Buchanan 22 by Jonas Ward

Author:Jonas Ward
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: action hero, the old west, piccadilly publishing, pulp westerns, ebook westerns, westerns ebook, southwest usa, jonas ward westerns, william ard
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Seven

“We could make it to Brownsville tonight,” Buchanan told the girl. The sun was a red ball in the west and their horses had drunk their fill of the stream water.

“Whatever you say,” Cristy replied. Her pretty face was filmed with dust, weary-looking. Her hair was awry. But she sat her saddle as straight as she was able. Even more.

“Tired?”

“No,” she lied.

“On the other hand — ”

“What?”

“Just thinking out loud, ma’am. Three, four more hours in the saddle and all I’ll be looking for in Brownsville is a bed.”

“Instead of the men who killed Bogan?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah. So there doesn’t seem much point in pushing these horses today.”

“No,” she agreed. “Let’s be kind to the horses.”

Buchanan looked at her. “Meaning you are a little wore out?”

Cristy sighed, nodded. “Riding a trail is a man’s game,” she confessed.

“Why didn’t you say something?” He dismounted, came to assist her down.

“You haven’t been exactly approachable,” she said. “Your thoughts are on other things.” She leaned down into his waiting arms, felt herself floated to the ground effortlessly. Buchanan stepped back, his manner impersonal.

“There’s plenty of squirrels around here,” he said. “You duck your face in that stream and I’ll see about supper.”

“Squirrels?”

“Squirrel pie,” Buchanan said. “The mountain man’s chicken.”

“You eat squirrels?”

“Well, I’d never order one in a restaurant.”

“I couldn’t,” the girl said squeamishly. “I can’t even think about it.”

“Well,” Buchanan said, “I could go upstream a ways. Might be some beavers around.”

“Stop!” she cried. “Please stop!” Then she thought of something, turned to her saddlebag. “Oh, thank the Lord!” she murmured. “I just remembered that I brought some food. Bacon and beans. Is that all right?”

“Sounds fine.”

“Squirrel!” she said, taking the things from the saddlebag. “Beaver!”

“They got better manners than the pig that bacon was sliced off of,” Buchanan pointed out. “Howsomever — ”

“Howsomever, it’s civilized,” she said.

Buchanan chuckled lightly. “You’d be surprised, ma’am, who started making squirrel pie.”

“Who?”

“Some high quality folks in the Virginia Colony. Taste for it spread to South Carolina.”

“You’re making that up!”

Buchanan took an oath with his upraised hand. “South Carolina’s famous for squirrel pie. You mean you never saw one of those great big juicy fox squirrels when you was up there?”

“Buchanan, you’re a big tease. Have you ever been in Carolina?”

He smiled, shook his head. “I will, though, by-an’-by. Going to see it all before I’m through.”

“Is that your ambition — to travel?”

“Ambition? No, it’s my perdition. My ambition, at the moment, is to get a fire going under this hog’s hide and pea beans. And while it’s cookin’ to soak my own hide in that runnin’ water.”

He lit a fire, improvised a wet wood grill, bid the girl a temporary adieu and tramped upstream for his privacy. Fifteen minutes later he signaled his return and stepped into the clearing. It was dusk now, and the firelight was warm and cheerful.

“That water was cold, wasn’t it?” he said, noticing that her hair and skin still glistened with moisture.

“Yes,” Cristy said, her voice low. She sat close to the fire.

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