Buchanan on the Prod (Prologue Western) Read online

  “There goes Malvaise,” Buck Speer broke in. “Goin’ in to let Baby Doll soothe his feelin’s.” The party had ridden into the courtyard and Malvaise had headed directly for the big house, still without speaking to the men.

  “I’d like some of that Baby Doll medicine myself,” Larson said, his eyes watching Malvaise dismount and stride to the main door. It was a three-story house, with big windows, but black shades were drawn everywhere, giving the place a forbidding, withdrawn appearance, as if what went on inside was very secret.

  “Did she come to her window last night?” Lou Nash asked.

  “Same as always,” Larson said. “Along about midnight,” he added, gazing at Malvaise as he went on inside.

  “She get—undressed?” Nash asked.

  “Down to the skin,” Larson said.

  “Then what did she do?”

  “Stood lookin’ up at the moon,” Larson said.

  “Like she didn’t know who was lookin’ at her from the bunkhouse,” Buck Speer said. “Little innocent Baby Doll.”

  “Damn!” Nash said feelingly. “Why do I always get the night shift? How long did she stand by the window?”

  “Till he come upstairs,” Larson said, a hard, bitter envy in his voice. “Till he got drunk enough.”

  “Wouldn’t catch me gettin’ drunk,” Nash said. “Not with her on the premises.”

  “Can’t figger that myself,” Speer said. “Why’s he get drunk like that, Stix?”

  “Oh, could be a lot of reasons,” Larson said. “Makes him a man, maybe. Or else it helps him forget where he brought Baby Doll from.”

  “‘Frisco, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what Hamp Jones told me. Hamp went and fetched her here—and what Malvaise don’t know about their trip back together won’t hurt him.”

  “Hamp laid with her, did he?” Nash asked.

  “Six nights runnin’,” Larson said. “And me, I saw the fingernail marks she put on his back to prove it.”

  “She fought him?”

  “Fought, hell,” Larson said, laughing harshly. “Those were marks of appreciation. That Hamp’s quite a man.”

  “All the way back from ‘Frisco,” Nash said. “Wish Malvaise would send me on an errand like that.”

  “Maybe he will,” Larson said. “I hear he’s got all kinds of plans for when he takes over the county.”

  The riders moved on to their quarters and the owner of Big M went on inside his darkened house. Six months ago it would have been a bright, cheerful place that reflected the warm, outgoing nature of old John Malvaise. But hardly was his foster-father in the grave than Bart had fired the housekeeper, drawn the shades and made it generally known to the ranch hands that they no longer enjoyed free-and-easy access to the main house and the new owner.

  That also applied to the first gunmen Malvaise hired, although the trio of Judd, Tragg and Hamp Jones were called into regular meetings at which they drank with the boss and sometimes ate with him. Then Jones was dispatched to San Francisco one day and returned late at night some two weeks afterward.

  Returned with a companion for Bart Malvaise, a shapely, sultry-eyed, blonde girl of twenty-two who was not only the most unlikely candidate for mistress of Big M but was physically and temperamentally miscast for the life a female ordinarily lived on a rugged, hardworking range. She was known as Baby Doll (after the cook reported hearing Malvaise call her that) but she had been christened Dolly Dupré. Dolly’s mother had been a dancer in a Chicago music hall who joined up with a variety troupe setting out for California to help the new millionaires there spend their gold. Dolly’s mother was reasonably sure that the father was an actor named Larry Dupré, but since she didn’t keep a journal of events it might easily have been the manager of the troupe or the piano player. At any rate, for the first twelve years of Dolly’s life in San Francisco she met a long procession of men whom she was told to call “Daddy” and who seemed, vaguely, to be living in their little house on Market Street.

  And on the day after her fifteenth birthday Dolly returned home to find three one-hundred-dollar gold certificates on her dresser plus a brief note from mother.

  “Darlingest Baby, I have sailed today with a very nice gentleman named Major Longhope. We are going to a place called Australia, to raise sheep, I think, and as soon as we are settled in our huge manorhouse I’ll send for my precious girl. Meanwhile, darling, take care of yourself and have nothing to do with gentlemen who have not been properly introduced. Your adoring Mama.”

  Some female intuition whispered to Dolly that she had seen and heard the last of Mama—and she was right. And as for a precociously buxom and amiable young girl “taking care of herself,” that was all in the interpretation. In wicked, wide-open San Francisco, with its three hundred men for every female, the opportunities were almost endless. And Dolly, dressed in a blue gown that made her look all of eighteen, put herself on the open market, as it were, and got herself properly introduced to the sporting crowd. For the next three years, Dolly operated as a free-lance courtesan, acquiring a book full of knowledge about men and manners plus a very impressive bank account. Unfortunately, an embezzler was hard at work inside the bank and when he took off for Europe one rainy morning he left Dolly and several hundred other people flat broke.

  A woman named Madame LaFarge came to the rescue then, not exactly out of pure kindness, and Dolly found herself installed in one of the most expensive bordellos west of Dodge. That was where Bart Malvaise found her, and the very qualities that made the dark man so cordially disliked on the Pasco County range held a strong fascination for Dolly Dupré. Strong enough, at least, for her to come live with him at Big M when he sent for her.

  Dolly had expected it to be a lark, a vacation and a lover’s idyll all wrapped into one. Disillusion had set in fast. It was a big house, sure enough, but somehow the girl had gotten confused in her mind between a cattle ranch and a cotton plantation. There were no smiling darkies to fetch her breakfast in bed, to fill her tub with hot water, set her hair, launder her crinolines, serenade her at sundown while she sipped a cool julep. There was only a cook, a toothless old Chinaman whose leering grin made her shiver, and he did no one’s bidding but Bart’s.

  Malvaise himself was another unhappy discovery. Instead of being strong and silent she found he was really sullen and morose. Instead of masterful and virile he was actually bullying and satyrish—when the mood was on him. Even his heavy drinking, Dolly discovered, wasn’t so much masculine as it was maudlin. He neglected her for days on end, left her restless, dissatisfied, led her mind into thinking of ways to create mischief. Such as undressing in full view of the lonely men in the bunkhouse or, an even more dangerous practice, bathing in the stream that was out of sight of the main-house.

  And on this particular hot, airless afternoon when Malvaise returned from Indian Rocks Dolly was lying naked in her bed, indolently tasting French bonbons and drinking a strange concoction that was principally pink gin. She heard the door slam shut down below, heard his bootheels pounding heavily on the oak floor.

  Was he coming up? No. There was the sound of the decanter being opened, the clink of glass as he poured whisky. Did she want him to come up? No, not especially. What she would prefer, she told herself, was a visit from Hamp Jones. But Hamp had gone and gotten himself shot this morning, had his arm broken in this silly war that was going on.

  So there would have to be a replacement for Hamp, she decided, and the man named Larson came to mind. Larson, Dolly well knew, wouldn’t need much encouragement. Just the opportunity.

  Malvaise, coincidentally, was thinking of Stix Larson himself. Thinking of a great many things as he wolfed the liquor and fired his rage, but mainly he was considering Larson as a replacement for Biggie Tragg—who had been the replacement for Hamp Jones.

  Goddamn the interference from that motherless drifter! he thought furiously. Goddamn this whole day that’s brought nothing but trouble and galling humiliation! He could see them back in tow
n now, drinking in the Silver Queen and laughing about the beating Big M took. And he could see again the look of scorn Matt Patton had given him when he let himself out the bank’s rear door.

  The man found himself staring at the big leather chair where John Malvaise had always sat in the evening. Staring at it, seeing his foster-father’s strong face, hearing the voice.

  If there’s ever a choice, son, be a dead man rather than a live coward.

  “To hell with that!” Malvaise answered aloud in the silent room. “To hell with all you old fools and your stupid rules!”

  “Bart?” Dolly called and he whirled his head around. “What?”

  “Who you talkin’ to down there? What’s wrong?”

  “I ain’t talkin’ to— Nothin’s wrong! Go back to sleep, or whatever the hell you’re doin’!”

  “I’m not doin’ a thing,” she answered. “Except maybe waitin’ for somebody.”

  “Well, wait and shut up about it!” Malvaise stormed. “I got big things on my mind!”

  And that, Dolly decided in her upstairs bed, does it. I’ve had all the mean talk one girl can put up with from this ill-tempered man and I’m going back to San Francisco! And as she came to that angry decision she threw her bare legs to the floor and stood up, moved without design this time to the window and raised the shade impatiently. In the courtyard below, Stix Larson was unsaddling his mount. He lifted his gaze to the nude blonde-haired girl standing in the window, raised his eyes to her pouting face and smiled lazily. Dolly held the gunman’s brazen stare for another long moment then turned and walked out of his sight.

  Malvaise, mistaking the silence up there for temerity, refilled his glass and crossed restlessly to the parlor window. He pulled a corner of the shade aside, saw Larson attending his horse, and failed to pay any attention to the man’s uplifted face, his absorbed expression.

  “Larson!” he called out into the yard sharply. “Come in here!” And the gunman, startled, thinking that he was being summoned inside for his actions, laid the saddle atop the corral fence, settled the gun low on his hip and went forward for come what may.

  • • •

  “NOW THAT, MY DARLIN‘ daughter Kate, is a man,” Doc Lord said as he stepped back from his office operating table and inspected the length and breadth of Buchanan. A quietly unconscious Buchanan sporting a brand new six-inch scar to go along with the other mementos of battle on his body.

  Kathie Lord, hiding a blush, covered the patient to the chin with a blanket. The girl had been assisting her father for the last thirty minutes and didn’t need his candor to point up what she had already observed herself. Kathie also knew that the man who had been carried in here with such a dangerous knife wound had needed to call on every ounce of reserve in that physique to stay alive.

  Doc Lord opened the adjoining door, stepped into his little waiting room. Matt Patton was there, along with Riker, Pecos and Billy Rowe who had refused to remain in the bank.

  “Is he dead?” Pecos asked.

  “Not by a jugful,” Lord answered. “Which reminds me,” he added, crossing to a cabinet and pulling a quart from behind a copy of Gray’s Anatomy. “Anybody care to join me?”

  “I could use a spot now,” Pecos said with relief. “Man, I thought old Big Bend was a goner for sure.” Lord poured for both gunfighters. Patton and Riker declined.

  “Did that bastard Tragg get away?” the doctor asked.

  “If he did, Doc,” Pecos said dryly, “then it’s the miracle of the ages. Mr. Biggie Tragg is gone.”

  “Six,” Frank Riker said, smiling though it hurt to spread his lips. “That’s some tally for five minutes of fighting.”

  “Plus three before lunch,” Billy pointed out. “Big M sort of got itself cut up some this day.”

  “Wonder what Malvaise will do, Matt?” the foreman asked Pattton. “Bring in more guns or try to hit us with what he’s got left?”

  “I can’t fathom that scoundrel’s thinking,” Patton said. “My main concern at the moment is for our friend in there. I’m in his debt, Frank, and I just don’t know how to repay him.”

  “Put him on the payroll, that’s how,” the peppery doctor said brightly. “Seems to me he’s been working for Spread Eagle since early morning and ain’t made a dollar profit.”

  “Frank,” Patton said, “remind me to put a thousand dollars to his credit before we ride back.”

  “Now that’s the way to talk, Matt,” his friend Lord told him. “That’ll get you first-class service for another thirty days.”

  “Service?” Patton echoed. “The fellow’s near death. I certainly can’t ask him for any more help.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Lord said. “But if no one but us knows he’s off his feet, and if you was to sneak him onto your range after dark—and then let it out that Spread Eagle has a new top gun—why, I’ll bet Malvaise and company will do a lot of frettin.”

  “No,” Patton said. “I want him taken care of, and I want to pay him, but I can’t use him in my trouble with Big M.”

  “Well, you can’t leave him here in town,” Lord argued. “Malvaise’ll finish him off for sure if he’s that available. So you got to take him up to your place.”

  “All right,” Patton said. “I see your point there.”

  “And while he’s mending back into shape,” Lord went on, “you got the exclusive use of his rep. You mark my words, Matt. Big M’s going to treat Spread Eagle with new caution if they know you got a wildcat guarding the premises.”

  “Frank,” Patton appealed to his foreman, “does any of this make sense to you?”

  “Well, Doc’s a wishful thinker,” Riker said. “But I’ve been thinking myself. Malvaise has lost at least three men today that he leaned on pretty heavily. Hupp, Jones and Tragg kind of kept that guncrew together, it seemed to me.”

  “Right,” Pecos chimed in. “He’s down to second stringers now. Most likely be Larson or Speer to take charge—and they ain’t exactly chance-takers.”

  “Nor exactly devoted to duty,” Billy Rowe added. “I worked with Stix up Oklahoma way and he was ready to sell out whenever the sleddin’ got tough.”

  “See, Matt?” Doc Lord said. “See what a godsend that Buchanan is for you? Now, by golly, you got to take full advantage.”

  “All right,” Patton said. “All right. I appear to be outvoted all around. We’ll move him up to the house as soon as you think he’s able to travel.”

  “After sundown,” the doctor said, “and use the old trail. If them jackals smell blood they’ll get the courage to hit you.”

  “We’ll transport him on the q.t.,” Riker promised. “I’ll ride back to the place now and get everything set up there. Pecos, maybe you ought to stay here and watch things.”

  “Pecos and me, both,” Billy put in firmly. “And I just hope that Sam Judd gets it into his head to come nosin’ around. I just hope he does.”

  “That’s right,” Pecos remembered. “That sheriff was the squallin’ son who sicked them guns on us in the first place.”

  But Judd had already poked his nose into Spread Eagle’s business. Not five minutes ago, a deputy had peered into Lord’s operating room and seen Buchanan helpless on the table. He relayed that information to Judd, and now the sheriff was riding to Big M to give Malvaise the news firsthand.

  • • •

  STIX LARSON PUSHED the door open, stood on the threshold for a moment to adjust his eyes to the gloomy darkness inside. It occurred to him that he would make an easy target if that was what Malvaise had in mind.

  “I’m in here, Larson.” The owner beckoned instead and the gunman crossed the foyer, went to the den where Malvaise waited. The flooring had a solidness to it, a permanence that was somehow at odds with the man who occupied the house. Malvaise was seated in the leather chair, slumped in it, and in his fist was a filled glass.

  “Pour yourself some,” he said and Larson did.

  “Smooth whisky,” he commented.

  “Private s
tock,” Malvaise said offhandedly. “Larson, what do you figure went wrong today?”

  Stix shifted his thoughts now that the girl wasn’t the subject, relaxed his guard.

  “Somebody got lucky,” he answered. “We didn’t.”

  “What would you do now,” Malvaise asked, “provided you were segundo?”

  “Do? I’d fill out my crew again and do just like I did yesterday and the day before that. Outnumber ’em.”

  “That takes time,” Malvaise said impatiently. “Time and money. What I was going to do was raid Spread Eagle tonight, burn them out once and for all.”

  “We heard rumors of that in the bunkhouse,” Larson said.

  “What did the boys think of the idea?”

  “Some liked it, some didn’t.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “I’ve been on both sides of that fence,” Larson answered. “A few guns inside can take care of a lot of guns out in the open.”

  “But there’s so many of us, damnit!” Malvaise objected irritably. “And they’re down to two fighters.”

  “Were so many of us,” Stix corrected. “And now they’ve got this lucky bastard. Lucky and crazy, both.”

  “The hell with him!” Malvaise growled. “I’m not going to …” He broke off, looked past Larson’s shoulder. “What do you want, Dolly?” he snapped at the girl standing in the doorway. Stix Larson swung his head around. A flowered wrapper—and very obviously nothing else—covered her nakedness now, a thin garment that she wore loosely belted at the side.

  “I’m bored all by myself,” Dolly said, letting her glance linger on Larson. “I want to be where people are.”

  “We’re talking business in here,” Malvaise told her curtly. “Go somewheres else.”

  “I like it right here,” she said. “You’re the one named Stix, aren’t you?” she added boldly.

  “That’s what they call me,” Larson answered, tacking on a “ma’am” after a pause.

  “This is Miss Dupré, Larson,” Malvaise said with poor grace. “Larson is my new segundo, Dolly.”