Buchanan on the Prod (Prologue Western)

by Jonas Ward

  BUCHANAN

  On the Prod

  Jonas Ward

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  THIS IS MAN-SIZE COUNTRY, Buchanan thought admiringly. I wonder where I am.

  He guessed—or hoped—that he was out of Sonora, although the few structures he had seen along the trail were still Spanish in design. And the last human beings he had viewed were a party of Mexicans traveling south in expensive buggies. But that was at least two days ago, maybe three, and the big man was sure he had crossed by now into the good old friendly U.S. of A.

  Just plain damn foolishness going back down there again in the first place, Buchanan told himself for the hundredth time as he jogged along. No more brains than a colt to let that Gomez scudder sell you a bill of goods about the big revolution. Help free the poor peons. Help knock over the bully boys. Help liberate the million in gold that old Santa Ana had stashed away back in ’48.

  The spellbinding, fiery-eyed Senor Gomez even had Santa Ana’s diary, plus a cryptic map, to show where the million was cached. Under the main altar in the church at Magdalena. And maybe it had been, but Gomez, Buchanan and friends were obviously a little late getting into the hideout. All that digging and hauling. Practically took the church down, stone by stone, before Gomez would admit defeat. And that seemed to cool him considerably toward the poor peons and overthrowing the government. Buchanan, in fact, had all he could do to hold onto the three hundred he’d been advanced to join the holy crusade.

  Imagine that treacherous son jumping sides, sicking the whole goddamn Sonora army on him, coming within a cat’s whisker of getting him stood up against a wall south of Nogales? The man’s dirty betrayal, and all for a measly three hundred, had jolted Buchanan’s faith pretty badly. Not to mention making him a little edgy about the narrow squeak with the firing squad.

  Well, no matter now. The three hundred was safe in his kick, there was one less Gomez alive in the world, and he was back in the States, among his own, where a man could breathe the good free air and not have to look over his shoulder every minute to prevent a knife in the ribs …

  Crack!

  The sound of the rifle and the snarl of the deadly slug were as one. Not from behind, either. From the side. And bearing down on him from a rock cluster, with the still-smoking gun leveled menacingly, was a scowling, obviously unfriendly fellow-American.

  Buchanan, whose Colt was wrapped in his saddle roll for comfort’s sake, whose Winchester was buttoned down in its boot against weather and dust, marked the approach of the hostile rider with what was considerable detachment—all things considered. He was thinking, charitably, that it was a case of mistaken identity. Or maybe the rifleman was drunk. The last thing that would have occurred to the just-returned tourist from Mexico was that he had followed the San Pedro River right smack into the middle of the bloody Pasco County War.

  But he had, and the man who had sniped a shot at him was a fighter in it—except that the nearer he got the less ominous and warlike he looked. Young, Buchanan noted, with a boyish face that would be more natural laughing than frowning. Young and jittery, and holding the rifle as though he weren’t too familiar with it. But, Buchanan also noted, the hammer was full-cocked and ready to blow a hole through his chest.

  You ask me, Buchanan thought, this pup’d be more at home doing ranch work than earning gun wages.

  “Set still and don’t try nothin’!” the younger man ordered from twenty feet, which fit Buchanan’s intentions to a T. At six feet the rifle-toter halted, peered intently up at the huge figure with the weather-beaten, battle-scarred face towering above him.

  Godalmighty! Terry Patton murmured reverently to himself, his own wiry sixfootedness suddenly frail and puny. But the more Terry tried to sit there and stare down those calm, ice-blue eyes, the more he realized that the rannihan’s size was only one of the things he had going in his favor. There was a wildness in him, a natural kinship with violence, and though he respected the authority of the .30-30 aimed at him, he showed not one iota of fear.

  Buchanan would have downgraded this estimate somewhat. He didn’t consider himself any wilder than any other West Texan. And as for ramstamming, he took a back seat compared to some of the boys who had come abooming out of the Big Bend country to raise merry hell. But he sure did “respect” the primed rifle staring him in the gut and he sure wished the kid would stop fidgeting around with his trigger finger. For if this was his day for the adios he wanted it to be on purpose and not some damn fool accident. Buchanan had enough pride to feel he was owed that much—certainly from a fellow-American in the good old friendly U.S. of A.

  Not afraid at all, Terry Patton thought wonderingly. Godalmighty, what makes these hired gunfighters tick? Where does a dirty, lowdown skunk like Bart Malvaise get a man like this to do his work for him? Why can’t Dad hire the likes of this hombre to side us? If a gunslinger knew the rights and wrongs of the war he couldn’t possibly … Ah, hell, Terry told himself, who are you kidding? It’s the money. All they care about is the money.

  The last thought angered him, made him sharply aware of the heavy toll of human life that Malvaise’s Big M had taken against his father’s innocent, inexperienced crew of cowpunchers in the past six months, the wanton slaughter of Spread Eagle’s stock, the naked reign of terror that Malvaise had let loose in Pasco County. Terry straightened in his saddle, laid the rifle butt against his shoulder and remembered that he had asked to be posted out here just for the purpose of cutting down any Big M gunmen he could get in his sights.

  Buchanan read the purpose but couldn’t guess at the reason why he was about to die. The kid didn’t have the mad-dog look to him, he thought, and he certainly wasn’t any likkered-up bravo. Sure is a disappointment all around, he told himself with what he believed would be his last thought in this life. A disappointment not to know why …

  “Why ain’t you armed?” Terry Patton asked abruptly, his voice tight with emotion. He had just noticed the absence of a hand-gun, the covered Winchester in the boot.

  “Sure wish I was,” Buchanan answered ruefully.

  “Well, why ain’t you?”

  Buchanan’s generous mouth curved in a wry grin and his gaze bore steadily into Terry’s strained face. He spoke not a word but Terry got the message in letters ten feet high. If I had a gun, sonny boy, this wouldn’t even be a contest.

  “Malvaise figures my Dad is licked, does he?” Terry asked then, his tone defiant. “Thinks he’s knocked the fight out of Spread Eagle?”

  “You still seem to have some vinegar left,” Buchanan commented.

  “You bet I have! And plenty of lead for the likes o’ you and any other Big M gunslingers I come across!”

  “You’ll be wasting it on my hide,” Buchanan told him easily. “I never heard of Big M.”

  “Don’t hand me that!”

  “I hand you nothing, boy,” Buchanan said. “Hell, me and this horse don’t even know where we’re at.”

  “Where you’re at?” Terry scoffed.

  “Well,” Buchanan said, “by now I kind of suspicion I’ve crossed over into Arizona Territory. Apparently picked a poor time to visit, though.”

  Young Terry watched the big man narrowly, his own expression turned into a question mark.

&nb
sp; “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Buchanan.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Last address was Nogales. Call Alpine, West Texas home.”

  “And where you bound for?”

  “North of Nogales,” Buchanan grinned. “The norther the better.”

  “You’re on the dodge from Mex law?” “Son, I’m on the dead run.”

  “For doin’ what?”

  “Oh, one thing and another,” Buchanan said lightly. “Nothing real serious.”

  “And you ain’t here in Pasco County to fight for Bart Malvaise?”

  “Nope.”

  “How’d you like to take a job with Spread Eagle? Gun wages?”

  “How far away is Sonora?”

  “Thirty miles to the border.”

  “Too close,” Buchanan said, shaking his head. “Thanks just the same.”

  “We could use a good man,” Terry persisted.

  “Go duck behind that rock some more,” Buchanan suggested helpfully. “Maybe one’ll ride by that ain’t spoken for.”

  “Everybody’s spoken for,” Terry said glumly. “Mostly by Big M.”

  “World is full of trouble, seems like,” Buchanan said neutrally. “If it’s all the same to you, son, I’ll be riding on.”

  “Yeh, sure,” Terry said, his manner despondent. “Good luck to you.”

  “Same to you, son,” Buchanan said, wheeling the roan and riding off. Close call, he told himself. Must be in a kind of a phase, like they say. Get suckered by Gomez, get nearly killed, jump right from that frying pan damn near into the fire. Thinking about it reminded him of a gypsy woman who had read his palm at a fair in Abilene couple years back. He remembered her saying that bad luck had a way of coming in threes, that if you got by the third you could count on a little good luck for a while.

  His glance was attracted by dust being raised off to the right and now he made out four riders in the distance, moving along rather purposefully—and at an angle that would bring them to the area where he had just been intercepted by the rifleman.

  Friends of the kid’s? Buchanan wondered. Or a war party from that Big M spread he was worried about? The world sure is full of trouble, he thought again, and this little corner of it seems to be having its full share. Buchanan squeezed the roan’s belly, urging it a notch faster, as if he knew what he was going to hear back there and was hoping to get out of earshot.

  He didn’t. The staccato gunfire sounded sharp and clear in the dry air. Another round. Forget it, Buchanan, forget it, he told himself. Don’t go looking for that number three …

  But four of them, a second voice nagged. And that kid hardly dry behind the ears. Bet he ain’t been shaving more’n couple of years.

  Buchanan swung the big horse in a tight circle, gave its belly a businesslike squeeze and headed back at a full gallop, unbuttoning the Winchester as he went.

  The pattern of the skirmish was already set. The kid was pinned behind the rocks. Two of his attackers kept him there with a murderous crossfire while the other pair had fanned out to the sharply rising hill above the rocks and were going to pour it to him from there in another few moments. The kid’s answering fire was sporadic, uneven, and Buchanan guessed from that that the boy was hit, that he was having trouble just keeping the fight alive.

  Buchanan announced himself with a harmless shot into the sunny blue sky overhead. One of the Big M riders twisted around in surprise, fired in dead earnest. The roan, having no orders to do otherwise, plunged on at full speed. Buchanan spotted the Big M man a second shot at a hundred feet, halved the distance between them and triggered the Winchester. The big slug caught the man in the chest, blew him clean out of the saddle. The fellow’s partner got off a wild and startled shot at the relentlessly charging intruder, took a slug in return that broke his elbow, knocked his rifle to the ground. Howling with pain, the man wheeled, high tailed it for home.

  Buchanan was glad to see him go. He dismounted, made his way on foot to the cluster of rocks. He found the beseiged, dazed-eyed kid kneeling there, his shirtfront soaked with blood, more blood pouring from a bullet crease along the temple.

  “Flat on your back, boy,” Buchanan ordered. “And lie still.” Terry Patton was just barely on this side of consciousness, just barely able to undertand. He lay down and closed his eyes, beyond caring what happened next. Buchanan did, and he turned his immediate attention to the pair working their way to the vantage point above.

  But those two had stopped maneuvering a full minute ago. They could look down on Buchanan clear enough, and the prone Terry. Also at the dead man sprawled in the dust nearby, the other member of their party making himself scarce down the trail. The dead one was Lafe Hupp, who just last night in town had been bragging about his bulletproof luck. The hightailer was Hamp Jones, who was supposed to be directing this little fight. And this, they decided, might just not be their day. They turned and beat a retreat around the side of the hill.

  Buchanan fed the boy some water from his canteen, got the shirt off him and fashioned a bandage of sorts with his kerchief that helped plug the gaping hole in his stomach.

  “Where’s home, boy?” he asked the softly moaning Terry. “Which way?”

  “Spread Eagle,” Terry murmured weakly. “Due west …”

  Buchanan carried him to his horse, draped him gently across the saddle, mounted his own and started in that direction. It was slow going under a hot sun, and a full hour passed before Buchanan spotted the first sign of ranch buildings. Then a sign: SPREAD EAGLE RANCH, MATT PATTON, OWNER, NO TRESPASSERS. He had just ridden past the sign when he was hailed by an excited shout from the rear. Turning, he found three riders bearing down hard.

  “What’s happened here? Good Lord, it’s the boss’s son!”

  “Oh, God, no! Not young Terry!”

  “Where’d you find him, mister? Is he dead?”

  “He took on four of them back there a ways,” Buchanan said, “and he’s pretty bad off.” One of the riders, a sad-eyed old puncher, took the reins from Buchanan’s fingers, began leading Terry’s horse at a faster pace toward the ranch house. The other two raced ahead to alert the house and get a bed prepared.

  Frank Riker, the haggard-eyed, hard-pressed young foreman of Spread Eagle, helped carry Terry inside, examined him quickly and confirmed to Matt Patton that his son was still alive, but barely. Riker ordered a hand to set out immediately for Indian Rocks, bring Doc Lord back to the ranch without delay. Then the ramrod swung to the other three riders.

  “All right,” he said, “what’s the story? Where’d you find him?”

  “We don’t know,” old Chris Jenson answered. “The stranger brought him in.”

  “What stranger?”

  “The big jasper,” Jenson said, looking around, then moving to the bedroom window. Buchanan was a disappearing dot heading north along the trail.

  Chapter Two

  AND JUST AS WELL their good Samaritan is gone, Frank Riker thought wearily. Spread Eagle neither had the time nor the energy to extend the kind of gratitude that Matt Patton would have felt was due the stranger for his help. Time and energy, in fact, had just about run out for this ranch that six short months ago had been the very model of a peaceful, prosperous, smooth-running cattle operation.

  But six months ago they had had a good neighbor named John Malvaise. A good neighbor and good friend who made the round-up a joint affair between Big M and Spread Eagle, who kept his fences mended, who returned strays as promptly as his own were returned to him—who had shaken Matt Patton’s hand twenty years ago and guaranteed Spread Eagle eternal right-of-way across The Strip to the water and winter graze in Lower Valley.

  Matt Patton had been John Malvaise’s best man. John Malvaise had been Terry Patton’s godfather. The two men had shared each other’s grief when each became a widower, stood together in the lean years, celebrated in the good years, fought together against rustlers, against Apaches, against Mexican raiders who couldn’t get used to
the idea of Arizona Territory as part of the U.S.

  They also played poker together, every Friday night in Indian Rocks with Doc Lord, Bob Brumby, Judge Bonner and other good friends of long standing. And on a Friday night six months ago John Malvaise had been killed and robbed on his way back from town.

  And as if that wasn’t tragedy enough for Matt Patton to bear, Malvaise’s adopted son, Bart, compounded the man’s grief by publicly accusing Matt of having ordered the murder committed to avoid paying off a thousand-dollar poker debt that he claimed the Spread Eagle owner owed his father.

  The story wasn’t true, and, in fact, not a person in Pasco County believed it to be. They all knew Bart Malvaise as a dark-browed, brooding, hard-drinking malcontent, the one mistake John Malvaise had made in his life when he made Bart his son and sole heir thirty years ago. The real parents had been an eastern couple, down-and-outers bound for California when their wagon train was attacked by Apaches. Big M riders had brought in the few survivors of the massacre and John Malvaise had kept the infant among them in hopes that it would comfort his wife who had just miscarried.

  Sally Malvaise had lingered on in frail health till the boy was five, and after her death John had had the continuing problem of raising a son who proved with each passing year that he was a born incorrigible and troublemaker.

  That was Bart Malvaise, and his first aggressive act as owner of Big M was to fence in The Strip, bar Spread Eagle’s passage to the vital grass down in Lower Valley and import gunmen to ride the line day and night.

  Matt Patton, still reeling from the shock of being accused of his old friend’s murder, had turned down his foreman’s advice to fight fire with fire, to bring in a guncrew of their own and ram a herd across The Strip. A mild-mannered, courtly man with an old Virginia background, Patton had decided instead to settle the sudden and bewildering dispute with soft words and appeasement. He had taken the familiar journey to Big M only to have the humiliation of being turned away and threatened by hard-faced, surly-voiced gunmen.