Buchanan 15

by Jonas Ward

  Time was skipping away for Buchanan. If he could see Wilder’s men, then they could see him. Fortunately they were busy attending to their front, scattering as before. He knew they were carrying capped dynamite sticks. They were reckless men, and Wilder was a commanding leader. He could not hesitate much longer. He began to ride.

  There was a movement near the buckboard where Jake sat with his bottle. Wilder raised his arm. A shower of sparks fluttered.

  Horrified, Buchanan saw the explosion, saw the buckboard come apart, saw Jake hurtled into the air. He saw the woman safely away from the blast. He saw Wilder lift his arm again, a signal for his men to go into action.

  Buchanan rode. He deliberately held his fire. He came riding in behind Wilder.

  He called, “Here I am, Wilder!”

  Wilder spun. The moonlight rode him. There was a cheroot in his mouth. His hand dipped for his holster.

  Buchanan shot him in the arm.

  Wilder tried for the second gun. Buchanan, now in close, whipped out with the barrel of his rifle. He caught Wilder alongside the head.

  Buchanan was afoot before Wilder hit earth. With quick hands he disarmed the fallen figure. He looked close. Wilder was bleeding from the skull. Buchanan made a quick job of hog-tying him.

  There was no time to look to Jake, to heed the screams of Mrs. Bacon. He leaped aboard Nightshade and rode.

  The gunslingers were circling. They were getting close by jigsaw riding.

  Buchanan got within range. There was no pity in him. He aimed and fired. A rider slid from the saddle, his foot caught in the stirrup. He was dragged by the frightened horse, his head bumping along the ground.

  The others were closing in. Gunfire came from the roof, the house. Still they circled, unaware of the loss of their leader. One came around the corner of the barn. Another came close to the house.

  Buchanan could see Coco. He was leaning back, then forward, his powerful arm swinging. A stick of dynamite floated, seemed to hang on the air.

  The rider near the house saw it coming, tried to swerve. A blinding flash caught him. Horse and rider went down in a tangle.

  There was a shot from the rear of the house, then another. Buchanan rode for a running figure. The man saw him, threw the dynamite away, tried to bring his rifle into play.

  Buchanan shot him through the chest, then swung around and headed for the barn. The rider who had made it there had turned loose Dave Dare and his companion. Susan was kneeling, firing at them. Once more a dangerous explosive soared high toward the roof of the house.

  Buchanan lifted the rifle. He fired once, twice.

  The dynamite exploded at the peak of its arc. Susan again pulled the trigger and a man screamed. Coco came around the corner of the house and once more let loose with his powerful arm. The dude called Reck stopped in mid-tracks and tried to run. The force of the blast sent him sprawling. Coco was on him, punching.

  Buchanan scanned the field. The Bacon woman was wringing her hands over the prone figure of Wilder. For a moment Buchanan hoped she would cut him loose, that Wilder would arise for a last confrontation, armed and ready. Then he shrugged and wiped his face with his bandanna. He rode to the scene, looked again at the wreckage of the buckboard, at the inert Jake Robertson. The woman turned on him, screaming curses. He pointed to the house.

  “Get over there, woman. You’ve done your worst.”

  “If Fritz was able ... If Jake was alive ...”

  “Get goin’,” he said wearily. She went with head bowed, weeping and wailing.

  Wilder stared up at him. “You got a habit of ruining a man’s aim, haven’t you, Buchanan?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Nasty trick.”

  “It’ll work, sometimes. Thing is, you’ll get it in the neck, too.”

  “They don’t hang you for killing Indian horse thieves,” Wilder said.

  “That’s what you think.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone else.”

  “Jake,” said Buchanan.

  “Prove it.”

  Buchanan said, “I saw you, Wilder.”

  The man scowled. Then he said, “Untie me and I’ll draw on you left-handed.”

  “Too easy,” said Buchanan. “I liked it better the other way.”

  He turned his back and rode to where Susan and Coco awaited him. Gowdy and Indian Joe had come down from the roof. They were bleeding from slight wounds but cheerful. The dogs gathered around them.

  Susan said, “We’ll get the doctor.”

  There was the sound of voices, people in wagons. They came from the direction of the town, brandishing weapons, shouting. They looked brave, even menacing in the moonlight.

  “A little late,” said Buchanan. “And look yonder.”

  Johnnybear was leading the four Indians. They rode in and stopped.

  Buchanan said, “So that’s where you went, boy.”

  “It took too much time.”

  Crazy Bird was staring at the wrecked buckboard, at Wilder on the ground. “Is he dead?”

  “No.”

  “Can we take him?”

  “No. The law will do it for you.”

  “White man’s law.”

  “This time it will do the job.”

  “Prison?”

  “Hangin’.”

  “For killing Walking Elk? Pah!” Crazy Bird spat.

  “That’s what he said. But he killed the cattleman, too.”

  “Yes. Killing a white man. He will hang.”

  “The way it is,” said Buchanan.

  “What honor does that give us?”

  “You came here to help. That is honorable.”

  “We came for revenge.”

  Buchanan sighed. “No matter. Go now before the soldiers hear about it.”

  The Indians rode. It was better they had not been here earlier, Buchanan knew. Whatever their intent, there would be whites who would resent them. The trials and tribulations of the Indian were far from alleviated. He wondered if they ever would be.

  Still wiping the blacking from his face, he made to where the townspeople were milling about. Claire Robertson was with Susan Casey. Shawn and his wife were somewhat lost amid all the confusion. Buchanan dismounted and took Mrs. Bacon by the elbow. Claire faced them.

  “Papa?”

  “Wilder did it,” whined the woman. “Wilder wanted to steal everything.”

  “Wilder wanted to kill everyone,” Buchanan corrected her. “I’m terribly sorry, Claire.”

  “Where is my papa?”

  Bascomb came by. Buchanan said to him, “Take care of Miz Bacon. I think she belongs in jail.”

  He went with Claire to where her father lay. She asked, “Peter?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Dead?”

  He nodded. She looked at her father’s body. Broken whiskey bottles were strewn about him. She wheeled around to where Wilder lay.

  Buchanan caught her hand before she could draw her revolver. “Not yet. Let the hangman do it for us.”

  She sagged against him. “I would have done it. I would have killed him.”

  “You’d be sorry. Better this way.” Some men were coming with a wagon. “Let him ride to town with the others. They’re all dead but him and Dave Dare and a couple who ran away.”

  “Armageddon.” Her voice was very small.

  “You’ll live with it,” he told her. “You can do it.”

  “Will I?”

  “Things won’t be the same. But you’ll live,” Buchanan told her.

  “Can I make things right?”

  “Nobody can do that. What you can do is try.”

  “The Caseys?”

  “All alive. There, you see? You’re thinkin’ about other people already.”

  Dr. Abrams was busy with his little black bag. Bascomb had managed to take charge of the townsfolk, ordering them here and there in an attempt to restore some kind of order. A carpenter and a mason were already measuring the house for repairs. Shawn Casey was smiling and
offering thanks in his gentle manner.

  Susan came to Claire. Buchanan went with them into the house. Peter Wolfs body, covered by a clean sheet, lay upon the couch in the parlor. The piano was scarred by gunfire; the pictures on the wall were shattered. Coco came with the dark lantern still secure in his grasp. Mrs. Casey managed to light a lamp.

  Claire lifted the sheet. For a long moment she looked at Peter Wolf. She did not shed a tear. When she turned away, Susan and Mrs. Casey were on either side of her. She smiled faintly at them and stepped back, standing alone.

  “There will be no more trouble. You know that,” she said. “That this should have happened ... what can I say? We’ll be friends. Believe me, we’ll be friends.” Her voice caught, then went on strongly again. “My father made a terrible mistake. He never had enough. He wanted more when more wasn’t necessary. I ... I think I’d better take him home now.” Buchanan said, “Coco ... Johnnybear. See if you can manage a wagon, whatever is needed.”

  Claire drew herself up. “Would you mind ... Father started this little graveyard ... could I ... Is there any reason Peter should not be buried there?”

  “No reason,” said Susan Casey. “No reason at all.”

  The Caseys surrounded the bereft girl. Buchanan slid into the kitchen. There was water in the sink. He saw himself in a cracked mirror.

  “Look like the end man in a minstrel show,” he muttered. He washed as best he could.

  “Baaa.”

  He looked at the little black sheep in its corner. It was shivering with fear of the noise and confusion. “You,” he said. “You’re the cause of it all.”

  Beth Bower came in through the bullet-riddled door. “I heard that.”

  “It’s true, ain’t it?”

  “Certainly it ain’t,” she scolded him. “Which you know’s well as I do.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “People ain’t so bad.” She was at the stove again. “They’re goin’ to put up the barn for the Caseys. They feel bad about gettin’ here late so they’re goin’ to repair everything in the house. Leastways they’re promisin’.”

  “People do learn. They find there’s things they got to do.”

  She came across the room. She looked up into his eyes. “You keep sayin’ ‘uh-huh.’ You keep doin’ the things that got to be done. But you don’t like most of it.”

  “You’re a right bright lady,” he told her.

  She put her arms around him and lifted her face. “You’re a right fine man.”

  Over her shoulder he saw Susan in the doorway. She paused there for a moment and then was gone. He kissed Beth Bower.

  Ten

  Buchanan rode a borrowed horse up into the Big Horns. Nightshade was back in New Mexico on the Button Ranch. The tracks were plain but it was not the bull elk, he knew. He came down to the foothills and surveyed the scene. He swung his arm. There was no pain. There was a slight mark on his neck where Cobber had applied the steel chain, but it gave him no trouble.

  Down below a herd of Cross Bar cattle grazed. To the north there were sheep. Barbed wire was not in evidence. All the land was fair and the inevitably blue bowl of the Wyoming sky showed traces of wispy clouds lazily changing patterns in high winds.

  He had returned to testify against Fritz Wilder and Liz Bacon. The one was to be hanged, the other jailed as an accessory before and after the murder of Jake Robertson. It had not been a pleasant duty, but justice demanded it of him. It had been good to see the town of Sheridan again a peaceful community, with Dr. Abrams as mayor and Bascomb on the town council. In short months the community had grown, the farms had prospered, and all was serene.

  He rode down to the sheep. Gowdy and Indian Joe greeted him. He shared a biscuit and black coffee with them. The dog named Sandy came to nuzzle him.

  He said, “And the black sheep has turned into a damn ram. Little Tommy Button can scarcely handle him anymore.”

  “God, it’s the way of things,” said Gowdy. “The country’s gettin’ full up. Everything changes.”

  “Exceptin’ the Crow,” said Indian Joe.

  “Well, now, they’re quiet,” Gowdy put in. “We send ’em a few woolies now and then. Crazy Bird, he still hunts, but he don’t steal nothin’.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. The coffee was black and rancid. “Peace. It’s wonderful.”

  He said his good-byes and rode back to the Casey ranch. The barn was rebuilt; the house was intact except for a few bullet scars in the stone. Johnnybear came for the horse. He had grown two inches. Beth Bower was in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands folded in her apron. She was smiling.

  Buchanan asked her, “Everything okay?”

  “It is now that you’re here.”

  “But not for long.” He was truly regretful.

  She came close to him. “Just once in a time, Buchanan. Just so you don’t forget.”

  “Not likely.” They went indoors. They kissed. “No way I could forget. You made the bad time go away.”

  Susan was playing the piano. They went into the parlor. There was cold food and whiskey and wine, and happy faces abounded. A carriage pulled up and Claire Robertson descended. She was dressed for town, but her white skin was now tanned and her stride had lengthened. She embraced Buchanan, then the Caseys one by one.

  She said, “Dave Dare sends regards. He turned out well. I’m glad to have him back. Cobber has a wooden leg. He did not send regards.”

  Buchanan touched his neck. “And the same to him. It’s real good to be with you-all.”

  Shawn Casey said, “There’s a new preacher in town. Too bad you can’t meet him. They’re building a church.”

  “What does Buchanan care about such things?” Susan was blushing.

  Mrs. Casey said, “They have one of those wheezy organs. Susan is learning to play it.”

  “That’s enough,” said Susan.

  “The preacher hasn’t proposed,” Claire confided. “Susan is worried.”

  “I am not!” Susan sipped straight whiskey. “He either does or he don’t. And anyway, there’s a buyer that you haven’t met. He asked me to supper.”

  “Looks like things are pickin’ up all over,” said Buchanan. He looked at Claire. “What about you?”

  “I’m busy.” There was an undertone of sadness. “Too busy to think about men. Papa left a lot of business that must be taken care of.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Buchanan went to her and put an arm around her. “You’ve got the good times comin’.”

  He picked up his carpetbag. He went around to them all, embracing them. They were gentle people in the best sense of the word.

  Claire said, “Shall we go? You just have time to make the stage.”

  “Uh-huh.” He took one last look before getting into the carriage. It was a lovely scene. Mrs. Bower blew him a kiss. Claire clucked at the team. They drew slowly away. He was returning to New Mexico, where Coco was training for a fight at Billy Button’s spread. He would be happy there for the time allowed.

  There would be only one thing missing. Beth Bower would be in Wyoming.

  About the Author

  William Robert Cox (1901-1988) was a writer for more than sixty years, and published more than seventy-five novels and perhaps one thousand short stories, as well as more than 150 TV shows and several movies on film. He was well into his career, flooding the market with sports, crime, and adventure stories, when he turned to the western novel. He served twice as president of the Western Writers of America, and was writing his fifth Cemetery Jones novel, Cemetery Jones and the Tombstone War, when he passed away. He wrote under at least six pen names, including Willard d’Arcy, Mike Frederic, John Parkhill, Joel Reeve, Roger G. Spellman and, of course, Jonas Ward. Under the Ward byline, he wrote sixteen adventures in the Buchanan series, all of which will be published in ebook by Piccadilly Publishing.

  The Buchanan Series

  By Jonas Ward

  Buchanan’s War

  Trap for Buchanan

 
Buchanan’s Gamble

  Buchanan’s Siege

  Buchanan on the Run

  Get Buchanan

  Buchanan Takes Over

  Buchanan Calls the Shots

  Buchanan’s Big Showdown

  Buchanan’s Texas Treasure

  Buchanan’s Stolen Railway

  Buchanan’s Manhunt

  Buchanan’s Range War

  Buchanan’s Big Fight

  Buchanan’s Black Sheep

  Buchanan’s Stage Line

  … and more to come every month!

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