by Jonas Ward
That he was not telling the whole truth did not disturb Peter Wolf. The Caseys needed Buchanan. There was nothing in the world Peter would not do for the Caseys—and particularly Susan. Night after night he lay awake dreaming of her. He could never express his feelings to her, of course. He could only long for her with every ounce of his mixed blood.
He had spent time in a mission school. He knew that his destiny was his own to make; they had impressed that upon him. He also knew the prejudices of the West of his time, knew them too well.
He came to the Casey stable at night. As he stabled his horse, Johnnybear appeared. The boy had the true Indian faculty of moving like a silent creature of the wilds.
“I will take care,” the boy said in the Crow language.
“It is good.”
“Did you go far?”
“As far as I could.”
“You spoke of Buchanan?”
“I did.” He could not lie to the boy.
“I made promises.”
“He is here.”
“Yes. I saw the black horse.”
“Did you speak with the brothers?”
“Your brothers. Not mine.” Bitterness was in Peter Wolf’s voice.
“They will not help?” Johnnybear asked.
“They will not.”
“The farm people?”
“They are afraid,” Peter Wolf said.
“Buchanan might make the difference?”
“Might. Not surely.”
“Aieee,” said Johnnybear. “I fear for our patrons.”
“Well you may.” Peter Wolf touched the boy’s shoulder and went into the house through the back door. He went to his room. He could hear music. Susan was again at the piano. She and Buchanan were singing songs he did not know and laughing together. They were able to put aside the thought of danger. He washed himself and changed his clothing, then went to the kitchen.
Mrs. Bower heard him and came with a warmed-over dinner. “You’re late, young man. I saved pie for you.”
“I was busy.” He sat down. The music rang in his ears. Susan was playing for Buchanan; he sensed it.
Shawn Casey came into the kitchen. “You rode far today.”
“I talked with people.”
“The Crow?”
He shook his head. “Not good. The farmers are scared. Without Buchanan we will be beat.”
Casey said, “I never believed the others would help. They have their own troubles.”
“I had to try.”
“Of course you did. Come have a drink and relax, Peter.”
“Mrs. Bower has pie for me.” He managed a grin.
“When you’re ready.” Casey smiled at him, nodded and returned to the parlor.
Mrs. Bower said, “It’ll be a sad day when Robertson’s gunners come.”
“You women should leave,” he replied darkly.
“Susan, she’ll never leave, come hell or high water. And it won’t happen overnight.”
“If we don’t get help, it’ll happen quick, all right.”
“The good Lord will dispose,” she told him. “The Caseys are good people.”
“You ever see good people die?”
“I’ve seen aplenty in my time,” she said. “I plan to go on a good while yet.”
“Oh yes, I hope for that, too,” he said. The pie was delicious, but his stomach was delicate tonight. He toyed with the crust, took his time about finishing.
After a time he went quietly into the room where they had gathered. Coco had a fine, velvety voice. He was singing a song about the South. The others were chorusing as Susan picked out the melody. Buchanan boomed, doing his best, though he was no singer. Susan was smiling up at him. Peter Wolf poured himself a drink of red wine and retreated to a corner, brooding.
In the Cross Bar bunkhouse Dave Dare and Cobber were sharing a bottle of hard cider. Cobber bore few outward signs of his fight with Buchanan, but inside the scars were deep.
“Never did see a man could stand up to me,” he growled.
“They say the black’s even better than Buchanan. I swear they’re both alike as peas in a pod,” said Dave Dare.
“Gimme another chance at him and I’ll kick him to death.”
“You may get a chance at that. Ifn he sticks around with the sheep men, he’s bound to get in range.”
“You’d shoot him.” Cobber flexed his big hands. “I just wanta get a hold on him and crunch him.”
“Might meet him in Bascomb’s come a night. You never do go to town with us’ns.”
“I’m up before dawn fixin’ your damn horses and wagons. I ain’t for drinkin’ too much no ways. I would go in if I knowed he was there though.”
“Mebbe we can arrange it.” Dave Dare’s mind worked it over. “Set a watch. Find out when he’s goin’ into town.”
“Might do.” Cobber clenched a fist. “You’ve killed men, Dave. With your gun.”
“When they needed it.”
“I could kill him with my hands.”
“Guns are cleaner.”
“When they die ...” Cobber stopped, started again. “How is it when you hate a man and you see him die?”
Dave Dare thought a moment. “Y’ see, it’s him or you. I mean with the gun. Him or you. So you shoot. If you’re quick enough ... But I’m no gunfighter. Ask Boots or McGee. It’s their game.”
“I never killed a man. Oh, I’ve beat ’em to a pulp. Never knew one to die.”
“That’s the difference. With bullets they die. Gene’lly speakin’, that is.” He drank heartily of the hard cider. “Best we go in and eat. The others’ll be done by now.”
“I ain’t hungry.”
“You will be. Come, now.”
Cobber arose. “Aye. You’re right. Must feed the inner man. Tomorrow’s another day and all.”
“We’ll get Buchanan one way or t’other.”
Jake Robertson’s voice came from the doorway. “Not your way.”
They stared at him. He was slightly drunk but in command of his faculties. He went on, “You’ll not bushwhack Buchanan. ’Tain’t my way. You’ll not run the goddam sheep when he’s within a mile or more. You hear me?”
“He ... he beat us. With his fists.”
“He’s whupped better’n you. I ain’t for him the way he is now, with the goddam sheep people. Howsome-ever, I know him. I know who he is and what he is. The less truck with him the better. You understand?”
“We got rights. Private-like,” said Dave Dare. “A man comes in, does what he done ... We got rights.”
“You’re workin’ for me. You want to draw your pay and go for Buchanan?”
“Well ... no.”
“You like your jobs?”
“Course we do. You’re a good boss.”
“Then you take orders. Could be Buchanan will leave. Could be he don’t want no part of a sheep man war. He’s always been cattle, all his life.”
“He don’t show no sign of leavin’.”
“He just got here. Give him time. If he makes trouble enough, then we’ll see to him.” He hiccupped and added, “And God help them that get in the way. If we have to get Buchanan, I’ll see to it. I’ll plan it. Not you, not anybody in Wyoming. Me.”
Dave Dare said, “Okay, boss. If that’s the way it’s got to be.”
“That’s the way.” Robertson turned and lurched away.
When he was out of earshot, Cobber said, “I be damned if I’ll miss a chance.”
“I’m with you,” said Dave Dare. “He’s the boss, but a man’s a man.”
“In town. Mebbe we could make it that Buchanan started it.”
“There’s Boots and McGee. We’ll confab with them.”
They were a different breed from Dave Dare and Cobber. It was in their walk, their carriage, the way they looked. Boots Semple was small and wiry, curly-haired and swarthy. Hap McGee was middle-sized and wide-shouldered. They wore dark shirts and tight black pants. Their guns were tied low on their flanks, their bo
ots were soft and well kept.
It was their eyes that caught one’s attention, though. Unblinking, they seemed lidless, like the eyes of snakes. The eyes of McGee were dark and deep. Those of Semple were light and wide spaced. They said little, even in the bunkhouse among the other cowboys. Neither was much with a rope; they were very careful of their hands. But they could ride and they could—and would—shoot.
Dave Dare said, “The boss said to stay away from Buchanan.”
“Yep,” said McGee.
“We figure we owe him somethin’.”
“Yep,” said McGee.
“You listenin’ to the boss?”
“Yep.”
There was a silence. Then Cobber asked again, “How is it when you kill a man?”
“He’s dead,” said McGee.
“Is that all there is to it?”
“Yep.”
“It don’t seem ... bad?”
“Nope.”
Dave Dare said, “Come on, Cobber. We got to eat.”
They departed. The other riders working nearby the ranch disposed themselves about the spacious, well-kept bunkhouse. McGee and Boots Semple strolled out under the starry sky and leaned on the rails of the corral.
Semple said, “They’re plumb scared.”
“Yep.”
“You mind the time Buchanan gunned down Billy Watts?”
“Yep.”
“Billy had his gun half outa the leather.”
“Yep.”
“You ain’t scared.”
“Now, that’s another horse, pardner.”
“Careful?”
“Yep.”
“Takes two?”
“Yep.”
“He’s that fast. So we work together. We stay close. One at his back.”
“Which one?”
“Whichever.”
They were silent, staring at the horses quiet in the corral. The moon threw a fitful light upon them. A night bird trilled a song.
Semple said, “Mebbe Buchanan’ll ride on. He moves around a heap.”
“Mebbe he won’t,” said McGee.
“We downed a few fast ones in our day.”
“Yep.”
“Funny, that big ox askin’ how it feels.”
“Lotsa muscle. No brains,” said McGee.
Semple gestured toward the bunkhouse. “They don’t know. How it starts and all. Feller comes atcha. You got to down him. Then another. Then another. You’re quick or you’re dead.”
“Yep.”
“After a time it don’t bother you none. You keep your eye peeled. You keep your gun loose.”
“Yep.”
Semple laughed deep in his throat. “You hope there ain’t too many Buchanans around.”
McGee said, “You’ll be ready for Buchanan. He ain’t all in all. He’s been hit.”
“With a rifle. And from behind.”
“Yep,” said McGee. “Either way’s okay by me.”
Semple proffered his makings and they rolled cigarettes. They were silent, each with his thoughts on Buchanan.
The clearing in the forest was lighted by a fire and the moon. Shadows flickered across the serious faces of the young Crow braves. Walking Elk sat apart, arms clasped about knees. He had been disgraced in the eyes of the men he led. He was waiting for the inevitable challenge.
The others did not speak. There was only one who could face Walking Elk. His name was Crazy Bird and he was taller and stronger than the others. He was blood brother to Walking Elk. The tension mounted as the moon made its orderly way across the sky. Still there was silence. The odor of cooked meat was strong. Birds called to one another. Small creatures nosed curiously on the edge of the camp.
Walking Elk arose and walked to the fire. His left arm was swollen; there were bruises on his face and body. Still he stood tall, facing the others.
He said, “The half-Crow’s medicine was stronger than mine. What would you have me do?”
Crazy Bird stood. “Walking Elk behaved with honor.”
There was a chorus of assenting grunts. “Walking Elk led us when we took the guns from the white farmers. He has kept the spirit of the fighting Crow alive. I have no wish to fight him.” Again there was assent from the youths.
“We do not wish to return to the reservation. The old ones, as Walking Elk has said, sit in their tepees and mourn the past. We are the future. So long as we may stand we will fight the white eyes.”
Now there were yips of assent. Walking Elk’s eyes shone. He held his right hand high. “My brothers, if you want, I shall still lead you. We shall do our part to drive the whites from our land.”
They all leaped to their feet and surrounded him, patting his back, being careful to avoid his injuries. Again they were of one mind.
They sat around the fire then and talked, making plans, discarding them, eating bits of the fragrant, sizzling meat. Walking Elk nursed his aches and pains and silently, secretly dreamed of again meeting Peter Wolf.
Four
The morning was bright and fair. Breakfast was cooking in the Casey kitchen. In the stable Johnnybear worked with currycomb and brush on Nightshade, cooing to the big black horse in the liquid syllables of the Crow tongue. Coco was feeding the little black sheep from a bottle. Buchanan was oiling his revolvers.
Peter Wolf came to them and said, “You know about my meeting with Walking Elk.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “Too bad.”
“I did what I had to do. They’ll never give up. They should be sent back to the reservation.”
“No way that I know,” said Buchanan. “They look at it like we’re all wrong. It was their land.”
“Was ain’t is,” Coco said. “Had a preacher man tell me one time that my people were mighty big in Africa. Seems like that don’t matter a bit now, does it?”
Peter Wolf said, “So we have to fight Indians and cow people just to keep on livin’. It don’t seem right.”
Buchanan put up his weapons. He went to where Coco was feeding the black lamb. He watched for a moment, his face softening. “Seems like it’s a losin’ battle, don’t it?”
Coco said, “This is the purtiest critter ever. I purely love this little lamb.”
“Best we should eat,” said Buchanan.
“If you could send for help ... ” pleaded Peter Wolf.
“Jake would send for more’n I could raise,” said Buchanan. “Can’t you see that?”
Coco agreed. “Next thing you’d have two armies shootin’ up the countryside.”
They left the stable, going to the house. Johnnybear, eyes wide, had listened with care. He worked more slowly over Nightshade. There were tears in his eyes.
At the table Shawn Casey awaited them. Mrs. Bower, smiling at Buchanan, dealt out hotcakes, bacon, eggs galore. Only Peter Wolf failed to do justice to the heaping platters.
Shawn Casey said, “It’s a grand day. Maybe we should ride out and see what we can see.”
Buchanan said, “I think we’d better stay close this mornin’.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Seems like we might have a visitor.”
“Really? Anyone we know?”
“Nope.”
“A mystery guest?”
“Not so much mystery. Still and all, some good might come of it. Just maybe.”
Coco said to himself, “Oh-oh.”
They finished the meal and went outdoors. The sun was hot, but a small breeze made the day lovely. Coco went to play with the little black sheep. Johnnybear went into the kitchen. Peter Wolf was restless, walking back and forth.
He said finally, “You didn’t get Robertson to say he’d come to talk, did you?”
“Not a chance,” said Buchanan.
Casey said, “Since there is nothing terribly important for us to do at this moment, shall we retreat to the veranda?”
“Good notion,” said Buchanan.
They sat and stretched their legs. Mrs. Casey and Susan came, wondering, to join
them. Susan wore her jeans, as usual, and a boy’s shirt. Peter Wolf cast a glance at her, frowning a little to see the two top buttons undone.
Mrs. Casey asked, “A holiday, I hope?”
“Sorta,” said Buchanan.
“I’d like to hear about some of your adventures,” said Shawn Casey. “There have been rumors and tall tales. The truth.”
“Nothin’ much to tell,” said Buchanan. “Coco, now, he’s had some wondrous bouts with strange fighters.”
“Me and Tom, we’ve seen a few elephants.” Coco chuckled. “All the way from Canada to Mexico we been into it.”
They talked easily, self-deprecating, dwelling on the humor of their experiences. Time passed, the sun ascended almost to its noonday peak. A rider appeared on the horizon. Peter Wolf jumped, eased his revolver around on his hip.
“Won’t be needed,” Buchanan assured him.
In a moment Susan said, “I’ll be bought for a goat. It’s herself, Miss Priss.”
Claire Robertson came up on her fine filly. She wore a long serge skirt and a bright red basque jacket. Her hair was caught back in braids. She was riding sidesaddle today, one knee hooked over the curved, padded bar of a horn. One tiny boot was in a stirrup. Buchanan came down from the veranda and held out his arms. She laughed and jumped, displaying a shapely ankle.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
Shawn Casey came to his feet. “Welcome, Miss Robertson. It’s good to see you.”
Mrs. Casey came to hold out a hand.
Coco was on his feet, grinning. Peter Wolf stood, but there was no joy in him.
Casey said, “Have you met Peter Wolf?”
“I believe we have seen each other when riding,” said the girl.
“Uh ... yeah,” said Peter Wolf.
Buchanan suppressed a grin. They seated themselves and Mrs. Casey called for tea. Susan sat on the top step of the veranda and stared hard.
Claire said, “It’s long past the time I should have made my manners. The unfortunate incident of your sheep and the ravine and all ... I’m truly sorry.”
“Nice of you to say so,” said Shawn Casey.
Claire regarded Susan, returning her curious gaze. “We should see each other often, you know. There are only two of us in this vast region.”
