Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  When hard-traveling Tom Buchanan and his two-fisted saddle partner, Coco Bean, rode into El Paso, flush with the winnings from Coco’s last prize fight, they found Ebenezar Shaw, an old friend and proprietor of the Grace Stage Line, in some mean trouble with a greedy big businessman and his hired desperadoes.

  Buchanan and Coco used their loot to keep Ebenezar’s stage line from being grabbed up. Before long, however, Buchanan found himself high in the driver’s seat of a hurtling stagecoach. He whipped his team through a

  crackling hail of bullets—and then went on to defend the spirit of home-grown enterprise from the back of a blazing gun!

  BUCHANAN 16: BUCHANAN’S STAGE LINE

  By Jonas Ward

  First published by Fawcett Books in 1986

  Copyright © 1986, 2020 by William R. Cox

  First Digital Edition: April 2020

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  One

  El Paso was bustling. The street was crowded with vehicles, yet people stared. Tom Buchanan and Coco Bean had appeared once again, side by side, striding toward the Cowboy Saloon.

  A citizen, swaggering, yelled, “Attaboy, Coco. You won me a month’s pay.”

  Coco waved a hand. Buchanan grinned. They hit the swinging doors and made their way past admiring glances and more words of praise and thanks to the end of the curved, long bar.

  They were returning from a prize fight in Mexico where Coco had defended his title as Black Champion of the World. Their money belts were bulging; they were in high good humor. Tomorrow they would take the stage to the only home they acknowledged, Billy Button’s ranch outside Encinal, New Mexico. Tonight was for fun and games.

  The barkeep said, “On the house. There’s still some dumb fools will bet against Coco. Feller down there, he musta lost his shirt.”

  Buchanan glanced at the individual indicated by the impolite, pointing finger. The man was tall and slender, well turned out in gambler’s black and white, yet without the sheen of the professional cardsharp. He was staring. Buchanan nodded.

  The man said, “I don’t think I like you, Buchanan. You nor your nigra slave.”

  Buchanan shook his head. “Oh, my. You shouldn’t have said that.”

  He walked down the bar, every patron turning to watch. He confronted the man in black. Tom Buchanan stood six feet four without his heeled boots; he was wide enough to carry well over two hundred and forty pounds; he had green eyes and sandy hair and a mouth that could turn hard as rock.

  He said, “Me, you can take me or leave me. Coco Bean, he is not a nigra and not my slave. He is a champion and a gentleman. And he is my friend. You savvy? My friend.”

  The man’s face was flushed with whiskey. He stood quite still, returning Buchanan’s stare. He said, “My name is Simon. Broderick J. Simon. I fear no man on earth. I carry no weapons. I do not deign to fisticuffs. What are you going to do about it?”

  Buchanan reached out a paw. He closed his thumb and forefinger on the man’s prominent nose. He twisted.

  Broderick J. Simon’s head went to the right, his mouth opened without sound, and tears ran down his cheeks. His knees buckled. Buchanan turned him loose. Simon managed to get his elbows on the edge of the bar. He choked and coughed. Blood ran down his shaven upper lip. He applied a linen kerchief. Buchanan waited. There was silence in the Cowboy Saloon.

  The man’s voice was muffled. “We shall see about this, Buchanan. Someday soon.”

  “Manners,” said Buchanan. “In this country we may be a bit rough. But we have manners of a sort.”

  He walked back to the end of the bar. Broderick J. Simon, kerchief still applied, put a coin on the bar and walked out. If his stride was a bit unsteady, his head was high and his shoulders squared.

  Coco said, “Maybe you shouldn’t of, Tom. That kinda man bears a heap of watchin’.”

  The barkeep said, “Been here a couple months. Got a wife as pretty as a speckled hen. Stays drunk mostly, seems like, or half drunk! He paid off his bets in gold.”

  “Strangers with money. Town’s full of ’em, it appears. Time to head for the hills.”

  “Least he didn’t have no gun,” said Coco. “If he had a hideout, you would’ve been in trouble, Tom.”

  “Would the man lie?” Buchanan arched his brow. He had never been without a derringer in his belt buckle since he had grown up on the frontier. No one within arm’s length had ever been able to prevent him from using it. Years of roaming the West had conditioned him. He gave no favors nor accepted them.

  Coco said, “This sarsap’rilla don’t taste too good now. Maybe we should push along?”

  They had come to town by the new railroad, but they would be going to Encinal by stage. Buchanan said, “What we need’s a good night’s sleep. Even Ebenezar’s fine new Concord is not the coziest ride for people our size.”

  They were indeed too big for comfort under ordinary conditions. Coco had deceptive bulk. He had never been a slave; his father had fought in the War Between the States and had been made a free man. Both Coco’s parents had perished when he was a boy. He had learned to fight in the sporting town of New Orleans, had worked his way up the Mississippi by giving boxing exhibitions. It had come to him that people of his color were wending westward when the occasion presented itself, and he had followed the trend. He found it true that the frontier held fewer bigots, that what a man did, what he was, counted, without fear or favor. He had fallen in with Buchanan before winning the championship, and had learned from him to hunt and fish—never without losing his hatred of firearms, particularly the short gun.

  “I seen too many good men kill each other in duels, sometimes over a woman, sometimes just from booze,” Coco would declare. “Never will I shoot at a living human whilst I got these.” And he would hold up his big, gnarled hands.

  Buchanan had come from East Texas as a boy on the early trail drives. A lanky kid, he had extraordinary manual dexterity, a gift. It was necessary to be quick with a Colt; therefore, he became faster than anyone he had yet to meet. He was intelligent enough to realize the constant danger that put him in, but he accepted it, as he accepted much that went against his instincts in a whirling, growing new world. He sought justice even as he knew it was a losing battle in the end. He bore the scars to bear that out; he had been hit by bullets, arrows, and heavy instruments. He had managed to survive, and along the way he had accomplished more than most men. He was known from Vancouver to Mexico City, from San Francisco to Washington, D.C. Without striving for power or fortune he had achieved a modicum of each. He owned a small portion of Mousetrap Mulligan’s mine, the diggings that had established his adopted son Billy Button, and he had won huge wagers betting on cards, horses, and the fists of Coco. He had spent on nothing but fine boots and hats, the latest in weaponry and fishing tackle, and on friends in need. He wanted only to be with his adopted family, Billy, Nora, and little Tommy, or to be at peace in the mountains or on the plains of his country west of the Big River.

  He said now, “Let’s stop off at the station and see if old Ebenezar’s around.”

  “That’s a fine man, Mr. Shaw,” sai
d Coco. “Got himself two fine ladies up in Encinal.”

  “I noticed,” said Buchanan. He never failed to notice a beautiful lady. There had been many in his past, a few of whom had wanted him to settle down and raise a family. Somehow it had never happened. He hated the expression “Love ’em and leave ’em,” but when he looked back objectively it was a circumstance that had occurred possibly once or twice too often.

  They came to the station. It was dusk now, and the horses were stabled, waiting for the next run. In the office they could see Ebenezar talking, waving his arms, unquestionably even more excited than usual. The old man from New Jersey had been west since his youth, but there was still a lot of easterner in him. He had never learned to relax and lay back.

  Buchanan said, “Might’s well mosey on in.”

  They entered the office. Ebenezar Shaw was a short man but wide in the shoulders and deep in the chest. His long arms hung loose, almost to his knees, his hands were small hams. His graying hair covered his pate, cut in bangs across a high forehead. He wore a bristly mustache, which quivered when he orated, as he was now doing.

  There were two other men in the room. One was a giant with a smiling, moon face and a short red beard. The other was saturnine and recognizable as Rye Dingle, a man hired for his gun. Dingle was silent, watchful from under the brim of a sloped Stetson, relaxed in properly worn range attire. The big man wore a wool shirt, loose Levi’s, and a belt without a gun holster.

  “Consarn it, I told you I ain’t got the cash on hand,” Ebenezar was shouting. “You can’t get blood out of a stone. Time ain’t of the essence, not right this minute. You go tell him I’ll have it.”

  “Tomorrow mornin’,” said the big man. He spoke quietly. “You got till tomorrow mornin’.”

  Buchanan said, “Scuse me. Maybe this is none of my business. But it sounds like you’re threatenin’ a friend of mine.”

  Rye Dingle turned. He was wearing his gun in a shoulder holster, Buchanan knew. Coco moved to get his back against a wall. Ebenezar Shaw whirled around.

  “That you, Tom? This here is business. My business. Ain’t nobody scared me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.”

  “Not the point,” said Buchanan. “Howdy, Dingle. You got an interest in this business?”

  “Just lookin’ on,” said the gunman.

  The big man gave a wide grin. “By Gawd, it’s Buchanan. And Coco, no less. Won a bundle on you, Coco. Some people never can believe a nig—a black man can whup a white feller. Five rounds, weren’t it?”

  “Four,” said Coco. “He was a good one.”

  “Well, this here is a matter of money owed. Reckon it ain’t rightly any affair of yourn. Okay?” the big man said.

  “Up to a point,” said Buchanan.

  “Hey, we don’t want no trouble with you. Ebenezar, he got his tail in a crack. Just carryin’ him the message. Nothin’ personal.”

  Dingle said, “Let’s cut it.”

  “Right.” The big man was genial. “Name of Cider. They calls me Slab Cider. Glad to meet up with you-all.”

  Buchanan watched them go without responding. The big man had talked smoothly, but arrogance and threat had been near the surface. Dingle was as dangerous as any man in the West.

  Ebenezar said, “It’s a money matter, Tom.”

  “The new Concord, no doubt,” said Buchanan.

  “You just come and look. You just wait and see.” Ebenezar led them into the stable attached to the station.

  Coal-oil lamps were trimmed against the adobe wall. The Concord stagecoach stood proud, a thing of beauty. It was spanking new. It was painted black with red trimming.

  The name on the door panel was, “E. Shaw, Grace Stage Line.” The letters were golden.

  It had all the latest appurtenances. Even the boot for carrying freight had a graceful slope. The wheels glittered, giving off sparkles that would not last through one dusty mile of dry road. Its woodwork was choice hickory, its metal, except for the brass trim, was steel. Its body swung on leather thoroughbraces, heavy long straps that ran through stout stanchions, lifting above the front and rear axles right and left. Layers of live leather gave it a comforting swing and cushioned the body.

  Inside were three seats, two facing forward and one facing back. Each seat was big enough for three people. Three more seats could be provided on the roof, which was covered by heavy, waterproof duck. The doors were entered with the aid of hanging steel steps. The windows were protected by canvas curtains that rolled up and down.

  The driver’s seat was set high on the front outside, the forward end of the coach top providing a rest for his back. Under his seat was a leather-shrouded boot for baggage; beneath the shell of the seat was a smaller compartment for valuables or a strongbox. Railings around the top provided space for extra luggage when necessary. There was room on the seat for a shotgun rider in case of danger.

  Buchanan said, “Abbot, Downing and Company. Cost you a pretty penny, Ebenezar.”

  “Nine hundred dollars. But I had to have me a lead coach, didn’t I? I just hadda have it.”

  “Whoeee,” said Coco. “What if you lost the contract for mail and freight? What then?”

  “I ain’t about to lose nothin’,” said Ebenezar Shaw. He flinched and muttered, “I’ll get the money.”

  “Those two hombres, they sold you the coach?” asked Buchanan.

  “Heck, no. They just—they come to collect.”

  “The whole amount? No promissory notes?”

  “I had ’em. They bought ’em up somehow or t’other.” The old man was squirming now.

  “Who bought them up?”

  “ASL”

  “What’s ASL?”

  “Amalgamated Stage Lines. They been buyin’ up all the lines left since the rails came.”

  “I see.” Buchanan squinted. “This ASL company, where’s it located?”

  “I dunno. Some place back east. They busted a couple lines by cuttin’ prices.” Ebenezar paused, then muttered, “Got the mail business from ’em too. From back in Washington.”

  “And now they’re squeezin’ you.”

  “Well ... I didn’t know about it till the sales feller had sold me the Concord, here. Then they came in on me.” He broke a bit. “Tom, I reckon for the fust time in my life I been hornswoggled. I hate to own up, but it does seem the pail went to the well once too often.”

  “Nine hundred dollars. Tomorrow.”

  “I was goin’ to Henry Wallace down to the bank. Trouble is, I got a note in there.”

  “And Henry don’t give away anything for nothing,” Buchanan said.

  “It was my only chance.”

  Coco said, “Give it back to ’em. You got stages can make the run to Encinal. You been doin’ it right along.”

  “I would. It’d kill me, but I would. Only the sale’s bindin’. When I read the small print in the contract I found that out.” Ebenezar’s wide shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t let them see it. But this time I’m licked.”

  “You got any idea who really owns this ASL thing?” Buchanan asked.

  “It’s a big company. Feller here that’s their man, he’s a hard one. Funny thing, he hits the booze one day, sobers up the next. Must have plenty of money. Got a real purty wife, dresses like a gamblin’ man—only he ain’t. You know what I mean?”

  “I think I know,” said Buchanan. “Man name of Simon? Broderick J. Simon?”

  Coco shook his head. “This world is full of strange happenstances, ain’t it?”

  “You know him?” asked Ebenezar Shaw.

  “I met him,” said Buchanan.

  “He ain’t easy to take.”

  Coco chortled. “Oh, he can be took.”

  Buchanan said, “Broderick J. Simon, eh? Nine hundred dollars tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s how she lays,” said Ebenezar sadly. “I got to go see Henry at the bank.”

  Buchanan reached into his pocket. “Nine hundred. That’s about what I got here without pryin�
� into the money belt. Maybe eight. Coco?”

  Coco produced a sheaf of bills. “Right here.”

  Ebenezar Shaw said, “Now you hold on. I didn’t come cryin’ to you. I wasn’t hintin’ ...”

  Buchanan said, “Ebenezar, I’ve known you goin’ on fifteen years. I’ve ridden your stages, and I’ve helped you buy horses. I knew your woman. I know your daughter and your granddaughter. You’ve been good to little Tommy Button when he’s ridden with you; taught him to hold the lines before he could handle a drawstring. You take this money and you pay off Mr. Simon and we’ll be right here to see you do it. Matter of fact, we might’s well use a couple of those bunks you keep around just in case.”

  Ebenezar hesitated, then accepted the money. “You come with me, now,” he said, leading the way back to the office.

  He sat at a desk and found a rusty pen. He scratched out a note on a piece of paper, then handed it to Buchanan. “This here is a mortgage. If anything happens to me, you’ll git your money back. If all goes well, I’ll pay you off every first of the month after the mail money comes in.”

  “I don’t need this. Your word’s as good as gold.”

  “You’ll take it,” said Ebenezar. “Or I won’t take the money.”

  Buchanan shrugged, tucking the document away in his wallet. “Just so long as Mr. Simon gets paid and you’re free to drive us to Encinal tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be ready. Got to see to the horses. I lost a good hostler, only got one workin’ now.”

  “We got to eat,” said Coco. “My belly thinks my throat’s cut.”

  Ebenezar held out a horny hand. “Tom, this here is somethin’ else again. Reckon you’re a sorta pardner now. Makes me feel right scrumptious.”

  “No partnership involved,” Buchanan told him. “Just good friends. Which is what counts most in this old world.”

  He and Coco left the station. The lamps were lighted, the new night illumination of which the city was so proud. They walked across town to Mama Casino’s, where the chili was hotter than the hinges of hell and the beer cold as a winter’s blast.