Buchanan 15

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  With his saddle partner, Coco Bean, Tom Buchanan rides into the middle of a brutal graze war between cattleman and sheep man. In the end, it’s a little black sheep that helps Tom choose sides. And with Buchanan on your side odds make no never mind.

  BUCHANAN 15: BUCHANAN’S BLACK SHEEP

  By Jonas Ward

  First published by Fawcett Books in 1981

  Copyright © 1981, 2020 by William R. Cox

  First Digital Edition: March 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

  From the slope of the Big Horns eastward the rain-wet plain below sparkled like a million jewels. It was a time of beauty, of contentment for Buchanan.

  The hunt was nearly over. Coco Bean was trimmed down to fighting weight and ready at any time to defend his title as black prizefight champion of the world. Buchanan’s big black horse Nightshade was lean and fit.

  “Coco, you had enough?” Buchanan asked.

  “Plenty,” said Coco.

  “How about you take the mule and the gear and ride down to that new little town. You know, named for the general. Sheridan.”

  “You goin’ after that big moose?”

  “I got to see him.” His tracks in the morning dew had been unbelievably large. He was, Buchanan thought, the king of them all.

  “You always say shoot to eat. Leave some for the coyotes and the birds. That’s what you always say.”

  “Comes a time,” Buchanan told him. “Comes a time.”

  “This here Montana or Wyoming?”

  “Just barely Wyoming. Follow the trail, find us a place to sleep and eat. Sell the packhorse if you can. I’ll be there soon enough.”

  “Shootin’. Always shootin’,” grumbled Coco. “Ain’t enough to fish.”

  “We ate fish and we ate venison. And it’s time to quit,” said Buchanan. “You want to go to town?”

  “I’m more than ready.”

  So they parted. It had been the best of all possible vacations, the two old friends together. They enjoyed nothing more than each other’s company. They had been through wars and entanglements and innumerable prizefight promotions and had not come out unscathed. They felt they had earned a break.

  Buchanan rode through alder, beech and hawthorn. It was late summer and the landscape was lush. Small animals scurried. A lark sparrow trilled a long and varied song. Down below was a gully; he did not know its dimensions. Always the deep hoofprints of the moose led him on.

  There was a ranch somewhere in this area below, in the fine grazing land where Texans had moved their big herds the better to fatten them for market. Cross Bar was its name, and its owner was Jake Robertson. It might be a good thing to visit Jake, a hard man but honest in his fashion, Buchanan thought. There was a daughter who had gone away to finishing school sometime in the past, a pretty girl. She would now be in her twenties. Time passed too swiftly on the western frontier. Buchanan sighed.

  He had come up the trail at fifteen, a gangling kid, already the tallest of the range crew. He was orphaned, penniless. He fought, bit, scratched—and ate his way. Now he was six feet four and weighed 240 pounds, and people knew who he was. From Canada to Mexico the name Tom Buchanan was cursed or sworn by according to the lights of the individual in question.

  He had encountered Coco in an El Paso jail where they were both falsely imprisoned and had broken out together. When that escapade was over they had become bosom companions. Coco had won all his battles in the squared circle. Buchanan had suffered wounds galore but had managed to survive his many fights on the side of justice. In the highest and best circles of the frontier West, the black man and the white man were pointed out as an unbeatable combination, a lesson for one and all to digest.

  There had been a light rain in the mountains and now the sky was clouding over. The pace of the moose was slow and stately. Buchanan’s eyes were on the ground, following the easy trail. His rifle was in its scabbard, and he had one revolver hiked high for comfort in his belt.

  A black cloud scudded through the sky. There would be more rain. He picked up the pace. He was determined to catch the giant beast before the rain brought his hunt to an end.

  There was a steep incline as he led Nightshade through the sage and odd, painted Wyoming cactus—the flower cactus—and through the wetness of it all. Buchanan dismounted. He was coming close now, all his instincts told him so.

  At last the magnificent animal was in sight. Buchanan crouched, peering. A white-tailed jackrabbit scurried past him. He saw that the hunted animal was not a moose but a bull elk such as he had never seen. It must have weighed eight or nine hundred pounds. The head, neck and underparts were brown, the sides and back yellowish gray, shading to a tan patch on the rump and white between the legs. The antler spread was all of five feet. The elk stood majestically against the lowering clouds, nose pointed skyward. Rain fell. The elk did not stir. There were faint distant sounds, barely distinguishable above the soft patter of the rain. Buchanan arose. The elk ignored him, turning toward the disturbance, wrinkling its nostrils.

  The sound of firearms pierced the thickening air. The rain increased, slowly, then with slanting force. The elk swung, altering his primary course, and trotted off as though disdainful of human violence.

  Buchanan ran for Nightshade. He donned his slicker, pulled down the brim of his Stetson and rode cautiously toward the disturbance. He had no desire to mix in with a gunfight in strange territory, but curiosity always rode his shoulders.

  Further, this was Crow country and those were Indians he knew and respected. He had friends among them. Texans as a rule did not understand northern Indians. They were accustomed to Comanches, Kiowas, Apaches, different breeds, usually hostile—sometimes with good reason and sometimes without reason. In his long experience he had learned a fundamental truth: Good and bad people came in all hues.

  There was suddenly a downslope leading into a deep ravine. Nightshade delicately picked his way. Through the beat of the rain came a bleating outcry. Far above men shouted, gunfire echoed, a diminishing sound now, as if the task was completed.

  Buchanan rode on, down, down. He was thoroughly aware of what had happened. At the bottom of the wooded ravine he came upon a flock of sheep—huddled, bleeding, shattered. There were perhaps a couple of hundred of them. It would be an abject lesson, he knew, a warning: No sheep allowed in cattle country.

  There was a reason if not an excuse. He dismounted and did what he could, using his revolver to kill those who were suffering and could not recover. It was nasty, difficult work in the gloom of the evening downpour.

  Cattlemen and sheep men would always be at war. Grazing was the key problem. The sheep nibbled close to roots, damaging the crop for the current year and the next. Texas cattle were filling up the country now. Jake Robertson of Cross Bar was not a man to brook opposition.

  Completing his unpleasant job, Buchanan stumbled over a small creature. It made a pitiful sound. He bent low and discovered it was a black lamb. He picked it up and examined it with care. There were no broken bones. It cuddled in his arms.

  He bore it back to where Nightshade awai
ted and climbed into the saddle. The lamb was docile, frightened but probably starting to feel safe and sound.

  There were sheep still alive in the ravine. They could be rescued. Buchanan had been a cattleman for much of his life, but here he felt injustice had been done, men destroying lives of animals without true cause. It was as if he had shot the bull elk and removed its antlers for a trophy, leaving the carcass for the coyotes and the vultures. He rode for town, cradling the little black sheep. The rain did not lessen nor did it improve Buchanan’s temper.

  Sheridan was a tiny new settlement. There was a wide main street, a stream over which a wooden bridge had been built, a few scattered houses, a general store, a hay-and-feed emporium and the inevitable saloon. There were a few lights, but the brightest came from the saloon. He tied up and walked in with the black lamb in his arms.

  Coco was not present, probably putting up his horse and selling the pack mule to the stableman behind the feed store. There were several customers, cowboys. Some of them were still damp from the elements. The bartender was a fat man with sideburns. They all stared hard at Buchanan.

  He asked, “Would there be some milk in this joint?”

  The bartender said, “You drink milk, mister?”

  “For the lamb,” said Buchanan. “You could warm it up a bit. It was cold and wet down in that hole.”

  “What hole?”

  “Where these jaspers ran a herd of sheep,” said Buchanan.

  A lean, rugged man stepped forward. “Name’s Dave Dare. Foreman for Jake Robertson’s Cross Bar. Sheep ain’t welcome.”

  Men formed a semicircle behind Dave Dare. The bartender looked the other way, remaining neutral, it seemed.

  Buchanan put the lamb carefully on the bar. “Milk. Warm if possible. Name’s Buchanan. Jake knows me.”

  “Buchanan, yeah. Heard of you. I still say sheep ain’t welcome hereabouts.” Dare was wearing a Colt. All the others were armed as well. Two of them ranged on either side of the foreman.

  “Do tell.” Buchanan surveyed them. They were Texans by the cut of their jib. “Only, you see, this ain’t sheep. This here’s a particular lamb half-growed. Right now it happens to be in my care. Poor little feller, he needs help.”

  “Hell, Buchanan, way I heard, you’re a cattleman. What the hell you want with a damn sheep?”

  “I make that none of your business,” Buchanan said.

  “Sheep’s plenty of my business. Sheep is the ruination of my business.”

  “Heard that before. Howsome-ever, this sheep is my business.”

  “Then take your damn business elsewhere.”

  “Don’t happen to be any elsewhere in this burg.” He was hoping Coco would appear. He did not believe that this bunch would start a gunfight over one black sheep. Howsome-ever ... He counted six of them. The odds were a bit too great against him. He played for time. “Wouldn’t want any trouble. I’ve knowed Jake for a heap of time.”

  “Jake hates sheep worse’n loco weed. If you know him, you know that. Now take your damn critter and get it outa here,” said Dare.

  The street door opened and closed. Without looking Buchanan sensed that Coco had entered. He said, “Half-dozen of you, ain’t there? Not enough. The sheep stays.”

  Surprisingly, Dare did draw his gun. He aimed it at the black lamb on the bar top. Buchanan moved like a bolt of lightning. One hand knocked the gun from Dare’s grasp. The other clipped the foreman on the chin, knocking him back into the arms of his men. The two who had been closest charged.

  Coco came on. Buchanan grasped the first pair by the nape of the neck, shook them, then banged their heads together. That left only three combatants.

  Coco was beauty in action under such circumstances. He moved with the grace of a large cat. His fists were like iron. Ducking, swaying, he danced and pivoted. Not a hand was laid on him. He was the boxer-fighter par excellence.

  Buchanan lounged back at the bar, one arm around the sheep, enjoying Coco’s performance. The unfortunate cowboys went left, then right, then over a table, then against a wall. One made an effort to climb Coco’s back. He was tossed off, then struck by a perfect left hook which draped him half over the bar.

  Buchanan now drew his gun. As the hurt and confused cowmen staggered to their feet, he said, “This here is all nonsense. You got two choices now. You can belly up and drink on me ... forgettin’ about this here sheep. Or you can hightail it outa here and tell your story to Jake Robertson. You pays your money and you takes your pick.”

  Dare was rubbing his jaw. The others stared at Buchanan’s gun and waited, wavering, looking to Dave Dare.

  The foreman said, his voice a bit muffled, “Nobody’s goin’ into a shootout with you, Buchanan. And I ain’t drinkin’ with no sheep man.”

  “Not my sheep,” Buchanan reminded him. “Just a little friend I made out there where you was doin’ your dirty work. You tell Jake I know his problem but I ain’t for herdin’ sheep over a cliff. You tell him I’ll be out to see him.”

  “I’ll be damned if you’re welcome.”

  Buchanan said, “Why, now, you bein’ a Texan seems to me you’d know better’n that. You do like I say and you’ll live to fight another day.”

  They were all willing to go. Buchanan watched them file out, then said, “Bartender. About that warm milk.”

  “Sure, Mr. Buchanan. I was just waitin’ till the dust cleared.” The fat man bustled.

  Coco asked, “Now where did you get that purty li’l old lamb?”

  “Down among the dead and wounded.” Buchanan told him what had happened.

  “You lookin’ for moose and found sheep.”

  “It was the biggest bull elk I ever saw. The sheep, that was just an accident.”

  “Yeah. One of them accidents that gets us into all kinds of trouble.”

  “You call that trouble, that little fracas? Seemed to me you were enjoyin’ it.”

  “Just a li’l workout.” Coco was petting the sheep. “He’s a cute li’l devil at that, ain’t he?”

  The barkeep came with milk warmed hastily over a wood fire. Coco assumed the role of nursemaid.

  “Name of Bascomb. I own the place,” said the barman. “That was a tough crowd you cleaned out, Mr. Buchanan.”

  Buchanan pointed at Coco. “Name is Coco Bean. You follow prizefights?”

  “Certainly. Coco Bean. He’s the champ. Made a few dollars bettin’ on you, Coco.”

  “This little critter sure cottons to your milk,” said Coco. “Could use a glass myself.”

  Bascomb hastened to accommodate him. He said, “That would be Shawn Casey’s lamb. He’s the only sheep man around. There was others, but they skedaddled when Jake Robertson put out the word.”

  “Casey, that would be the name of a man who didn’t quit so easy,” said Buchanan.

  “Him and his daughter, they’re purely feisty people,” said the barman. “Got three thousand woolies. Got a half-breed named Peter Wolf with ’em and he is a wolf. You got yourself in the middle of a war, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “I knowed it,” said Coco. “Every time we have a nice, easy time by our own selves it happens.”

  “I’m not lookin’ for a war,” said Buchanan. “Just couldn’t leave this little feller out there among the survivors.”

  “Thing is, everybody around here is tetchy. The farmers, they don’t hold with Cross Bar. Jake, he aims to be cock o’ the roost come hell or high water.”

  The door slammed open. A tall, wiry, middle-aged man came in with a rifle at the ready. Flanking him were two companions with drawn Colts. One was a dark young man with aquiline, finely cut features and black, shining eyes. The other was a long-legged girl with braided dark hair, high cheekbones and flashing green eyes, a bold-looking girl wearing a man’s checkered shirt and tight Levi’s over riding boots.

  The man said, “Stranger, that’s my lamb. You drive my sheep over a cliff. That’s bad enough. Now you steal.”

  Buchanan said, “Mister, if this poor crit
ter is yours, by all means take him. Just figure I’m mindin’ it for you.”

  Bascomb interposed. “Mr. Casey, this is Buchanan. And Coco Bean. They asked for milk for the lamb. And they just busted Robertson’s crew all to hell, beggin’ your pardon, Miss Casey.”

  The guns were lowered. “They beat up Dare and his crowd?”

  “Mr. Dare and us, we had a difference of opinion,” said Buchanan.

  “There was six of ’em,” Bascomb said. “It woulda done your heart good to see the fun.”

  Coco had not stopped feeding the lamb. “He’s perkin’ up real good. You folks want to sell the little feller?”

  Shawn Casey leaned his rifle against the wall. The other two put up their revolvers—the girl wore a cartridge belt and holster, Buchanan noted.

  “We owe you an apology,” said Shawn Casey. “This is my daughter, Susan. My foreman, Peter Wolf.”

  “Pleasure,” said Buchanan. “Drinks are on us.”

  “Accepted. Whiskey all around,” said Casey. He had the diction of an educated man. “Sorry, these are perilous times in this country, gentlemen.”

  “So it would seem.” He noted that Susan nursed her four ounces like a man. Her hand was shapely and strong-looking. Peter Wolf stood close by her, Buchanan noticed, and he did not blame the man. She was a shapely beauty, all right. Her eyes shone like precious stones. Her gaze was frank and direct—and curious. When she spoke her voice was throaty, deep, like that of a young man.

  “You the Buchanan they tell about?” she asked.

  “Reckon so, miss.”

  “You’re a cattleman.” It was an accusation.

  “Not hardly. Rode the trails, sure. Owned a few head in my time. Nowadays I’m a ... ” He scratched his head and looked at Coco. “What am I?”

  Coco said, “That depends. Sometimes you’re my manager without no pay. Sometimes you’re a huntin’ man. Sometimes you’re back there with Billy Button and our fam’ly. Most times, though, you buttin’ into messes like this one.”

  “Lawman?” demanded the girl. She was more than a girl, Buchanan realized; she was a woman in her mid-twenties.