Buchanan 16

by Jonas Ward

  “You take him and fix him up. Then I want him.”

  Buchanan walked away. Billy went to the boy and asked, “Who hired you in the first place, Sammy?”

  “You go to hell.” The youth’s voice was growing faint from shock and loss of blood. “You got everything. You mind your own goddam business. It was a good deal for us. Big ... money ...” He fainted.

  Billy said, “He wasn’t that bad off. I swear he never went without a meal. Those bastids, whoever they are, they sold him a bale of friggin’ straw.”

  “That’s right,” said Buchanan. “Let’s get out of here. Everything this side of your place begins to stink.” He saw Cara and added, “Exceptin’ you and yours, darlin’. Exceptin’ you and yours.”

  “Take it easy,” she said with unaccustomed softness. “It’s not all that bad, Tom. Just at the top, where they make big promises to those who have not.”

  “You’re right, of course.” He touched her arm and returned to the buckboard. “I’m just feelin’ a bit loco. Hope it ain’t serious.”

  Billy gathered up the reins and clucked to his matched team of grays. Buchanan sat, silent, beside him on the way to the ranch. Corruption of youth, that was what Coco had said was the big sin, destruction of the values of the young.

  They drove out on the old familiar road across the high plain that lay between the mountains, actually in the midst of the peaks that surrounded Encinal and the mines to the north. The sun was now bright; every prospect pleased the eye. There were trees that had once been clumps from which peccaries had exploded with their amazing toughness, their razor teeth.

  Neither man spoke until Billy burst forth, “I’m glad I didn’t kill the damn kid.”

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan knew the feeling.

  “He mighta got in another shot. Even so.”

  “It’s no good killin’. You know it as well as I do.”

  “Them four boys. They wasn’t much good, but they never did anything real bad before.”

  “Uh-huh,” Buchanan said.

  “How we gonna stop it? All of it?” Billy asked.

  “We never will. We can only contend with what comes along.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  Again silence fell upon them. Billy was thinking of his own boyhood, and how Buchanan and Nora had turned him around. Buchanan was thinking of too many matters. The grama grass lay green about them; birds hovered; small creatures ran making small noises as the grass swayed in a slight breeze.

  They came to the ranch house, rebuilt after a fire that had occurred at another bad time, during the range war that had threatened all their lives. The ever-ebullient Billy brightened, grinning. “It’s home, Tom. You always got your home here.”

  “Uh-huh.” It was a fine, large house with all the modern improvements, and they were awaiting him—Nora, little Tommy, and Coco—all coming down from the verandah with open arms. Buchanan should have been extremely happy and contented. But he could not shake the picture of the boy lying in the dust of the street in Encinal, cursing him.

  Then they were upon him, tiny Nora in his arms, little Tommy, grown two inches, trying to climb his leg, Coco beaming, all the warmth and familiarity of family. He could feel the ice melting, the ugly pictures fading. He was a man for the mountains and the streams and quiet solitude amid nature, but this was another matter.

  There was an added current of excitement running through them, especially Tommy. In his treble voice the boy asked his father, “Did you tell him? You didn’t tell him. You promised.”

  Billy said, “I promised.”

  Nora said, “Coco would’ve beat you up if you had.”

  Billy said, “All right, all right. Tommy, you take charge here.”

  “The barn,” Tommy said, tugging at Buchanan. “Come with me. Hurry!”

  “No hurry,” said Billy. “Take it easy, there.”

  But no one could prevent Tommy from hauling at Buchanan’s knee. They all trooped to the horse stable. There were a dozen fine riding steeds in the corral, and among them was the big black stallion Nightshade. Buchanan paused and the magnificent animal that had been with him for so long pranced to the rails, tossing his head, neighing, snorting, shaking his mane. Buchanan brought out the cube sugar he always kept handy and felt the warm velvet muzzle on his fingers and palm. But Tommy did not stop his demanding pull. They went together into the stable. There was a large stall in the corner, apart from the hanging harness, almost secluded. Buchanan looked within, opened his eyes wide, and said, “I’ll be dogged.”

  “You remember Samantha,” said Tommy, jumping up and down. “You remember her.”

  Buchanan did, indeed; she was a coal-black mare Billy had bought in Santa Fe, pure-bred. Now she snorted and bared her teeth. She was not at all happy with the company.

  Billy said, “Whoa now, Sam. Tom here’s a sort of a relation. Family.”

  Still she was defensive. Buchanan was not watching her. His eyes were all for the little creature who raised its head and examined him as if he were a new sort of specimen. He said, “Nightshade’s colt.”

  “We took a chance and bred ’em,” said Billy.

  “Isn’t he something?” demanded little Tommy. “I saw it. I saw him born, Uncle Tom. He’s so beautiful. She didn’t have any trouble at all. It was so wonderful.”

  Buchanan knelt. Samantha, wary, wheeled around as though to lash out her hind hoofs. Buchanan said, “Easy does it, gal. Easy now.”

  The mare debated a moment, turning her huge eyes upon him. Then she relented, hovering. Buchanan reached for the colt. He felt it carefully, expertly, tenderly. He felt the cleanness, felt the hot breath on him.

  He said, “You done good. He’s perfect.”

  “You betcha,” said Billy. “You got a name for him?”

  Nora said, “We thought of all kinds of night names. They didn’t seem to work.”

  “Looks like Twilight right now,” said Coco. “So tiny, so helpless with its little legs.”

  “Its father won’t look at it,” said Tommy.

  “Mother knows best,” Nora said. “Mother’s wonderful with him.”

  Never had they all been closer, Buchanan thought, wondering over the little colt, beaming, so happy together. He cleared his throat, then could find no words. He tried to hug them all at once, a task beyond even his wide arms.

  Billy said, “Aw, let’s call him Junior. Maybe when he gets big he’ll get hisself a name.”

  “Night call?” asked Nora, hanging on to Buchanan.

  “Can’t think of a thing,” Buchanan finally managed to say. “It’s just a joyful time.”

  They could not pull themselves away. They stayed an hour, sometimes all talking at once, sometimes caught up with silence, unable to convey their emotions.

  As they started back to the house Buchanan said, “Let Tommy train him. Let him be Tommy’s horse.”

  “No!” Tommy cried out, shaking his head. “I’ll train him, sure. But he’s your horse, Uncle Tom. He’s got to be yours.”

  They had to leave it at that. They went in to an enormous meal cooked by Matilda, the black lady Billy and Nora had found when their old retainer had died. Matilda was young and handsome, and she could, as Billy said, “cook up a storm.”

  While Nora was tucking Tommy into bed, against his strong protest, the men gathered in the parlor.

  Buchanan asked, “Have you got enough help now, Billy?”

  “They come and they go.” Billy grinned. “You know. The word gets around.”

  “Uh-huh. Take good care. Meantime, another stage has to go out day after tomorrow. The mail has to go through come what may.”

  “Sure. Who’s gonna drive?” Billy asked.

  “Could be me. But there’s another matter on my mind. I need to get some sleep now. If I’m not here in the morning, don’t worry.”

  “You goin’ out alone again?” demanded Coco. “I swear you’ll get into trouble that way.”

  “This needs one man. Just you stay her
e and watch. These are the worst people we ever went up against, the way I see it. All the way to Washington, D.C., they are strong.”

  “That’s a helluva way from here,” said Billy. “If they get too big in these parts we’ll cut ’em down to size.”

  “They’re smart. And mean. And evil,” said Buchanan. “I warn you, be awake and be careful.”

  Nora came down the stairs. Buchanan made his excuses and went up to the big room that Billy had caused to be fashioned for Coco and him. It contained oversized beds, chairs, a closet, thick rugs. Next to it was the first inside bathroom-toilet in the territory, thanks to a convenient running stream nearby. He could have lived in it forever—if he were not Tom Buchanan, hunter and fisherman and worshipper of the outdoors of the West. He fell asleep at once.

  His concern wakened him at dawn. He dressed under cover of Coco snoring and tiptoed, minus his boots, down the back stairs. He donned the boots and washed as well as he could at the spring.

  He went to the stable and found his saddle and bridle. He paused to view the sleeping colt and mare, shook his head in smiling pleasure, and went to the corral. Nightshade neighed on a minor key. It was no problem to saddle up the big black stallion. When he mounted, however, all hell broke loose.

  Nightshade had stood too long to be patient. He jumped the corral gate. He sunfished and spun and did everything but roll over. Buchanan sat it out; this was no new routine. When Nightshade had had enough, Buchanan steered him toward the Black Hills in the distance and let him run.

  The air was so clear it was a pleasure just to breathe. Clouds hovered, fleecy and white, as the sun peered over the mountain. Skirting the town, Buchanan headed for the road south. After a time he came to the spot where young Campbell had fired the shot that seemed to have wounded their assailant.

  Buchanan headed up into the hills. Day-old track was cold but not frigid, he thought. There should be a spot of blood at least, and certainly there had been a horse. He slowed, Nightshade having run off his impatience. Buchanan examined the terrain, looking back to find the range to the road, a place where it would be advantageous for a bushwhacker to hide. He dismounted and cast around. The sun became brighter as it climbed the clear blue sky.

  There was not much blood; it was the broken-down brush that made the man easy to follow. When the undergrowth cleared there were signs no plainsman could miss.

  However, it was dangerous. Buchanan knew he could be ambushed at any point. He found a tall pine and climbed. While Nightshade waited below, he sat on a limb, watching for movement of any kind.

  There was a high warning sound. Buchanan came down with great agility. Nightshade was swinging about, nostrils flaring. The puma was invisible, but its warning had been clear. Buchanan unlimbered his rifle from the scabbard and crouched, trying to see in all directions at once. Horsemeat was dessert to a mountain lion, which both he and Nightshade knew very well.

  Further, he had no wish to fire a shot into the echoing morning air of the mountain. If his prey was indeed Charlie Knife, there might ensue dire circumstances. Charlie would not flee. He would skulk and attack.

  As would the puma. Buchanan held his breath. His fear was as much for Nightshade as for himself. When he heard the slick sound of the sleek cat it was behind him. He had to make a full turn in defense. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the big black stallion rear, eyes rolling. The lion made its leap. Buchanan now could not fire, for fear of hitting the horse.

  The yellow-tan cat and the horse came together. Buchanan reversed the rifle and jumped in. There was a snarl and the shrill call of the stallion. Buchanan swung the butt of the rifle.

  The astounded cat was struck twice as though by lightning. Nightshade’s hoofs caught it amidships. Buchanan’s rifle butt whanged into its skull. Nightshade jumped and came down again, iron shoes dashing out the brains of the puma.

  Buchanan said, “I’ll be damned. That’s somethin’ never happened before.”

  Nightshade snorted. Buchanan reached for a lump of sugar. The dead puma rolled over and down into the ravine.

  “Bein’ a papa sure’s made a hellion outta you,” Buchanan said. “Horses run from big cats. Don’t you know that?”

  Nightshade seemed to nod modest assent. Buchanan shook his head and turned back to the tracks he had been following. They were still plain enough; the man who made them either did not expect pursuit or had been in too much pain to linger on his way.

  When the tracks broke off, Buchanan paused. He looked down the lane between the trees and saw a cabin. He led Nightshade to as much cover as he could find, trailed the reins, then rubbed the horse’s velvet nose, confident that he would remain in place until called for.

  Buchanan knew better than to stroll down the lane. He made a wide circle. He sat on a knoll and watched the signs of life. There were none. His guess was that Charlie Knife—or whoever—had departed.

  Then he saw the woman. She came out into the clearing and went to a wash tub. She held up a shirt torn at the shoulder. It was stained with the dark stuff of dried blood. She began to rinse it, hold it up, rinse some more.

  She was not the most prepossessing woman Buchanan had lately seen, but there was grace and strength in her. He decided to approach with great care.

  He slung his rifle, hunter-style, and walked slowly, smiling his best smile. “Buenos dias, señora.”

  She had flat, animal eyes. She stared at him, wrapping her hands in a voluminous apron.

  “What you want?” She spoke guttural, broken English.

  “Heard there were lions up thisaway,” he said easily. “Thought I might get a pelt or two.”

  “No puma,” she said. “Go away.”

  “Maybe your husband would guide me? For pay?”

  “No husband.” Her eyes turned color; he could see suspicion in them, lurking danger. The shirt lay on the edge of the tub. He could make it out well, the rip in the shoulder, the dark stain. He essayed a step closer.

  She said sharply, “Go!”

  He tried persuasion. “Coffee? I could use a hot cup of coffee.”

  There was a pause; a bird sang, a small animal thrashed around the brush. A cloud drifted over the sun. She seemed to relax. He took another step.

  She was very quick. From under the apron she produced a gleaming, well-kept Colt .44. The hand that held it was firm and steady.

  She said, “You got dinero to pay. You put down gun. You give me money.”

  So here he was, held up by a woman in the Black Hills. It had come to this, he thought in dismay.

  There were a couple of things he could do. He could easily bring the rifle into play and take a chance on ducking a bullet. He could parley, pretending fear, and work one of several tricks. There was only one problem: he might have to kill her. Tom Buchanan killing a mixed-breed woman in a contest of wills; it wouldn’t go down.

  Worse, supposing the wounded man was lurking, waiting for his chance to get in a shot. Then possibly no one would ever know what became of Tom Buchanan on his lonely hunt in the hills. It was a very nasty, complicated business.

  He decided to compromise. “Put the gun away, woman. You don’t want people up here looking for you, do you?”

  This gave her pause. She was not stupid, he realized. She said, “You give me money. You go.”

  He said resignedly, “Well, you got me.”

  He put his rifle down with great care. He reached into his pocket and took out money. He stepped forward to give it to her as she looked at his hand, greed triumphing over her caution.

  He kicked at the tub. Water splashed on the woman, and she instinctively stepped backwards. Buchanan went straight in, using the Chinese slap, one palm against the gun, the other against her wrist. The gun flew harmlessly into the air. He caught it just before it struck earth.

  He said, “Señora, you should not try tricks on an old dog.”

  She had her back against the wall of the shack. Now she came up with a long, sharp knife.

  Buchanan s
aid, “Knife against gun is no good.”

  “You would not shoot.”

  “Not to kill,” he agreed.

  She understood him. Slowly she lowered the knife. Buchanan tossed her revolver into the underbrush. He drew his own gun. He said, “One of Charlie’s knives you got there?”

  “Charlie? No Charlie.”

  “Uh-huh. Lucky for him.”

  “No Charlie.”

  He knew she was lying. The strange eyes gave her away. He said, “You tell Charlie that Buchanan was here. You savvy?”

  “Buchanan?” But she knew. She knew who he was by name and she knew Charlie wanted to kill him and she was devastated that she had not done the job offhand. It was all there in her eyes. Buchanan shivered despite himself. It had been close, very close. She had gotten the drop on him, and she could have easily done the job. There was no question that she would have, if she had known.

  “You tell Charlie that since he started hunting for me, I shall be, from now on till forever, looking for him,” said Buchanan. “Tell him I know about him and the man in El Paso. Tell him every lawman in the territory will know it before this day is over.”

  “No Charlie.” Now the eyes were dull and vacant. She understood perfectly and she had gone behind a curtain. She was a smart and dangerous woman.

  “Uh-huh. No Charlie. He’s gone to El Paso. It don’t matter. He can’t go far enough.”

  “You go,” she said.

  “I’m going,” he told her. “I found what I was aimin’ for. Better get ready to move before Charlie gets back. There’ll be people looking for you.”

  Buchanan retrieved his rifle with great care. He would bet that she could throw that sharp blade with speed and accuracy. He believed she had the nerve to do it. He walked backward until she was out of sight. He made his way to Nightshade with dispatch.

  He took a long, deep breath and rode back down toward Billy Button’s ranch. He wanted breakfast. He was far from proud of the episode just finished. Had he been certain of the fact that it was Charlie’s hangout, he would never have mentioned names. Once he had done so, he had put Charlie on the run. He could not keep a watch, since the bird would be flown before he, or anyone, could act.