Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  Only the most skillful drivers could handle a six-horse hitch. In his youth Buchanan had been interested in stages, as had most boys of his time. He had taken lessons from a drunken old veteran, utilizing a heavy weight strung over a board fence, strengthening his fingers so that he could handle, particularly, the rein between his ring finger and little finger, a terrifically difficult procedure. It had been many years since he had attempted what was really quite a feat, but dealing cards and his favorite outdoor pursuits had kept his hands limber.

  It was noon, time for departure. Since a day’s run was at tops forty miles, generally around thirty, they would make only the tiny village of Anthony that evening for layover. Anthony was across the border in New Mexico at the foot of the mountains. It had bare accommodations, Buchanan knew, wondering how Mrs. Simon would react. Together the Simons were an enigma beyond his experience. He took a last look at the passengers. The lady was seated facing forward between Coco and the drummer. The kid from Encinal and the silent stranger faced them. There was room for another passenger in between, but very little room, and they were spared that inconvenience. Buchanan climbed up to the box.

  Ebenezar followed, stowing the mail, carrying his coiled whip. The whip was a trademark of each stage driver. Coiled, it had the balefulness and beauty of a long, lean snake. Yet it was almost never touched to animal flesh. It cracked and crackled and sent its messages through air. One driver never touched the whip of another when it hung on the wall; no stranger ever dared. It was a signature and a superstition.

  Slab Cider had departed. There was the hostler still in the street, small boys and girls, a few yapping dogs, and an idler or three. Ebenezar picked up the lines in his remarkable hands and chirruped. The horses walked out of the station and went in stately rhythm down the street. The journey to home base at Encinal was begun while people waved or hooted or cheered as their spirits moved them.

  “They run real nice,” said Buchanan, expecting no reply from Ebenezar. Handling six lines, each connected to a horse, demanded full attention at all times. Drivers were taciturn, not sullen, merely fully preoccupied.

  The road was smooth, the skies clear. A cool wind swept from the hills beyond which the mountains loomed bulky and menacing. The coach rode like a dream. Ebenezar permitted himself a satisfied grin.

  It was an easy run. They made Anthony before dark. The way station was adobe, windowless, with a bar crudely built in a corner of the dining space and rooms railroaded from the kitchen to the back of the building. There were basins of water, a scraping of soap, soiled towels. Mrs. Simon looked surprised, then confused. The drummer and young Campbell took it all for granted. The stranger rinsed his hands and face and went to the wooden table which held only cracked plates and some stale-looking bread. There was a slatternly woman and a meager man in attendance.

  Ebenezar said, “Jakes! Damn you, can’t you see there’s hungry people about? Git to it. You and that woman! Move!” He hung his whip with care for its coils upon a wooden peg.

  Jakes whined, “It’s the best we can do, Mr. Shaw.”

  “It’s more likely what you think you can steal and git away with. Now hustle yourselves and fix us a good meal or pack up and move out now. Afoot.”

  “You can’t do that,” muttered the woman. “It’s agin the law.”

  Buchanan said, “Just a minute, now. You got a pump in the kitchen?”

  “I don’t allow no one inta my kitchen,” the Jakes woman said.

  Buchanan said, “Uh-huh.” He took the arm of Mrs. Simon and led her away. Coco followed.

  The kitchen was more reminiscent of a pigsty than any interior Buchanan remembered. There was, however, a pump leaning over a zinc sink. Buchanan rustled around and found some fairly clean soft cloth. He said, “After you, ma’am.”

  She said, “Oh, my goodness. Are we to eat food from this place? Whatever in the world!”

  On the stove in a big pot there was an unsavory mess that might have been called a stew. A chicken clucked in the yard.

  Coco said, “They’re givin’ the slum to us and eatin’ the good. Lemme rustle something up.”

  The Campbell boy came into the kitchen and said, “Mr. Buchanan, I can cook some. Gimme a little butter and some chickens and maybe I can put somethin’ together.”

  “There’s some potatoes. And maybe the bread can be toasted,” said Buchanan. “I wonder how Ebenezar ever got hold of those folks.”

  “He just newly hired ’em,” said Campbell. “The other pair quit. It’s awful slow around here between trips.”

  Mrs. Simon was listening. “Better he didn’t hire anybody, I’d say. He should have sold to Mr. Simon, don’t you think? He’s an old man. He should retire. That’s what Mr. Simon says.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “Best you go out front and wait whilst we straighten things out.”

  In an hour it was accomplished. The Jakes couple had retired from view. The drummer and the stranger were well into a bottle of evil-smelling whiskey when the makeshift meal was served. The drummer was talking; the stranger did not seem to be listening. Ebenezar was woebegone, apologizing to one and all. Mrs. Simon assured him in her fluty voice that she had trouble getting house help in her El Paso home. They ate fairly well—the Campbell boy had been as good as his word.

  Ebenezar said, “Got to see the beddin’ now. Must be some clean sheets or blankets.”

  The stranger spoke for the first time. His voice was thick and unpleasant. In his hand was a .45 Colt. He said, “First things first. Just everybody hold still.” He got up from behind the table. “Now line up and put whatever you got on the end right here where I can reach it, see?”

  He was quite drunk but seemed steady enough. Buchanan said, “Easy, everybody. Do like the man says.”

  They began to move. Ebenezar was the last to arise. As he did so he reached out one arm. He grasped the silver-adorned handle of his whip. He made one flicking motion of his thick wrist.

  The whip coiled and cracked. The arm of the man holding the gun snapped back, and a shot splatted into the ceiling. Buchanan hit the man with the edge of his hand, knocking him into Coco, who happily delivered a left hook to the chin. The man collapsed in a heap.

  Mrs. Simon said, “I do declare. A little trip to Las Cruces and look what happens. Mr. Shaw, you certainly do run an exciting stage line.”

  “And I mean to keep on runnin’ it. Who’s goin’ to help me with the horses?”

  Buchanan said, “We’ll just hogtie this feller and put him in the back.” He looked at the Jakes couple, who had come out during the commotion. “You pack and ride.”

  In character, they whined but they hitched up an old wagon and were soon gone with their meager belongings.

  Ebenezar said, “I’ll have another keeper in here tomorrow, if I can find one. Dang such people. World’s jest goin’ to hell.”

  Coco said, “You’ll get somebody. Anybody who can stop a gunman with a whip, he’ll do all right.”

  They finally were settled in for the night. The beds were straw, but the Jakes had not been in charge long enough to breed lice. Buchanan set the watch: first Coco, then the Campbell boy, then himself. He did not feel he could trust the traveling salesman to stay awake, and Ebenezar needed his rest against the longer drive on the morrow.

  When the stranger became conscious he was not willing to talk. He lay on the floor and stared, sobered but silent.

  “A tough hombre,” said Buchanan. “I’ve met a heap of his kind.”

  “Just another highwayman payin’ for his ride,” said Ebenezar.

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan had his doubts. Perhaps he was beginning to see undercover shenanigans where there were none. On the other hand the peculiarity of Broderick J. Simon made him think and think again. What he must not allow, he knew, was to be thrown off key in his thinking.

  The morning came, cloudy, threatening. The salesman had a hangover. There were a few eggs and a lot of coffee. They fed the holdup man, knowing he would ei
ther work himself loose or be picked up, as was hoped, by Las Cruces authorities.

  Buchanan said, “His name’s Bullitt.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s a letter in his pocket. And he had a hundred dollars on him.”

  “He had money and he tried to hold us up?” Mrs. Simon was bewildered.

  “Your rings and our money belts would carry him a long ways further’n a hundred,” said Buchanan, but again the inner voice was whispering. “Also, he was a drunk. Anyway, there was no harm done. Check it out to experience.” He was talking with the wind, anxious to get on the road yet a bit fearful.

  He helped Ebenezar with the horses and each took his place and they set out on a narrower road at a faster clip than the previous day. Mrs. Simon carried on as usual inside the coach while the salesman slept off and on and Coco was polite and the Campbell boy was fascinated by the lady.

  Ebenezar was more withdrawn than ever, and there was plenty of opportunity for Buchanan to survey the moving scene and enjoy the air as it cleared and the sun came out to dazzle the rather arid earth.

  Toward noon, when there would be a tiny way station for a twenty-minute break, the sun was hotter than need be, and Buchanan wiped his eyes with his bandanna. He asked, “What about the people you got on the next stop?”

  “Family folks. Dry farmers.” Ebenezar was busy with the lines. The road curved back and forth, mesquite growing on either side, along with chaparral and trees heavy with springtime. The lighter lead team was frisky.

  Buchanan forbore further speech. The sky was now clear. Snow topped the distant mountains. Inside the stage Mrs. Simon chattered, while the sound of the traces and the wheels and occasionally the brake beneath Ebenezar’s foot made a peaceful litany.

  The first bullet made the familiar buzzing insect sound. It was close, too close. Buchanan raised the Spencer and looked into the distance, where among the chaparral he could discern a puff of smoke. He recognized the sound of the old weapon at once; there had been a time when he’d been grateful for its appearance on the modern scene. Someone was shooting with a Sharps. The appellation “sharpshooter” had come from the accuracy and range of that gun. His Spencer, with all its rapid fire, was useless against it.

  He said, “Move ’em out.”

  Ebenezar was already uncoiling the whip, snapping it rapid fire around the ears of the speedy leaders. The stage rocked as they leaped ahead into a full run. It would take a few moments for the marksman to reload. Buchanan made himself as small as possible, pulling Ebenezar down but unable to interfere with handling of the lines.

  Doug Campbell’s head appeared in the window, shouting. Buchanan said, “Come up. Get down on the floor.”

  He aimed high with the Spencer, firing rapidly, a looping attempt, hoping only that he could distract the shooter.

  There was another buzzing whine, and Ebenezar said, “Gawd in heaven damn him.”

  The old man slumped, and Buchanan came erect, discarding the rifle, seizing the lines. They were clumsy in his hands; he was not a driver of a six-horse hitch. He gritted his teeth and yelled at the top of his lungs. The well-trained teams held together, running hard now, if for no other reason, he thought, than they were close to the way station and their water and oats.

  The old man was leaning hard against him. Buchanan could see the blood, bright red in the sunlight, beginning to turn dark at the edges of the wound in the right shoulder. He could be lung shot, Buchanan thought, in which case it would surely kill him. Otherwise there was a chance. Ebenezar rolled and the lines interfered with Buchanan getting a solid hold on him.

  There was a small voice raised, and Buchanan saw the Campbell kid, clinging to the rail, on the off side of the coach, white-faced, eyes huge.

  Buchanan said calmly, “Okay, boy. Ease on, if you can. Don’t show yourself more’n necessary.”

  The Sharps boomed again and a charge of lead sped between Buchanan and the boy, who winced but got a leg up and crawled.

  “If you can hold Ebenezar,” Buchanan said.

  The kid was wiry. He established a boot for leverage and slithered his body forward. He got a hand on Ebenezar. Propping himself against the continuous roll as the horses ran, he seized the old driver in a tight hand.

  Buchanan said, “There’s a bend ahead. If I can get ’em around the bend, it’s a straight run.”

  Again there was a shot, this one into the body of the coach. Coco yelled, “Okay here, Tom. I got the lady covered.”

  The kid said, “He was tryin’ to cover us both. The drummer’s prayin’. He can pray a heap.”

  “It’s a time for prayer.” Buchanan saw the bend. He knew the lead team was now running with the bits in their teeth. He knew which lines led to them, but he did not have the feel of the expert. He put a foot on the brake and hauled as best he could.

  For one suspended moment it seemed the coach would go over. Two wheels left terra firma, the woman screamed, the drummer shouted to his Lord. Buchanan and the boy threw their weight to starboard.

  The road straightened out. A half mile ahead the buildings of the way station could be seen. Now they were out of sight and possible range of the Sharps. Buchanan relaxed. He was sweating like a bull. His arms ached from the unfamiliar task of driving. He looked at the boy and nodded. “Good job, son. Hold him easy, now. We’re home free.”

  The Winklers, who ran the station, were salt of the earth, the sort of people who made the West—solid, hardworking, with many skills. They could help dress Ebenezar’s wound but could not determine its seriousness, nor could Buchanan. They calmed Mrs. Simon and gave her clean water and soap and food. They accepted the blubbering drummer and admired young Campbell’s courage and beamed upon Coco, the people’s champion.

  Buchanan said, “I’d like to borrow a horse and go see about that feller with the Sharps, but most important is to get Ebenezar to Cruces and the hospital.”

  “We’ll have you hitched whenever you want to go,” said Winkler. “Good fresh stock. They’ll git you there.”

  “Four of ’em,” said Buchanan. “The four fastest and easiest to drive.”

  Winkler, a tall, stooped man, nodded. “Ain’t many can handle a six-horse hitch. Heaven knows how you got ’em here. That’s our fanciest stock.”

  “Never say I brought ’em,” Buchanan told him. “More like they took me.”

  “Who do you reckon was shootin’ at you-all?”

  “You seen Charlie Knife around?”

  “Not lately. I got me a buckshot load for him and he knows it.”

  They were carefully putting Ebenezar into the coach. Two chestnuts and two duns were being hitched. Buchanan shook his head. It didn’t make good sense. Charlie Knife with Simon—and in the stage under attack was Mrs. Simon in vast danger. Yet the renegade Apache was known for his marksmanship with the old buffalo gun and was known to always have access to one. On the other hand, if the shooter had wanted to wreck the stage, he had only to shoot the horses. That was how the Indians had done it from time immemorial. Buchanan had seen paintings of Indian attacks on stages, the braves riding alongside, shooting at driver and passengers, and had wondered how anyone could believe them. Once the horses were down the game would be over; any fool could figure that.

  Ebenezar was beckoning. He wheezed, “It ain’t goin’ to look good, drivin’ only four to this here coach.”

  “I’m sure sorry as all hell,” said Buchanan. “Bullet holes don’t look too good, either. Now you shut up and lemme get you to Cruces.”

  The old man said, “Marion Grace will be in Cruces. She’ll take care o’ me.”

  “Doc Watson is in Cruces and we better get there,” Buchanan told him.

  Mrs. Simon was going on as always. “Wait’ll my husband hears about this. Why, he owns dozens of stages, and nobody ever just shot at them. Of course, there’ve been holdups in Montana and California and places. But this—this is most horrible.” Her voice changed, lowered. “Now, Mr. Shaw, we’re going
to take good care of you all the way to Las Cruces. Now don’t you fret.”

  Ebenezar sighed. There was blood at the edge of his wide mouth. Coco moved him into a more comfortable position. The drummer squeezed into a corner as though frightened of the very notion of a dying man in his company. The kid clambered up to the driver’s seat and waited for Buchanan. He seemed to know enough about handling the Spencer; he seemed a nice, normal Encinal boy, and he had certainly shown plenty of nerve, Buchanan thought.

  The shooter, of course, was mounted. He could ride ahead and set up further places from which to bushwhack. The road to Las Cruces was fairly good, and four horses were within his capacity for stage driving. There was no alternative—one went ahead and did the best one could. One did not have to be overjoyed at the prospect.

  The boy said, “I reckon if we could see him we could hit him, huh, Mr. Buchanan?”

  “We won’t see him.”

  After a moment the boy said, “Miz Simon, now, she was pretty good, me and Coco all over her, like. She only yelled once or twice. Seems like a nice lady.”

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan was having a bit of trouble with the off leader, who seemed to sense unfamiliar hands. It took him a few minutes to get control.

  The boy said, “That shooter was tryin’ to get Ebenezar or you. Mr. Shaw was closer. Then you scrooched down.”

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan was getting to feel the pleasure of it now, the four horses moving in perfect rhythm, the lines firm in his hands. His mind was working better. “Keep a close eye off there to the right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you a pretty good shot?”

  “They do say.” There was a proud note in the boy’s voice for the first time. “Rifle or pistol, sir.”

  “Aim low if he gets in range. High if he ain’t.”

  “I understand, sir.” There was a pause. “They’re after Mr. Shaw’s stage line, ain’t they?”

  “Now how would you know that?”

  The boy flushed. “Uh ... Miss Marion Grace, she’s a friend o’ mine. She told me her grandpa would never sell. Says it’s his whole life.”