Buchanan 2 by Jonas Ward

Author:Jonas Ward
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: western action, western ebooks, piccadilly publishing, old west fiction, jonas ward, westerns general fiction, buchanan western series
Publisher: Piccadilly

On the fourth day Billy was able to help clean out the sluice box. There were enough little nuggets to fill a small poke. They were chattering about the richness of the find with so little work when they heard a voice.

“Hallooo ... Hallooo …”

Buchanan grabbed for his rifle, but Nora was running toward the trail.

“Grampaw!” she cried. “Grampaw!”

A dun-colored burro was trudging up the slope. The small, tattered figure of Mousetrap Mulligan clung to its neck. Goldie kept coming stubbornly on. The old miner wore his battered hat and his soft, crumpled boots, and his shirt was torn. He was barely managing to walk.

“He’s been hurt!” Nora said.

They all ran. Mousetrap’s whiskers fluttered in the breeze. He was trying to grin at them. Buchanan got to the little man first. He picked the pathetically small frame from the neck of the burro and carried him to the cave.

“Tom,” said Mousetrap. “Figured you’d be here ...” He rolled his blue eyes to the girl. “Nora ... Nora ...”

“Grampaw, what happened? Oh, what is it?”

“Take it easy, oldtimer,” said Buchanan.

“Had to ... deal the cards,” breathed the old man.

“Sure, you did.” Buchanan was examining the shirt.

There was dried blood on it.

“Goldie ... she got me ... here.”

“Better be quiet till I can see what’s doin’,” Buchanan said. “Nora, bring some water.”

She ran and was back at once. Mousetrap was trying to speak now, but the effort was too great. His eyes went around to them all, and the spirit was striving against odds.

Buchanan wiped grime and blood from the neck and chest of his old friend. Alarm was growing like a monster within him. Billy moved in, then retreated, hugging the wall of the cave. Nora’s tears were coursing down her cheeks. Buchanan said, “He’s been shot.”

He turned the little body over. The bullet had gone into the back, and somehow Mousetrap had closed the hole. But where it had come out in the front was only part of the torn shirt and larger hole in the flesh. Mousetrap had done his best to maintain life.

Buchanan said to Nora, “Steady, girl.” He put the prospector gently upon his back, squeezed water into the mouth between parted lips. Mousetrap gasped.

“Table ...” He sighed. “The table ...”

“Red Morgan’s table?” Buchanan asked. There was no reply. Nora began to sob. Billy turned and tiptoed out of the cave, his head bent.

Buchanan said, “Don’t try to talk, Mousetrap. Save it. We’ll manage to pull you through.”

The old man’s eyes blinked. He tried once more to speak. He could not manage it.

Nora wept, “Grampaw. Please, Grampaw. You got this far ...”

“A rifle,” Buchanan muttered between grief and rage. “Close range, too. A damn back-shooter. How did he ever get all the way here?”

Mousetrap made a sound. Buchanan bent an ear to the whiskery mouth. There was a long sigh. Then the little man was very still, too still.

Buchanan removed his hat. He spoke silently in his own way to speed the old prospector’s soul to wherever it was gone.

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