Buchanan 15

by Jonas Ward

  Susan drawled, “True, true. Just we two.”

  “I’d like to have you over for supper,” said Claire. “All of you.”

  Buchanan smiled. “Best ask your daddy about that. We had some words, remember?”

  Claire bridled. “I am the hostess at Cross Bar. My papa will be polite to my guests, any guests.”

  “You reckon?” Buchanan nudged Coco.

  The black champion said, “Seems your papa told Tom here that he don’t cotton to nigras.”

  She smiled at them. “Uncle Tom Buchanan had a few words to say about that. Papa respects his opinion.”

  “I’m sure you mean well,” said Mrs. Casey quickly. “But we have been attacked. A social meeting might prove embarrassing to all.”

  “I’m afraid I must agree with my wife,” Shawn Casey added. “I would like very much to meet with your father. There is always a middle way, a compromise that may be reached. I would welcome a conference.”

  Claire’s chin hardened. “I want you to know I am against violence. I believe in good neighbors living in harmony. There is plenty of room in this country for everyone.”

  Susan snapped, “Tell that to your papa.”

  “I have told him and I will do so again.”

  “Tell him to get rid of his killers.”

  “He does not hire killers!”

  Susan whooped. “Please, Miss Robertson. Boots Semple? Hap McGee? To say nothing of the others who follow the leaders like ... sheep!”

  “They are cowboys.”

  “They are gunmen,” said Susan coldly. “Cowards who kill sheep.”

  Buchanan said mildly, “This ain’t gettin’ anyplace. There’s a solution, you all must know.”

  “Barbed wire,” said Susan harshly. “Line out the boundaries and run a fence. Stay on your side.”

  Now Claire looked shocked. “Barbed wire? Why, that’s one of the reasons Papa came here from Texas. Barbed wire!”

  “You’ve got an open mind about everything that doesn’t interfere with your Texas ways, haven’t you?” said Susan. “You come up here with your cattle and right away Wyoming becomes Texas and you own it.”

  Buchanan interposed again. “Now, ladies, no good to get personal. Lots of people are set in their ways. Mr. Casey, he’s got the right notion. A meetin’ with your papa might do some good. Jake Robertson ain’t a bad man. I’ll guarantee Mr. Casey. Tell that to your papa, Claire.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” she said. “I came here to be sociable. To make friends. I see I’ve failed.” The chin pointed at Susan. “I know you are good people. This squabble should be stopped before it goes any further.” She flashed her eyes at Peter Wolf. “If you will be so kind as to see me to my horse?”

  Peter started, managed to control his confusion. Susan laughed. Buchanan arose but Peter walked past him. Claire took his arm and dimpled, looking up at him. She bowed to the others and swept down the veranda steps.

  “La, la, la,” said Susan, her voice not subdued, “looks as if Peter has made a conquest.”

  “Shhh,” pleaded her mother.

  “Good for both of them,” Susan went on. “The cowgirl and the sheep man.”

  Peter gave a hand to Claire’s shapely boot as she mounted. She smiled down at him and he stood motionless, expressionless. She spoke a few words indistinguishable to those on the porch. She waved a hand and was gone, riding gracefully despite the awkwardness of the posture demanded by the sidesaddle.

  Mrs. Casey said sharply, “Really, Susan.”

  “You’re being unkind,” added her father.

  “She’s a priss,” said Susan. Peter was walking toward the stable, his head erect, his shoulders stiff. “Look at him. She’s got him upset, now.”

  Casey said, “A priss she is not. She is an intelligent young lady. I believe she meant well.”

  “Well, ain’t any question about that,” said Buchanan. “Truth is, her papa inhales a lot of booze these days. Claire’s got responsibilities. But you got to remember, in Texas the head of the house is master of every little bitty thing goes on.”

  “McGee and Semple are gunmen. You know it; I know it,” said Susan. “They ran our sheep into the ravine. Now she comes mealy-mouthin’ and tryin’ her fancy ways on us. You believe in her. I don’t.” She stormed into the house.

  Buchanan sat with the elder Caseys. For a few moments they did not speak. Buchanan’s mind was going around. He saw complications he did not wish to face; he saw danger, a storm gathering, black and ominous, on the horizon. He had seen Claire and Peter together and knew that the young man had been cool to the girl. He had also observed that without question Peter was enamored of Susan Casey. He knew the breed from which Claire had come, the die-hard tough Texas breed. He was well aware of the pride of Peter Wolf.

  Mrs. Casey said, “I believe the girl wants peace.”

  “Yes,” said her husband. “But Susan mentioned the bad word.”

  “Bobwire,” said Buchanan. “Poison to Texas cowmen. They claim it keeps down expansion. Open range made them big. Bobwire and nesters cut into their style.”

  “There are farmers hereabouts,” said Casey. “Homesteaders, really, but I suppose Robertson would call them nesters.”

  “Peter said they wouldn’t help us,” Mrs. Casey reminded him. She looked at Buchanan. “Have you decided to stay?”

  Buchanan lifted a shoulder. “Can’t say for certain. I tried to talk to Robertson. I can try the farmers. What about the sheriff?”

  “Never on hand,” said Casey. “Always on county business. Name of Bromberg. Sheridan’s too small to have a marshal. I believe there’s a constable.”

  “It’s a hard proposition for you people,” Buchanan admitted. “If I could help ... Don’t exactly know how. You people have been mighty good to us. Coco and me, we’ll take a ride about.”

  Coco said, “There’s the little black sheep. I purely love the critter.”

  “A symbol?” Casey smiled. “A little lamb shall lead us?”

  “It don’t hold together.” Buchanan smiled. “Black sheep, that ain’t a lamb to lead. Howsome-ever ...”

  “And I should ride the north herd,” said Casey.

  They went to the stable. Susan’s voice, high-pitched, reached them.

  “You do your work and I’ll do mine, Peter Wolf. Or would you rather be meeting Miss Claire? Please do. She’s sure got her cap set for you. Maybe you can talk some sense into the heads of the Robertsons.”

  Buchanan coughed, then he and Casey made a clatter and walked in. Peter Wolf, stony-faced, was riding out. Susan flung after him, “If you’re one of our family, which you should be, you’d know how we feel about you. That’s enough!”

  He rode off, still silent. She whirled around and glared. “Eavesdropping were you? I purely don’t care. I’ve got no interest in Peter Wolf... that way.” She flushed. “It’s not that he’s half-Indian. It’s—just the way things are. All of you better understand that.”

  Her father said in his gentle fashion, “Of course we understand, Susan. I’m just sorry you’re embarrassed.”

  “I’m not embarrassed!” She tightened the girth on her frisky young chestnut mount. “I’m mad clear through. First that priss, then Peter tellin’ me he don’t care a fig for her. A fig? Where’d he get that talk? I purely want to be left alone ... and for us all to be left alone to do what we’re supposed to do—raise sheep!”

  She mounted and was gone in a cloud of mud clods as the horse pranced through the wet ground. They stared after her. She rode like a westerner, loose in the saddle, her long hair flying out behind her.

  Coco said, “She’s a fine gal, all right. Trouble is, she got a short fuse.”

  “And a strong mind,” said Casey. “Too strong, sometimes. You know, Buchanan, I should pull out of here. We could drive the sheep to more friendly grazes. We’d lose some; there’d be hardship. No one would buy this place, knowing Robertson. But at least we’d have peace and quiet.”

  Buchanan
shook his head. “In the West we’re plumb short on peace and quiet. Seems like if ’taint one thing it’s another. You got a mighty fine place. You built it. Comes trouble a man’s got to stick and hold on tight.”

  “It’s the women I’m worried about.”

  “Naturally.”

  “They don’t deserve this trouble.”

  “Few people do.”

  “If there was the slightest chance ...”

  Buchanan sighed. “We’ll ride. When we come back, maybe we’ll have news.”

  “I can’t truly ask you to stay. The odds are too great.”

  “If Tom makes up his mind, there ain’t no need to ask,” said Coco. “That little black sheep, he brought Tom in.” He scowled and added, “If it only could be done without no damn guns, now.”

  Buchanan was buckling on his cartridge belt. He slung his rifle into the scabbard, then said, “Without guns in this country at this time a man’s naked and in trouble. Casey, keep your eyes open and your weapons ready. We’ll be around for a day or so, at any rate.”

  They rode out. Casey looked after them, a man unsure of how to proceed, unafraid for himself but fearful for his family. He started for his saddle, stopped. He went slowly back to the house, where his wife and Mrs. Bower would be alone if he departed.

  Johnnybear, busy with his chores, was glum. He fed the hogs and went to the henhouse, holding his nose. He began the disagreeable task of cleaning, careful to put aside an egg or two. Even the hens were careless sometimes, he thought.

  The Caseys were like children in some ways. Buchanan was the hope of the Casey sheep ranch; Johnnybear knew that much for sure. He was all Crow; his instincts were pure. He was only a boy, but he could think things through. He only doubted what course he might take, if any. He knew he could never repay the Caseys for their kindness toward him.

  Buchanan, he thought, it all depended on Buchanan.

  Coco said, “Where we headed?”

  “The herd,” said Buchanan. “Just checkin’.”

  They rode toward the graze attended by Gowdy and Indian Joe. The sun was still high; the sky was bright blue. Clouds tumbled in a high wind.

  Coco said, “That Miss Claire, she got eyes on Peter.”

  “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  “Miss Susan, she got eyes on you.”

  “Now, Coco ...”

  “And Peter, he got eyes and everything on Miss Susan. Oh, me.”

  “I swear, Coco, you been readin’ too many of them little blue books that come with Bull Durham. And you don’t even smoke.”

  “People leave ’em around. Now that you helped with my readin’ I take pleasure in ’em.” Coco laughed. “This here’s like one of them plays by Mr. Shak-a-spear.”

  “That’s Shakespeare.”

  “Smart feller. Writes funny sometimes. But smart.”

  “He’s been dead a long time, Coco.”

  “Do tell! Didn’t I see there was a play by him last time we was in Frisco?”

  “Uh-huh. They still do his plays.”

  “Now, ain’t that somethin’.” Coco was wistful. “You think folks’ll remember some of the shows we put on? In the ring?”

  “Why not? People have writ about em.”

  “Sho ’nuff.” Coco was pleased.

  They came to the sheep camp. Gowdy greeted them. He was carrying an old Sharps rifle.

  Buchanan said, “I see you’re ready for trouble.”

  “Since we learnt you all were stayin’ we been heartened,” Gowdy said. “Indian Joe, he’s over the other side of the herd there with a Remington and a long knife. Tell me, you goin’ to bring help?”

  Buchanan dissembled. “Can’t say. You hear anything at night?”

  “Not as yet.”

  He unlimbered his field glasses. Far south he thought he saw a group of riders. He motioned to Coco to follow and set Nightshade in the direction of the horsemen.

  Before they could come close enough for him to recognize anyone, the riders turned and rode swiftly back toward Cross Bar.

  “What you think that means?” asked Coco.

  “I dunno. Maybe Jake’s got notions. Maybe he wants us to go away before he tries anything again.”

  “Ho,” said Coco. “Looks to me like we can’t just up and leave, huh?”

  Buchanan said seriously, “Looks like we got ourselves into somethin’ we might not get out of.”

  “What about them farmers Mr. Casey talked about?”

  Buchanan rode back to Gowdy. “Are there farms within twenty miles or so?”

  “Sure. Nesters, whatever. Doin’ good. They’ll be next, though, if they only knew it. Yonder there’s a few.” He waved an arm. “They won’t do nothin’ to help. You can bet on it.”

  “We can try ’em.”

  “They prob’ly never heard of you, Buchanan. It makes a difference, knowin’ who you are.”

  It was probably true, Buchanan thought, sighing. A man got a name, it went around and about, up and down. There had been a few gunslingers who had heard of him and had tried to kill him for the sake of their own reputation. He had reluctantly dispatched them. On the other hand, he was known to most people as a peaceable man. He never wore his gun in town unless there was definite danger well known to him and to others. He truly sought nothing but peace and quiet. The trouble was that the land was new, the law seldom effective until too late and the people fiercely independent because they were thrown on their own.

  The first farm, twenty miles northward, was owned by a man named Eph Browning. He was plowing when they rode to the edge of his field and waited. He wrapped the lines around the plow handles, wiped his sweat away with a red bandanna and came to them, introducing himself, a pleasant man in bib overalls, soiled boots and a straw hat with turned-down brim.

  When Buchanan gave his name, the man smiled and said, “Oh, yeah. Heard about you from Bascomb. You two walloped them riders from Cross Bar. Them fellers insulted my wife and daughter one time. Bad men.”

  Buchanan said, “They’re threatening the Casey sheep. Stampeded a herd, did you hear?”

  “We heard from Peter Wolf. Mr. Buchanan, we know about sheep men and cattle people. Always a-warrin’. We aim to mind our own business, stay out of it.”

  “I was thinkin’ of a meetin’,” said Buchanan. “Call everybody into Sheridan, talk things over. I note you’ve got no fences. Maybe bobwire would sorta settle things down. Bring some kinda order.”

  Browning shook his head. “Way I hear it bobwire causes more fightin’ than sheep agin cattle. You won’t find a single farmer agrees with you.”

  “Would you spread the news, anyway? I might could get Jake Robertson to a meetin’.”

  “All right. I’ll send my boy Andy around. Believe me, we want peace. We don’t want cattle runnin’ over our crops. But us people, we stick to ourselves. Mainly Yankees, we are. From New Yawk, my own self. Just tryin’ to raise crops to feed a family.”

  “If the sheep man loses, you’ll be next,” Buchanan promised him. “I’m from Texas; I know the breed. They don’t mean to be bad in their hearts, but they do breed a heap of cows. They need room, or think they do. An acre to a cow, and they got thousands of cows.”

  ‘“Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof,’” quoted the farmer. “I do thank ye for comin’ by. Got to get ’er plowed by nightfall.” He lifted a horny hand and returned to his team.

  Coco said, “Can’t blame the man. He’s no gunfighter.”

  “I ain’t lookin’ for guns. I’m lookin’ for a peace pow-wow,” Buchanan said testily. “Let’s ride to town.”

  “Don’t pick on me. ’Tain’t my doin’s,” said Coco. “People is people, which means they’re critters.”

  “Uh-huh. There’s a couple more farms ’twixt here and town. Let’s try.”

  Coco shook his head. “That man sounded like he knowed.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. He squinted at the declining sun. “Tell you what. Might be I won’t get to Cas
ey’s for supper. So you ride on in and tell ’em not to wait on me.”

  “You sure you be safe without me?”

  Coco snickered.

  “I’m sure you’re mighty contrary all of a sudden.” He slapped the withers of Coco’s horse and watched it buck, then settle down and run toward home. Buchanan turned and rode up a small hill. The light was still good. He unlimbered his field glasses and peered through them.

  There were three riders he could not recognize. One detached himself from the others and rode a little way toward him. It was one of the gunmen of Cross Bar. He thought he recognized the man as McGee by his build.

  The rider turned back. Buchanan went to the low plain and rode. He came to more farms. He talked but got only head shakes and shoulder hunching.

  He rode into Sheridan and tied up at Bascomb’s. The barkeeper batted his eyes but was not unfriendly. Buchanan ordered whiskey, leaned an elbow on the bar and said, “Tell me somethin’. Is there any law around here?”

  Bascomb said, “He’s comin’ through the door right now.”

  The newcomer was about fifty years of age. He wore city clothing and low-heeled boots and a sharply creased Stetson. His gray mustache was luxuriant. He said, “Howdy, Buchanan. Heard you were hereabouts. Takin’ up with sheep, I hear.”

  “Arizona, how you been? Have a smile.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He poured from the bottle, nodded at Bascomb, accepted a beer chaser. The veins in his nose told the story of too many such libations.

  “So you’re the marshal,” said Buchanan.

  “Constable.” Arizona coughed. “Sheriff ain’t never around, so they gave me the job.”

  “Long way from Abilene.”

  “Damn few of us left that mind Abilene. Wyatt’s still around, doin’ what he does.”

  “Wyatt’s a careful man.”

  “All them Earps—hell, you know ’em.”

  “Good and bad. Like most of us. I don’t suppose you got much to do with the Caseys.”

  “The sheep people? I know ’em. Kinda simple, ain’t they?”

  “They don’t know the country real good, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Right.” Arizona swallowed his whiskey, took a slug of beer. “Now, Jake, he’s another kettle o’ fish.”