by Jonas Ward
“Uh-huh.” Buchanan waited.
“He don’t bother me none personal. But his people. They come in here, raise hell. I can’t draw on a McGee nor a Semple. You mind them boys.”
“I mind ’em.”
Arizona reached for the bottle. “Put this one on my bill, Bascomb.” His eyes were bloodshot. “Was a time.”
“You were good.”
“Wouldn’t be here if I warn’t.”
It was a hard thing, Buchanan thought, to grow old in the law business. A backwater little burg like Sheridan should have been a haven for Arizona—his real name was Jim Wetherby, from Tucson originally. The presence of Jake’s gunmen had made the difference. In his day Arizona would have run them out of town. Back then he had been a better lawman than any of the Earps. He had backed down Wild Bill in Abilene, Buchanan remembered. He had been one of the best.
Bascomb said, “Ain’t nothin’ anybody around here can do with Robertson’s men. It’s like they own the town.”
“So it seems,” said Buchanan.
“You still got that little black lamb?” the bar owner asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Arizona said, “I’m plumb ashamed I wasn’t here when the mustard was hot.”
“Just as well,” said Buchanan. “Just a bit o’ head knockin’.”
“Still and all.”
The sun had gone down. Bascomb went around the saloon lighting the kerosene lamps. Buchanan felt the pangs of hunger.
“Any place in town to grab some grub?” he asked.
“Miz Agar, down the street,” said Arizona. “Just about to mosey down there myself. Come along.”
Buchanan paid for the drinks. “Home cookin’?”
“Good enough.”
They went out into the dusk of the evening, Arizona in the lead. As they rounded the corner of the building, an elbow shot out, doubling him over. It belonged to Cobber, the blacksmith from the Cross Bar.
Arizona fell against the building, and Buchanan stepped past him. He saw McGee across the street. There had been three horsemen out on the plain. He did not have time to look for the third.
Cobber was reaching a long arm for Buchanan’s throat. He ducked away. He could be amazingly quick for a man of his size and weight. Cobber pursued him.
It would have been easy to draw and shoot. Buchanan did not do so. He whipped a quick left to Cobber’s jaw and again moved. Cobber staggered but came on. He was roaring like a bull. Something glinted in his right hand.
A beam of light shining through the open door of Bascomb’s revealed it to be a chunk of metal.
Now Buchanan did not hesitate. He balanced on his left leg and kicked out with his right. He caught the smithy in the crotch. The big man howled shrilly. Buchanan deftly struck at his thick neck, once, twice, three times. The sound died to a choking noise. Buchanan put both fists together and brought them down hard at the nape of Cobber’s neck. At the same time he lifted a knee.
Cobber’s nose burst with a splat as his face hit the knee. Buchanan dropped a right cross at the base of the big man’s jaw. Cobber was silent then, falling sideways across Bascomb’s threshold. He lay like a huge sack of grain.
Arizona said, “Crossfire, Tom.”
Buchanan dropped to his knee. His right hand made the grand gesture of a master magician. His gun came out spitting fire and lead. He felt a burning across his left shoulder. He was slow turning around.
Gunfire crackled, the smell of powder was acrid on the air. Arizona said again, “Crossfire!”
McGee was down. Buchanan had found him first, knowing his position, suspecting the plot. Arizona staggered, firing a shot from the hip, cursing himself even as he fell against the building.
Buchanan sought the third man. A spout of flame gutted from behind a horse trough showed him the place. Frantic for fear that Nightshade, tied up nearby, would be hit, he sent two more bullets into the early dark. Then he ran for a vantage point, found it alongside Bascomb’s place.
The third man showed an elbow. Buchanan fired from the hip. There was a scream of pain. He ran forward. Semple was sitting behind the trough, his right arm cradled in his left hand, his revolver discarded. Buchanan kicked the firearm away and looked down.
“Last time you’ll ever bushwhack a man,” he said. “You dirty, rotten bastid, you’re a disgrace to your own kind. A back shooter. Hell and high water, Semple, you ought to be hung for this one.”
Through the excruciating pain, Semple said, “Might’s well be. Goddam you. Might’s well be.”
Buchanan turned abruptly away. Bascomb was bending over Arizona. A short man with a black bag was running toward them. There was always a country doctor on the scene, Buchanan thought. They had a way of being wherever there were gunshot wounds. This one was bewhiskered and middle-aged.
Buchanan said, “Take care of Arizona, let the other sonsabitches suffer.”
Bascomb said, “McGee don’t need no doc.”
Cobber was recovering consciousness. Buchanan went to him. He kicked hard. He said, “Get your ass up, you hunk of blubber. Go back to Jake and tell him I’ll be askin’ questions. Tell him to forget about McGee and Semple. Tell him I aim to be around. Get that straight: I aim to be around.”
Cobber gulped. He looked at the body of McGee. He could hear Semple moaning. His eyes grew big as saucers. He wobbled off into the gathering dark to wherever the Cross Bar men had left their horses. For the present, at least, all fight had gone from him.
The gunmen had set it up, Buchanan knew. Cobber had wanted a return fight; they had promised it to him. The odds were he knew nothing about their plan to ambush him. He also doubted that Jake Robertson had knowledge of any of it.
The doctor was working on Arizona. There was blood on the boardwalk, too much of it. Buchanan knelt.
Arizona said, “See? ... Too damn ... slow.”
“Quick enough to save my buttons,” Buchanan said.
“You did good. It was Semple got me.”
“Me too.” He was aware of the sting of a wound in his shoulder. “Guess none of us is as smart as we used to be.”
The doctor said, “Easy, now. I’m going to have to get Arizona to my office.” People were gathering now, citizens frightened but curious. Two men found a shutter in the alley alongside the saloon. They hoisted Arizona aboard and carried him away.
The doctor said to Buchanan, “Name of Abrams. What have you got there?”
“Nothin’ much. I can still walk.” They went into the saloon. Semple was calling for help. People walked around him, staring, not even offering sympathy. Cross Bar men had done nothing to make themselves popular in Sheridan.
Dr. Abrams removed Buchanan’s shirt with gentle hands. Bascomb brought the whiskey bottle. The medico took it and poured it on the red welt along Buchanan’s left shoulder.
“Never touched the bone,” he said. “Congratulations.” He had a clean roll of linen in his bag. “Now you can drink some of the salve.”
Buchanan uptilted the bottle. “The jasper behind the watering trough should be in jail.”
“Arizona won’t be taking care of the so-called jail,” said the doctor. “Not for a while. Maybe never.”
“That bad?”
“He may have a piece of lead in his lung.”
“God forbid. He saved my life.”
“God doesn’t take such things into consideration, I’ve found,” said Dr. Abrams wryly. “I’ll look at the one that’s weeping out there.”
“He’s got cause to howl,” Buchanan said. “Man like him is no use with one arm.”
“You sure about the arm?”
“You’ll be amputatin’,” Buchanan promised.
“His gun arm?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good!” The doctor bustled off. Buchanan leaned against the bar.
Bascomb poured another four ounces, said, “That was damn good work. That’ll put a spike in ’em.”
“Don’t you ever believe it,” said Buchanan. “
There’s plenty more where they came from.”
Bascomb made a face. “Never thought of that. Dave Dare and his men, they’re just hired hands. Gunslingers, that’s different.”
“They’re for hire. I’ll be seein’ Jake,” said Buchanan. “But hell, it looks damn like a war.”
He stared moodily into his liquor. McGee and Semple could be replaced if Jake wanted. His arm ached but he knew what he had to do. He asked directions to the eating place and walked Nightshade down the street.
The town was too small and new to have picked up the stink of cities. Somewhere a guitar sent forth melancholy chords. There was little light, but the stars were kind. A dead man was being carried away to be buried, and perhaps the fray had inaugurated a Boot Hill in Sheridan. It was no good to think of the dead man. Arizona was the one who counted.
The eating place was a small building well-lighted with wall lamps. Buchanan tied up Nightshade to the hitching rail, promising oats for later.
Susan Casey came like a ghost from the shadows. She said in a small voice that he had not heard before, “Buchanan. I need to talk to you.”
He was startled. “What are you doin’ here?”
She came close to him. “I was riding, thinking. About everything. How it is and how it would be. I followed you to town—not really followed, saw you heading this way.”
“You saw what happened?”
She shuddered. “I saw it.”
“It ain’t pretty, that kinda thing.” He took her arm and steered her toward the restaurant. “Maybe we better eat. It helps to eat.”
She said, “I never saw anything like that. I never realized. I’ve been talkin’ about a fight. When you don’t know how it is, you can talk big.”
The eatery was small but neat. There was a man and a woman; their names were Bert and Elsa Agar. They were silent, dour people. They knew Susan but were not friendly. They were, Buchanan saw, the ordinary citizens, the marginal people, those who dared not take sides. He ordered steaks and whatever the house afforded, and the Agars retired to the kitchen.
Susan was pale beneath her tan. “The ... fury of it. How quick it happens. The blood, the pain, that man screaming.”
“People hurt enough, they holler.” He was surprised that she was affected in this manner.
She said, “You’re hurt.”
“Not the first time. Not much.”
“Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I should listen to Papa. Maybe we should pull out.” There were tears in her eyes.
Buchanan said, “You’re scared.”
“No. Not scared. Not really scared.” Color returned to her cheeks. Her eyes were bright. “I think I could fight. If I had to. It’s just that—I don’t know. I felt sick. But I was excited.”
“You mean that’s what’s worryin’ you? That you got excited?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s both.” She twisted her strong hands. “Is it because this was the first time?”
He leaned back, easing his shoulder. The pain was steady now, more of an ache. It was nothing unusual to him. “Uh-huh,” he said. “It’s like anything new. I mind when I was a button comin’ up the trail. Two jaspers got into it one night.” Time rolled back and he saw himself, a raw kid, eyes wide, watching it. “They had knives. They went around and around the fire. Nobody tried to stop ’em. They cut and slashed. They were big, tough cowboys. They were fightin’ over a gal back in El Paso. A no-good gal. When the blood came I got sick. I had to go and throw up.”
“Yes. I did that tonight.”
“Then a time later one of the boys jumped me. I done somethin’ wrong and he came at me. He had a brandin’ iron. It gets tetchy on the trail, and he was a mean one anyway.”
“Were you scared?”
He took his time answering. “I was some scared. I was some mad. Somethin’ happens, I dunno. You just do what you got to do.”
“What you got to do.” She nodded. Her voice had returned to normal. “Yes ... And what did you do?”
“Took away the iron and beat on him.”
She repeated, “What you got to do. Buchanan, I just can’t give up the land, the sheep, our lives. It would be wrong.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If we had a chance.”
“There’s little chance,” he said gently.
“There was little chance for you, back there.”
“Arizona saved my bacon.”
“Could you save us?”
He shook his head. “No way of tellin’. People think the truth’ll prevail and all of that. It ain’t always so. Jake Robertson, he has his ways. He believes in ’em. It’s depending on what can be done about Jake.”
She looked straight into his eyes. “You’re goin’ to stay.”
“You think so.”
“You’re goin’ to stay because you like us and because you can’t let us go down.”
He said, “Mebbe.”
“Truly.”
He touched his sore shoulder with his right hand. “You’re a very smart girl.”
“They hurt you and you killed one of them and crippled the other. The big man, he don’t count much. It was the gunslingers that made you angry.”
He said, “Uh-huh. On t’other hand, they’re done for.”
“Robertson will bring in more of ’em. You said so.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you’ll stay and see what happens.” She was exultant. “If you stay I can fight. Papa is no coward. Mama is brave.”
“And you got Peter Wolf.”
She gestured. “Peter is a fighter.” He was dismissed in the phrase, Buchanan saw. “Coco ... Indian Joe, Gowdy.”
“A small crew against Cross Bar.”
“Then there’s you.”
The man brought the steaks, potatoes, gravy, corn and hot bread. When he had gone back to the kitchen, Buchanan grinned at the girl.
“Uh-huh. You savvy. A man can’t run.”
She reached across the table and touched him. Her eyes glowed in the lamplight. Without further words they attacked the hot meal.
Five
Johnnybear ran easily in the early dawn. He did not know the exact number of miles he had covered, but he knew he was close to the encampment. It had to be in the clearing; there was no other strategic
place for Walking Elk and the other Crow. He toed in, relaxed in the manner of his blood kin, his mind moving as easily as his body. He was duty-bound.
He deliberately stepped upon dead wood, making a noise as he came to where they slept in their blankets. They started up, seizing weapons. He called out to them in their language.
Walking Elk stared at him, then prodded the banked fire. “What brings you here, boy with no name?”
“News.” His breath was a bit short. He breathed deeply to steady his speech.
“There can be no good news.” They were all awake now and listening.
“Buchanan has killed the gunman McGee and crippled the other. The man called Arizona is wounded.”
“And what is that to us?”
Johnnybear was confused. “Don’t you see? Buchanan is a good man. He is friend to the Caseys. They are the good people who have fed me and clothed me since I was sick that time.”
“And you are a white Indian. Peter Wolf is a half-breed; that is his curse. But you—you choose to live with whites.”
“Is that wrong?”
“Your great friends the Caseys live on land belonging to the Crow.”
“There was a treaty ...”
“The treaty was forced upon our fathers with guns. We deny the treaty. The land was ours for hundreds of moons. Thousands of moons.” Walking Elk grew emotional. “It is all told about the campfires. Even the old men talk of it. They do nothing, but still they tell the tales.”
“I know,” said Johnnybear. “I heard the stories when I was a little boy. But when the sickness came no one could cure me. The Caseys took me to the white doctor.”
“The medicine men were powerless because the Great Spirit f
rowned upon us,” said Walking Elk. “It is now our duty to stand up so that the Great Spirit will look kindly upon us again.”
“I do not know these things,” said Johnnybear disconsolately. “I know only that the Caseys mean no harm and that the cattle people will destroy them.”
“That is good. Let them kill each other. When they have weakened themselves we will strike.”
“Then they will bring in the troops. Nobody wants to see the bluecoats again.”
“We will do to them what Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull did at the Big Horn.” Johnnybear’s shoulders slumped. He almost said that the Sioux and Cheyenne had been numerous, had been prepared, had taken advantage of mistakes by Yellow Hair, the general. These things he had learned from listening to the talk of white people. He must not repeat them to Walking Elk.
He said only, “You would do well to take sides with the sheep people against the cattle kings.”
“We take the side of no whites,” said Walking Elk. “We will steal their guns and their sheep and their cattle until we grow strong. Others will join us. We will drive out the white eyes.”
Johnnybear said, “May I now go in peace?”
“You are Crow. You could help us by bringing information. Their weaknesses. Their plans.”
“Yes,” said Johnnybear. “I could do that.”
He lifted a hand and turned and trotted toward the Casey ranch. It had been worth a try, he thought. Help must come from someplace or the Caseys would perish. He would, of course, die with them.
He now saw that Walking Elk was seized with a dream that could never come true. Johnnybear had learned a lot by being quiet, unseen, his ears wide open. There could be no aid for his patrons from the Crow, he now knew. The old men were quiet on the reservation. The young men were too few and too intent upon their own wild, hopeless scheme. His heart was leaden as he ran back to his chores.
Cobber nursed his bruises. He had managed to ride back to Cross Bar alone, knowing he had disobeyed orders, fearful of the outcome. Dave Dare and the riders were pulling on their clothes against the chill morning air.
Cobber said, “He’s a frightenin’ man, Buchanan.”
