Buchanan 15 Read online

  “Robertson will not palaver.”

  “You knew that.”

  “Any fool would know it. He wants all.” Wolf swung an angry arm. “The graze. The country, all of it.”

  “People like Jake do get too big for their britches,” acknowledged Buchanan. “Still, he ain’t all bad.”

  “Bad enough. If you stay, will you fight him?”

  “My aim’s to get through all this without a fight.”

  “Will he pay for the sheep his men killed?”

  “That I doubt.”

  “You see?”

  “They claim they didn’t stampede the sheep.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  “They lie.”

  “Then he pays.”

  “Maybe he believes ’em.”

  “Robertson? He told them to do it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know it. I know it in my guts.”

  “So you’d hire gunners and go after Cross Bar.”

  “I’d hire them to make sure there’s no more killin’.”

  “Might stop the killin’ of sheep. But then you’d have people killed.”

  “Damn the people. They get in the way, they take their chances. That’s the way it’s been, hasn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “No reason why it has to keep on bein’ that way.”

  “Go talk to the Crow,” said Peter Wolf. “See what they think about it.”

  “Why don’t you talk to them?”

  A dark cloud settled on the face of the young man. “I’m a breed. White people—outside the Caseys—don’t want anything to do with me. Indians don’t accept me either.”

  “You had schoolin’.”

  “A little schoolin’s a dangerous thing.”

  “Uh-huh. You learn just enough to know we can’t know everything we want to know. Didn’t have much schoolin’ my own self. Up the trail at fifteen. Like I said last night, though, I read a lot.”

  “It ain’t enough to read. This country has been stolen from the Crow and their cousins by the government. Now it’s bein’ stolen again by a devil from Texas.”

  Buchanan said, “Bein’ ain’t windin’ up.” He was looking at a stand of willows bordering a stream coming down from the hills. There was motion, then there were riders. He swung up the glasses even as he called, “Watch out,” to Peter Wolf.

  The riders were bareback. They wore breeches but no shirts. Even at his range Buchanan could see they were youths, young braves. Nightshade went into top speed from a standing start. Peter Wolf followed.

  The dogs immediately began circling the herd of sheep. The herder picked up a rifle and fired. His aim was bad.

  Over his shoulder Buchanan yelled, “Don’t shoot.”

  Peter Wolf, riding a small bay, was far behind the swift course of Nightshade. Buchanan rode a circle, heading for the trees. Two Indian boys swooped down on a sheep, picked him up between them and uttered a shrill war whoop as they turned for the copse of woods. The others lay back to head off pursuit, brandishing bows, quivers of arrows slung over their shoulders.

  Nightshade made the Indian ponies seem as if they were standing still. Buchanan cut between the sheep thieves and their destination.

  He sat there, looming, imposing. He did not draw revolver or rifle. The pair with the sheep, intent upon their difficult task, almost ran him down. When they discovered him, they came to a jolting, sliding stop.

  Buchanan said in the Crow language, “You will return the sheep to the herd.”

  For a moment it seemed they would try to fight. Their brethren, a half-dozen of them, came within arrow range, saw Peter Wolf advancing with rifle in hand and paused. It was a standoff.

  Then the two youths dropped the sheep, which blatted in disgust and trotted to where a dog was eagerly seeking to chivvy it back to the herd.

  Buchanan said, “Since when do the Crow steal sheep?”

  The leader of the outriders came closer. “And who are you who speak our tongue?”

  “I am Buchanan. Go tell your chief. Tell him I will visit him and smoke the pipe.”

  The young Indian said, “I am Walking Elk. I do not know Buchanan. We are hungry. The man from Washington does not feed us well.”

  “Then ask for what you need,” Buchanan told him, his voice harsh and strong.

  “From the white man? Ha!”

  “Do you know the white man who owns the sheep?”

  “We know the white man who owns the cattle.”

  “Then you know only half. Now, go and do as I say.”

  They milled about. They stared at Peter Wolf, curled their lips. They jabbered among themselves, careful, however, since Buchanan understood their language, to reveal nothing.

  The leader said, “Buchanan. I will remember.”

  “See that you do.”

  Reluctantly, with many a glance cast backward, they rode off through the woods. Buchanan found himself grinning. He looked at Peter Wolf and for the first time caught him with a rueful smile.

  “Boys will be boys,” said Buchanan. “Since they ain’t at war, they got to do somethin’ to prove themselves.”

  “Stealin’ is all they know.”

  “Tell the truth. Would you have given them a sheep to eat if they had asked?”

  “No,” said Peter Wolf. “But Shawn Casey would.”

  “There you have a lesson,” said Buchanan. “Think it over.”

  He rode off toward the Casey ranch.

  Three

  Peter Wolf watched Buchanan canter away on the black horse. He had not come off on top in the meeting with the Crows under young Walking Elk, Johnnybear’s cousin. He wrestled with his pride. There was much on his mind these days.

  There was the problem with Susan; this was at the top of his mind. The Caseys had never referred to his mixed blood, had accepted him as an equal, yes, as a member of the family. It was all in his head, he had told himself repeatedly.

  Yet he knew what other people thought. He knew the scorn of both whites and Indians. It was seldom patent, on the surface, but it was always present.

  Then there was the matter of his debt to the Caseys. They had been wonderful to him. He owed them a lot. If Jake Robertson or any of his cohorts were to harm a Casey, he would make them pay. If there were to be a war, he would be in the van.

  Added to this was the disturbing matter of Robertson’s daughter, that seemingly frail, small blonde lady who could ride like the doughtiest cowhand, who was devious in her ways, who appeared when least expected, who asked embarrassing questions, and who stared him down when he avoided giving answers.

  He mounted the bay and rode toward the herd guarded by Gowdy and Indian Joe. Twisting in the saddle, he could see Buchanan riding for a high place, as if to observe the countryside. It did seem as though the big man was concerned about the Caseys. Peter Wolf’s loyalty had to be with him.

  On the other hand were the exchanges between Susan and Buchanan. Or at least there had been interest on Susan’s part. Peter Wolf’s sensitivities in that direction were excruciating. He swallowed hard and went on.

  Indian Joe and Gowdy were on the job. The dogs were enjoying their work, keeping the herd in order.

  “No sign of trouble,” said Gowdy.

  Indian Joe grunted. “Trouble soon.”

  “Buchanan?” asked Gowdy. “Is he with us?”

  Without hesitation Peter Wolf said, “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  Peter Wolf lied. “I talked with him. He is with us.” That would hold them in line, he thought. “Get word to the others at the north herds.”

  “Oh, we’ll do that.” Gowdy beamed. “With Buchanan on our side anything can happen. He’s one hiyu man.”

  “Yes,” said Peter Wolf.

  “He’s fought more fights than any man you ever heard of. He’s sweet-talked more women than you could shake a stick at. He’s the friend everyone needs, by gum.”

  Indian Joe said, “He even
good to Indians. Sometimes.”

  “He’s good to good Indians,” Gowdy said.

  “Yes,” said Peter Wolf, wincing inside. “We’ve heard about Buchanan. Plenty.”

  “That friend of his, he’s a champeen.”

  Peter Wolf said, “Two men won’t cut it. I hope Buchanan will bring in some fighters.” Since they were so high, it might be well to give them more hope. “Them Crows, now. What about ’em?” Peter Wolf made an instant decision. “I will go to them.”

  “That’s a good idee,” said Gowdy.

  Going ahead, following his instinct, Peter Wolf said, “I’ll take them a sheep. You got a troublemaker?”

  “Got a mean one, all right. Old Mabelle, we call her. The dogs don’t like her. Troublemaker.”

  “Point her out.”

  She was a middle-sized animal with one wall-eye. They walked around the herd. The dogs chivvied her until she was apart from the others. Then Peter Wolf drew his knife and slit her throat.

  “You takin’ her home?”

  “No. I’m takin’ her to the Crow.”

  “Do tell!” Gowdy was respectful. “That takes nerve.”

  “It may work to our good,” said Peter Wolf. He strung the carcass over the pommel of his saddle and rode westward. He knew vaguely what he was going to do. He followed trail. It was a long way to the clearing among the trees. He could see the hilltop against the skyline when he rode in. He imagined the figure of Buchanan, the omnipotent, watching from on high.

  When Peter Wolf reached the clearing, Walking Elk came to face him. They were of equal size; indeed, they somewhat resembled one another, the high cheekbones, the finely chiseled features, the rather full lips, the dark, brooding eyes deep-set, the black brows fierce across the brow. Peter Wolf threw down the dead sheep. On a spit above a banked fire, a quarter of beef sizzled—Cross Bar beef, no doubt.

  He said, “I see you do not need my offering.”

  “We always need,” said Walking Elk.

  There were more of them than Peter Wolf had expected to see. They sat on their haunches, bows and arrows, and a few old guns near to their hands. They stared at him without blinking.

  He said, “There were dead sheep in the arroyo for the taking.”

  “Yes?”

  “But you tried to steal one of ours.”

  “Not yours, Peter Wolf. Theirs.”

  “Shawn Casey is a good man.”

  “No white man is good. Why else are we forced to steal?” Walking Elk spoke in his native tongue.

  Peter Wolf answered in kind. “You are not forced to steal from Shawn Casey.”

  “We steal from them. We will do whatever we can to hurt them. We will do so until they learn we are not to be despised.” Walking Elk’s voice rose, the black eyes burned. “You are half-Crow. You cannot tell us what we must do.”

  “I am not telling. I am saying that the Caseys are good. They have taken care of Johnnybear, your kin. They have given me a home. It is Robertson the cattleman who is threatening to take all of the land. He is the enemy.”

  “True, he is an enemy.” Walking Elk agreed. “So is the great Buchanan. So are they all.”

  “But you fear Buchanan.” He should not have said that, he knew, but made no effort to retract it.

  “And you, a half-breed? You do not fear him? You fear them all. You come running to us to talk for the sheep man. The sheep man is afraid of the cattleman. Buchanan? He alone is not afraid.”

  “Your chief is a friend to Buchanan.”

  “Our chief is old and weary. All our elders have fought and been beaten by the whites who took our land. We respect them. But we have our lives. We are not afraid as you are, half-Crow.”

  Peter Wolf dismounted with careful ease. “I am Crow enough for you.”

  “Ha!” They all laughed with Walking Elk.

  “I never lived on a reservation. I am alone. Try me, O brave of the Crow.” He hung his gun belt on the pommel of his saddle. He removed his knife from its sheath.

  Without warning Walking Elk sprang at him. Peter Wolf stepped easily aside and put out a foot. Down went the Indian. Wolf circled, waiting. The brave bounced like a rubber ball and was again on the attack.

  Peter Wolf met him. They locked together like fighting moose. For a time they wrestled on even terms, twisting, writhing. Walking Elk swung his torso and Peter Wolf went flying against the trunk of a tree. Dazed, he staggered forward.

  Walking Elk closed in. Shaking off the fog, Peter Wolf met him with a straight right fist thrown from the shoulder. Walking Elk went wallowing backward.

  Peter Wolf drew a breath and waited. Now the Crow circled him, his eyes afire. They went around and around, each seeking an opening.

  The watching braves were silent except for involuntary yips as one man or the other dominated. None made an attempt to interfere.

  They sprang together, locked each other in deep embrace. It was strength against pure strength now, each striving to crush the wind from the other. They staggered, went to earth. Peter Wolf clamped his legs around those of the Indian. He twisted an arm free, secured a wrist. He pivoted and was on top. He rolled over, using a trick he had learned from white boys. He brought Walking Elk’s arm back in a hammerlock, maintaining the leg hold. Now he called on the muscles he had developed at hard work.

  Walking Elk was helpless. Teeth shut tight, sweat pouring from him, he did not utter a sound. He was a brave; he would die before admitting defeat. Peter Wolf applied just enough pressure. Bone creaked but did not break.

  Peter Wolf released his hold, came to his feet in one graceful motion. Walking Elk tried to arise, could not. One arm dangled. He staggered forward. Peter Wolf pushed him gently away and said, “Enough.”

  “Never!”

  “It is not to the death,” Peter Wolf admonished him. “We put aside our weapons. It is simply that you now respect me. If I am half-white ... I am also half-Crow. You will remember.”

  There was silence. Walking Elk breathed hard, but the rules were strict; his men were watching. His lips thinned to a tight line as Peter Wolf buckled on his gun belt, picked up his sharp blade and mounted the bay pony, then spoke to them before he left. “I tell you that Shawn Casey and his family are good people. They would never harm anyone who does not first attack them. I tell you that the cowman is out to grab everything. That is my message. If you need sheep to eat, ask and it will be given to you. That is all.”

  He rode away. Walking Elk called after him, “There are no white eyes worth saving. They must go!”

  On the hilltop Buchanan had been able to witness most of the encounter. He put away his field glasses and watched as Peter Wolf rode back toward the Casey house. He saw another horse cutting the angle to intercept the breed. He quickly brought up the field glasses, preparing to ride down in case he was needed.

  He focused on the stranger. His eyebrows popped. It was Claire Robertson, riding hard, attired in jeans and boots, totally unlike the crinolined creature of the Robertson ranch house. There was no doubt that she was determined to speak to Peter Wolf.

  “Now here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” Buchanan said to no one unless it was Nightshade. “The boy’s in love with Susan Casey. And the Robertson girl’s in love with the boy, or thereabouts.”

  Peter Wolf touched his hat brim and said, “Miss Claire.”

  “How nice to run across you this way, Peter.” She drawled a bit so that his name came out like a caress—“Peeeterr.”

  “That’s a fine filly you’re ridin’.” It was a well-bred black, contrasting with her blonde aura. He was always a bit uncomfortable speaking with her.

  “Papa picked her out for me in Texas.” She patted the neck of the animal, not taking her eyes from Peter Wolf. “You haven’t been by to visit.”

  “Me? Visit your place?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why, Miss Claire, your people ran our sheep into a ravine. You sure must know that.”

  “Papa says they stampeded. You sure
that isn’t the way it was?”

  “Yes’m, I’m sure.” She could not be that innocent, he thought, but she knew how to draw the cloak around her, wide-eyed, staring at him.

  “I hate it,” she said, her chin creeping forward. “I purely detest this goin’ on between neighbors. There’s plenty of room for everybody in these wide-open spaces.”

  “True. Seems like your pa don’t think so.”

  “My papa is a decent honest man. I’m going to do my best to bring your people and him together,” she declared.

  “What about those gunmen at Cross Bar?” Peter Wolf asked.

  Claire tossed her blonde curls. “They mean nothing to me. Papa thinks he needs them. I do not.”

  “Buchanan’s been to see your pa.”

  “Buchanan fought with our smithy. Buchanan may be a hero to some, but I think he’s a big bully.”

  “He’s been right polite to Shawn Casey.”

  “He’s got no right meddling,” she said. “Come, ride a ways with me. There’s a pretty little creek yonder. I’d like to wade a bit. I purely love wading barefoot in a clear creek.”

  “You mean that pretty little stream that runs down the lower pasture?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  He gathered up his reins. “Miss Claire, that creek was polluted rotten by the sheep that were run over the cliff by your men. Good aft’noon, Miss Claire.”

  He wheeled away and rode for the north camp, where another thousand sheep were grazing under the care of a few herders and many dogs. She sat staring after him, with tears in her eyes. Her chin was no longer hard. Her lips trembled. She sat for a moment in deep thought, then her head came up and she rode back toward the home ranch.

  As for Peter Wolf, he rode around the entire perimeter of the land occupied by the Casey sheep. He talked to the men, heartening them, insisting that Buchanan was there to protect them all. Most had heard of Buchanan; those who had not were regaled with overblown tales of his heroics.

  Peter Wolf accomplished what he wanted; he got the message out so that it traveled throughout the countryside. It would get to Bascomb’s in Sheridan and thence to the outlying farms, to the Indian reservation, eventually to Cross Bar and Jake Robertson. That was the way of it in the places where there were no daily newspapers. News went with surprising speed by word of mouth.