Buchanan on the Prod (Prologue Western) Read online

  “Twice you got in my way today,” Malvaise repeated.

  “Just a little,” Buchanan said, gazing blandly at the dead Jules Sweger being lugged off to Boot Hill. He looked back into Malvaise’s face, smiled disarmingly. “Hell,” he said, “I’d throw in with an Apache if he was boxed like your boys had that kid out there.”

  “This is a war,” Malvaise said. “A war for big stakes. If he made the mistake of riding out on the range alone that was his lookout, not yours.”

  “And I’ve met a lot of hombres that’d say you’re right,” Buchanan agreed. “And,” he added amiably, “just as many who’d lend the kid a little hand.”

  “You interfered, Buchanan,” Malvaise said. “You butted into something that’s none of your business. And did it a second time just now.”

  Buchanan leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his neck and studied the other man for a long moment.

  “You say you’re at war,” he said then. “Since when does that include pushing around women and old men?”

  “Everyone gets pushed around when they get in the way,” Malvaise answered sharply. “This game is for high stakes.”

  “Then you’ve got to protect your hand, mister,” Buchanan advised him.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Same as it means in poker,” Buchanan said. “Like you say about that kid—it was his lookout if he was by his lonesome. Same with your boys when they manhandled that pretty little girl. And the fella that slapped leather at me. That was their lookout what happened. At least it is where I come from,” he added.

  “Texas?” Malvaise asked, sarcasm in his tone.

  “West Texas,” Buchanan corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  “What’s done is done,” Malvaise said, suddenly impatient, seeing that the meeting was turning into plain conversation. “Let’s forget what’s happened and say that you’re working for me.”

  “Working at what?”

  “At gunfighting,” Malvaise said. “At helping to drive the weaklings out, making the strong survive. As was intended from the beginning.”

  “Is that the way of it?” Buchanan drawled. “Always heard it was the meek who were supposed to inherit the earth.”

  “Not this part of the earth,” Malvaise said resolutely. “Well, what do you say? Hundred a month and found—and there’s going to be plenty of ‘found’ when I get things organized my way.”

  “I’ll bet there will.”

  “Then you’re on the payroll?”

  “Nope,” Buchanan said, turning down the second offer to make some money with his Colt.

  “Why not?” Malvaise demanded.

  “Because I mark you for a sonofabitch,” Buchanan said frankly. “How’s that for a reason?”

  Malvaise reddened and his chair scraped noisily as he quickly pushed it back and got to his feet. The insult was more than enough to infuriate the man dangerously—but the open scorn he read in Buchanan’s unwavering gaze poured fresh fuel on the fire. He backed away from the table, moved slowly toward the semicircle at the bar formed by Judd, Ruppert and Biggie Tragg.

  Buchanan, watching him, tipped more coffee into his cup from the pot, prudently drank from it with his left hand and kept the fingers of the right within easy reach of the big Colt. Their short-lived conference had been the object of everyone’s interest in the place, and the sudden manner in which it broke up now caused a shifting to get out of the line of fire, brought on a tense quiet. The three men behind Malvaise spread themselves out, set their shoulders to draw and shoot when Malvaise gave the word. Malvaise’s back touched the bar and he spread his coat to reveal a pair of expensive, pearl-handled .45’s on his hip. The man straightened his powerful body, seemed to be counting to himself. But an instant before he reached the “go” number another voice broke the strained silence. The young and piping voice of Robbie White, the twelve-year-old stableboy.

  “I brung your horse around like you said, mister,” Robbie announced as he came into the saloon and advanced directly between the bar and the table. Then, sensing that something was wrong in the mysterious grown-ups’ world, the freckled-faced boy stopped short, looked from Buchanan to Malvaise and company and back again.

  Buchanan, not daring to take his eyes off Malvaise, gripped the table edge with both hands in his anxiety.

  “Truce, Malvaise,” he said tautly. “Let the youngster back off.”

  But Malvaise didn’t answer immediately. His mind was too flooded with relief to enable him to think clearly. For though the man knew that the drifter would be cut down it was just as sure as God made green apples that Buchanan’s first bullet was marked with his name. Now he saw the way out.

  “Take the boy with you,” Malvaise said, making it sound like a generous reprieve, “and get on that horse. Ride out, saddlebum, and keep riding.”

  Buchanan stood up tall from his chair, sent a knowing half-smile straight into Malvaise’s arrogant, glowering face. A grin that shamed the Big M owner’s courage for all to witness. Still smiling, he draped an arm around Robbie White’s shoulder and walked him out onto the street.

  “Gee, mister, were you and Mr. Malvaise gonna shoot it out?” the stableboy asked in awe.

  “Maybe, son,” Buchanan said, “and maybe not. Guess we’ll never know.”

  “You’re not ascared of him at all, are you?” the boy asked admiringly. “Like everybody else in this town is.”

  “Got folks buffaloed, has he?”

  “In Indian Rocks, sure,” Robbie said unhappily. “But Terry Patton and his pa are still fightin’ him on the range. Maybe they’ll even beat him.”

  “May be,” Buchanan said, “but don’t count on it.” He slid his boot in the stirrup, swung himself into the saddle. “So long, kid,” he told the boy. “Take care of yourself.”

  “So long, mister,” Robbie answered, stood there watching as Buchanan rode north out of Indian Rocks. That, the boy decided then and there, was the kind of man he was going to be. Ride where you please, live as you please, and scared of nobody.

  Inside the Silver Queen Bart Malvaise was having a drink he knew he needed. But as the whisky warmed his stomach and relaxed the tension he was acutely aware of the sidelong glances directed at him by the other drinkers in the place. Aware of their looks and the strained silence of the three men seated with him.

  “What’s biting everybody?” he demanded at last. “What’s wrong with you?” He fixed his glance on the sheriff and Sam Judd ran a hand across his cheek uncomfortably. “Well? What the hell is it?” Malvaise asked him sharply.

  “You asked me, Bart,” Judd said, “and I’ll tell you. Big M came out second best just now.”

  “Second best? Because I didn’t take that drifter?”

  Sam Judd nodded and Malvaise swung to Tragg.

  “What’ve you got to say?”

  “I was primed to throw down on him,” Biggie Tragg growled. “Never figured you’d let him get away with it.”

  “You should’ve let us kill the scudder,” Saul Ruppert chimed in. “You’re supposed to be runnin’ things around here, not takin’ it off of every rider that happens by. Besides which,” he added, touching his aching jaw, “I owe him something personal.” “Then go settle with him,” Malvaise said abruptly. “You and Biggie both.”

  The gunmen stood up, a look of hard expectancy on both their faces.

  “I’ll bring you back a souvenir,” Tragg promised. “His hat and his gun. You can hang it over the bar as a warning to anybody else with big ideas about themself.”

  They left the saloon, mounted up and took out after Buchanan.

  Chapter Three

  “I THINK YOUR BOY’S going to make it, Matt,” the tired, perspiration-soaked Doc Lord told the owner of Spread Eagle when he had finished the operation.

  “Thank you, John,” Matt Patton said, squeezing his old friend’s shoulder emotionally.

  “Thank the Providence that had that big fella on hand in the Silve
r Queen,” the medico amended. “He’s a one-man gang I’d like to see riding for this outfit of yours.”

  “I understand I’m deep in the stranger’s debt,” Matt said, his voice heavy, defeated-sounding. “But I’m afraid Spread Eagle’s all through hiring gunhands.”

  “Through?” Doc Lord echoed. “What do you mean, Matt?”

  “We’ve reached the end of our rope here,” Patton said with finality. “Big M has us in a bind.”

  “That can’t be!” Lord said. “You’ve got to go on fighting!”

  Patton shook his gray head sadly. “We’re licked,” he said. “Frank is paying off the men now. Then the two of us are going into town and see what kind of terms Bart Malvaise will give us.”

  “Tell you what,” the doctor said. “Sell me the ranch. Sell it to me outright or a half-share. I’ll recruit that big fella and get me some more wildcats just like him down to Douglas. We’ll blow Big M right off the map …”

  “Dad, you don’t know what you’re saying!” Kathie Lord broke in on her father. “You’re a doctor, not a rancher.”

  “I’m a man,” Lord answered her. “First, last and always! “And I’m just itching to get a crack at that misbegotton Bart Malvaise.”

  “No, John,” Matt Patton told him then. “Courage and enthusiasm aren’t enough. Standing up for what you think is right isn’t enough, either. Not against the brand of ruthlessness Big M has shown me. Ruthlessness, money, and a kind of unholy desire for power. Our old friend Malvaise may have raised an unnatural son—and God knows what type of man his real father was—but he certainly knows what he wants and how to get it.”

  “You didn’t see him stopped in his tracks like I did!” Lord insisted warmly. “The invincible Malvaise, with his three high-priced gunmen! Giving out orders left and right, bullying people against their will! Then,” the excited little man added gleefully, “one of ’em made the mistake of laying his dirty paw on Kathie! It was like somebody opened the barn door and let a twister in, Matt! Yessir, a tornado with arms and legs on it! I never did see him draw, did you, Kathie?”

  “I didn’t see anything,” the girl said. “The whole business was terrifying from start to finish.”

  “Terrifying to a female, maybe,” her father said, “but not to me. Why, did you notice the look in that fella’s eye when we left? He was as happy as a kid when school lets out. Just aspoiling for more action.”

  Kathie didn’t know about that, but she remembered very vividly the warm grin that lighted up that big rough face, the broad wink he sent her. How anybody could take time out to flirt with a girl with a still-smoking gun in his hand was beyond her.

  “Your friend had the element of surprise going for him,” Matt Patton put in soberly now. “Malvaise wasn’t expecting that kind of opposition in a place like the Silver Queen. And unless he’s a long ride from Indian Rocks by now,” the owner added, “I’m afraid he’s going to run out of luck. Big M is a tough outfit, John. I know them. And one man, even this non pareil of yours, isn’t going to hurt Malvaise again and live to tell about it.”

  “Mr. Patton’s right, Dad,” Kathie said. “I just hope he did have sense enough to get clear of that vipers’ nest.”

  “Well, I guess,” Doc Lord agreed, losing the bright spark. “One man against Big M is asking for a miracle. But if we was to go to Douglas, to scout around the border for another half-dozen …”

  “That involves time and money, John,” Patton told him wearily. “Spread Eagle is just about out of both. I’m going to make what peace I can with Big M and be done with this nightmare we’ve been living in these past six months.”

  Lord, his face incredibly sad, held out his hand to his friend, shook it solemnly.

  “The world has turned itself upside down, Matt, if a thing like this can happen to the likes of you. What a terrible injustice.”

  “Ay,” the other man agreed dismally. “Injustice is the word for it. And I’m not thinking of myself so much,” he added. “I’ve had my full slice of life.” He looked at Kathie Lord. “I’m saddest most of all,” he told the girl, “for you. For you and my son, for what might have been your life in this country. Terry had such big plans for both of you.”

  “I know, Mr. Patton,” she said. “But nothing that Bart Malvaise can do will change things for us. We’ll find a life of our own somewhere else.”

  “I know you will,” Patton said. “But for twenty years past I’ve been counting on my son stepping in here and taking over, making Spread Eagle the finest cattle ranch in the entire territory.” The old man suddenly lowered his gaze, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. Then, recovering himself, he swung back to John Lord. “My foreman is waiting for me,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to leave you so abruptly.”

  “We understand, Matt,” the doctor assured him. “I only wish there were some other decision open to you.”

  “There isn’t. Spread Eagle has been whipped.”

  Kathie, promising to return to the ranch in the evening to take over the nursing of Terry, left with her father. Matt Patton looked in at his peacefully slumbering son, walked on to the west wing of the rambling ranch house that served as a general office and sleeping quarters for Frank Riker. The foreman was there now, seated behind the desk with an open ledger before him. A dozen men formed a group along the walls. It was a wake.

  Riker stood up from the desk, turned to the owner.

  “How’s Terry?” was his first question.

  “He’s holding his own, Frank,” Patton said, then smiled ruefully, swept a glance at the mournful-looking riders. “Wish I could claim the same for his father,” he added.

  “I’ll stay on, Matt,” Chris Jenson said to that. “Spread Eagle’s my home as well as yours.”

  “Same here,” volunteered Bo Baker, the wrangler. “Soon as be buried here as live anywheres else.” There were other murmurs of assent to that sentiment but Patton shook his head, raised his hand for silence.

  “I appreciate your feelings, boys,” he said, “but it’s not in the cards. We’ve lost eighteen good men in this fight—almost nineteen—and the smaller we grow the bigger Big M gets. Fine men killed, my stock raided, my resources just about drained away. And it’s been all my fault,” Patton said. “My fault for being old and growing mellow, for not believing that we could raise a breed in Pasco County like Bart Malvaise.” He turned to his grim-eyed foreman. “Frank, you had the answer when the first trouble showed its head. Fight fire with fire, you said then. But I vetoed you. Pour oil on the waters, I said. Reason with the man, talk to him, go on believing that justice will prevail. Well, might has prevailed. Pasco, from this day on, will be ruled by the gun, not the law.”

  Matt Patton broke off suddenly, as if embarrassed by the sound of his voice, walked abruptly to the nearest rider and held out his hand in farewell. For each man in turn he had a word of affection, a wish for good luck, and when he had said good-bye to them all they trooped out of the office and either stood uncertainly in the yard or went to the bunkhouse for their gear. In a few moments Patton and Riker emerged, mounted up and headed for Indian Rocks and unconditional surrender to Malvaise.

  The usual resentment, or standoffishness, between cowhand and gunhand had never existed at Spread Eagle for the reason that puncher and fighter were more together here in a common, and very desperate, cause than is the usual case. But even so, and in spite of the easy camaraderie that existed on this ranch, neither Pecos Riley nor Billy Rowe felt the bonds of loyalty and affection to Spread Eagle that made the day such a calamitous one for Chris Jenson, Bo Baker and the others. Pecos and Billy were a pair of Texans who were truly and indelibly saddlebums. They made their living with their guns and actively sought out trouble and war.

  They were the same age, twenty-six, and the fact that they had been plying their hazardous trade for five years and survived this long was an equal mixture of luck, tolerable marksmanship and the natural gunfighter’s talent for combining extreme caution with cold re
cklessness. They lived to fight, these two, but at the same time they fought to live.

  “Well, Billy, where we headed now?” Pecos asked his partner. They were lookalikes—tall and reedy, piercing-eyed and deep-tanned. Their characters were nicely tuned, too. Both were cocky and self-confident without being either noisy about it or aggressive. Neither one had any knowledge or interest in anything that was happening in the world beyond Abilene, Kansas, St. Louis, Missouri and Brownsville, Texas. Neither had any plans—or expectations—beyond tomorrow. There had been several brawls between them, fistfights and wrassling, and the winner had generally been the one with cause enough to provoke it. So far there hadn’t been anything serious enough between them to settle by gun—no woman trouble, no irretractable insult—and though neither sidestepped a showdown it was almost as though both knew it would be a dead tie that would solve nothing.

  It was, all in all, a nice relationship—potentially dangerous, capable of being ended at any moment, any place—and because sudden death was a third ‘partner’, there was no unnecessary or insincere sentimentality.

  “Let’s ride over to California,” Billy Rowe suggested casually. “Always somethin’ doin’ there.”

  “And get on the winnin’ damn side for a change,” Pecos complained, cinching his blanket roll behind the saddle and balancing the weight across the horse’s rump. “We ain’t collected no bonus for a year now.”

  “If I recollect right, old hoss,” Billy said as he checked his gunload, “it was you who figured Mr. Patton to whup Mr. Malvaise in this argument. Correct me, now, if I’m wrong, Pecos.”

  “Hunched the thing wrong,” Pecos admitted. “Thought Riker was callin’ the shots, not the old man.”

  “That ramrod ain’t bad,” Billy said, throwing a leg up. “For a brush-popper. If we’d of come out aboomin’ against Big M like he wanted to, hit ’em a sneak punch along about dawn one Sunday, we’d of caught the sons in their blankets and hurt ’em some.”

  “Hurt ’em and learned ’em,” Pecos agreed, forking his own horse. “But, hell,” he added, “the old man called it on his own self just now. He didn’t even know he was in a war until it was too late. Had so much peace around here for so long it spoilt him.”