Coco said, “You sure told ’em what the Lord told John. But did they listen?”
“With their ears they listened,” said Buchanan. They were riding side by side to check the position of the sheep herds.
“That’s just about it,” Coco nodded. “Must say I can see how they feel. They ain’t used to gunplay. They’re citizens.”
“They had a lesson from Wilder. You’d think they’d learn.”
“People just don’t learn that easy,” said Coco.
“Looks like the herders got together,” said Buchanan.
They had come within view of the sheep. The dogs were busy running around the perimeter. The Mexican herders were looking out. Gowdy and Indian Joe came toward Buchanan and Coco on horseback. Following them were the fighting dogs and one-eyed Sandy.
Gowdy said, “Lookin’ for you to show. Indian Joe did a little scoutin’. They’re formin’ up at Cross Bar.”
Indian Joe nodded. “Like a blue-shirt troop.”
“You’re real sure?” Buchanan’s alarm was patent. “They start out yet?”
“They’re about to.”
“No doubt about it,” said Gowdy, “They’re comin’ for you and for the Caseys. Mebbe they ain’t sayin’ they’re after the Caseys, but it’ll come to that.”
Buchanan said, “We’ll ride ahead. Come in as fast as you can.”
“We’ll be there.”
It was darkening. The ground flew beneath Nightshade’s feet. Coco followed several lengths behind. Buchanan felt stark alone with his thoughts.
He had grown fond of the gentle Caseys and their feisty daughter. Coco had been right about the town; the timid folks had listened to him, agreed with him—but they would never take action. He felt the heavy load on his shoulders as he seldom had before.
The hanging of Walking Elk stuck in his craw. A man who would order such a deed would stop at nothing. Wilder was beyond belief, a cold monster capable of rape, pillage, all the violence known to mankind.
He had known horse thieves, rustlers, gunmen, pimps, card sharps, and the rest of the riffraff of the shifting western frontier. They had come in all sizes and sorts. Few of them are, he thought, basically evil. Jake Robertson, a Texan, a rancher, a family man of sorts, had hired this creature and was backing him. It seemed incredible—and yet it was true and he must accept the fact.
Jake probably did not mean physical harm to the Caseys. But once the fight started, this signified nothing. Dave Dare and the cowboys would be caught up in the action; they had their own grudge against Buchanan. Once begun, it would be total war.
He tried to make plans. The odds were too great. He could not send the women away in the night. Little Johnnybear might make it, but where would he go?
He thought fleetingly of the girl, Claire Robertson. She might well be the sole survivor.
Peter Wolf would come in. With Gowdy and Indian Joe that was three to add to himself, Coco, Casey and the females. Mrs. Bower might be a help; she had a certain air about her that he had discerned. Susan would give her all; she was that kind of a person.
It was far from enough.
He dismounted in the yard, haste riding his back. The stable had been built far enough away to prevent a fire from spreading to the stone house. He loosened the girth of his saddle, tied the bit to the horn. He ran into the barn and found Johnnybear at his chores.
He said, “Son, they’re comin’ at us. Get the horses out. Turn ’em loose.” He found Nightshade’s halter. “Same with the corral. Throw water on the straw and hay. Don’t be too long about that. When you hear ’em, you take off. You understand?”
Johnnybear nodded, imperturbable. “I’ve thought they would come.”
“Just do as I say. Maybe you can make the reservation.”
Johnnybear did not respond. He was already obeying orders. Buchanan ran outside and fastened the halter on the big black horse. He unlimbered his saddlebags and took the rifle from the boot. He said, “You’re on your own. Get goin’.”
He patted the rump of the knowing horse, and Nightshade trotted off into the darkness, not for the first time on his own.
Buchanan shouldered the bags, looked around. A lantern gave a feeble light. The black sheep made a sound. He said, “What the hell, you started it all.” He picked it up and carried it into the kitchen.
Mrs. Bower looked at him and nodded. “They’re comin’.”
“Uh-huh.”
She handed him a glass of milk. “You’ll need food. I’ll rustle up somethin’.”
He put the sheep on the floor. It skittered on skinny legs. “It won’t be in the way.”
“No,” she said. “We won’t let anything get in the way.”
“Is there plenty of ammunition?”
“I saw to that long ago.” She opened a closet. In it were rifles and boxes of shells. “A blind man could see this comin’, Buchanan. The Caseys just don’t know about the way things are.”
“Uh-huh. Two herders and Coco. They’ll need grub.”
“The Caseys had supper. I’ll throw somethin’ on the stove.”
The sound of the piano came from the parlor. Buchanan shook his head. “Won’t be time for that.”
“It don’t hurt anything.”
He said, “You’re mighty cool and calm, missus. You’re quite a woman.”
“Thought you might notice.” She had white, even teeth, and there were slight lines at the corners of her eyes. “I seen the elephant, Buchanan.”
He nodded toward the closet. “I’ll bet six, two and even you can shoot one of them.”
“You win.” She was moving with swift grace putting food together. “I don’t see how we can win this one, though.”
“’Twixt you and me and the barn door, I don’t neither,” he said. “Howsome-ever ...”
“You should have cut out. Glad you didn’t, though. You see the gal?”
“What gal?”
“That Claire Robertson. She came to warn us. I sent her to town hopin’ she could catch up with you.”
“Missed her. Just as well she’s out of it,” Buchanan said.
“She’ll never be out of it. She’s got a conscience, that one.” There was admiration in Beth Bower’s voice. “I put her onto Liz Bacon. Just in case.”
“You know about the Bacon woman?”
“Plenty. Figured you knew.”
“None of our business in a way. I mean, Jake’s gone to the hogs altogether, seems like.”
She produced a flask, winking at him. “A bit of the dog-hair that bit Jake?”
“Uh-huh.”
She poured into jelly glasses. They sat a moment in silence. He hated to go to the Caseys with the news. Susan was playing “Camptown Races,” bright and gay. The Caseys were singing.
The woman said softly, “Life gets all mixed up.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The Robertson gal and Peter Wolf.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Susan and guess who?” She cocked her head to the side.
“I think I hear Coco comin’ in,” he said hastily.
“I wouldn’t open my big mouth if it didn’t look like it might be curtains,” she said. “You know it anyway. Just keep it in your head, Buchanan. Kindness helps.”
It was Coco in the yard, and the herdsmen were close behind. Buchanan looked at them through the window. “Kindness. Uh-huh.”
Mrs. Bower went to the closet, took down a rifle and began to load it with expert hands. “Peter Wolf, Claire Robertson. Susan Casey. And you.”
“Woman, I haven’t got time to palaver with you.” He smiled at her.
“You could do worse.” She returned the smile and continued loading rifles.
He called out the back door. “Gowdy, you and Indian Joe on the roof. Get shells from Mrs. Bower here. Coco, you turn all the stock loose, then come into the house.”
Coco said, “They’re ridin’. We seen ’em.”
“Get movin’, all of you.”
Buchanan went into the parlor. The music had stopped at the sound of his voice. The Caseys were standing, calm, composed. Shawn asked, “Is this the way it must be?”
“We tried everything else,” said Buchanan.
“The girl?” asked Susan.
“Missed her. She’s in town.”
“Lucky girl,” said Susan. “What about Peter?”
“He’s out there. Maybe that’s good.”
“No help from town?” asked Shawn.
“Afraid not,” Buchanan said.
“What should we do?”
It always came down to that. He had to take charge. He said, “Heavy furniture against the doors. It’s a stone house, which is mighty fine. I’m puttin’ men on the roof.”
Mrs. Casey said, “We haven’t a chance against so many.”
“There’s always a chance,” said her husband.
She took his hand. Susan went to them and they embraced. Buchanan went to the window and looked out. There were stars and the promise of a three-quarter moon. Under Wyoming sky that was enough light. He said, “Turn down the lamps. If there’s shootin’, be ready to douse ’em.”
Mrs. Bower came from the kitchen bearing rifles. She began to place them near the windows. She said, “Coco and Johnnybear are missin’.”
“I told Johnnybear to get away.” He paused. “Coco, he hates guns. He won’t shoot anyone. He wouldn’t be any good in here.”
“He might be ... ”
Buchanan said, “Coco’s my best friend in the world. He’ll do his best wherever he plans to do it.” Buchanan put his concern for his friend away in the back of his head. It was necessary to think of the immediate present.
He wore both revolvers. The bowie was strung behind his neck. The derringer was in his belt buckle, where it always reposed. For a man of peace he was overloaded with weapons.
Two men on the roof, two inside the house, two out in the dark—that was it against the force to come. Three women, good women, he thought, who would not go into a tizzy. He had to add them to the defense. He would rather they were not present, but as long as they were he must accept the fact. It occurred to him that he could not die in better company.
Johnnybear was riding bareback on a sorrel pony he had been allowed to break for himself. In his head was the knowledge of the Crow Indian, his heritage, the great myth. In his heart was love of the white people who had been so kind to him, who had nurtured him, made him one of their own; and in his soul was a prayer that he might succeed in his mission.
Peter Wolf was on the plain, keeping well out of sight, trailing the crew from Cross Bar. In his heart was love for Susan Casey. He knew that the situation was desperate, but in his soul was devout dedication to honor, the honor of both red man and white.
Waiting in secure hiding behind a growth of brush outside the perimeter of the impending fight was Coco. His love for Buchanan was in his heart. In his soul was a longing for peaceful days when the guns would stop shooting.
In the town Claire Robertson pleaded with Dr. Abrams and Bascomb to help. Her throat was sore from talking. In her heart was her hopeless love for Peter Wolf. In her soul she wept for her errant father.
Buchanan could see them well enough. The cavalcade remained beyond rifle range, spread out, revealing a buckboard in the center. Mrs. Bacon held the reins. Jake swayed on the hard seat.
Buchanan said, “This is pure bad. Jake’s too drunk to ride. His brain’s scrambled like a pan of eggs.”
“Putting Wilder in charge,” said Shawn Casey. “Sad.”
The buckboard lurched forward, the horsemen deployed. When his voice would carry, Jake steadied himself and the woman reined in.
“Tom Buchanan!”
Buchanan opened the door. Susan gasped, “No,” but he shrugged and stepped outside.
“Jake, go home. Forget this business. Sober up.”
“You done crossed the line, Buchanan. I ... I got the last word for you. Git out. Git on your hoss and make tracks. Gimme your promise you won’t come back. ’At’s all I want.”
“Go home and think about that. You’re tellin’ me to turn tail and run? You’re real, complete loco, Jake.”
“You got women in there. You want them to get hurt?”
“You want me to run and leave ’em’?”
“It’s on your head, Buchanan. You done me dirt.”
“You did yourself dirt when you hired Wilder. Tell him I said so,” Buchanan replied. “Now hear me, Jake. I could shoot you to pieces where you sit.”
The woman’s hands jerked at the reins, the team balked and neighed.
Buchanan went on, “I prob’ly should do just that. It ain’t my way, and you know it or you wouldn’t dare to come so close. Best you get on with your business. Best you go home, Jake. I’m tellin’ you for the last time.”
The wagon almost tipped over. Jake cursed and seized the reins. The buckboard spun crazily around and the horses broke into a run. The conference was over.
Buchanan closed the door and faced the Caseys. “It wouldn’t help a smidgen if I went out there and got killed. Wilder would have a gun posted to cut me down. All I can do is stick and fight. You see that?”
“We see it,” said Shawn Casey.
“I got to tell you. They’ll shoot out the windows. Lucky the house is stone. They’ll hit the barn, but the stock is gone from there. Keep your heads down exceptin’ when I say to fire. Don’t waste bullets. We got water and grub, and Peter Wolf’s out there and he ain’t about to run. Give Coco a chance and he’ll do his part. You got to get used to bullets flyin’ around you. Wilder, he don’t care if he kills a woman or a child. Wilder is loco.”
“We understand,” said Susan. She was pale, but there was a light in her eyes. “Where do you want us?”
“Mrs. Bower in the kitchen. The rest of you pick a wall. If they charge, shoot low. Man or horse, it’s better’n a wild shot.”
Mrs. Casey murmured, “That I should live to see the day! I could never shoot even a bird.”
“Men are more dangerous,” Buchanan said. “And more deservin’.”
He watched from behind the bulwark of the Caseys’ fine dining table. Wilder was giving orders; he sensed that. The men were scattering. He dimly recognized Dave Dare and the other cowboys. Wilder remained at center stage with Reck, Chalk, Sawmill and the ones he didn’t know. It was not a big force, but it was capable of heavy gunfire. There would be no brave charge. They would sharpshoot and maintain a siege. They hoped to flush him out into the open. Afterward they felt they could scare the Caseys from the country.
He held the rifle ready. The first shot came, shattering glass. Now the fight was joined; now he could shoot without compunction.
He said quietly, “Keep your heads down low. Don’t try to find a target. Main thing is to keep steady.”
There were indeed no targets. Wilder was smart, no doubt about that. It would be an Indian fight, he thought. They’d circle and keep low and start fires. They’d stay out of the light of the fires and shoot away, counting on inevitable panic.
Mrs. Bower called from the kitchen, “The dogs. What about the dogs?”
“Can you see them?”
“Yes. They’re in the yard, prowlin’ around.”
“Bring ’em in,” said Buchanan.
The dogs came into the house. They made no sound. Mrs. Bower fed them and they remained in the kitchen. Buchanan looked in and saw that they seemed to be looking to old Sandy for leadership. The maimed dog lay on his side, his one eye bright as if waiting for action.
“Women and dogs,” said Buchanan to himself. “Hell of a way to fight a war.” He went back to his post. Now the shots came in rhythm, shattering glass, thumping into the sturdy table, crashing into the pictures on the wall.
“Steady,” said Buchanan again.
They were steady. They were good people, strong in their silent way. Even Susan was well under control, fingering the rifle but hunched down, patient.
Now a riderless horse appeared in the near distance, running wild. Shots were fired, but it came on unharmed.
Susan exclaimed, “That’s Peter’s horse!”
“Keep your head down,” said Buchanan sharply.
“Poor Peter,” whispered Mrs. Casey.
Buchanan said, “Susan, open the door.” She moved quickly, unlocking the heavy portal. Buchanan crouched, staring. In a moment he was sure of his eyes. It was Coco and he was running doubled over. Buchanan stepped outside and began firing. He laid down a barrage into the shadows beyond his line of vision.
Coco staggered, caught himself, came on. Susan ran past Buchanan. Casey and his wife were now firing into the distance beyond Coco as well.
It seemed hours before they knew what was taking place. Coco came closer, closer. Over his shoulder was Peter Wolf. Both were covered with blood.
Susan knelt and fired her rifle. Buchanan ran and took Peter Wolf from Coco’s back. They all retreated into the house, stumbling, fighting for breath.
Shawn Casey closed the door behind them. His wife went to Peter Wolf. The wound was in his chest, high on the right. He was pale from loss of blood.
Coco said, “I was tryin’ to get close. Too many. Scattered around too much. Peter, he come ridin’ and shootin’ like crazy. Wilder shot him.”
“So you picked him up,” Buchanan said.
“The horse got away. Peter don’t weigh all that much,” said Coco. “Couldn’t leave him, now, could I?”
Peter Wolf said weakly, “He carried me half a mile, I swear. No man could do that. But he did it.”
“Couldn’t leave him.” Coco’s chest heaved, sweat ran from him. “They’re settin’ there, Jake and the woman and Wilder. They’re cookin’ up somethin’, Tom.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. He thought he knew what they were plotting. They could not burn a stone house and barn. It would be explosives. It had to be dynamite or gunpowder, whichever was at hand.
Peter Wolf said, “Give me a gun. I’ll take that window, Susan. You reload for us.”
Buchanan said, “When you’re ready that’ll be fine. First some whiskey and a bit o’ rest.”
“I think I got one of them,” said Peter Wolf. His eyes were round and wide. “I tried to get Wilder.”
“Hard man to get,” said Buchanan, “Just take it easy for a while.”
He went back to watching. There were clouds forming overhead, and this worried him the most. Darkness would be an ally to the enemy. The room was full of shadows and the faint odor of fresh blood. One more gun wasn’t enough to protect the perimeter of the house from a bold and sudden sortie with explosives.
Two safe, he thought, Johnnybear and Claire Robertson. For the rest he had fears. Wilder was the key. He only wished that Peter Wolf had been successful.
Wilder blew cigar smoke. Jake was still drinking. The woman came down from the buckboard and shrugged her shoulders.
“He keeps sayin’ no dynamite. Account of the women. He’s strong on not hurtin’ the women.”
“What does he think this is, a Sunday school picnic?”
“He’ll be out of it soon,” she said. “I know him. When he gets drinkin’ like this he can’t stop.”
“I believe you. He’s run his race, you know.”
“Who knows better’n me?”
“If he was finished, it would just be the girl, Claire.”
She laughed. “A handsome feller like you could handle her, now couldn’t you?”
“You have ideas, don’t you, Mrs. Bacon?”
“Just so you get Buchanan outa the way.”
“That’s the general idea. What do you think of the fat man?”
“The prospector? He hates Buchanan.” Wilder looked at the hulking stranger. He had come in with his dilapidated horse and a pack mule, babbling about a dog and Buchanan. He was leaning on a rifle, waiting.
She said, “He don’t look like much.”
“He is not much. He does have dynamite and caps that we need, though. No use getting in Buchanan’s range, you know.”
She said, “You want me to do anything?”
“You might talk to him. Nice and soft. You know how. He hasn’t even seen a woman in a long while.”
“You go on!” she said, pleased. “You think I could?”
“No doubt about it.” Wilder watched her sidle up to the stranger. It was a laughable sight, but it might work. If she could work the man up to being reckless, it would be perfect.
Jake was bellowing, “Where’s she at? Where’s ’at woman with my bottle? Wilder, where you at?”
“Right here. Take another drink, Jake. It’ll make you feel better.”
“No dynamite. You understand? Wait ’em out. When it’s dark enough, we go in.”
“Sure, Jake. Here’s your bottle. Sure enough.”
Wilder went back to his horse. If they could break down one wall, he thought, they would have a chance at Buchanan, who would do any reckless thing to protect the women. Once he was out of the way everything would be easy.
Wilder had no real ambition to take over the girl and the ranch. What he enjoyed was triumph. If he got Buchanan, he could travel the glory road. No matter how it was accomplished, he would take the credit. His head swam in dreams of glory.
It was twenty miles to the reservation. Johnnybear had to stop finally to get back his breath. He was in the forest now and safe from gunfire. It was the only place he could think of going, back to the Crow. Crazy Bird and the remaining young braves could help. The old people would be against it, he knew. It depended upon how they reacted to the hanging of Walking Elk.
Maybe they didn’t mourn Walking Elk, because he had disobeyed the orders of the old men. Maybe Crazy Bird and the others were now under arrest. There were Crow scouts working for the army. The Crow had their own forces of order. He had to figure out which way to proceed. He did not believe the old ones would listen to talk from a boy, especially a boy dwelling among the whites.
The plight of the Caseys made him tremble despite himself. If nothing else, he promised the trees around him, he would go back and die with them or avenge them in some fashion.
The wind came from the mountains. The stars vanished one by one. The moon was obscured. Buchanan’s heart sank. It was dark in the house, so no one could safely move about. He cautioned them and groped his way into the kitchen. The dogs made small sounds.
Mrs. Bower said, “You reckon the barn is first?”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan.
Sandy, the one-eyed dog, woofed and rubbed against Buchanan’s leg.
“There’s someone out there,” he said. “Behind the damn barn. I got a notion ...”
He never finished. There was a puff, an explosion that rocked the earth. A blinding flash of light showed the barn going to pieces, one stone after the other. Buchanan said, “They played it smart. Now they got protection.”
He leaned through a broken window and sprayed lead into the night. Mrs. Bower joined him. Sandy lurched at the door, barking. Buchanan played a hunch and opened it. The dog went straight past the barn. In a moment there was a yell and the fat stranger came into the light of burning hay and straw. The dog had his teeth fastened into his leg. The man screamed again and Buchanan shot him. He fell into the fire. The dog wheeled and came back to the house unharmed.
Buchanan said, “Never threaten a sheep dog, seems like.”
“Who was that jasper?” Mrs. Bower asked.
“A miserable drifter. A prospector, I’d guess. Wilder knew how to use him.”
“They’ll have to wait for the fire to die down,” she said.
“They can wait.”
“They got to move before daylight.”
“It’s not yet midnight,” he told her.
“If they do fort up in the barn, then what?”
“Then they’ll try some more dynamite, prob’ly,” said Buchanan. “If it stays dark as it is now, they got a chance.”
“Not before we kill a few.”
He said, “You’re sure a cool one, lady. Bless you.”
Buchanan made his way back into the parlor. He told them, “It ain’t good, no matter how you look at it. Shoot anything that moves out there.”
“The darkness,” mourned Susan. “If I could just see them.”
Casey said, “If they get to the house with dynamite ...”
“If they do, we’ll leave,” Buchanan promised him. He did not say where they would go. His shoulder was hurting and his patience was growing short. It was all right to admonish the others, but he could not hold out much longer himself. He felt Coco beside him.
Coco whispered, “I’m goin’ with you.”
“Not yet.”
“They gonna come in. This black night, they can’t see us any better than we can see them.”
“Don’t let the others know,” said Buchanan. Coco, as usual, was reading his mind.
Peter Wolf was at a window in the bedroom. Shawn Casey and his daughter each held another side of the house. Mrs. Casey was trying to maintain calm on the fourth side. It was a pitifully weak defense against Wilder and the men he commanded.
Buchanan hunkered down in the dark and waited. He rotated his left arm with care, trying to work out the pain. He silently slid out of his heavy cartridge belt and put his rifle aside. He filled his pockets with ammunition for his revolvers and loosened the bowie in its scabbard.
Claire Robertson talked to Dr. Abrams and his wife. Bascomb and others from the town listened without expression. The saloon was crowded, but the people were cowed.
When the explosion took place, the air shivered, the sky lit up. Claire’s voice broke as she cried, “My God, they’ve gone mad! They’ve killed them all! Now will you come with me?”
The townspeople were startled. They stared around at one another. One or two shuffled their feet. A voice said. “It ain’t right nohow.” Bascomb picked up his shotgun but stood, irresolute, behind the bar.
Claire said, “My father wouldn’t do that. It’s that man Wilder and the woman. My father’s woman. They’re doing it.”
“Your pa’s drunk most o’ the time,” said a farmer.
“I know. But he wasn’t always like that. If you’d all come and help ... Oh, please. I’ll ride ahead of you. He won’t let them harm me. Please!”
They muttered to one another. They milled around talking, talking. They did not start for their horses or carriages or wagons. Dashing out of the saloon, Claire burst into tears.
She wept apart so that they would not know. Then she went back to them and redoubled her pleas.
Buchanan said, “If you folks don’t hear me, just keep watch. I’ll be moseyin’ around.”
“Where? What are you up to?” asked Susan.
“Don’t fret. Just watch and shoot anything that comes at us.”
He went into the kitchen. He found Mrs. Bower in the pitch-dark and put his lips close to her ear. “You got any shoe blackin’?”
She giggled. “Last time I looked you were wearin’ brown boots.”
“It ain’t funny.”
She asked, “Are you goin’ out there?”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned against him. She was very soft, yet her body was firm and strong. “It’s plumb loco. And yet it ain’t. They might could blow us apart.”
“Blacking for my face and hands.”
“I can do better. Wait just a few minutes.” She moved across the room. She opened the oven door and lit a tiny candle. She was like a cat in the dark, he thought. He saw that she had a cork on a long fork.
Coco said, “I’m peelin’ off my shirt. Let ’em try to see me in the dark.”
It was best to see the funny side, Buchanan thought, but the job ahead was grim. If the wind changed and the moon and stars came out, the finish could come in a few moments.
The tiny flame did not illuminate the room, but he could make out shapes. The lamb lay quiescent in a corner. The dogs stirred and again Sandy came to him. The dogs, he remembered, did not bark; they were trained not to alarm the herd of sheep. Two of them were fighters. Sandy was a veteran, wise to the ways of the plains.
Mrs. Bower came with the cork, immediately had another in the fire. He applied the blacking to his face. He wondered if it would be slippery on his hands—that he could not dare to risk. His mind worked methodically over what had to be done.
When she was ready with the second cork, he tried it on the back of his hands, decided against dyeing his palms. The candle was extinguished.
She said, “You could get clean away if you wanted.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So go with God.” Her hand gripped his arm.
“We’ll need His help and that of the devil,” he told her.
They opened the door and slid out, Buchanan in the lead. Coco had learned through the years to follow him by day or night. They waited while the dogs filed out with them, then made straight away for the ruins of the barn. The dogs were close by but not too close, Buchanan thought. They were sniffing the odors of fire and burning, smoldering hay and straw.
Like all consummate plainsmen, Buchanan was a keen observer. Once over a piece of ground, he could remember every stone, every stalk of grass thereon. He knew precisely how many yards lay between house and barn. One revolver in hand, the other thrust into his Levi’s, he worked his way to the ruins.
The earth was steaming from the conflagration. The air reeked with strong odors, worst of all that of the burning flesh of the fat prospector. Sandy growled low. Buchanan flattened himself to the ground.
Dave Dare’s voice said, “Get behind that big stone and light the lantern. Careful, now.”
“We light up and Buchanan shoots hell outa us,” said someone.
“Got to have it. Think I can handle this stuff in the dark?”
“It won’t go off without the caps. Tricky damn stuff.”
“I can manage. Put it down behind there. Got to get closer.”
“Too damn close.”
“Wilder sets there and gives orders. He ain’t takin’ any chances, now, is he?”
“Jake’s drunk again. What the hell we gonna do, him and the damn woman drunk?”
“You heard Wilder. He’d as soon cut down on us if we don’t do like he says.”
“Yeah, and if we do, look what happened to McGee and Semple.”
“We got orders. There just ain’t any way out of it now.”
There were three of them, all Cross Bar riders, Buchanan realized. Wilder was saving his own killers for the finish.
Coco touched his arm. “You’re best at sneakin’ around. I go right in.”
Buchanan estimated the odds. The dog at his side moved when he did, a good sign. He nodded agreement to Coco and with the dog crawled over broken stones through blackened straw. He felt a twinge in his shoulder. He saw the small light of the dark lantern and proceeded even slower. It was crucial that he make no sound to alert Wilder and his gunmen.
He felt the dogs nearby and put out a hand to steady them. He came close enough to see a box, which unquestionably held the dynamite. He tucked away his Colt. He took a deep breath. The timing must be exact or all was lost.
He went forward with a rush. He struck Dare behind the collar and whirled. Coco was throttling the second cowboy. Buchanan reached for the third.
The last man was covered by dogs. They had him down and were nuzzling at his throat. He tried to yell.
Buchanan hit him on the chin. He lost consciousness.
Coco asked, “Now we got ’em, what we do with ’em?”
“Stuff their mouths with their rebozos,” said Buchanan. He went to where the dim silhouettes of hobbled horses wandered nearby and selected lariats. He came back and remembered knots an old salt had taught him one time in San Francisco. He trussed up the three semiconscious victims and stored them out of sight. It was then he noted that the wind was changing.
He said, “Now it’s time to hustle. The less light on us the better. Take the lantern. Close the slide but keep it handy.”
Coco said, “You reckon we can find all those jaspers in time?”
“I reckon we got to.”
There was sporadic firing of guns. Flashes came from the roof where Gowdy and Indian Joe were holding out. The wind suddenly became a gale. A slice of moon peered down upon the scene. Two horsemen came toward the house riding like Comanches. They separated. The gunfire increased.
Buchanan said, “Grab a couple of sticks of that dynamite. Cap them and follow me.”
He began to run. The horsemen were swifter. Shots from the house did not prevent them from coming close.
Each of the men on horseback reared back and threw objects. Buchanan said, “Too damn late.”
He was not close enough to find a target for his short guns. He ran as fast as he could. Coco was still with the cache of explosives. One of the thrown objects fell near the house and sizzled. Choking, Buchanan ran toward it.
The door opened. Staggering, Peter Wolf appeared. The moon showed more light. Wilder’s men concentrated their gunfire.
Peter Wolf reached the dynamite stick before Buchanan could get to it. He picked it up. The fuse burned close. Peter Wolf reached back and threw it far into the night. It exploded in midair. He turned to go back, stumbled and fell. Buchanan picked him up on the run. Lead tore through the air around them.
Susan was at the door. Buchanan came through. She slammed it behind him.
Peter Wolf was smiling in the moonlight. There was another hole in his chest. They put him on the couch and Susan leaned over him.
He said, “They ... can’t ... get that ... close. No good ...”
She said, “Peter, don’t talk. You’ll be okay. Just don’t try to talk.”
Blood seeped from one corner of his mouth. He still smiled. He said, “You do ... what... you got to do ... ”
Buchanan turned away, wiping tears from his eyes. His face hardened. He picked up his rifle and went wordlessly from the house. Coco was staying close to the wall, in a shadow.
Coco said, “They got him, didn’t they?”
“They got him.”
Coco looked at the capped dynamite sticks in his hands. “Tom, I don’t shoot people. It ain’t right. But the ladies. Peter Wolf. Walking Elk.”
Buchanan said, “Look into your heart, pardner. Into your heart.”
Buchanan walked toward the ruins of the barn, past the bound men on the ground. He whistled.
Nightshade came on a trot. The stars were showing their twinkling heads but he did not notice. He tightened the cinch and adjusted the bridle. A voice called to him, “Buchanan!”
It was Susan. She carried her rifle and wore her revolver around her waist.
He said, “Go back there!”
“Peter died,” she said. “He was able to say one last thing. To me.”
“Go back, girl!”
“He told me he loved me.”
“You knew that.”
“He died for me,” she said.
“No reason for you to die.”
“You heard him. ‘You do what you got to do.’”
Buchanan said, “I heard him.”
“You’re doin’ what you got to do.”
“Damn it, girl ...” But he could see it all, see into her head and heart. “I’m going to ride around them.”
“I’m going to stay here and make sure they don’t get into the barn like before.”
He said, “The good Lord protect you, girl.”
Words had become useless. He gave Nightshade his head and went westward. The fleet horse covered ground in great leaps. Out of view of the attackers, Buchanan reined in. He attached the leather reins to the horn of the saddle. He held the rifle in his right hand and a revolver in his left. He was now behind Robertson’s group. Their numbers had been reduced, but the most dangerous fighters still were able.
He sat a moment in thought. In the house—and on the roof—were people who were not skillful marksmen. Coco was in shadows but vulnerable. The girl was outside where a stray bullet could kill her.
It was his style to charge. No matter the odds, no matter the wounds he had suffered, he had always been the aggressor. This time he dared not fail. Yet he knew the odds were against him. He pondered his strategy.
Johnnybear was standing straight, talking to the old ones on the reservation. “Buchanan has been a friend to the Crow. The Caseys have been good to me, to the half-Crow, Peter Wolf. The cattle people hanged Walking Elk. All I ask is your young men.”
The oldest chief said, “What you say is true. But if we interfere, the soldiers will come. All will be blamed on us. The young men, they are doing penance. We cannot do as you ask.”
Johnnybear stood taller. “Then give me a gun and a horse and let me die with my friends.”
There was a silence. Then Crazy Bird walked into the circle. He said, “My blood brother died on a tree. It was a tree that once was in our forest, on Crow land. Old men, you cannot stop us. We will go!”
The other young braves came with horses, one for Johnnybear. The old men puffed their pipes. They did not say more. The little band rode out.
In the town Claire was losing her voice. Now Bascomb and Dr. Abrams were also talking. The townsfolk still shifted from one foot to the other.
A woman cried, “For shame! If the cattlemen win, we’ll be next. They’ve already showed us what they are.”
Bascomb said, “If we ride out, they can’t stop all of us.”
“Some of us will be stopped,” said a farmer. “I got a family.”
“Sooner or later you won’t have a farm,” said Dr. Abrams. “Robertson wants every foot of land for his cattle.”
“The man Wilder don’t know mercy,” said Bascomb. “I never was no brave man, but this time we got to do somethin’.”
Claire said hoarsely, “My own father. I’m begging you against my own father.”
They stirred. They began to move toward wagons, buckboards, saddle horses. The moon shone down upon them, a town in motion.
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.