Buchanan on the Prod (Prologue Western)

by Jonas Ward

  Pecos and Billy reined in, joined the watching.

  “That’s the way them critters look best to me,” Pecos said conversationally.

  “Can’t abide ’em myself,” Billy said. He inched his horse around, looked down into Buchanan’s face. “Howdy,” he said, his tone noncommittal.

  “Howdy,” Buchanan answered through parched lips. “Thanks for the hand.”

  “Just happened to be passin’ by,” Billy answered, his tone still guarded. “You get caught rustlin’, mister?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cheatin’ at cards?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe you raped some gal?” Pecos suggested. Buchanan shook his head slowly.

  “You musta done somethin’ serious,” Billy said suspiciously. “What was it?”

  “Lost an argument,” Buchanan said slowly, having to ration each breath. “Outfit called Big M.”

  “Well, hell’s bells!” Pecos said. “We just lost one our ownselves to Big M.”

  “Say, you ain’t the boy that—I’ll bet you just are,” Billy said, answering his own question. The comrades dismounted in the same moment, had the tall man free of his bonds and were carrying him between them into the shade within seconds. Pecos gave him water, and as the cool stuff worked its magic Buchanan’s whole face seemed to relax its stretched-tight look.

  “I might just have what the doctor ordered,” Billy said then, slipping a flask from beneath his shirt and uncorking it.

  “Why, you scudder!” Pecos said, eying the whisky. “Holdin’ out on me!”

  “I was goin’ to give you some come sundown,” Billy said. “Don’t I always divvy up?” Buchanan took a brief pull at the flask, was quick to return it. “Take some for the left side,” Billy urged generously. “You can use it, seems to me.”

  Buchanan’s glance thanked him and he took a second regenerating slug.

  “We’re Billy Rowe and Pecos Riley,” Billy introduced himself after that.

  “Tom Buchanan.”

  “I’m from Hondo,” Billy said. “Pecos is from San Antone.”

  “A city boy,” Pecos grinned. “Where you from, Buchanan?”

  “Alpine,” he said, and they exchanged a glance with each other.

  “Oh,” Billy said, “the Big Bend country. Is that all as wild around there as folks claim?”

  “It ain’t for sightseers,” Buchanan conceded.

  “I recollect my old pap,” Pecos said. “He’d say, ‘Pecos, you mind your manners, boy, or I’m gonna drop you inside the Big Bend and you’ll never be heard from again!’”

  “It could happen,” Buchanan said. “We even lose native borns from time to time. Fella left Alpine one morning when I was a kid. Going hunting, he told his wife, be back tomorrow. He got back tomorrow plus six months.”

  The other two laughed. “What are you doin’ around these parts, Buchanan?” Billy asked.

  “I was trying to pass through,” the big man said. “Destination north.”

  “Lucky thing for young Patton you happened by,” Pecos said.

  “Friend of yours?” “We worked a spell for his old man,” Pecos said. “Just got let go a couple hours ago.”

  “The war’s over?”

  “Over and done,” Pecos said.

  “Big M knew all along what it was fighting about,” Billy Rowe said, putting it into a nutshell. “Old Matt, he couldn’t ever get the hang of it.”

  “Always waitin’ to palaver with Malvaise,” Pecos put in. “Sit down and talk things over after dinner. Meantime, Malvaise is cuttin’ Spread Eagle to ribbons. Me, I’m grateful to be out with my skin.”

  “Likewise,” Billy said. “Buchanan, me and Pecos is ridin’ over to California to see what’s what. Glad to have you join us.”

  “California,” Buchanan said, remembering another time. “Sounds good. Maybe I’ll meet you over there.”

  “You don’t want to go now?”

  “No,” he said. “The way things are, I think I’ll go back along my trail a ways.” It was softly said, but Pecos and Billy were reduced to a long silence. Billy broke it.

  “Goin’ to take a personal crack at Big M?” he asked.

  “Can’t see any help for it now,” Buchanan said, idly rubbing his wrist. “They even took some money I’d worked hard to come by.”

  “There’s an awful lot of ’em, man,” Pecos warned.

  “Big M is crawlin’ with guns,” Rowe added. “Top guns, most of ’em.”

  “Be ridin’ back there just to commit your own suicide,” Pecos said with finality.

  “I guess,” Buchanan agreed. “But sooner that, if you know what I mean, than not ride back and have to go on living with myself.” The big man climbed slowly to his feet then, flexed his arms and back.

  “You ain’t even armed,” Billy pointed out.

  “No, I’ll have to tend to that somehow.”

  “Ain’t even dressed,” Pecos said.

  “My shirt’s up under those trees yonder,” he said. “And my saddle, I hope.”

  “Well, at least you got a horse,” Billy said, pointing to the roan nibbling at the brush. “You won’t have to walk back there to get yourself killed, anyways.”

  “That’s a comfort,” Buchanan said, grinning. “Well, thanks, boys. You really saved the bacon.”

  “Saved it, hell,” Pecos said. “We merely postponed it.”

  “Thanks, anyway,” Buchanan repeated and began moving away. He found his shirt and saddle, but the Winchester was gone and he added that to the bill against Big M. He brought the horse over, threw the rig on its back and swung aboard. With a casual wave of his arm to Riley and Rowe he took off at a purposeful lope toward Indian Rocks.

  “Loco,” Pecos commented. “That hombre is pure, plain loco.”

  “The Big Bend,” Billy said. “West damn Texas. What the hell makes them galoots tick, anyhow?”

  The roan carried Buchanan along the gently curving trail, feeling neither pushed nor spared, just firmly ridden by a man who had a definite destination in mind. The animal itself seemed to be caught by the new mood of seriousness, seemed well content to be about some business and finished with this aimless traveling. And with this new alertness of all its senses, it was. the horse that was aware of the obstruction coming in the opposite direction several seconds before Buchanan spied the lumbering old work wagon himself. Spied it and was about to make a detour along a gully when the wagon-driver abruptly stood up in his seat and began waving frantically.

  Buchanan recognized him as the stableboy from town, Robbie White, and rode on up to him quizzically.

  “They was wrong!” the twelve-year-old shouted happily. “Biggie Tragg never kilt you at all!”

  “Not all of me, boy,” Buchanan said. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

  “I—” Robbie started to say, then swallowed hard. “I come out to—bury you, mister. Tragg and Ruppert, they come in just before and bragged you was pegged out in the sun. I—I didn’t want to remember you like that.”

  Buchanan edged in close to the wagon, looked the boy full in his freckled, half-embarrassed face.

  “That was real thoughtful,” the man said, his voice a shade huskier than usual. He held out his huge hand and Robbie let his own be swallowed inside the warm grip. “I’m grateful to you for taking the trouble.”

  “Sure glad I wasn’t needed,” Robbie murmured, plainly overwhelmed by Buchanan’s man-to-man earnestness. “Shoulda known them two couldn’t take the likes of you.”

  “Oh, they took me,” Buchanan assured him. “Caught me cold in my blankets like a damn—like an innocent.”

  “How’d you get loose then?”

  “The devil looks after Texans,” Buchanan grinned. “He sent two others along my trail—though I’ll admit that Mr. Lucifer cut it just a little bit fine to suit yours truly …”

  “Hey, somebody’s comin’!” the sharp-eyed boy announced. “Comin’ to beat hell!”

  Buchanan swung h
is head sharply back that way, knew a moment of mingled anger and anxiety at his lack of weapons, then saw with great surprise that the ‘somebodys’ racing toward them at full gallop were the partners he had just bid adieu five minutes ago.

  Pecos and Billy recognized him at the same time, cut their speed but still arrived breathing hard.

  “You boys better buy a compass,” Buchanan greeted them. “California’s back that way a spell.”

  They each smiled sheepishly at the jibe, waited for the other to speak.

  “And where you hurryin’ to, anyhow?” Buchanan asked. “California’s a good week’s ride from here—once you get pointed in the right direction.”

  “We postponed our vacation, Billy and me,” Pecos said then. “Decided to visit some friends in Indian Rocks, instead. Same friends you got there, matter of fact.”

  “Thought your war with Big M was over?”

  “That was Spread Eagle’s war,” Billy said. “Now we’re enlistin’ in Big Bend Buchanan’s war. All right with you?”

  “You’re a couple of damn fools,” Buchanan said, “but it sounds just fine with me.”

  “Are you really?” Robbie White asked wide-eyed. “The three of you against Big M?”

  “It’ll be just the two of them, boy,” Buchanan said, “unless I can find some hardware hanging around.”

  “Your Colt’s in the Silver Queen,” Robbie told him. “That Biggie Tragg hung it behind the bar, along with your hat.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” Buchanan said, slapping the boy’s shoulder, his mobile face wreathed in a smile of anticipation. “I think I’ll just drop by the Silver Queen and redeem my goods. What do you say, Hondo and San Antone? Let’s ride.”

  Chapter Five

  BANKER AYLWOOD, his thin hand trembling, his horrorstricken eyes seeing Bart Malvaise for what he really was, dipped the nib of his ivory pen into the inkwell, handed it shakingly to Matt Patton. The other man’s fear helped Patton steel his own mind, gave him recourse to an inner strength, but even as he bent over the desk to sign away his ranch it was beyond his comprehension that so much utter ruthlessness could exist as he had just witnessed—that brute power, and cunning, and brazen lying could triumph over what was patently right, make a mockery of the law and justice that had been the mainstays of his own life. The Golden Rule had been his creed—to treat all men fairly, to expect all other men to treat him the same.

  “Sign the goddamn thing, old man,” Malvaise snarled down at him. “I need a drink!”

  “I expect you do, Bart,” Matt said quietly. “I expect you’ll need all the drinks you can get from now on.”

  “Just sign, you old fool, and keep your mouth shut! Go on, damnit!”

  Beaten, and feeling incredibly aged, Patton laid the pen to the paper—and as if that were a signal, all hell promptly began to break loose out on Trail Street. It started with a ringing shout, followed immediately by the roar of six-guns mingled with more shouting. One thing was immediately certain to those inside the bank—this was no horseplay going on. Guns were being fired in hot anger and deadly earnest.

  Biggie Tragg pulled the office door open, sprinted outside with Ruppert close behind. He was back in the office within ten seconds, his hard face a study in disbelief.

  “Somethin’s gone wrong, Bart,” he said to Malvaise.

  “Wrong? What do you mean?”

  “The drifter,” Tragg said woodenly. “He ain’t where we left him. He’s shootin’ up the street outside.”

  “Wheelin’ and dealin’,” Saul Ruppert added, impressed with what he had just glimpsed. “I counted four of our boys lyin’ around out there.”

  “Well, do something!” Malvaise shouted. “Go out and stop him!”

  “Yeh, sure,” Tragg answered, plainly not enthusiastic. It wasn’t cowardice but the natural instinct of a gunfighter who knows when his enemy has gotten the jump, when the momentum is on the other side. “Let’s go, Saul,” he said and the pair of them started outside again warily.

  • • •

  WHEN BUCHANAN, bareheaded and determined-looking, reentered Indian Rocks the town lay slumbering and deceptively peaceful in the hot sun. At the exact time of his arrival, in fact, Trail Street was empty from one end to the other.

  “Where’s the brass band?” Pecos Riley inquired, feigning disappointment.

  “Suits me as is,” Billy Rowe said. “I hope everybody’s havin’ a long siesta.”

  Buchanan said nothing, pulled in at the Silver Queen and dismounted with the air of a man on business. And as he went through the swinging doors those inside the cool, comfortably darkened saloon got the same impression. Sam Judd, about to lay down a poker hand, stared in surprise when he identified the newcomer and sat there holding the cards in mid-air. He still watched as the big man walked the length of the bar with an easy, confident stride, swung around behind it and went to the mirror. He retrieved his hat, set it on the back of his shaggy head, took down his gunbelt and unhurriedly buckled it around his slim waist.

  “Well, now,” Pecos said approvingly, “that’s some better.”

  “Clothes do make the man,” Billy agreed.

  The sheriff, for all his amazement, hadn’t failed to recognize the Spread Eagle gunhands nor note that they had been sharply watchful for any interference while the unarmed man recovered his goods. Judd had made the association, drawn a quick conclusion, and reminded himself that the Big M crew that Malvaise had invited into town were due very shortly. It was then that he glanced at his cards again, aces and eights, let them drop from his fingers and quickly stood up. Holding the dead man’s hand at this particular moment was all the warning that the prudent Sam Judd needed from Fate. With eyes straight ahead he began moving toward the doors.

  “Put your rump back in that chair, Sheriff,” he was told by a voice that was quiet enough but somehow made the hairs prickle along his spine. Judd halted, turned his head.

  “How’s that?” he asked, hoping he sounded neutral.

  “He means to set tight,” Billy explained, “and don’t go off carry in’ messages.”

  “Listen, boys,” Judd said, “you’d all three of you better light out for somewheres else. This place is gonna be swarmin’ with Big M in just about five minutes.”

  “Why?” Pecos asked.

  “‘Cause the war in Pasco County is all over,” Judd said. “Matt Patton’s at the bank right now with Bart Malvaise. And Bart’s treatin’ his crew to a celebration.”

  “Well, ain’t that thoughtful,” Billy said. “I think I’ll just include myself in on the freeloadin’. Mr. Bartender, set out a bottle of the best and charge it to Mr. Malvaise.” The barman, feeling big trouble coming, uncorked a quart, put it on the bar and ducked through the door into the kitchen.

  “Malvaise is at the bank, you say?” Buchanan asked Judd.

  “Settin’ the terms,” Judd answered.

  “And a couple of gents named Tragg and Ruppert. Where might they be right now?”

  “Biggie and Saul are with Malvaise,” Judd told him.

  “Protectin’ him from old Matt Patton, no doubt,” Pecos put in, watching Buchanan thoughtfully reload his Colt, spin the cylinder and lock it back into the breech. He checked his own piece then, and Billy Rowe followed suit.

  “If you got in mind what I think you do,” the sheriff said to Buchanan, “you better forget it. Big M is ridin’ this way right now.”

  “To celebrate,” Buchanan said, smiling, holstering the Colt and moving to Billy’s side. “Don’t mind if I do,” he told him and Rowe poured out two inches that Buchanan tossed off with a swallow. “I’m off to the bank,” he said then. “Want to repay a loan.”

  “Got a deposit to make myself,” Billy said. “Or a withdrawal,” he added fatalistically, falling in beside Pecos as Buchanan led the way back out of the saloon. Buchanan stepped out into the bright sunlight, spotted the bank building and started in that direction when the attention of all three Texans was taken by the noisy clatter of
many horses. They swung their heads to see the cocky-looking Big M contingent pouring into Indian Rocks from the opposite direction.

  “Let’s get the bank business attended to first,” Buchanan suggested and continued on that way. But Sam Judd had also come out of the saloon, cautiously, and when he saw the oncoming riders he began hurrying to meet them, shouting loudly as he went.

  “Stop them rannies!” he bawled to the Big M party, pointing downstreet toward Buchanan and friends. “They’re fixin’ to kill Malvaise at the bank!”

  “Damnation!” Pecos growled. “Something told me I should’ve plugged that blabbermouth!”

  “Oversight,” Buchanan agreed, turned around to give full attention to the mounted men. “Good luck to you, boys.”

  Three of the Big M who heard the sheriff’s warning were pounding toward them now. One of the riders shouted an order.

  “Hold on there, you! This is Big M!”

  “To hell with Big M!” Buchanan shouted back, drawing, firing, blasting the bravo out of his stirrups.

  “War declared,” Billy Rowe murmured, winging the second of the advance guard. Both Pecos and Buchanan hit the third man, knocked the life out of him. A second wave came sailing in, guns ablaze. Billy Rowe gave a grunt, spun around holding his side. He steadied himself on one knee, emptied his .45 into the man who had wounded him, calmly reloaded as slugs whistled past his head, chewed up the dirt all around.

  Buchanan chalked up a third, heard Death shriek in his own ear as a sizzling chunk of lead singed the brim of his hat. Pecos got his second kill, and now both of them pumped fresh ammo into their hot Colts while Billy fired away.

  But the seven who made up the rest of the Big M force took evasive action. They had seen the first two assaults blunted, to put it mildly, and the sight of so many recent bunkmates littering Trail Street was sobering. So instead of coming in to meet that fiercely concentrated firepower themselves, the remainder spread out, some dismounting, and taking cover in the Silver Queen, some withdrawing back up the street to get a second wind and talk things over.

  For it was, as one of them groused, a hell of a note to be invited by the boss to a blowout, to be told hostilities were over, then to run smack into the hottest action since the war between the ranches began.