Buchanan 15
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“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.<
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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.
Seven
The ceremony was brief, sincere, quiet. Buchanan stood bareheaded with the three Caseys and Bascomb.
The entire town had turned out for the burial of Arizona Jim Wetherby. Only Peter Wolf was absent. Since the town lacked a church, it was Coco who read a psalm from his tattered Bible and prayed in his earnest way for the departed soul.
As the people drifted away, Dr. Abrams and Bascomb approached, doffing their hats, solemn of visage. The doctor said, “Not in the nature of a wake, you understand, but Bascomb would open his place for a meeting of the minds. If you please.”
Shawn Casey said, “I don’t quite understand.”
“Not open for customers,” said Bascomb. “Want to talk with you all.”
Susan said, “Come, Father, why not?”
They walked toward the saloon. A ranch wagon came down the street at a slow pace. Fritz Wilder and his men rode beside it. Dave Dare was the driver. Buchanan, towering above the crowd, could see into the body of the vehicle.
Semple lay on a rack of straw and blanket, his stump bound to his torso. Alongside him a blanket covered a still form.
Wilder rode to where Buchanan watched. “We’re burying Jake’s man on the Cross Bar, Buchanan.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan.
“Nice job you and Arizona did. Of course, McGee and Semple were not top guns.”
Semple said weakly, “You mealy mouth bastid.”
“Nor very smart,” added Wilder. “I expect I’ll be seeing you around, Buchanan.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “Look sharp.”
“I will. And I’ll be quick.”
“Uh-huh.”
The wagon creaked on. Wilder touched his hat brim and showed white, even teeth. He wore gray trousers, a short black coat, a white hat with a black band. There was a glittering stone on his left hand. He rode with easy grace, straight-backed.
Susan said, “That man gives me the shivers.”
“He has a high opinion of himself,” Buchanan said. “Always did. Killed a few people in his time.”
“That we won’t never know,” said Buchanan.
In Bascomb’s they sat around a deal table. Drinks were proffered and accepted. Dr. Abrams took the floor.
“Arizona was a decent man, a good man. The only other law we have is Sheriff Bromberg. He chooses not to make his presence known in Sheridan.”
“Robertson owns him,” said Bascomb.
“This is a quiet little town unless the Cross Bar men ride in,” said Dr. Abrams. “The farmers trade here, so does Cross Bar and so do you people. Keeps us going. But there is going to be trouble; anyone can see it.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Shawn Casey.
“Not your doin’,” said Bascomb. “Nevertheless.”
“We must have local law,” said Dr. Abrams. “Now we know there is no use asking Mr. Buchanan to take the job—temporarily, that is.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “Who’s mayor of the town?”
“Never had one,” said Bascomb. “Me and Doc and a couple good folks, we sorta do what’s to be done.”
“It was peaceful before Cross Bar began its shenanigans,” said Mr. Abrams. “We didn’t need much law.”
“But now we got to have somebody. Is there anyone you know, Buchanan?” asked Bascomb.
Buchanan shook his head. “Not right now. Comes a time, gents, when you have to do for yourselves.”
“We haven’t a soul in town who could act as marshal.”
“Not what I mean. One man, what can he do? All of you, that’s a horse of a different color.”
“All of us?”
Shawn Casey interposed, “Buchanan is absolutely correct. United, you are a force. You are the people.”
“Everybody in this country owns a gun,” said Buchanan.
“Everybody don’t know how or when to use it,” Dr. Abrams pointed out.
“That’s when you have a drill,” said Shawn Casey. “You call a town meeting. You tell them the problem. You explain that until a lawman can be hired they must act judicially but firmly, in the interest of the whole.”
Dr. Abrams said slowly, “I believe you two make sense. I see what you mean. Even a gunslinger wouldn’t go against a whole town.”