For two days Buchanan rode the plain, sometimes with Coco, sometimes with Shawn Casey. He learned to appreciate the border collies and the McNabs, the work dogs who were gentle when need be and fierce if necessary. Because of the dogs, Casey explained, fewer herders were needed. Without the dogs it would have been impossible to control the herds.
Of the men engaged in herding, only Gowdy and Indian Joe seemed to be fighters. There was a Mexican, Manuel Cordova, who had pride and whose dogs were fighters at his command. He had no stomach for guns, he told Buchanan, nor did any of the other Casey employees.
However, for these two days there was peace. The sun shone; clouds made many-storied palaces floating high in the blue sky. All was calm.
On the third day Susan and Peter Wolf and Shawn Casey gathered at noon upon the handy hilltop that Buchanan had used for an observation post. The sheep browsed, and far away the cattle of Cross Bar were somnolent, bunched near the big house. Six men came riding from Sheridan, traversing the rough trail to the ranch. Buchanan unlimbered his field glasses.
His jaw hardened. He said, “Fritz Wilder. I’d know him anywhere, anytime.”
“Wilder?” asked Casey.
“The wildest. A boss gunslinger. Fast and mean.”
“Six of them to replace Semple and McGee,” said Susan. “And Miss Priss talked about peace and good will.”
Buchanan said mildly, “I wouldn’t reckon Claire had anything to do with it.”
“They’re here,” she retorted.
Peter Wolf said, “They’re here to wipe us out.” He had his rifle half out of the scabbard when Buchanan stopped him. “Better now than later.”
Shawn Casey said, “No, Peter. We can’t do that, you know.”
Buchanan returned to his field glasses. “Uh-huh. Shawn’s right. And looky yonder.”
He handed the glasses to Susan. She squinted and then said, “Robertson’s buggy. She’s drivin’. Miss Priss.”
“So we’ll talk.”
“I won’t believe a word,” said Susan.
Peter Wolf was silent, uneasy. Shawn Casey was hopeful. Buchanan waited, hoping for the best, fearing the worst. Fritz Wilder was evil; he was without compunction. Men who rode with him did his bidding or suffered grave consequences. It could be that Robertson wanted the gunslingers as a threat, a bulwark behind which he could command without resorting to violence. It could be that the owner of Cross Bar was about to deliver an ultimatum.
The riders below reined in. The carriage stopped and Robertson talked to the horsemen. Claire sat straight and aloof during the conversation, Buchanan noted.
He was certain that he had been right about the girl. Now, if only Peter Wolf would make his manners ... He put the thought aside. Peter had eyes only for Susan Casey.
Fritz Wilder and his men rode on toward Cross Bar and were soon out of sight beyond a ridge of land. Buchanan could see a herd of cattle to the south and sheep to the north. Down below to the west lay the ravine into which the sheep had been driven. It was, he thought, a proper spot for a meeting.
The carriage came slowly up the hill. Buchanan and the others dismounted. Claire tied up the reins to the buggy, and Jake tilted the springs getting to earth, bandy-legged, overweight, flushed. Claire was wearing a divided skirt and a blouse through which her creamy skin showed. She darted a glance at Peter Wolf, then looked away.
Claire said, “Papa, you haven’t met Susan Casey and her father, Mr. Shawn Casey.”
“Pleased, I’m sure.” Jake did not offer to shake hands. The smell of alcohol was strong on him. “You wanted a meetin’. This here’s a good place.” He waved a thick arm. “It’s all out yonder for everybody to see.”
Shawn Casey said, “Room enough for everybody.”
“If everybody will agree,” Buchanan said.
Jake glared at him. “You talk like you own some part of it. It ain’t yours to palaver about.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “On t’other hand, seems like you and your people sorta put me into it.”
“Please,” said Claire. “Can’t we talk about peace among us?”
Shawn Casey said, bowing, “That is my sincere hope.”
“Me too,” said Jake. He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Now, this here is a map.” He extended it to Casey. “Y’ see how I got it figured? That graze I marked is mine. I need every foot of it.”
Casey studied the map. “In other words—you need a hundred miles square. Why, that even covers the Crow reservation.”
“What I need I take. And I hold it.” He swelled up like a balloon. “Now, you hear. I offer you ten thousand dollars to build you a new house wherever you go.”
Susan gasped and started forward. Peter Wolf restrained her. Buchanan laughed and everyone stared at him.
Buchanan said, “I’ll give you twenty thousand for your house and stables and all you got here, Jake.”
“You’re crazy, man.” Jake’s eyes popped.
“Plenty of graze in Wyoming, Montana. Easy drive for your beef. I don’t see anything wrong with the deal.”
Claire said, “Now, really, Mr. Buchanan.”
“You ... you are plumb loco,” stammered Jake.
“Could be. On t’other hand, Fritz Wilder and his guns don’t scare me all that much.”
“You done laid out two of my best men. I ain’t sayin’ you did wrong, the way it happened. But you done it, and I aim to protect myself.”
“Against Mr. and Mrs. Casey and their daughter?”
“And that breed and the Injuns roamin’ around.”
Buchanan motioned Peter Wolf to stay still. “And me?”
“By God and you, too, Buchanan! I knowed you a long time and I know how good you are. But I’m Jake Robertson, and nobody is goin’ to stop me from grazin’ my cattle.”
Buchanan waved an arm. “Your cows are eatin’ good.”
“I’m bringin’ in twice that many. You hear? I’m growin’. I aim to be the biggest cattleman in this here country.”
Buchanan said deliberately, “That’s the booze talkin’, Jake. There’s outfits like the Powers in Montana would eat you alive. Come down to earth and let’s talk sense. Like bobwire.”
“Bobwire!” Jake became apoplectic. “Bobwire! Buchanan, with my own hands I’ll shoot anybody strings wire.”
“You couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a shotgun,” Buchanan told him bluntly. “You just brought in a half dozen outlaws. Do you think the governor will stand for it?”
“I know he will! I know my right to defend myself.”
Buchanan shook his head. “You’re beatin’ a dead horse, Jake. Sober up and think it over.”
Claire spoke up suddenly, “Papa doesn’t want war. Honest he doesn’t. I don’t want war.” She was staring at Peter Wolf. “Why can’t we get together? Be partners. Share and share alike.”
Susan snapped, “Trust your father and his killers? Allow our sheep to be run over cliffs?”
Shawn Casey sighed. He handed the map back to Jake. “Mr. Robertson, let me think this over. And you think about it as well. Consider all the elements. The government has leased grazing rights to all of us. Think about that. Perhaps we can talk again.”
“There ain’t but one thing to talk on. Sheep ruin the grazin’ for the cattle. We got our rights and we can handle any little old thing comes up. That’s the whole of it.” He stalked back to the buggy.
Claire lingered, pleading. “Something can be done. Something must be done.”
Susan said, “Maybe you and Peter can figure out something.” She started for her horse.
Peter Wolf had turned brick red. Buchanan waved an arm. He said, “Somethin’ is bein’ done. Look yonder.” Under the bowl of cerulean Wyoming sky all was plainly visible. The Cross Bar riders were gathered, rolling cigarettes, talking. On the far side of the herd of cattle several young men on ponies were working with incredible speed. While Jake hollered to high heaven, they were cutting out a dozen fleet young steers, expertly gathering them, driving them westward.
“Shoot off a gun, damn it!” yelled Jake. “Get them knuckleheads started after ’em.”
“Don’t have a gun among us,” said Buchanan. “This here was a peace meetin’, remember?”
“Claire, get in the damn buggy,” Jake howled.
“Not me, Papa,” said Claire. “It’s downhill and risky. Texas buggies turn over too easy.”
Jake gathered up the reins and whipped the horse. It was downhill all the way, and the weight of the buggy was not equal to the speed of the animal. In twenty yards the vehicle turned over. Jake bounced loose, rolling over and over. He sat up, waved a fist and began running.
Buchanan said, “By the time he gets there, the Crow on the reservation will be eatin’ prime ribs.”
“Walking Elk is ridin’ today,” said Susan. “Now, Miss Robertson, how do you like seeing your stock run off?”
Claire said, “We can spare them. I’ve heard the Indian agent isn’t feeding the Crows well enough.”
Susan was baffled. “You do catch on to a lot of things. If only your father could see through a hole in a millstone.”
“My father ... He is still my father,” said Claire. She looked at Peter Wolf. “Could you give me a lift back to the ranch?”
There was a moment when it seemed he would refuse. Then he coughed and gave her a hand up into his saddle. He did not mount. He led the horse down the hill to Cross Bar.
Susan said, “She sure dotes on him.”
“Kinda one-sided,” said Buchanan. He was watching the Indians drive the stolen cattle into the woods. His heart was heavy. Jake would never hold still for it, he knew. The Cross Bar riders would go in pursuit. There was really no place for Walking Elk to hide from a determined search. No good would come of it in the end.
Susan was saying, “Maybe it would solve everything if Peter took up with her.”
“It could make things ten times worse. To Jake a half-breed is lower than a snake’s belly. No, my dear, there’s no way out that I can see.”
“Except to fight.”
“Uh-huh.” It was a fight against odds as huge as he had ever faced.
Shawn Casey said, “I’m against fighting. I hate violence. But there does come a time.”
Susan started. “You will stay and fight, Father?”
“Ten thousand dollars. That did it. We built that house to live in,” Casey said to Buchanan. “It’s our home.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “A home.” He thought of Billy Button and how it had been necessary to defend the ranch in New Mexico and how they had nearly lost it and what it had meant to them all. “Reckon I know about that.”
He brought his field glasses to bear. Walking Elk and his men and the cattle were gone into the woods. The Cross Bar men had awakened as the herd milled and were riding in pursuit. Jake was down to a walk, obstinately making his way to the scene of action.
“Nothin’ to do here,” said Buchanan. “Might’s well go back home and think about whatever.”
Whatever wasn’t much to bank upon, he thought. They rode under the faultless blue bowl of a sky.
Once into the trees Walking Elk said, “Crazy Bird, you and Eagle Feather cut brush.”
They obeyed, tying it to their blanket saddles with braided lariats of their own manufacture. Again they rode hard, finding passages in the forest known only to them, their tracks covered from anyone less astute than the most canny plainsman. Night came and on they went, tireless, to an arroyo wherein grew grass for grazing. There Walking Elk delegated one disconsolate brave to stand as sentinel and keep the cattle from straying.
The tiny stream which trickled into the arroyo had become a small river from the rains. They bathed in it, gleeful, boasting of how they had fooled the white eyes and taken the cattle for meat.
Walking Elk donned his clean leggings and shirt and summoned Crazy Bird. “Leave only the guard. We will now go to the old men.”
Crazy Bird, second in command, a thoughtful youth, asked, “Is that wise, brother? The old men do not believe as we do.”
“We must make them see. They must believe.”
“They are blinded by defeat. We know this.”
“They are being cheated. The sign will be clear. It is a time to strike while the cowman and the sheep man fight each other.”
If Crazy Bird had doubts, this was no time to show them and he knew it. Walking Elk was riding the crest of his triumph, driving now for his ultimate dream. The five braves followed in single file, taking devious routes to the reservation. It was late and the fires were low when they arrived.
They made their way to the main lodge, where a low fire burned within.
They were summoned inside. Lone Eagle stood tall, gazing at them, his visage stern.
“So you have returned.”
“With good news, my chief,” said Walking Elk. “The white eyes are fighting each other. We have taken beef for the warriors. It is safely hidden in the place you know. It is time to arm and strike!”
“Strike.” The chieftain seemed to grow taller. “And you have provided meat. For how many? How many rifles have you?”
“We have a hidden store of guns.”
“Muskets. Worn-out rifles. Pistols, unsafe. We know what you have stolen, Walking Elk.”
“The meat ...”
“Do you think they will not know it if we have fresh meat not provided by the agent? Do you think they will not be searching? Fool! You could bring us all down. Forget you ever stole the meat!”
“It is the time, I tell you! We will send to our brethren. They will come with us. Yellow Hair was killed, his men with him. It can be done again!”
“And you will lead them. Yes, you have always wanted that. I have watched you. I have noted with great sadness that you are not of these times.”
“I am of my time!”
“Too little and too late,” said the chief. “You have never seen the bluecoats ride. You cannot accept the massacres. Even now you could bring the wrath of the white man down upon the women and children and the old people of this tribe.”
“I say we can fight!”
“And be slain.” A woman moved in the background; a child whimpered. Lone Eagle pointed a long arm. “You will go, Walking Elk. You will find your rainbow, but there will be death at the end. You must not bring that to us. You may depart in peace this time. But do not return until you have seen the error of your ways.”
“I will go. You will live to be sorry. I am sending to the Blackfoot, the Sioux, for help. You shall see.” He shook a fist. “I am ashamed to be a Crow! There is no longer courage in you.”
He dashed out of the lodge. Crazy Bird followed, shaking his head. They went to their horses.
Crazy Bird said, “Lone Eagle is a wise man. He has fought the bluecoats.”
“He is an old fool!” said Walking Elk.
“What do we do with the cattle?”
“We fatten it and eat it and perhaps sell it. There are those who will buy and ask no question. We will steal more guns. We will watch the sheep man and the cattleman kill each other.”
“And the man Buchanan?”
Walking Elk mounted. “Let him look to himself. He has chosen to make his stand. We will see what good it comes to—for us.”
After a moment Crazy Bird said, “The man, Buchanan. He was good to the Crow once upon a time.”
“He is no better than the others.”
“But he is big medicine. Maybe if we helped the sheep man, Buchanan would help us.”
“We need no help! Our destiny is to gain back the land that is ours!”
Crazy Bird remained silent. They rode back to the arroyo in the stillness of the countryside.
In the Casey stable Buchanan played with the little black lamb, now nearly well. Coco said, “The Indians steal a half-dozen outa thousands of cattle and Jake goes crazy. People ain’t got no sense hardly at all sometimes.”
“It’s a bad thing,” said Buchanan. “It’s a scary bad thing.”
“They’ll go after the Crow, won’t they?”
“It’s what they’ll do when they finally find ’em ...” said Buchanan. “You know the rule against rustlin’.”
“I know Mr. Lynch real good. I seen him operate.”
“There’s no way to stop ’em.”
Susan came to them. “They’ll hang an Indian, won’t they?”
“If they find ’em.”
She said, “More deaths. Tomorrow they bury Arizona.”
“And McGee,” said Buchanan.
“You had to kill him!” said Susan.
“I’m not apologizin’,” Buchanan told her.
“But you’re not pleased. Not happy. I know that.”
“It never goes down good to kill a man,” said Buchanan. It was a subject he thought about a lot but did not discuss.
She said slowly, “Now I know the difference between you and a gunman. He kills for hire.”
“Somethin’ like that.” He was evasive.
“If I were a man, I could kill for a cause,” she said defiantly. “If somethin’s right, it’s worth killin’ for.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. He went to where Johnnybear was polishing harness. “Don’t you ever take up a gun, little man. When you’re growed they’ll be a thing of the past, I hope.”
“If a gun is needed, I’ll use one.” Johnnybear was solemn. “Walking Elk, he’ll be killed by the cowmen, won’t he?”
“Accordin’ to his luck,” said Buchanan. “Accordin’ to how the cards fall.”
“No guns,” said Coco. “Praise be to that day.”
“Until then keep your powder dry,” said Susan. “Even father is ready to fight now.”
Buchanan was silent. The appearance of Fritz Wilder and his men had bitten deep. He had not thought Jake would go so far with such dispatch.
Coco held up his two hard, gnarled fists. “Man was meant to fight with these. Tom, he done both. Guns and hands. And sometimes feet.” He chuckled. “Ain’t killed nobody yet”—he sobered—“’ceptin’ with bullets.”
Buchanan rubbed his shoulder and said dryly, “Bullets have been known to do things to me.”
“That’s it,” said Susan. “Self-defense. The law of survival.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. He returned to the black sheep. Innocence lay there, in its round eyes, its weak little bleat, its helplessness against the world.
From the house, Mrs. Casey called, “Suppertime, please.”
The others departed. Buchanan lingered, feeling the silky ears of the lamb. There was a lot to think about, doubts to be banished, plans to be made.
Jake Robertson poured a drink for Fritz Wilder. “Them hands of mine couldn’t catch a bull in a corral,” he said.
Wilder, dark, handsome, sleek, relaxed, said, “Not much at following trail myself. Indians are like ghosts when they have reason.”
“This here’s just a start. They get away with a half-dozen and they’ll raid a whole herd some stormy night.”
“Could be.” Wilder was an enigma, a man of education with no known past. “You should take action.”
“I got to.”
“Find an Indian. Hang him.”
Jake scowled. “Just any ol’ Injun? That ain’t the way I do business. I want them young-uns been livin’ in the woods. Them’s the guilty ones.”
“Find one, hang one. Give them a lesson, something to think about.”
“All I want from you is protection agin Tom Buchanan,” said Jake testily.
“Ah, yes. Buchanan. I saw him in action once.”
“He’s been in plenty action.”
“It was in Silver City. There was a woman involved, a whore, mind you. No concern of his, none at all. He is not a man for whores, no more than I.” He sipped his drink, stretching his well-tailored legs. “Man was a fast fellow. Name of Eggers. He drew first. Buchanan shot him through the hand. The man drew his left-hand gun. Buchanan killed him with one through the heart. Swiftest moves I ever witnessed.”
“Is he faster than you?”
Without changing position Wilder drew his revolver and shot a blossom from the scraggly garden Claire had begun and never finished. He said, “I won’t know until we try, now, will I?”
He turned with an easy smile. He looked into the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun.
Jake said, “Don’t you never shoot off no gun on the premises of my house without warnin’. I might be old and gettin’ fat, but I don’t kowtow to no two-bit gunslinger.”
Wilder bowed his head, still smiling. “I beg your pardon, I truly do. It was thoughtless of me.”
“And if it comes to hangin’ Injuns, I want ’em to be caught in the act. I know you ain’t no cowboy, but you can ride. I’ll want you to be lookin’ for them raiders, you heah?”
“You are paying me enough to obey your orders. So long as I am in your employ, that is.”
“Nothin’ personal, Wilder.”
“No offense taken.” He took out a cheroot, touched a match to it, never losing his air of relaxed amusement. “Shall we have another touch of the bottle, please, sir?”
Jake grunted and poured. The man was more dangerous than a rattlesnake. The snake at least gave warning. Wilder had already made smirking faces at Claire, had patted Mrs. Bacon with pretended affection. The cowboys would be awed by his marksmanship and reputation. It would be necessary to keep the shotgun handy at all times.
“Still, that’s the reason I hired the cross-grained bastid,” he told himself. “If it comes down to Buchanan and us, we’ll damn well need him.”
He was not happy. He drank more than usual and had to be put to bed by Claire and Mrs. Bacon.
Peter Wolf had been listening and watching all day. Now it was dusk and he rode, knowing the circumstances, aware that the stolen Cross Bar cattle could be in only one place. They would not worry about him at the Casey ranch; he often went on scouting expeditions, sometimes to check the herdsmen, sometimes merely because he loved the land, knew the land, was part of the land.
His heart was heavy. It was the way Susan looked at Buchanan, the way she listened and followed his thoughts. Peter Wolf needed no more than that and the sisterly manner that she had long since adopted toward him to know his cause was hopeless. It had been so even before Buchanan; now it was dead.
He resolutely turned his mind toward Walking Elk and the young braves. They were headed on a downhill grade. They might despise him, but there was a slim chance that they might listen if he could find the right words. When he came close to the hidden arroyo he dismounted and proceeded afoot.
He heard the small clash of horns first, then a chorus of human voices. He crawled to a bush above the little clearing. They had made a clever Indian fire that ate its own smoke and gave a weird reflected light to the scene. They were actually dancing around the fire.
He lay on his belly. They were performing a ritual, one of the old ones that he could not identify. Walking Elk, always the leader, was a beat ahead of the others, leading them. It was not, Peter Wolf thought, a war dance. Neither was it a prayer. He thought from the jerky gestures that it was a mystic expression of spirit.
As he watched it seemed to him that Crazy Bird and the others were going through the motions, that only Walking Elk was in ecstasy, believing. Only Walking Elk crooned the old solemn tune with its insistent beat. Only his strong leadership kept them going through the motions.
Peter Wolf lay quite still for a long time. Occasionally he moved his limbs to keep the blood circulating. He wondered why he did not respond to the ceremony, the mesmerism of what was going on below. Walking Elk had been right—his white blood was predominant. The old ways meant absolutely nothing to him.
He thought instead of Susan, probably playing the piano for Buchanan and the others, mainly Buchanan. There had been no mistaking the flashes of her eyes when they harmonized on a tune familiar to both. He had to face it—if there had been a chance for him before, it was now departed.
So he was quite alone. Neither the red blood nor the white could be fulfilled. The knowledge deepened in him, and for a moment he thought he would slide away and let events take their course.
He knew he could not. There was Mr. Casey and Mrs. Casey and the sheep and the knowledge that Jake Robertson was wrong. Even the girl Claire, with her openness, her declared wish for peace, deserved consideration. He could not care for her as he did for Susan, but he could admire her spirit. There was a quality called loyalty in which he strongly believed.
Down below Crazy Bird suddenly deserted the dancing circle and threw himself on the ground. Walking Elk spoke angrily to him. The other dancers slackened the pace. Walking Elk turned upon them and urged them to continue.
Crazy Bird crawled beyond the limited ring of light. Peter Wolf waited. The dancing continued. It was time to make a move. He snaked his way down to the floor of the arroyo. He moved inch by inch on his belly. He held his breath for a long moment, straining his eyes.
Crazy Bird was a dozen yards from the circle. Peter Wolf crept toward him. The Crow brave’s ears picked up the faint rustle of movement and he tensed.
Peter Wolf put out a hand and whispered, “Quiet. It is I, a friend.” Crazy Bird opened his mouth, shut it again. He looked at the dancers, then began a silent crawl away from the fire. At a comparatively safe distance he stopped.
“Peter Wolf? What are you doing here?”
“Trying to save you.”
“Are the whites coming here? To this place?”
“Unless you leave at once.”
“Walking Elk says we shall steal more cattle. Drive them north. Sell them. Buy guns,” Crazy Bird said.
“You believe that is possible?”
“They are killing one another. The man Buchanan killed one, crippled one.”
“Then why not stay to fight with Buchanan against the cattlemen?”
“Walking Elk will not fight for the white eyes.”
Peter Wolf asked, “You think this is wise?”
“When we were younger I was the crazy one. I was always in trouble. Walking Elk spoke much to the older ones. Now ... ”
“Now Walking Elk is possessed.”
“It is you who said that.”
“He believes.”
“Yes. He believes. The others follow.”
“And you?”
“He is my blood brother.”
It was a sacred bond that could not be broken, Peter Wolf knew. Yet he felt that Crazy Bird was desperately unhappy, that he foresaw doom.
“Have you tried talking to him?”
“No. It is a dream. One cannot interfere with a dream.”
This also was a truth. The Crow were a mystical people. It was impossible to deter them from a path on which their aspirations and beliefs had set them.
Peter Wolf said, “I know what you say. I know what Walking Elk wants. I understand it. But did you know that the cattleman has even now brought in six men to take the place of the two who were lost?”
Crazy Bird said, “I did not know.”
“You know that is the way of the whites. They come in droves, like the cattle. They are too many.”
“Is that why you stay with them?”
“I stay with the Casey family because they are good people. They make no war. They want only to live in peace.”
“On the land of our forefathers. With their sheep.”
“True. We know the land is ours. We also know we could not hold it against the whites. They are too many. They have too many guns. Crazy Bird, you know this is true.”
“Sometimes you talk like a white man. Other times you talk like a Crow.”
Peter Wolf said sadly, “How else would I talk?”
The dancers were faltering. One dropped, exhausted. Still Walking Elk pranced and chanted.
Crazy Bird said, “I believe you speak the truth. If there was anything that could be done ... But there is not. You see him, how he is?”
Peter Wolf stared. He, too, had a goal, but he knew it was impossible to attain. Only an Indian with dreams could go on in the face of certain disaster.
He said, “There will be war between the cattlemen and the sheep people. I will be in it. Our side will have no more success than yours. So be it.”
“The gods will decide,” said Crazy Bird.
“Think. It is better to live.”
“Yes. There is a maiden on the reservation who would pray with you.”
Peter Wolf said, “May you live to wed her.”
He rolled away. He wiggled past the brush that had concealed his approach. He had more trouble getting up the hill than descending. He crawled to his horse and led it safely away from the arroyo. Then he mounted and rode, his mind heavy with foreknowledge of what must take place.