdered partner, walked slowly to the ruins of their venture. The mules had been freed from their harness before the wagon was sent plunging into the gorge and Buchanan reflected briefly on the nice difference the bushwhackers placed on animal life and human. Nor had they considered Honest John Magee's cotton to be worth much. A few bales of the shipment still lay in the truck, the rest were scattered over the ground. Scattered, too, was the odd cargo that Rig had scouted up in San Antone and taken on consign ment. As Buchanan retrieved a shiny new shovel he could hear Rig's eager voice again, making the deal with the shipper, assuring the man of safe delivery and a good profit.
    He carried the shovel to a secluded, semi-shaded spot near the wall of the canyon and began the hard, unhappy chore of digging a decent resting place. The rocky ground yielded very slowly and the sun was in the middle of the