by Jonas Ward
Coco said, “Just a show of folks, seems to me like. Even the bad ones don’t shoot folks ain’t carryin’ a gun.”
“Part right,” Buchanan agreed. “Only I’d have some people on roofs or out of sight who are ready just in case.”
“Unfortunately,” said Casey, “that’s the way it would have to be.”
Bascomb looked at the doctor. “You think it might work?”
“I think these good people have given us two alternatives. We knuckle under or we show we are not afraid.”
“I’m somewhat afraid,” said Bascomb. “Just my skin, that’s all.”
“Trouble usually starts in the saloon,” Buchanan agreed. “You’d best rig up an alarm of some kind. Let people know when the goin’ gets rough.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Dr. Abrams. “A bell. A loud bell. People react to bells. As in case of fire.”
“Yeah,” said Bascomb, brightening. “Run it through the wall back o’ the bar.” He sobered. “’Course, they might shoot me first.”
Buchanan said, “Get yourself a greener. No man can face a sawed-off shotgun if he knows the man that holds it means business.”
Bascomb gulped. “Yep. I’ve seen what it can do. Well, reckon we got no choice.”
“We’ll call a town meeting,” said Dr. Abrams briskly. “And thank you people for your advice. I should have thought of it myself.”
“You’re a man who saves lives. Think of it along those lines,” said Buchanan.
He arose and the others followed him outdoors. It was a beautiful day, too nice a day for Arizona to miss, he thought. He responded to greetings from the people on the street. They were simple folk, immigrants to the western country, some of long standing. Not violent themselves, but they were accustomed to tales of violence. How they would react without their lawman was something that would have to be seen. Buchanan had given them the best he could under the circumstances.
The Caseys had come in a carriage. He bade them good afternoon, mounted Nightshade and rode out onto the plain. He expected no attempt upon the sheep today on account of the funeral arrangements made by Jake. It seemed strange that there should be a graveyard inaugurated on Cross Bar—perhaps it had to do with Jake’s devotion to whiskey.
Jake had always been a heavy drinker, but on occasion so had about every man Buchanan had known—including himself. Drunkenness had been responsible for so many of the gunfights he had seen that he often thoroughly agreed with Coco that whiskey was the curse of the West.
Arizona had not died because of booze. He had died defending Buchanan and the law, his concept of friendship, loyalty and duty. Semple had been crippled and McGee killed because of their sense of pride—and because of a distorted sense of their responsibility as hired guns.
Nothing was simple. There was Claire and Susan and Peter Wolf. There was Walking Elk and his wild young followers.
There were cattle and there were sheep. And there he was, defending the concept of justice—as he saw it—in a fight that any fool could see was hopeless because of the overwhelming odds.
He shook his head and rode for the northernmost sheep camp. His shoulder ached. He shifted in the saddle to relieve the pain, trying to enjoy the perfect day. He rode across grass cropped so close to the ground that a mouse could not conceal itself among the blades. He sighed. Sheep versus cattle, it would always be a problem. Yet here he was, in the middle again. He longed for the peace of Billy Button’s ranch in New Mexico, for the happy voice of his namesake, little Tommy Button.
So musing, he came within sight of the herd. Even at a distance he knew something was wrong. A breeze brought the bleating of the sheep to his ear. Men, small figures, ran. Dogs, tiny, ran faster. He clucked to Nightshade and the ever-willing black horse flew like the wind.
A shot sounded. Nightshade ran more swiftly still. Buchanan loosened his rifle in its boot.
The sheep milled and began circling under the urging of the clever border collies. The men were tangled in a knot. A grazing horse threw up its head and whinnied. Buchanan came down like the wind, made a running dismount. Peter Wolf was engaged in battle with a burly man almost twice his size. Two inept herdsmen were warily trying to stop the fight.
Buchanan said, “Now, then.” He fired a warning shot from the rifle.
The two futile herders jumped back. Peter Wolf hit the big man with a strong left hand. The man hit Peter Wolf with a low-ranging right.
Buchanan stepped between them, poked the rifle at the stranger and said, “You don’t have much sense, do you?”
The man jumped back. One eye was swelling. He was crazy with rage. He yelled, “He jumped me over a damn dog. A mangy, one-eyed lousy mutt.”
Peter Wolf said, “He would have shot Sandy if I hadn’t come along.”
“Sandy?”
“Sandy’s old. He ain’t mangy. He lost an eye protecting the herd against a wolf.” Peter Wolf shook himself, adjusting his shirttail. “This damn fool is new.”
Buchanan looked at the herders. They were Mexicans. They shrugged, agreeing with Peter Wolf but not anxious to get into an argument.
The big man said, “I just come for grub. They said there was some kinda war comin’ up. The damn dog like to have bit me.”
“The dog was trying to be friendly. This man’s no damn good,” said Peter Wolf.
The man lunged. Buchanan poked him with the muzzle of the rifle. He asked, “You got a horse?”
“Certain’, I got a horse.”
“Catch him up and make tracks,” said Buchanan.
“You goin’ to take the word of a damn breed and a couple Mexes agin me?”
Buchanan said, “I could let Peter Wolf whip you. Or shoot you, for that matter.”
The man blinked, swallowed, stared. In an entirely different voice he asked, “Hey, are you Buchanan?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, hell.” He backed away. “I’m ... no hard feelin’s ... I’m on my way.”
They watched him catch up a swaybacked roan, saddle with fumbling hands, mount and ride off.
Buchanan pointed. “What’s that?” Peter Wolf bent and picked up a six-shooter. “That’s his gun.”
“He was aimin’ at Sandy.”
The dog came forward, head cocked, at the sound of its name. It was a black and white, and it limped a bit. Buchanan reached a hand and Sandy sniffed at it, then returned to the herders as if it had done its duty.
“You took the gun away?”
“I kicked it outa his hand,” said Peter Wolf.
The Mexicans both spoke at once in their native tongue. Buchanan answered them in kind, “I see. It was very fine, what Peter Wolf did. Yes, very fine.” He returned his attention to the young man, asking quizzically, “Didn’t it occur to you that you’re wearin’ a gun?”
“I wanted to punish him. He kicked Sandy.”
“You figured to punish that big jake with your hands? Better than with a gun?”
Peter Wolf said, “If I’d’ve drawn ... I mighta killed him. You see?”
Buchanan said warmly, “Uh-huh, you did what come natural. Come on, let’s you and me ride and take a look at that south herd.”
He nodded to the Mexicans, who smiled and gesticulated, then waved. They were far from home, but they knew their job of tending sheep. The north herd, he thought, was not in immediate danger. There was that ravine too close to the graze of the south herd.
As they rode side by side Buchanan said, “You been missin’ some lately.”
“Yes. I saw Walking Elk.”
“He show signs of comin’ to his senses?”
Peter Wolf lifted a shoulder. “Far from it.” He related what he had seen and what he had learned from Crazy Bird. He ended, “There is a bad thing coming there.”
“Very bad,” said Buchanan. “The new gun, Fritz Wilder, is a very dangerous man. If you meet up with him, do not try to kick the gun out of his hand.”
“I am not a gunslinger.”
“No nee
d to be. Just be watchful and quick. Real quick.”
“Like you.”
“I learned it when I was younger’n you, Peter Wolf. That’s the only reason I’m alive today.”
“It was peaceful here before the Robertsons came. There was no gunplay.”
“It is gettin’ kinda serious when young men like Walking Elk begin their dances, isn’t it?” Buchanan said.
“A lamb or a sheep now and then. Not much. They did not threaten us.”
“But now?”
Peter Wolf stared off at the horizon. “Now I don’t know. When the vision is on them ... But you know all that.”
“The Crow were once friendly to me. Saved me and some others a few years ago when we were in a tight spot.”
“I have heard the tale.”
“Now we’ve got Walking Elk and his braves. Any chance of getting Crazy Bird away?”
“There would be a curse upon him. Because they’re blood brothers,” Peter Wolf told him.
“Uh-huh.”
They came to the edge of the graze. The sheep were munching away; the dogs were lying low, watchful but at ease. Indian Joe waved to them. Gowdy came and shook his head, saying, “Saw the funeral goin’ to Cross Bar. Soberin’, ain’t it?”
“Dangerous,” said Buchanan. “Did you see Fritz Wilder?”
“That’s who it was, eh? The good Lord help us all.” The fat man was truly agitated. “Robertson hired Wilder? McGee and Semple, they were nothin’ like Wilder.”
Buchanan said, “I been thinkin’.” He looked to Peter Wolf. “Could this bunch be moved north?”
“To the other herd? It would be hard to do.”
Gowdy said, “You come over the high land. No graze. Sheep move slow as the mountains.”
Buchanan indicated the ravine. “Still and all. Lose ’em one way or the other.”
“You reckon they’ll come again?”
“With Wilder in charge they’ll come. And soon.”
Gowdy asked Peter Wolf, “What do you think?”
There was a long pause. Then Peter Wolf said, “It’s somethin’ that should be done. I can see it. Maybe Robertson will be satisfied if we move ’em.”
Buchanan shook his head. “Don’t believe that. You ain’t leavin’ enough grass for cows. He’s got the bug in his ear. Like the man said, he don’t want everything ... just what’s next door to him.”
“You think he’ll want to get you, too? Because of McGee and Semple and all?”
“There was a day when we was friends. Sort of. He’s different now. The liquor seems to have got to Jake. I don’t know him anymore.”
A ram strayed from the herd, a raunchy-looking beast. One of the dogs went silently to chivvy him back. The ram lowered its head and ran, trying to butt the dog. In another minute it was blatting its head off, on its back, skinny legs pawing the air.
Gowdy said, “That dog’s a McNab. Trained to fight if need be. Nobody’ll get us in the night when he and his brother are around.”
Buchanan said, “There’s a saddle tramp in the neighborhood.” He took the man’s gun from his belt and handed it to Gowdy, who examined it with satisfaction.
Peter Wolf said, “You’ll need cartridges.” He emptied his belt.
Gowdy said, “God, nobody wants a fight less’n me. If it comes, though, I’ll be ready. I won’t like it, but Casey’s been awful good to us. Me and Joe, we’ll be there.”
“Let’s hope it don’t go that far,” said Buchanan.
They mounted and rode back toward the Casey house. The afternoon was waning; the sun threw colors across sky and land. There was no more beautiful country, Buchanan thought. He mused aloud, “Only man can ugly up land like this.”
“So said the Crow in another day,” replied Peter Wolf.
“You seem to know a little of both. Indian and whites, what they’re like, how they act.”
“I wasn’t always with the Caseys. I rode the line a while. I was in the towns as a boy. The padres taught me some.” He was silent, then he said vehemently, “Now I know maybe too much. I want too much. You’re a lucky man, Buchanan.”
Buchanan eased a sudden ache in his shoulder. “Uh-huh. I’m plumb lucky to be alive. But wantin’ too much is better than not wantin’ at all, now, ain’t it?”
“No!”
“You’re a youngster, Peter Wolf,” said Buchanan gently. “Time goes by, you’ll learn. Keep wantin’. Keep hopin’. Do what you think’s right. Hell, I ain’t one for givin’ advice, which is worth what it costs ... nothin’.”
They rode on. Buchanan knew very well what was hurting the youth. Susan Casey simply did not feel that way about him. She saw him as a brother. It was extremely dubious that she would ever think of him in any other way.
As the veteran of many a romance, he understood the problem. He knew very well that nothing in the world could be done about it, not by him, not by anyone but the reluctant girl herself. Further, he had not been unaware of Susan’s smiles, bestowed upon him when she played the piano, whenever they were together. It was, he thought, tit for tat. He felt no urge toward the lively, comely daughter of Shawn Casey.
A few hours later they were all in the Casey parlor and Susan was playing hymns in memory of Arizona. Buchanan was uncomfortably aware of Peter Wolf’s steady gaze—and of Susan’s smiles. He had never felt more helpless. He begged off early and retired to his room, where Coco again applied the salve of the Crow girl to his wound. It was not a happy time.
Eight
Jake Robertson stared out at the little hill upon which they had buried McGee. He could see Boots Semple standing at graveside practicing a left-hand draw. The Colt fell out of Semple’s hand and his curses floated on the air, unheard. Claire came from the house. It was early morning. Jake had his first drink in his fist.
She was wearing her divided skirt and a man’s shirt with the top button undone, and her jawline was pronounced. She said, “Our own graveyard and a man with one arm trying to learn all over again to be a killer. Not to mention a slimy creature in fine clothes staring at me all day long ...”
Jake interrupted, “If that Wilder makes one move onto you, just lemme know.”
“Yes, and you with that sawed-off shotgun and your bottle. And Mrs. Bacon being more impossible every day. I’m beginning to hate Cross Bar, Papa. I’m beginning to truly detest it.”
“Now, gal, just take it easy. There’s certain things got to be. I had to hire the best, and Wilder’s it.”
“You didn’t have to hire anyone. Our men tried to kill Buchanan. You should have admitted it and made peace. They are moving the sheep north, away from Cross Bar. That should be enough. Fire Wilder, talk with the Caseys. Compromise. Then we can all sleep well.”
He shook a fist at the sky. “Just like a woman! Damn me. Tellin’ me to give in, be satisfied with what you got. Not me. Not never!”
Claire’s boot heels clicked on the veranda steps; her tiny silver spurs tinkled. She stopped and cried, “You’ll lose it all! You’ll lose your life!”
She ran for the corral, tears streaming down her cheeks. She caught up her horse, saw that the left hind shoe was missing a nail. She saddled and led the little bay to the blacksmith shop. Cobber was running his bright chain through his huge hands.
She said sharply, “Put that down and pay attention to your work, Cobber. There’s too much fear of Buchanan around here.”
He glared. “Fear? Me! I’ll scrag him with this ...” He retreated before her rage. “Yes, ma’am.”
She watched him drive home the nail. They were all mad, she thought. All of them were blood-crazed. It was horrifying. She climbed aboard the mare and rode out; Maybe she would meet Peter Wolf. Now that the sheep were moving north, perhaps he would speak kindly with her.
She knew better; still she rode. She came to the slope leading to the hilltop from which Buchanan had witnessed the theft of the Cross Bar cows. Peter Wolf was atop the crest, sitting the roan, immobile, erect, staring into the distance. He s
eemed to be oblivious to everything but the scene to the west and below him. She came alongside and he put out a hand to stop her, still gazing, his face set and sad. She followed the direction of his staring.
She could see it all plainly in the bright Wyoming distance. The Indians were again into the Cross Bar herd. Bowlegs, the rider nearest them, was daydreaming. By the time they had cut out a few long-legged yearlings, he was too late to do anything but scramble for his rifle and fire it wildly, missing them by a country mile.
Dave Dare was also too far from the scene. Walking Elk and his men were into the trees before any sort of pursuit could be arranged.
She said, “Oh, no. That was bad.”
His eyes were bleak. “It was very bad.”
“Now Papa and that awful Wilder man will go after them.”
“Sooner or later.” He was talking half to himself.
“I tried. I talked to Papa. To the Caseys. You know I tried to make peace.”
“Yes, miss. You tried. Buchanan tried.”
“If they catch the Indians ...”
“We know what will happen.”
“You moved the sheep. We’ve done all we could.”
“Yes. All we could.”
She cried, “Peter, let’s, you and I, get away!”
“Away?” he was confused.
“I have money in Texas. We could start a small ranch. Anything to get out of this.”
He swallowed and said, “Miss Robertson, I scarcely know what you’re gettin’ at. What I know is, my place is here. Whatever happens I got to stick here.”
“Don’t you see it’s hopeless? Papa’s got all those gunmen. He’ll kill the Indians and then he’ll come for the Caseys. He’s insane about the graze. He drinks too much; he listens to that awful Mrs. Bacon. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“I’m sorry. I see how it is with you. Yes, I can see. You got more common sense than the rest of your crowd.”
“If you’d only help me. Take me away.” She was flushed, frightened at her own temerity, but she stood her ground. “I could be ready in an hour. Before it all starts.”
