by Jonas Ward
“Never wore a star but once,” said Buchanan. “Didn’t care for it.”
“You’re from down New Mexico way.”
“You could say that. The high plain.”
Casey said, “You seem to know a lot about Mr. Buchanan, girl.”
“People sometimes talk to me when I get to the city. Buchanan, now, they tell tales about him.”
“Can’t stop ’em talkin’.” Buchanan was not entirely at ease under her scrutiny. “Big talk don’t mean anything.”
“You’re friendly with the Crows.”
“That’s true.” She had probably heard of the big siege. That had been years ago, a very dangerous escapade from which a few Crows had extricated Buchanan and Coco. There had been an Indian girl with whom Coco had fallen in love. It was all part of the past.
The girl drank half her liquor. “The Crows have been friendly to us. It’s the damn Texans who want to own the world.”
“Not the world,” said her father. “Just the graze.”
“They’ve got no right,” said Peter Wolf, speaking for the first time. “The land truly belongs to the Crow. The government took it from them.”
“True,” said Buchanan. “And the government leases it for grazing.”
“Crow land.”
“I don’t say it’s right.”
Coco said, “Down south in the land of cotton it was people who was owned. Big War was fought about that.”
The girl said, “It seems we are fighting our own war.”
“Seems like the Indians and the sheep folk, they’re like my people,” Coco said, shrugging. “Purely outnumbered. Might makes right.”
“Outnumbered,” said Shawn Casey. “Yes, outmanned and in danger. But at this stage it’s not merely the sheep. It’s a matter of pride, of honor, of justice. We were here first. Robertson is the invader.”
“He’s a rotten bully and his daughter is a priss,” said the girl. “His men are of the same mold as he.”
“We are proud people,” said Casey. “Truly they have the power. But just as truly we shall fight, damn their souls.”
Peter Wolf said, “I only wish my people could help.” He drew himself up and said directly to Buchanan. “My father was Crow.”
“You must be proud.” Buchanan inclined his head. “Now, about the baby, here. You want to take it home?”
Coco said, “I’d like to keep it for a pet.” He beamed. “We could take it down to little Tommy Button.”
“It’s yours,” said Shawn.
“And may we offer you beds for the night?” said the young woman quickly. “You are damp from the rain. We have hot water to spare.”
“I do thank you,” Buchanan said. “I was thinkin’ of chowin’ down at Jake Robertson’s. Now ... not a good idea.”
He paid Bascomb for the drinks. The barman said, “Best if I keep quiet about you-all. Them Cross Bar men, they spout off too much around here. Scares a man tryin’ to do business in a small town.”
“Best you do as you say.” The man would not be one to take along, but he could be a source of information. He seemed friendly to the Caseys, who struck Buchanan as being his kind of people.
There were three horses at the hitching rail. In the light from the saloon all seemed solid, well cared for. These were not ordinary sheep folk. They rode northward.
It was a ten-mile ride. The buildings were low against the flat land. There was a barn, pens, shearing sheds. The ranch house was of solid construction, low and sprawling.
A young Indian boy came to take the horses. The Caseys called him Johnnybear. Then a woman appeared in the doorway, tall and erect. She called, “Shawn, Susan, are you all one piece?”
“All fine and guests for dinner,” said Casey.
The girl went ahead, vanishing as soon as they were indoors. The room was wide and deep and furnished comfortably in the fashion Buchanan had seen on eastern trips. There was a fire in a large fireplace. On the walls were paintings of the West. Buchanan recognized one or two done by Remington. It seemed an odd residence for sheep-herders. But then, Bascomb had mentioned three thousand head, which was considerable if not huge.
Mrs. Casey acknowledged the introductions with a firm grasp. She had deep blue eyes and carried herself like a queen.
Casey said, “Buchanan and Coco had a run-in with the Cross Bar thugs. They brought the little black lamb safe to us. I gave it to them.”
“It was really my lamb, but you’re more than welcome,” she said. Her smile carried truth. “I’m so happy the dear thing survived.”
“It was a rotten sight,” Buchanan told her. “Decent men don’t do things like o’ that. I’m plumb surprised at Jake Robertson. Never knew him to be that kind of hombre.”
“‘Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely,”’ quoted Casey. “Lord Acton, 1887.”
“‘Unlimited power is apt to corrupt the minds of those who possess it,” said his wife. “William Pitt, 1766.”
“My wife is of English descent,” said Casey, smiling.
“Seems like I read that William Pitt supported the colonies durin’ the Revolution,” said Buchanan.
“Indeed!” Mrs. Casey showed surprise.
Buchanan said, “A man is alone a lot in the West. Some take to readin’.”
Casey said, “Should we have a toddy and get acquainted? Susan ... where are you, Susan?”
She came back into the room. She had changed to a flowing, flowered dress. Her feet were in matching slippers. The neckline was low enough to reveal that she was a woman properly endowed. She busied herself making drinks at a mahogany sideboard.
Peter Wolf went to help her. He seemed a welcome member of the family. His attitude toward the girl was plain to see. Whenever possible his hand touched hers, his rare smile was for her alone.
Casey was saying, “My ancestors were Scottish-Irish. When they migrated to America they went into commerce, but their background was in sheep. Wool for the mills, you know? It’s in my blood. When we came west I found herders, imported good dogs, settled here. All was well until Robertson came.”
“Sheep graze too close, leaves nothin’ for cows. Been a problem ever since I can remember,” Buchanan remarked.
“The farmers are friendly. After all, we were here before the Texans drove their cattle north.” Susan was definite. “Robertson is purely a monster.”
Buchanan said mildly, “Should be a compromise, some way of workin’ it out.”
“Not with that man and his bullies.”
“Workin’ cowboys, miss,” said Buchanan. “They come tough or they don’t last long.”
“Robertson has brought in new men recently,” said Casey. “I take it that means all out war. We are not ready for a war.”
“I’m ready!” Susan was on her feet, gesturing. “If they can hire men, so can we.”
Peter Wolf said, “I sent Gowdy out to bring in the livin’ sheep in the ravine. He took Joe and they’re carryin’ guns.”
“Who was guardin’ the flock that went down?” asked Buchanan.
“Our dogs. They are the finest.”
“I didn’t see any dead dogs. Looks like Jake was just givin’ a sign.”
Susan cried, “They can’t run us off!”
“I’ve considered moving on, maybe to Canada,” said Casey slowly, quietly. “War is costly. No one ever wins.”
“I say we hire fighting men,” said Susan. “Mr. Buchanan? What about you?”
Buchanan shook his head. “My sympathy. But I ain’t for hire. I can talk to Jake Robertson.”
“What good will that do?”
“Know him. Know his kind right well. Fought for what they got, will fight more.”
“Dirty, rotten, underhanded fighting,” Susan said.
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan mildly. “It’s plumb wrong. But he wouldn’t see it thataway.”
“What other way is there? Men with guns chasing sheep over cliffs!”
“Bad.”
�
��And you sit on the fence?”
“Susan!” said her mother.
“The gal’s right,” Buchanan said. “A man has to take a stand. So—I’ll see Robertson tomorrow.”
“But you beat up his men,” said Peter Wolf. “You’d best have company. I’ll go along.”
“Wouldn’t work,” Buchanan told him, smiling at him. “Thing is, Robertson’s against sheep men. He ain’t against me.”
“But his men ...”
“Texans don’t back up gunners who go out of their way to pick a fuss,” Buchanan said. “Coco and me, we’re pretty well known for mindin’ our own business.”
“It won’t do any good. They mean to run us out of the country,” said Susan.
Her mother said gently, “I believe supper is ready. If you’ll finish your drinks?”
A stout woman of indeterminate age served. Her name was Beth Bower, Casey said, introducing her. The food was plain, excellent and plentiful. Buchanan’s appetite was more than healthy. He had been long away from food served from kitchen to table. Beth Bower regarded him, after his third helping, with respect and pleasure.
She said, “’Bout time we had a man around who could appreciate my cooking.”
Buchanan said, “Such food has got to be eaten.” The woman was strongly built, plain-looking, with large violet eyes and blonde hair coiled about a shapely head. “’Specially when it’s prepared by such a handsome lady. And with such good company.”
“I declare,” said Susan. “Such fine talk.”
Shawn Casey smiled, as did his wife. Peter Wolf was silent, frowning a bit as though pretty talk was not for him. Coco murmured, “Oh-oh.”
Dinner finally completed, they retired to the parlor. Buchanan noticed a piano in the corner of the large room. He said, “Music. Haven’t heard any for a long time.”
Without further ado Susan seated herself at the instrument. She ran a few deft chords with clever fingers, then played and sang in a pleasant, full voice, ‘Flow Gently, Sweet Afton.’ On the second chorus Buchanan joined in.
“A fine baritone!” said Susan. “Something lively?”
She switched to ‘Camptown Races,’ then to ‘Buffalo Gals.’ Beth Bower came from the kitchen and now everyone was joining in except Peter Wolf. He sat apart, expressionless, drinking wine.
It was a lively hour or two. Shared music made them feel warm and comfortable with one another. When it was ended, Mrs. Casey said, “Time for bed, I think. At least for Susan and me.”
Buchanan nodded. “Been a long day. If we can use your bunkhouse?”
“Not at all,” she said. “We have a room for guests.”
Susan said, “I’ll show you the way.” The room was an obvious addition to the original house. It was big and airy and contained two beds, a washstand, rawhide chairs, a Navajo rug, a closet. Susan looked around it with pride. “We love having guests. The farmers and their wives, an occasional traveler. It’s a welcome change in our lives.”
“It can get lonely out here. But you got a regular family,” said Buchanan. “It’s great country.”
“It was before Robertson came.” Her mood changed. “My father is not afraid, you know. It’s just that he doesn’t want anyone hurt.”
“I understand, miss,” said Buchanan. “Let me talk to Robertson. Then we’ll know more.”
“We? You said ‘we’?” Now she was smiling. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Buchanan. Thank you!” She fled.
Coco said, “Oh-oh!” this time audibly.
“Never mind your ‘oh-oh’s,” said Buchanan. “These are nice people.”
“Sure are. ’Specially the gal.”
“Peter Wolf’s sweet on her.”
“I noticed.”
“Just forget what’s in your head,” Buchanan told him. “I never did see sheep people like these. Usually they’re out alone. They got their dogs. They move the flocks here and there for grazin’. They don’t cotton to people much.”
“They don’t cotton to folks at all,” said Coco. “They’re mostly dirty. Nobody likes ’em. And they never do seem to have women.”
“The Caseys are more like cattle people.” Buchanan shook his head as he readied himself for bed. “Only different. This is goin’ to take some thinkin’ on.”
“And you’re goin’ to do the thinkin’,” said Coco. “Oh-oh.”
“You got to try and help decent people. Besides, there’s the black lamb. Gave it to us, didn’t they?”
“Oh-oh,” Coco said again. What he meant was that he knew from long experience that once again Buchanan was getting involved.
Buchanan thought about it as he drifted off to well-earned sleep. Someone had said that the reason the Lord loved sheep and sheep men was that no one else could. The Caseys, he thought, were different. And who would not love the little black lamb he had rescued?
Then there was Jake Robertson, who had never given evidence that he was a bad man. Tomorrow would be another day, a day of discovering where Jake really stood, if it was his idea to run the flock over the cliff or if it was purely on the part of Dave Dare and his men.
He sighed. No question about it, he and Coco were into it, whatever it turned out to be.
Two
Coco snored. Buchanan crept into his clothing and carried his boots to the watering trough. He washed.
The sky still threatened. He carried gun and revolver to the stable. He saddled Nightshade. He put the short gun into his saddlebag and holstered his rifle in the boot.
The Indian boy called Johnnybear appeared like a slim ghost in the light of dawn. Buchanan motioned him to silence, led him into a vacant stall. He spoke in the Crow language.
“I do not wish to be heard.”
“I speak English,” said the boy. He was slim and straight. His eyes were as black as his carefully kept hair. “You are Buchanan. My people know you.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen. I am not a warrior. I have no name.”
“Johnnybear’ll do,” Buchanan told him. “It’s a good name. Have you been with the Caseys long?”
“When my people were killed, they took me. They are good to me.”
“But you’d rather be back with the tribe.”
“Sometimes yes. Sometimes no.”
“Where is the closest encampment?”
“There.” He pointed to the north and west. “Some are on reservation. Some not.”
“Your own folks?”
The boy’s teeth gleamed. “Dead. My cousin Walking Elk is not.”
“I don’t know Walking Elk.”
“He is a brave.”
“He makes war?”
“No. He hunts for the others.”
Buchanan said, “Good. When the Caseys wake up, you tell them I am going to Cross Bar.”
Johnnybear looked hard at him. “Without pistols?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You are brave man.”
“No. I’m a Texan.”
“May the Great Spirit be with you.” He went out of the stall and showed Buchanan a rough little box filled with straw. In it was the black lamb. It bleated weakly. “I will care for it. Maybe it is good luck?”
“Maybe,” said Buchanan. He certainly didn’t know—he knew next to nothing about sheep, black or white. “See you later.”
He rode out. The close-cropped graze was dripping wet beneath Nightshade’s hoofs and a mist rolled around in a fitful breeze. He kept on steadily toward the place where the sheep had gone over the cliff.
He heard the blatting, then smelled the wet wooliness, then a warning shot was fired. He reined in and called out, “Buchanan here.”
A voice said, “It’s him, damn it, Joe. Put up that gun.”
Out of the white damp blanket of fog came two sheep men afoot. One was large and corpulent, the other thin and stooped. The latter still held a rifle at the ready.
The fat man said, “I’m Gowdy. This here’s Indian Joe. He’s plumb mad about what happened.”
“Don
’t blame him,” said Buchanan. “Only you’re supposed to ask first, shoot second.”
“I keep tellin’ him. He ain’t long for this world if he bucks up agin the Cross Bar. They got too many guns.”
The Indian glared, silent, accusing the world.
Gowdy went on, “He’s a Navajo. They’re all sheepherders, ain’t they?”
Buchanan asked, “How many did you save from the ravine?”
“Mebbe a hundred.” Gowdy gestured. “Some limpin’ but able. The little black lamb’s gone.”
“I’ve got him safe,” said Buchanan.
“Good luck, I figured. Only one black this season. Well, it wasn’t good for a couple of hundred. The dogs, they fetched us, then Peter, he sent word.”
“Kinda dangerous out here for you-all right now.”
“Yep. Reckon the other herders’ll quit. Thinkin’ about it my own self. Joe here, now, he’ll stick.”
The Indian grunted. His eyes were snakelike in the faint light of the early morning. He would be a fighting Navajo.
Gowdy went on, “Reckon if you’re with us I could stick, too.”
“Against Robertson’s gunners?”
“We’ve got a couple tough herders, maybe. We got dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“I got a couple dogs’ll eat a man up in two minutes. Trained ’em since the Texans come. Me, I’m good with dogs.”
Buchanan said, “There’s a time and a place for every livin’ critter, my pappy always said.”
“I’m a sheepherder. But I ain’t no pulin’ yella-belly,” said the fat man. “If Casey’ll give us help, I’ll stick.”
“Uh-huh. You stick whilst I see Robertson.”
“Talk is too late,” said Gowdy. “They bled our sheep.”
“Just so they don’t bleed a man. I’ll palaver with ’em,” said Buchanan.
“Sure hope you come out alive.” Gowdy was cheerful. “Man livin’ with sheep, he ponders a lot. Joe, here he ain’t half as good as the animals sometimes. You do what you think’s best and let the Lord take care of the rest. Good luck, Buchanan.”
Buchanan saluted and went on his way. Luck was one factor upon which he seldom depended. He thought he knew people, and in people he put his trust until forced to do otherwise. He rode to the place where the sheep had been driven over the edge of the ravine. The coyotes and the vultures were already at their work on the corpses. The stench was formidable.
