Buchanan 13: Buchanan's Range War

By Jonas Ward

An army of hired killers, in the pay of Don Porado, were trying to take over the land, murdering and stealing from anyone who refused to be bought. They had damn’ near killed Tom Buchanan’s godson, Billy, and threatened to destroy his home and cattle. Now Buchanan was all that stood between Porado and his murderous dream of glory ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Dec 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463857458

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An army of hired killers, in the pay of Don Porado, were trying to take over the land, murdering and stealing from anyone who refused to be bought. They had damn’ near killed Tom Buchanan’s godson, Billy, and threatened to destroy his home and cattle. Now Buchanan was all that stood between Porado and his murderous dream of glory ...

BUCHANAN 13: BUCHANAN’S RANGE WAR

By Jonas Ward

First published by Fawcett Books in 1980

Copyright © 1980, 2020 by William R. Cox

First Digital Edition: January 2020

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

Chapter One

Buchanan had gone up the trail from El Paso when it was a shabby town called Sheridan. Then he had been a ragged boy from East Texas, six feet tall, playing card thin, all red rag mop hair and shabby boots. Now he was six feet four, sandy-haired and bore the scars of many years of life on the frontier; his cool green eyes looked out of a two hundred and forty pound frame, all muscle and bone. He walked the streets and wondered at the growth of the border city, brought into being by the confluence of railways.

Coco Bean walked beside him. People turned and stared. The pair were well matched, Coco a bit shorter in height but almost as broad, black as the ace of spades, ham-fisted, straight-backed, handsome despite years as the Black Champion.

Coco said, not for the first time that day, I want me a vest. I never had no vest.

You never asked for one, Buchanan told him. I’m taking you to the best tailor in town.

This here is a Mex neighborhood, said Coco. I want me a fancy vest.

You never wanted anything fancy before.

All the dudes wear fancy vests.

You want to be a dude?

Nope. Just wanta show ’em I can wear a fancy vest.

They came to a shop not far from the Rio Grande, a small place showing a sign which read merely, Garcia. Buchanan steered his friend into its cool semi-darkness. The man who greeted them squinted, his walnut face lined with age, his bright eyes belying his stooped shoulders. He said, "Ah! Amigo! It has been a long time, no?"

Buchanan said, Manuel, how are you?

Garcia spread his hands. How can I be? The years, Buchanan, the years.

You wear them better than most anyone, Buchanan told him. What we need here is a fancy vest for Coco. You remember Coco?

Garcia grinned. On Coco I have made my fortune. The gringos bet heavy against him. Mexicanos, they are no smarter. How are you, Coco?

Just fine. Won another fight in Frisco. I could use a pair of boots, too. Them hand-made soft ones like Tom here has on his big feet right now.

This will take time. Not the vest. I have many vests.

Buchanan said, I’m going to leave him in your hands. I’ll be at Casa Roja.

Garcia frowned. Casa Roja? It is not a good place for you, Buchanan.

I’m meeting someone there. What’s bad about it?

Don Esteban Hernandez Porado.

The Spanish-grant feller? The big muckety-muck from up New Mexico way?

The same.

What’s bad about him?

His ambition. His soul. The men he keeps close to him, said Garcia.

Uh-huh, said Buchanan. He plays poker, they tell me.

He owns Casa Roja. The dealer is his man.

Buchanan said, Now that’s right interestin’. Who’s the town law?

Stackmire, said Garcia. Owned by Porado.

I just can’t believe any one jasper can own El Paso.

Not all of it, said Garcia. Just enough.

His rancho ain’t enough for him?

Rancho Grande grows, Buchanan. How it grows is what no one is supposed to know.

Uh-huh, said Buchanan. That’s why I got to meet my friend at Casa Roja.

He waved and went out the door. He walked down the modest street, turned a corner, and saw the new building. In the old days it would have stuck out like a sore thumb. It was a two-story frame structure, plastered with stucco, with a wooden awning over its boardwalk. A sign with CASA ROJA printed in huge red letters adorned the entire front of the edifice.

Inside there was a long semicircular bar lined with men. Buchanan ambled to the bar and ordered the gold tequila. He followed the honored salt-and-lemon rite, and accustomed his eyes to the light. It was mid-afternoon, but the saloon was very dim. Billy Button was nowhere in view.

At the far end of the bar there was an individual who stood out. He wore a beaver hat cocked to one side, and a fringed buckskin jacket covering a red flannel shirt. His beard was white and scraggly. The nose was long and narrow. He was drinking straight whiskey and minding his own business. It seemed strange that a mountain man should be in El Paso this cool springtime day, but there he was unsmiling, dour, shoving an empty four-ounce glass toward a sleek Mexican bartender, growling, producing a coin which he spun with strong fingers so that it squeaked and clanged.

Buchanan turned to survey the gaming tables. There were a half dozen toward the rear of the long room. There was no problem spotting Don Esteban Hernandez Porado. He was a man who demanded recognition, from his tasseled sombrero to his patent-leather stitched boots.

He had the face of a conquistador, Buchanan thought—flashing eyes, an aquiline nose, and a strong, pointed jaw. He wore a flowing mustache which he stroked with long, carefully tended hands. His ears sat tight to his head. His skin was olive. He was a very handsome man, and he sat tall at the table, handling his cards with grace. A mountain of chips roosted in his rack.

There were high chairs adjacent to each table, all manned by dark-skinned Mexicanos. None showed a weapon, but they were present to prevent trouble. The atmosphere was almost too quiet for a border gambling house and saloon. A flight of stairs led to the second floor. A customer and one of the girls ascended them. A high-rolling joint, thought Buchanan.

One of the players at the Don’s table got up, shrugged and left, his demeanor proclaiming him a loser. Buchanan sauntered over, pulled back the chair, and sat down. From his pocket he produced a pack of bills.

Name’s Buchanan. How much to buy in? The dealer, who did not play in the game, slid a glance at the man in the sombrero. Don Porado smiled, showing white, even teeth.

Buchanan. I have heard of you. Welcome to Casa Roja.

Thanks, said Buchanan. How much?

Chips are five and ten. Hundred-dollar limit. No limit after the final card is bought, said Don Porado.

I’ll take five hundred, said Buchanan.

Ah, a gambler. I had not heard that you were also a gambler. He spoke with only the slightest accent.

Also? Buchanan stared. Besides what?

The white teeth gleamed. Pioneer. Drover. Adventurer. Crack shot. Peaceful fighter of many battles. Hunter and fisherman. Lover.

Seems like you been sorta checkin’ on me.

Not so. You are a famous man. Any intelligent person should know of Buchanan.

You said it, I didn’t. Buchanan stacked his chips in the little trough before him.

I am a neighbor of your friend Button, said the smiling man. But you know that.

Uh-huh. Buchanan spread his huge hands. Are we gonna talk or play cards?

There were four other men in the game. Three were local businessmen from their dress and sober expressions. The other was vaguely familiar to Buchanan, a sleek, thin man in a black coat and striped pants. A gambling man. Buchanan reached into his memory and came up with the name Stockton. That was it, Stockton. He sat on the right of Porado, and while they did not exchange words Buchanan felt that there was a connection between them. It was in Stockton’s shifting eyes, in the way he hung on every word Porado had uttered.

Deuces Stockton, that was the name. He had once won a big hand bluffing with a pair of two-spots. He had also been known to deal bottoms. But in this game the houseman dealt.

The houseman wore a green eyeshade and worked at just the right speed, not too fast, not too slow.

Buchanan’s seat called for the third card dealt. Covering his pasteboards with his right hand, he watched the others. The man under the guns, whose name was Smithson, opened for ten dollars. The next man called. Buchanan put in ten dollars without looking—it was western poker, open on anything, play or drop. Stockton also played.

Don Porado said, Raise, gentlemen. He put in fifty dollars."

Now Buchanan peeked at his cards. He saw three deuces. He chuckled, and everyone stared. The sixth man folded his hand. Smithson hesitated, then called. Buchanan did not pause.

Raise another fifty.

Stockton put in his money without expression. Porado tapped the table with drumming fingers, then said, I’m in.

Cards to the gamblers, droned the dealer.

Smithson said, Just the right one. The dealer gave it to him.

Buchanan said, I’ll take two.

Again he did not look at his draw, watching Stockton and Porado. He discounted Smithson in this hand—he was looking for something odd. Stockton said, Two to me.

Porado said, Ho! I shall take just one.

They couldn’t all be looking, Buchanan thought. It was Smithson’s bet. The man squeezed out his cards, then shrugged and dropped them.

Buchanan said, They’re worth a hundred now.

I raise a hundred, said Stockton.

Again Porado pushed in his chips. Three hundred.

Buchanan was out of chips. He looked at his draw. He had pulled a pair of aces. He reached into his pocket and took out gold coins. Must call, he said.

Stockton said, I raise again.

It was brother-in-law poker, Buchanan decided. Upon Porado’s signal that he had the best hand, Stockton would raise until the cows came home. Porado had drawn one card. The deal was honest, he was certain of that. But his full house was very low. Good sense required him to drop out—or raise.

He said, No limit on last card, eh? He took out a thick roll of bills. I raise four thousand dollars.

The silence in the Casa Roja could have been cut with a dull knife. Stockton looked helplessly at Porado, then turned his cards face down and shoved them into the other discards so that they could not be exposed. I can’t handle that, he said.

Porado’s easy smile had deserted him. He stared hard across the table at Buchanan. Gambling man. I did not know. It was not told to me that you are a gambling man.

Make your bet, said Buchanan.

Stockton leaned back, seemed to lose his balance. He lurched toward Porado. He was very quick, Buchanan thought. If a body hadn’t been watching it would have gone off very well. Porado shoved Stockton angrily away, but the cards were passed. Porado had lightning hands. Now his smile had returned, glacial. His eyes sparkled.

So, gambling man, I raise you another four thousand. He counted the chips out, piled them in the center of the table.

Buchanan said, Uh-huh. But not with the cards you got in your hand there.

His long arm whipped out. He seized Stockton’s left forearm. He lifted the man from the chair and shook him as though he were a dishrag.

A wire holdout came loose. It fell upon the table. There were five cards neatly stacked in the contraption.

Buchanan said, That’s the hand I call.

He loosened it from the wires and turned it over. It was a spade flush.

Not good enough, Buchanan said. He showed his full house.

All the men from the high side chairs were coming. Porado was reaching for something behind his neck. Buchanan had not let loose of Stockton. Now he used one hand to toss him across the table. With the other hand