by Jonas Ward
He searched for tracks. There had been six men in Bascomb’s bar. He counted six horses in the raid. Dare had admitted the deed but Buchanan wanted to make certain with his own eyes. He knew enough about Robertson to make sure of every detail before facing the Texan.
He counted the resistance fighters with Casey. There was Peter Wolf, the two herders and ... the girl, Susan. She had worn a gun and put her whiskey down straight in Bascomb’s. It remained to be seen how many hard men worked for Robertson and how they might be expected to act.
Past the ravine the grass grew taller, as if Casey had kept his sheep from that section of the prairie. Either that, thought Buchanan, or riders from the Cross Bar had guarded the acreage. There was a goodly stretch of it but not enough for an ambitious cattleman with a large herd. Robertson would not be content; he would be bringing more and more beef to be fattened in the coming season.
A truant sun arose and the mist began an upward spiral. There were trees dripping from the dampness and the bowl of blue sky native to that country began to take shape. In the near distance Buchanan could see the outlines of Jake Robertson’s Wyoming fortress.
It was indeed that, made of rough-hewn native stone and heavy timber. It was a big house. When Texans built something they planned it to stand forever, Buchanan thought not without some pride. Although he called New Mexico his home, he had been born in the Lone Star State.
There was a herd of longhorns, fat, eating their heads off. There was one man riding, lazing in the saddle. There did not seem to be guards against anticipated attack, and for good reason, Buchanan thought. As he grew nearer he saw a large bunkhouse, a corral, a barn, all the trappings of a successful cattle operation. It was early enough for Cross Bar to be at breakfast, a fact he had counted upon. He rode to a hitching rail in front of the impressive establishment and tied up.
He walked toward the house and called. “Jake Robertson. Buchanan here.”
Men came hastily from the rear, the kitchen, Dare was in the lead; others he’d met the previous night were swallowing food as fast as possible. All bore bruises.
There was a seventh man, bigger than the others, Buchanan’s size. His sleeves were cut off at the shoulders, signifying that he was the smithy. He wore a black curly beard and a fierce expression.
Dare yelled, “That’s him, Cobber. That’s the one. He had a black man just as bad with him.”
The smithy came to the fore. His arms dangled, corded with muscle. He said, “You goin’ to use that rifle or fight like a man?”
“Why should I fight you? Never saw you before.” Buchanan stood with feet apart, grinning.
“You ain’t met one like me,” the smithy told him. “You beat my pals. See if you can beat me.”
“Aw, now, I wouldn’t want to do that.” He saw the man tensing for the rush. He started to turn away.
The big man lunged. Buchanan stepped aside. Down went the blacksmith over Buchanan’s boot.
Dare shouted, “He’s tricky, Cobber.” Cobber got up. He came on more cautiously, arms raised in imitation of a professional fighter. Buchanan shook his head in amusement. He had boxed hundreds of rounds with Coco. He let the smithy come close, then feinted with his left and dug a right to the body, stepping aside, then back in. Ducking under a wild, weak swing, he slapped Cobber once, twice, three times with his open hand. The big man’s beard wagged back and forth.
Buchanan said, “Don’t go outa your class, man.”
Cobber roared. He rushed with wide-open arms, intending to grab Buchanan in a bear hug. Buchanan allowed him to do so. Dare and the others howled with glee.
Buchanan flexed his shoulders and arms. Cobber’s grip slipped. Buchanan elbowed him away, pushed with his palm. The smithy fell full-length from the force of Buchanan’s shove.
Dare hollered, “Okay, boys. Get him.” The six were about to make a concerted rush. Buchanan skipped to Nightshade and pulled the rifle from its scabbard. He said, “One at a time. Maybe two. That’ll cut it.”
Dare was choking with rage. Cobber got up and started another bull rush.
From the veranda of the big house Jake Robertson called, “That’s enough fun for one mornin’. Git back to your breakfast, you darn fools. Come in and light and have somethin’, Buchanan.”
Dare said, “He’s got it comin’ to him, boss.”
“He’s got a lot comin’ to him,” said Robertson. “Seems to me, though, you boys ain’t the ones to do it, without guns.”
Dare shuffled his feet for a moment. Fury was in him, but his discipline was strong. He led the men back to the rear of the house. Cobber stared hard at Buchanan for a long moment, then went along with the others.
Buchanan went to the veranda. Robertson was a medium man, brown-haired, florid from good living, sporting a bit of a belly beneath his belt. He exuded good humor, health and wealth. Yet Buchanan knew him for a tough, scheming businessman. In many ways he was typical of the cattle baron. He had started with a wide loop among the longhorns, stole or bartered for land, fought nature, Indians, hoof-and-mouth disease and bad weather.
Jake Robertson had come home from the Civil War to find his father slain and his mother and sister barely able to make ends meet. He had won a horse and saddle in a poker game and the rest was history. When it became good business to move north, he had come to Wyoming, where every spring the cattle had been driven from the southland to fatten on the better graze.
He had built a fine house, two stories high, a wide veranda all about, everything a native Texan would want in a strange country.
“Betcha ain’t had breakfast,” Robertson said.
“Can’t say I have,” said Buchanan. “How are you, Jake?”
They shook hands. “Pretty good for an old man.”
“Old you ain’t. Mean as a snake you are,” said Buchanan.
“Right as rain. Have a mornin’s mornin’?”
“Don’t mind if I do. It was chilly out there lookin’ over the dirty work done by your men.”
Robertson motioned to a rocking chair. “Aw, come now, Buchanan. The boys seen it all. One of them dumb damn sheep starts over a cliff and the rest follow lickety split and away they go. You know that.” He filled two glasses on a tray containing liquor and a pitcher of water. “That feller Casey, he’s too refined-like for the West.”
Buchanan sipped. “Fine whiskey. Y’ know, Jake, a man gets to know how to read track after a while. I mean the way horses act when they’re runnin’ and when they’re just moseyin’ along with the rider observin’ what’s happenin’.”
“Simple as A-B-C.” Robertson smiled.
“Your boys were chivvyin’ the sheep.”
“Aw, now!”
“Besides which, I heard the shootin’.”
Robertson drank. “You heard something. Then you went into Bascomb’s with a damn black lamb and beat up on my boys. You and that nigra champeen of yours.”
“We don’t call Coco a nigra. And he ain’t my anything except my very close friend,” said Buchanan, staring into Robertson’s eyes.
“Oh. See what you mean. A special nig ... er, black feller.”
“A friend.”
“Okay. Okay. I apologize all to hell.” He chuckled. “When the boys told me they’d run agin Buchanan and I seen the damage, I had to think back.”
“I’m a peaceable man,” said Buchanan. “Everybody knows that.”
“You are, you are. Never knew you to start a rangdoodle. Never knew of one you couldn’t finish.”
“I got the scars to prove it.” Buchanan finished his whiskey. His stomach was rumbling. A bell rang indoors.
Robertson said, “Time to set.”
There was a large parlor furnished from the best stores. Beyond it was a dining room long and bright. The oaken table was covered with fine linen. The odor of biscuits and bacon was in the air. A tall woman with severe features and a tight hairdo stood in the kitchen doorway with arms folded over her apron. Light footsteps rapped on the stairway descendin
g to the hall. Buchanan paused as a young woman of twenty-odd entered, smiling, hands outstretched.
Robertson said, “You remember my daughter, Claire?”
Buchanan took the two tiny hands. “Lordy me, I remember a slip of a gal, shy as a bunny rabbit. Looky you now, lady!”
She was diminutive. She was blonde and her skin was fair and delicate, rosy and white velvet. Her eyes were as blue as Wyoming skies. She wore a dainty informal gown with a high neck and long sleeves. She was beautiful. To Buchanan, she looked like a Dresden doll he had seen once in a Frisco museum.
She said, “You haven’t changed. It’s so good to see you again. Please sit down and have your breakfast.”
“Yeah,” said Robertson. “Show Miz Bacon here that you can chow down with the best.”
Buchanan bowed at the housekeeper, who responded by lifting one dark, thick eyebrow. Then she vanished to reappear with a silver tray loaded with eggs and hot cakes and syrup and sizzling bacon. Buchanan seated himself and began the serious business of filling his aching void.
Robertson said, “You note Claire’s manners and all? Sent her to the best schools. She took to it like a duck to water.” He beamed fondly upon his daughter.
“Now, Papa.” She had dimples, too, Buchanan saw. She addressed him, still smiling. “I was watching from upstairs when Cobber attacked you. You were wonderful.”
Her father said, “You shouldn’t look at sich things. By gum it cost me a herd of the finest beef to make a lady outa you. I just got to get you away from here to where there’s company fit for you.”
Over a forkful of food, Buchanan saw her jaw tighten, saw little lines appear on either side of her shapely mouth. To himself he said, All is not gold that glitters, eh?
“I have no wish to be elsewhere,” said Claire.
“You can’t go out in the sun without a bonnet,” Robertson said. “You’re just too delicate for this country.”
“I am not delicate.” Her chin hardened. “Please, Papa, let us not discuss it any longer.”
Robertson swallowed hard. “Yes, my darling. We ain’t in agreement, but you’re my pet, always and always.”
Her mouth relaxed, the smile, complete with dimples, reappeared. A calculating expression crept over the countenance of her father. He spoke to Buchanan.
“Old friend, how’d you like to roost here for a spell? Bring your black friend along. We got a spare room ready for any good ol’ boy, and he can sleep in the bunkhouse.”
Buchanan said, “Mighty nice of you. No, thanks.”
“There’s plenty huntin’ and fishin’.”
Buchanan said, “Truth to tell, I’m stayin’ with the Caseys.”
“You what? With sheep people?”
“Sheep people and nigras,” said Buchanan, riled. “That’s what it is, and I like it a heap.”
Claire said sweetly, “I think Mr. Buchanan is absolutely right. He knows who his friends are. Really, Papa!”
Robertson muttered, “It ain’t natural. A cowman.”
“Just think on it,” said Buchanan. “Coco among those men of yours? Why, he might damage them real bad.”
Robertson did not reply. Conversation died at the table. Buchanan ate enough to make Mrs. Bacon relax and give him a tiny smile of approval.
They repaired to the veranda. Robertson resumed with the whiskey, Buchanan politely declining. Claire had a dainty piece of material on which she was working with shiny needles. Her hands were strong and capable.
Robertson said, “I got a couple thousand head up here. It takes some doin’.”
“You’re keepin’ them close.” Beyond the outbuildings Buchanan could see a herd in green fields.
“Not all. I got men you ain’t seen ridin’ ’em.”
“Leased land?”
Robertson was evasive. “I lease from the gov’ment.”
“Casey has a lease, also.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Seems like the lines get erased sometimes.”
“Ain’t it always thataway?”
Buchanan asked, “Would you be willin’ to sit down with Casey and talk things over?”
“Confab with a sheep man? You loco, Buchanan?”
“He seems a right nice gent,” Buchanan said. “Talks pretty, like Miss Claire.”
She said, “Thank you. Miss Casey, I understand, actually carries a gun.”
“Miss Casey needs a gun when some men are around.”
“Like that breed that lives with ’em? Haw,” said Robertson.
Claire’s busy hands on the tatting stopped and her jaw again thrust forward. She said, “Papa, that is no way to talk.”
Buchanan said, “Peter Wolf? Seems like a nice enough feller.”
“I’m sure he is,” said Claire. Her voice was clipped and cold.
Robertson tossed off his drink, poured another. He said, “You ain’t insinuatin’ agin my boys now, are you?”
“It’s a rough country.” Buchanan strove to pass it off.
“Sheep are so smelly.” Claire smiled, but her hands were slow in regaining stride. “Stupid, too, aren’t they?”
“Like some people, they follow the leader,” Buchanan said. “Never was much for ’em myself.”
“But you’re takin’ up for the Caseys.” Robertson’s tone was testy, combative. “Don’t seem right to me, Buchanan. Maybe you got your eye on the gal.”
“Papa!”
Buchanan unfolded his length from the chair. “Well, I do thank you-all for the fine grub. I better be gettin’ along.”
Robertson snarled, “I ain’t settin’ down with no sheep people, man, woman, nor child. Tell that to your friends.”
“Sorry about that,” said Buchanan.
“They want a war, they’ll get a war.”
“They positively don’t want trouble of any kind,” Buchanan told him.
“Then let ’em take their goddam sheep elsewhere.”
“Papa!”
Buchanan said, “Good day, folks.” He walked down to where Nightshade patiently waited. Claire got up and tripped along beside him.
Her father yelled, “Good riddance to ye, sheep lover.”
“It’s the liquor,” the girl said. “Please forgive him.”
“No harm.” Buchanan looked down at her. Now her cheeks were flushed and her determination was plain to be seen. She said, “Peter Wolf. I’ve met him.”
“Uh-huh.” A dim light went on inside his head.
“Is there ... are he and Miss Casey ... involved?”
“My dear, I only met them yesterday.”
“I found him very ... interesting.”
“Uh-huh. Handsome feller.”
“Nice.” She paused, then said, “I’d like to know Miss Casey. After all, we’re about the same age. I mean she’s a couple of years older, maybe, but ... Papa would never consent.”
“Your papa purely hates sheep and those who run ’em.”
“What Papa doesn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.” Her chin was firm. “Supposing I were to visit you, an old friend? Tomorrow?”
“Well, I ain’t quite sure I’ll be there ... Get this straight, though—if I stay, it’ll be to help the Caseys out of a tight spot,” Buchanan said.
“I hope you do!”
“You sure?”
“I’m against killing sheep. I’m against fighting neighbors. I want us all to live in peace,” Claire told him.
“Uh-huh. In that case it’s up to you. No reason you can’t visit me at Casey’s place.”
“Thank you. I thought you were that kind of man. I remember the tales about you from when I was a child.”
Buchanan winced. The girl had been born a mere dozen years after him. “Well, thanks.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
He touched his hat brim and rode back toward the Casey place. Obviously there was more than Susan Casey’s friendship occupying the pretty head of Claire Robertson. It took little imagination, plus his observation, to conjure up the
image of Peter Wolf. It took no divination at all to know what would happen when Jake Robertson was confronted with the situation. There would be fire in the mountains.
Perhaps he should have discouraged the girl on two counts. There was what he had observed about Peter Wolf in regard to Susan Casey. He could not be certain on such short notice, but indications were that the half-breed’s attitude was more than brotherly love.
On the other hand he had not noted a warm response on the part of the girl. On the third hand, he reminded himself, it was none of his doggone business. In matters of romance he believed in freedom of choice, devil take the hindmost and several other philosophies better not thought on too hard.
If the girls did hit it off, maybe some good would come of it. Jake was a hidebound bigmouth but never had seemed an evil man. Shawn Casey was more than willing to have peace.
He put these thoughts in the back of his mind and rode across the plain with the notion of surveying the overall scene, of locating the flocks of sheep and their keepers. He always wanted to know the exact details of the terrain in which he was operating.
In the distance he could make out another herd of cattle. He unlimbered his old field glasses, won from a cavalry captain in a poker game long ago. These were crossbreeds with Hereford blood, finest of beef cattle. Horsemen guarded them, riding slowly, slouched in the saddle. He could see Dave Dare lounging beneath a tree.
He rode north. After several miles he found the sheep, a sea of wool, a cacophony of blatting, mewling noise. A single shepherd watched over them, but several dogs walked alertly about and among them. They were short-haired dogs, black and white, with sharp noses and alert ears.
A rider detached himself from the scene and rode toward Buchanan. In a moment he recognized Peter Wolf. They met and reined in.
“Buchanan,” Wolf greeted him.
“Peter Wolf.” This was to be a formal meeting, Buchanan sensed immediately.
“Are you staying?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On a lot of things. Like, can I get Casey and Robertson together? So far I’ve failed.”