by Jonas Ward
“That map,” Fargo admitted, and when Buchanan broke into wonderful laughter it was one of the most relieving sounds the old man had heard in a lifetime of narrow squeaks.
“Won it in a poker game!” Buchanan was shouting to the moon overhead. “Won—it—in—a—poker—game!”
“Well, it’s gold-bearing, ain’t it?”
“Sure it is. Sure!” He couldn’t or wouldn’t bottle the laughter bubbling from his chest. “Gold all the way down, so far as I know. But Fargo, a man can’t beat a mountain to death!” A fresh wave of laughter took him and he let himself fall flat on his back. “Won it in a poker game!” he roared happily.
“What’s so blinkin’ funny about that?”
“The two of us,” Buchanan answered him, recovering himself. “You for risking your good money to win it, then turning right around and roping me into the deal.”
“Figure you’ve been chummed, do you?”
“I’m full-grown and long-weaned, old buddy. You took me with my eyes wide open.”
“Maybe you’d like to match me for your half of this bonanza—winner take all?”
“Not on your life. The way my luck’s running I’d win this damn desolation.”
“Desolation, hell! This mountain’s worth twenty million to somebody. Fifty.”
“Even more, Fargo. But not in our time, not for twenty years. That somebody’s going to have to spend half a million to get it out.”
“Then let’s sell it to him.”
Buchanan grinned. “You’re the bottle with the cork pulled,” he assured him. “Sell what to him? What is it you figure we own?”
“We’re here, ain’t we? The federal government itself says a man that squats on something long enough has rights, don’t it?”
“Rights to live on it, to work it. He can’t sell it—and in the second place whole mountains are excluded. That I’m sure—” His voice broke off sharply and he swung to his feet in a lithe, one-piece motion.
“What’s the matter?” Fargo asked.
“We got a visitor,” Buchanan said, striding to his war bag.
“The cat?”
“Too noisy for her.” He slid a rifle free from the bag, cradled it in his arm and crossed the clearing at a right angle to where the sound had come from.
“I don’t hear nothin’,” Fargo said, but by then Buchanan had slipped from sight over the ridge. Fargo went to his own belongings, produced a formidable Greener, and was soon out of sight in the opposite direction.
Rosemarie was certain that not even in the wildest regions of her rugged Scotland was there such a fearsome place as the Sierra Negras. At the start of her climb it had been the trees, so thick they all but blotted out the midday sun, so close together a person had to detour to find a way between. And down there snakes and a whole world of slithering things made each new step forward an adventure in itself. For an hour you worked along in that company, then the trees grew sparser, the shade diminished and the torrid sun beat down. But the heat was a minor discomfort compared to the bramble bushes—thigh-high they grew, like rolls of barbed wire piled one atop the other, and their bristling defiance of free passage was nature at her thorniest best against the trespass of the animal—in Rosemarie’s sorry case, human species.
But a determined person could get past the brambles, paying for it with legs scratched and bloodied from ankle to knee, cotton skirt shredded to ribbons, and could survive that and then find the going really hard. For now the mountain inclined sharply, became a bare wall of rock studded with sharp outcroppings, and climbing it was a test of sheer endurance combined with the surefootedness of a cat.
Of which there were plenty, thriving unmolested as they did in this natural habitat. But night is the time when cats hunt, and though half a dozen terrified the girl with their grunts and snarls, none made the effort to molest the strange-scented game on such a warm, lazy day.
Up she went, slowly, precariously, and after another hour the mountain relented, grew gradually less inclined as if paying a grudging reward. Soon she could see the top, a hundred feet beyond, and she stopped and called his name.
There was no answer. She called it again. Oh, no, she thought dismally. He can’t have gone away.
She continued on—thirty more feet, fifty, seventy-five—and that was when Buchanan caught the first sound of her approach and moved defensively to apprehend whoever it was.
And then she called a third time.
“Tom! Tom Buchanan! Oh, where are you?”
“Right behind you,” he said and she nearly fell to the ground from the start it gave her. His hand steadied her, and the reassuring strength of that made the girl want to collapse again, but for a different reason. As it was she leaned her head against his chest and relief came in the form of quiet tears.
“Who’s with you?” Buchanan asked.
“No one.”
“You climbed up here all by yourself? What in the world for?”
“Angus Mulchay. Gibbons has him. They’re going to kill him.”
“Hey, whatcha got there, boy?” Fargo cried excitedly, breaking from his cover and coming up to them quickly. “By damn!” he said admiringly, drinking in his first sight of womankind in nearly six months.
“This is Fargo, Rosemarie. He’s not really as foolish as he looks right now.”
Fargo heard the reprimand and quit his wide-eyed inventory.
“This is the good-lookin’ gal you danced with down there?”
“This is her. Camp’s around this way,” he said to Rosemarie. “You can get some rest there and something to eat.”
“There’s no time,” she protested weakly. “We’ve got to get back to him.”
He had started to lead her to the campsite, but the girl’s strength left her all at once and he just did catch her up. Buchanan carried her the rest of the way, settled her on his blankets, and hardly was she there but her eyes closed in deep sleep.
Fargo peered down at her intently.
“You got yourself a beauty, Buchanan.”
“She’s not mine,” Buchanan answered, kneeling at his war bag.
“No?”
“No.”
“Tell her that when she wakes up,” Fargo said.
“I won’t be here.” He was standing now, unrolling his holstered Colt from the wide cartridge belt.
“What’s that for? Where you goin’?”
“Ran into an old guy when I was down below,” Buchanan said, notching the silver buckle, settling the gun comfortably on his hip. “He’s in some kind of trouble;”
“You comin’ back up again?” Fargo asked quietly, and the two of them looked at each other very steadily.
“Not much future in it, is there?” the tall man asked. “As much as you are going to find anywhere, Buchanan.” Fargo’s glance fell to the sleeping girl. “More, I’d say.”
“Wrong, Fargo.” He crossed the space separating them, extended his hand. “It’s been my pleasure, Mr. Johns,” he said, lightening the mood with his grin. “Drop in when you’re passing through Frisco next time.”
“Where’ll I find you?”
“Where the loudest music is.”
“And the fanciest women?”
“Where else?”
“I’ll be there, boy. Save a place at the bar for Fargo.” And so they parted, Buchanan walking off the mountain without a look back, Fargo refilling his Meerschaum, settling down against a post of their dugout to keep vigil over the girl.
The old man felt the tears on his cheeks, warm and moist, before he actually knew he’d shed them. He brushed angrily at both eyes and clamped his teeth down tight on the pipe stem.
“What in hell ails you, anyhow?” he asked aloud, furious with himself. “Told you he’d see you in Frisco, didn’t he?”
The self-scorn was genuine enough, but it didn’t work. Fargo was certain that he had seen Buchanan for the last time, and would hear his voice never again. Not in this life.
Sixteen
�
��Well, what kind of a day has it been, Captain?”
Malcolm Lord asked expansively, inhaling deeply on a slim, fragrant panatela.
“Just routine, Fm afraid,” Gibbons answered, matching the same note of worldliness. “Our work goes forward little by little, but it goes forward.”
The conspirators sat facing each other in deep-piled leather chairs in the high-ceilinged study of Lord’s house, a roast beef dinner consumed, cigars alight, a pony of good brandy at each of their elbows and the world on the end of a string—a string each man thought he held.
“I expect Mulchay was difficult,” Lord said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Angus Mulchay. When you moved him off the land.”
“Mulchay? Oh, yes, I recall the fellow now. As a matter of fact, we didn’t get to his place at all today.”
Lord scowled at that.
“Why not?”
“The heat, I expect. We moved out a family named Tompkins, though. And the Byrons ...”
“Bryans,” Lord corrected.
“That’s right, Bryan. And the Alreds. Is that the name?”
“Yes. But Mulchay and MacKay are the important ones. The others can come back to the river in time.”
“We’ll get to Mulchay and MacKay,” Gibbons promised.
“When, man? I’ve got a herd rounded up and waiting for that grass.”
“Malcolm,” Gibbons said familiarly, “you’ll be able to move your stock down to the river by this time tomorrow night.”
“Fine, fine,” Lord said. “Say, how does this brandy suit you?”
“Fm afraid brandy is something I know little about.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come,” Lord said and it was opened by a servant. A Mexican, curiously enough, who very pointedly did not look at Black Jack Gibbons. “What is it, Pedro?”
“Un hombre por El Capitan, señor. Muy importante, él dice,”—and though it all concerned Gibbons the speaker would not acknowledge him by a glance.
“A man to see you,” Lord told him. “Says it’s important.”
Gibbons knew as much Mexican as either of them, but he waited for Lord to translate.
“I’ll go see what it is,” he said, rising.
“Perhaps we’ll have him in here,” Lord said to that, asserting himself just as Gibbons had hoped he would. “More privacy.”
“Just as you say, Malcolm.”
“Bring the man to me here,” Lord ordered and the servant departed, returned quickly with Apgar—who had ridden hard all the way and looked it.
“What is it, Corporal?” Gibbons asked him brusquely.
“We’re in for it, Captain,” the talented Apgar told him anxiously. “The Mex are coming across in force.”
“An attack?”
“Like a horde of locusts, Captain. The men want you.”
“By God, let’s go!” Gibbons said militantly. “Where have the murdering bastards struck?”
“At Mulchay’s, sir! That’s where they’re hitting us hard.”
“Wait, Gibbons!” Lord cried as the other man was hurrying through the doorway. “I’ll get some men and come with you!”
“The militia can fight its own battles, Malcolm.”
“But if you’re outnumbered!”
“We’ve taken them on at twenty-to-one. We can do it again.” He abruptly broke off the conversation, stormed down the hall and out of the house with great determination.
But Malcolm Lord wanted to be in on everything that was happening, wanted a directing hand. He told Pedro to get Foreman Southworth immediately. Pedro shook his head.
“He is not here, señor. The men they are at roundup.”
Lord had forgotten.
“They’re all out?”
“I think the Mister Billy is here,” Pedro said. “The Mister Southworth left him to manage. And there are maybe three others in the bunkhouse.”
“Get them, then. And tell Neale to arm everyone and bring a horse around for me. Pronto!”
They came around, four of them, pronto.
“What’s up, Mr. Lord?” Billy asked.
“There’s trouble down at the river. At Mulchay’s. The Mex are trying to take over.”
“Take over what, sir?”
“The land, the people—Texas! What in hell did you think, Neale?”
Billy held his peace and his tongue. He hadn’t been in town since that wild Saturday night, what with all the special movement of the herds, but word had drifted up to Overlord about the war being fought by Gibbons’ Militia. He’d grown up with Mexicans, known them all his life around Scotstown, but not until two weeks ago had he heard what dangerous, double-dealing buggers they really were. Funny they should change just like that.
“Ride, Overlord!” Malcolm Lord shouted, leading four apprehensive, uncomfortably armed, and thoroughly unwarlike cowboys out of the plaza and down trail toward the river.
Seventeen
The sun was just setting over the land when Buchanan found Rosemarie’s pegged-out horses at the base of the mountain and rode one of them west along the riverside—the only knowledge he had for the location of Mulchay’s place, There was still some aching stiffness in his shoulder, and the saddle chafed the thigh wound, but he was riding again and he felt like a man who has come home after a long trip.
Darkness came on swiftly and presently he came to a fork in the main road. With the aid of a match he read a signpost there: MacKay Ranch—Lauren MacKay, Owner, and went on again thoughtfully, not welcoming the reminder of the girl. To his right was the outline of a house, its windows darkened, but in his mind he saw them lightened by lamps, curtained, and a tall, full-bodied girl making a home of it.
Her man would be a rancher, and he’d work hard at it because that was the only thing he wanted—plus her. Each year he’d build the house a little bigger—have to, with kids running around in it—and the herd would get bigger, big enough for two drives a year, and when her man went into Scotstown to cut the dust and play a little table-stakes poker—why, the president of the bank would tip his hat politely and every merchant along Trail Street would come out of his store and wave real friendly.
Great life in store for somebody, Buchanan thought. “Come on, horse, move it!” he said aloud, giving the mare a squeeze of his knees. Who the hell cared about bank presidents?
On and on he rode along the seemingly endless trail, and now he began to worry that he had passed Mulchay’s place in the night. Hell, it must be two hours since he started.
A bright glow suddenly lit up the night. Fire—the most dreaded sight in a summer so infernally dry as this one. He dug his heels into the mare’s sides now and she responded with the fastest spurt she had.
The fire came from an outbuilding beyond the main house, but even as Buchanan was racing toward it he saw a figure running toward that house with a flaming torch in his hand.
Buchanan swept the rifle free and fired it from the crook of his elbow. He hadn’t expected a hit and didn’t get one—but the arsonist was made aware that he had company coming, and the way he just stood there told Buchanan he hadn’t expected any from this direction.
Those seconds of indecision cost him, for Buchanan had been carried fifty feet closer to a brilliantly outlined target that stood conveniently still. The rifle cracked again, in dead earnest, quitting a man named John Riker of all his troubles.
While Buchanan inherited fresh ones—from the house—as two hand guns tried to whipsaw him in a wild fusillade. He threw himself from the bolting, battle-shy horse and ran jackknifed toward the shelter of the porch, ran with such concentration that he was less than a stride from the dangling legs of the lynched Ranger before his startled eyes saw them.
At the same time the porch door swung open and the single-minded Cato came through, dragging the weakly struggling Mulchay. This was the way Gibbons had ordered it, this was the way Gibbons would get it.
“Let him be, brother,” Buchanan said, and Cato turned in
surprise, as though the gunfight in progress was not supposed to concern him at all.
The knife glinted briefly, started down toward Mulchay’s body, and all the off-guard Buchanan could do was swing the rifle, like a club. It hit with a sharp cracking sound, splintering every bone in Cato’s money arm, changing the murderous thrust of the blade to a long scratch along Mulchay’s chest. Buchanan clubbed him again, to be shed of him, and was primed to resume matters with the pair still inside the house when a moan broke from old Mulchay’s throat. It was a mournful little sound, deep, quavering, and spoke of a condition far more critical than Buchanan suspected.
As he bent to scoop the man in his arms a .45 blasted thunderously, slamming its slug into a post exactly level with where his head had just been. It went off again, ripping up the board beside him, but now he had Mulchay in his arms and was seeking the safety of the dark end of the porch. He made it down the steps there, kept going across the side yard and into the sheltering grove beyond.
“There it goes!” Apgar shouted, but Jack Gibbons had already spotted the fire, was already congratulating himself on the military precision, the fine timing of the operation. They were thirty-minutes distant, time aplenty for the flames to do their work, for Cato to do his and all of them be gone—in pursuit of Mexicans, presumably.
Very nice, too, how Malcolm Lord had fallen in with the scheme, how he followed close behind with his own party—just so many more unassailable witnesses to the “enemies’” atrocities.
It was a change from the near-disaster of Seth Keroon’s appearance today to the clear triumph tonight—and even up in Austin, though they would suspicion the truth, the situation would make them take heed of Jack Gibbons and tie the governor’s hands indefinitely. The Ranger had been strung up by Mexicans. A Mex blade was in Angus Mulchay’s heart, his place was gutted by fire—and no less a personage than Malcolm Lord to testify to it.
And when all the poor fools had ridden off, to keep his appointment at the line shack ... Gibbons suddenly frowned. That fire, he thought, should be growing bigger. What were they doing at the house?
