Buchanan on the Prod (Prologue Western)

by Jonas Ward

  Buchanan walked up to him. “Got another one for your collection, Billy. Up against the wall, Malvaise.”

  “Wondered where he was,” Billy grunted.

  Frank Riker came over. His face was split by as big a smile as Buchanan had ever seen him wear. “Looks like everything’s tidied up, Buchanan. Mr. Patton will sure be grateful for this. Couldn’t have worked out better.”

  Buchanan shrugged off the praise. Pointing to the sullen, glowering Malvaise, he said, “What are we gonna do to this one?”

  “We’ll bring all the prisoners over to Spread Eagle,” Riker said. “That’s Mr. Patton’s orders. Not that I’d mind working Malvaise over with a Bowie knife myself, but I won’t go against the boss. We’ll load ’em on that wagon.”

  “Right,” Buchanan said. He glanced at Billy. “Where’s Pecos?”

  “They took him back to Spread Eagle already.”

  “He hurt bad?” Buchanan asked, knowing the answer from the stricken look on the gunslinger’s face.

  Billy said tightly, “We’ll make these bastards here dig his grave.”

  Buchanan cursed quietly. There was no use going into hysterics. The dead were dead.

  “A damn shame,” Buchanan said in a soft voice. “He was a good man, that one. Pity to use up a Texan on a bunch of trash like these.”

  In silence, they loaded the tight-mouthed prisoners aboard the wagon and set out for Spread Eagle. The sun was up by the time they arrived. It was a glorious morning, with the sky blue and cloudless. Matt Patton was waiting on the porch of his house. Buchanan leaped down from the wagon and Patton came toward him, hand outstretched.

  “Buchanan, I don’t know how I can ever thank you for what you’ve done for us yesterday and today. You’ve saved me from utter ruin.”

  “Wasn’t my intention to get mixed up in any local wars, Mr. Patton. Just happened that somebody rubbed me the wrong way. What do you want us to do with Malvaise?”

  “Bring him inside. I’ll talk to him in my study.”

  Malvaise’s face was a study in bleak bitterness as Buchanan herded him into the house. He and Frank Riker walked Malvaise up into the book-lined study of the Spread Eagle owner.

  Matt Patton said quietly, “Bart, you ought to be glad that you’re you and I’m me. Because if the tables were turned, if I treated you the way you’d probably treat me, you’d be a dead man now.”

  “If you’re gonna kill me, do it and get it over with,” Malvaise said sullenly.

  “Didn’t you understand what I just said? There’s to be no killing.

  Frank Riker said, “Mr. Patton, you don’t want to be too lenient with this sonofabitch.”

  “Quiet, Frank. I’m not a vindictive man. And even though he’s hurt me cruelly, I won’t repay him in kind.” He looked at Malvaise. “Bart, what I want from you is very simple. I want you to leave Pasco County, and I don’t want you ever to come back here.”

  Malvaise’s shifty eyes held evident relief. “What about my ranch?” he said hoarsely.

  Patton nodded. “Your holdings, Bart, will be placed in the hands of Mr. Aylward of the bank, as receiver. He’ll sell them to the highest bidder.”

  “Meaning you, for ten bucks.”

  Patton shook his head angrily. “The auction will be conducted openly and fairly,” he snapped. “If I can afford to buy your lands, I will. Otherwise someone else will take them over. In any case, the proceeds will be forwarded to you, wherever you may be.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that?” Malvaise sneered.

  Frank Riker started to lunge at him, to wipe the sneer off his face, but Patton waved his ramrod back. “I don’t blame you for mistrusting me, Bart. You probably think every human being’s as warped and crooked as you are. But the answer is you’ll have to trust me. I’m not interested in swindling you. I’m only interested in getting you out of Pasco County and turning this place once again into territory fit for decent people to live in. Will you agree to my terms?”

  “What choice is there?” Malvaise asked. “Sure, I agree. How soon do you want me to leave?” “If you aren’t out of the county by nine o’clock this morning,” Patton said, “I’ll give my men orders to shoot you on sight.”

  Hatred flickered in Malvaise’s eyes, but he suppressed the flare quickly.

  “I’ll be gone by nine,” he said.

  Chapter Nine

  THE FIRST THING that was on Buchanan’s mind was some more breakfast. He had already put away a fair-sized steak, but that had been a couple of hours back, and he had had plenty of exercise since then. Besides, it was coming around to his normal breakfasting time, and his stomach wasn’t paying any attention at all to the steak that had reached it at half-past four in the morning. His stomach was telling him that it was the usual time for a feed, and how about it?

  Matt Patton laughed and sent word to the cook for some grub for the big gunnie. Buchanan lounged in a leisurely fashion around the big house, waiting for the breakfast gong to sound off.

  Dolly Dupré came up to him. She was wearing some sort of housecoat over her nightgown, and it clung nicely to the ample curves of her body. But she looked pale and drawn.

  “I’ve been so worried about you, Buchanan,” she said. “All the time you were over there at Big M.”

  Buchanan shrugged. “Looks like the worrying was for nothing, huh? You should’ve been worryin’ less about me and harder for poor Pecos. His luck kind of ran out.”

  “It could have been you!”

  “Well, could have. But wasn’t,” Buchanan said. He smiled easily. “You all ready to head for California today, Miss Dolly?”

  “Today? Why—you’re getting out of here so quickly?”

  “Got other places to see, other fish to fry. Done about all that was asked of me here.”

  “Except one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You didn’t kill Bart Malvaise,” Dolly said vehemently.

  Buchanan shrugged. “I had no cause to kill him, Miss Dolly. He never did me anything wrong personal.”

  Dolly shook her head. “He’s a dangerous man. You had the chance to eliminate him, and you didn’t take it. How do you know he won’t make more trouble in this county once you’re gone?”

  “It’s a risk,” Buchanan said lightly. “But he looked beat this morning. He’ll probably take off for the north and keep running till he gets to Canada. Anyway, I’m on my way today. You with me?”

  “I’ll have to go into Indian Rocks and do some shopping. I’ll need traveling clothes.”

  “Stores won’t be open for another hour, I guess.”

  Matt Patton approached at this point. Putting one hand affectionately on the big man’s shoulder, he said, “Your steak’s waiting for you, Buchanan.”

  “Good deal.” The soft-spoken giant rose. He said, “This young lady wants to go into town this morning to buy some duds. Think you could help out with transportation?”

  “I’ll have Herb drive her in,” Patton said.

  “And then,” continued Buchanan, “I guess we’ll be leaving you soon as she gets back from town.”

  Patton frowned. “Leaving us, Tom? I wish you’d change your mind about that. We’ve got room for a man like you here. Even with Malvaise driven out of the county, we’d need you badly.”

  Buchanan shook his head as he and Patton headed toward the kitchen. “Sure would like to help you out,” Buchanan said apolgetically. “But it’s my idea to move on a little more to the north. I’m on the prod, not looking to settle down. Especially this close to the border.”

  “I could pay you well.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Patton. The answer’s no.”

  Sighing, Patton said, “Well, obviously your mind’s made up, and I won’t try to coax you any more. You’ve done a wonderful job for us here. I tell you, Tom, any time you get through drifting and decide you want a permanent position, we’ve got one for you here. You can name your own price. Just drop in whenever you want—next month, next year, f
ive years—and say, ‘Hello, there. I came back to take that job you were holding for me.’ It’ll be there waiting for you.”

  “I sure appreciate that offer, Mr. Patton,” Buchanan said sincerely. “I’ll aim to keep it in mind.”

  The steaks were on the table, waiting for him. He cut his way through the thick pink flesh, finding that he was even hungrier than he had expected. The whisky helped to wash the food down. A heap of hashed potatoes was set down in front of him. He went to work on those. A little while later, there were some griddle cakes.

  The stitches over his wound were itching some. He scratched them absent-mindedly. By today he would be fit to ride without fear of opening them up, he decided. He glanced out the window. A bright clear day, good for resuming his travels. And pretty Miss Dolly to keep him company on the long dreary stretches between here and the coast. That wouldn’t be so bad at all, Buchanan thought.

  Pity he couldn’t stay on here, he reflected. The Pattons were good people, and this was fine country. Specially with the lice like Malvaise heading out of it. But he couldn’t stay on. He wasn’t ready to tie himself into another job just yet. And he wanted to put a lot more space than this between him and the border. Besides, he had promised Miss Dolly to take her safe to her home.

  He finished his meal at last and leaned back, satisfied with everything. Miss Dolly had been gone close to an hour, now. Shouldn’t take her much longer to pick out her traveling togs, and then they could get started. Meantime, Buchanan told himself, it was high time he got his own gear assembled and made sure the roan was ready to get moving.

  He headed up to the bedroom they had given him and busied himself with his gear. Ten minutes later, there was a shout from down below. Buchanan looked out the window and saw a Spread Eagle buggy come driving into the yard at top speed. Little Herb Henry let go of the reins and staggered down from the buggy. His shirt was stained bright red.

  “Malvaise!” he yelled. “He held up the bank! Shot Mr. Aylward—Miss Dolly—”

  Buchanan didn’t hesitate. He sprang down the stairs and out into the yard. Others came running from all sides—Frank Riker, Matt Patton, Billy Rowe.

  Buchanan got an arm around the little cowhand and propped him up. His wound looked worse than it actually was; he had been winged through the fleshy part of his left arm, nailing a vein and letting loose a lot of blood without doing any grave damage to the bones or muscles. His face was beaded with sweat, his eyes glassy and terrified.

  “Here,” Frank Riker said, putting a flask to Herb’s lips. “Wrap yourself around some of this.”

  The mild-mannered cowhand took a long slug, grinned wanly, and said, “Th-thanks. I needed that.”

  “What happened?” Matt Patton asked.

  “It was Malvaise,” Herb said in a feeble voice. “He and a couple of his gunmen were in town when we got there. They held up the bank—I think they killed Mr. Aylward—and when they came out, they saw us. Malvaise took a shot at me. Then he saw Miss Dolly, and—and—” He nodded toward the back of the buggy. “Killed her instantly. Then they ran away. I got back here fast as I could.”

  Letting go of Herb, Buchanan mounted the buggy and peered inside. There was Dolly Dupré, propped up against one of the seats. Her eyes were closed, her face chalk white, and the front of her dress was covered with blood. Buchanan ripped the frock apart. The bullet, he saw, had passed slantwise right between the full mounds of her bosom, had cut her heart in two and passed out her back. She had been dead within a second of Malvaise’s shot, Buchanan figured.

  Scowling darkly, the soft-spoken giant stepped down from the buggy. Matt Patton looked up at him questioningly.

  “She won’t be going to ‘Frisco after all,” Buchanan said quietly. He balled his fists, and his slow-burning constitution started to heat up. “I should have plugged that bastard when I had the chance.”

  “It’s my fault, Tom,” Patton said. “We had him right here, and I was fool enough to think he’d clear straight out of town without making trouble.”

  Hooves sounded. Another Spread Eagle man rode into the yard on a panting horse. He bore further details of the robbery in Indian Rocks.

  “It was Malvaise and Stix Larson and Lou Nash,” the man said. “They marched right into the bank and shot Mr. Aylward down in cold blood. Then they cleaned out the bank. Upwards of fifty thousand dollars was taken, somebody said. There isn’t a nickel left in the safe.”

  Buchanan gaped in sudden realization of the loss he had suffered. “Why, the backstabbin’ varmint,” he muttered. “He got away with my thousand dollars!”

  “And killed two innocent people,” Matt Patton said.

  “He had no call to steal my money,” Buchanan muttered. He turned to Patton. “I’m going to take off after him right now. It’s more than high time that somebody chopped that particular rattler down to size.”

  • • •

  IT WASN’T HARD to pick up Malvaise’s trail. Buchanan rode quickly into Indian Rocks and got the full story from the bartender at the Silver Queen.

  “It only took a couple of minutes,” the man said. “I saw the whole thing. Bart and Stix and Lou come walkin’ up the street like they own it, and they walk into the bank, side by side. Like they was goin’ to make a deposit. Next minute there’s a shot, and the three of them come right out again, just when the buggy from Spread Eagle pulls up. That pretty little girl stands up to say something, and Malvaise plugs her without even blinking an eye. Then he takes a potshot at the driver and they skedaddle.”

  “Which way they go?”

  “Heading out on the northwest route. I figure they might be cutting for Nevada or somewhere.”

  Buchanan nodded. “Thanks for the information.” He dropped a silver dollar on the counter and went out.

  A confused crowd was still milling around in front of the bank, rehashing the episode. The body of the banker had already been removed. The bank guard had been knocked unconscious. And the safe had been cleared.

  Mounting his roan, Buchanan took off on the high road out of Indian Rocks. He was fighting mad, now. There was no reason to go killing women. And as for stealing a thousand bucks that Tom Buchanan had earned by his own sweat and blood, well, Buchanan didn’t aim to let any two-legged man get away with a low stunt like that.

  He didn’t need to urge the roan on. The wonderful beast seemed to know that Buchanan was angry and in a hurry, and it moved like a greased streak of lightning, its hooves blurring as it forged onward. The trail thinned out some, turning into a narrow winding affair running through diminishing stands of pine, and Buchanan knew he’d be reaching the desert again soon. The last time he’d been out this way, he had decided to lay over for the day and let the sizzling heat go down. But there wasn’t time for such luxuries now.

  The timber had just about given out, and he could see the yellow-brown baked expanse of desert not too far ahead of him, when he made an interesting discovery.

  The body of Lou Nash.

  It was lying folded up in a little slope to the left of the trail. Buchanan dismounted and took a look at the body. Nash had been shot from behind, at a distance of maybe five feet. The slug had ripped through him and had damn near taken his ribs out. Buchanan could picture how it had happened. A whispered decision between Larson and Malvaise. Fifty thousand divided by two was a lot sweeter than the same split three ways. And Nash wasn’t anybody much, anyway. So the two conspirators had dropped back a pace, and Malvaise, or maybe Larson, had quietly drawn and blasted Nash off his horse. Most likely Nash never knew what had hit him.

  It fitted in with everything else Buchanan had seen Malvaise do. He was just the man to drygulch a partner. Buchanan found Nash’s horse wandering by itself a few hundred feet ahead. He turned the animal back toward town and slapped its rear, hoping it would find its way to civilization and not wander the wrong way out onto the desert.

  Then he continued on.

  The timber gave out, now. Miles of desert stretched before him. Buch
anan checked his water supply, then started moving. Nobody much had been this way in the past week or two, and it wasn’t long before Buchanan picked up two sets of tracks which could only have been made by Malvaise and Larson a few hours back.

  Buchanan kept going until the roan showed definite signs of tiring. By that time, the tracks had led him to a rusty little water-hole. He settled down in the blazing midday sun to get a little rest. Buchanan sprawled out in the sun, getting what shade he could out of a gnarled juniper that looked about three thousand years old. After a while, he remounted and took off again.

  It was late afternoon, and he had gone through some sawtoothed naked hills, before the desert began to look a trifle hospitable again. Buchanan came to a dried-out river bed, and followed the tracks until the river bed came to life again, a trickle of water bubbling up from underground. There was some sage growing there, and a bit of scrawny grass, and soon enough Buchanan was back in pine country.

  The sun was dropping fast, now. He kept going till it was dark, then stopped and pegged himself down for the night. There was some dried meat in his saddlebag, enough to keep his stomach from groaning too much, thought it was a far cry from the juicy steaks he’d been dining on in the morning. He slept like a rock. When the sun burst like a rocket about half-past five the next morning, Buchanan awakened at once. Inside of fifteen minutes, he was back on the trail.

  The second day was a long and dull one. The roan was doing its damnedest to keep to the pace Buchanan wanted, but the poor creature was close to exhaustion. If Buchanan could have carried the roan the rest of the way on his back, he would have. Failing that, the only alternative was to stop frequently for rest. Buchanan chafed at that. Malvaise and Larson were probably miles away, getting further every minute. But the animal had been loyal and good, and he wasn’t minded to ride it to death.

  The sun was beginning to drop a bit when the first hints of a town appeared. An outlying barn or two, then a little clump of houses, and next thing Buchanan knew he was in a town just about the size of Indian Rocks. A sign in bleary, faded letters said, WELCOME TO PINEWOOD. Buchanan tipped his hat to it. After two days of hard riding, it was all right to be where he could get a drink and a meal and a decent night’s sleep.