Buchanan 15

by Jonas Ward

  He said, “Miss Robertson, you better go home. There’s not a thing I can do except stay with the Caseys.”

  She could go no further. She said, “I’m sorry you can’t... help me.”

  “I’d plain like to,” he said. “I mean, seein’ the way you feel you oughta get away.”

  “Yes. I should. I won’t. As you say, we must stick with our own.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll still try to help.”

  “I’m sure you will, miss. But me, I believe it’s gone too far. The Crow ... the sheep ... Buchanan ... it’s too much. Your papa and his hired guns will be on the warpath.”

  “Perhaps I can keep them away from the Caseys.”

  “You try and do that.” He touched his hat brim. Frowning, he rode back toward the Casey place.

  She gazed after him. Her tears did not run this time. She had almost declared her love for him. Love? She wondered. Infatuation? Or was it her desperate need to get away from Cross Bar and everything that had been happening there since she had come home?

  It did not matter. The West, they said, was hardest on dogs, cattle and women. She turned back to face the inevitable when the news of the latest depredation came to her father.

  When she arrived Jake was pacing the veranda. “I tell you, they’re out to steal everything we got. The dirty red skinned thieves, they’re makin’ war, that’s what they’re doin’.”

  Dave Dare said, “They hide awful good. We never come close to where they’re herdin’ them yearlin’s.”

  Claire pleaded, “Papa, it’s just a few head. You have thousands. Let it go. Set a better watch. Bowlegs was not paying attention. I saw him, Papa.”

  Fritz Wilder lit a cheroot. “You’re correct, Jake.”

  “I know I’m darn right. Trouble is, it’d take a damn Injun to find the devils.”

  Wilder said, “You didn’t take note? One of my men is an Apache. Name of Ramirez.”

  “Then he can track.”

  “Anybody. Anyplace.”

  “What’re we waitin’ for? Get the boys together.”

  Claire said, “No! It just means more killing.”

  “Get in the house, gal,” said Jake. “This is men’s work.”

  Claire was lost in the scramble. Wilder winked at her, and she resisted an impulse to punch him. She went into the house and up to her room. She was in utter despair, yet she was dry-eyed; her chin was firm.

  They rode out in force, leaving Dave Dare and Bowlegs and the other cowboys behind. Ramirez, a scar-faced, slit-eyed little man, led the way. They picked up the trail where Walking Elk and his braves had vanished in the forest. The progress became slow. Ramirez examined tree trunks; bushes; dried, broken sticks. He was very thorough.

  Only one rode beside Wilder, a good-looking young man named Reck. He wore a purple shirt and checkered pants and ornamented boots with silver-dollar spurs.

  He said, “How come the Injun’s name is Ramirez? Ain’t that Mex?”

  Wilder replied, “Apaches mix with Mexicans. And shut up.”

  “If we see ’em, we shoot ’em,” said Reck. “So what?”

  “They have ears like animals. So—shut up.”

  “Oh, sure, Fritz.” The youth grinned and fell back.

  The others were all of a pattern. On first glance they looked to be ordinary enough outdoor horsemen. Close attention showed them to be hard, with eyes that did not ever seem to blink. They were from several walks of life. They had names like Chalk and Sawmill and Brick. One was black and seemed to have no name except “Hey you.”

  The trees thinned out. Ramirez suddenly raised his hand for silence. The riders stopped, discipline strong in them. Ramirez made signs and disappeared into heavy brush.

  Nobody spoke; nobody moved. Insects buzzed; small animals rustled underfoot; a fawn switched its tail among the firs.

  Ramirez came back, toeing in, going directly to Wilder. “They in arroyo. They got watch. No can get high gun.”

  Wilder said, “Then what?”

  “Go quiet. No horses.”

  “These men are no good afoot.”

  Ramirez shrugged. “You want cows? You want Crow?”

  Wilder said, “How about the watch? Can you take him?”

  “Si. But maybe shootin’.”

  “Fifty pesos if you make it.”

  “Si,” said Ramirez. “The arroyo—straight ahead.” He was gone like a shadow.

  Reck asked. “You think so?”

  “I think we must be ready. We hear a shot, we ride in.”

  “Not knowin’ who shot it ...?” Reck nodded. He enjoyed the gamble. His pale eyes were wide-spaced, rather blank. Sometimes he giggled to himself. He was the second-fastest gun in the group.

  Wilder said, “It’ll be head-on if Ramirez misses.”

  “Head-on, ass-on, it’s action.” Reck drew his revolver and twirled the cylinders. He was grinning.

  Time rolled slowly by. Wilder repressed the desire to light a cheroot.

  The shot came. Then there was a second shot. “Ride,” said Wilder.

  They rode in. The way was narrow. Wilder and Reck were in the van. The opening among the trees was sudden and broad. They could see running figures. They fired.

  One Indian stumbled and fell. The others were gone like wisps on the wind. The invaders found themselves eerily alone. The fallen Crow writhed but made no sound. Wilder rode up to him and dismounted. The cows were making their sounds in the makeshift corral. Reck said, “Damn, they’re like ghosts.”

  “Ramirez didn’t make it. Send somebody up to check.”

  “This one’s alive.” Reck fingered his gun. “Lemme?”

  “No,” said Wilder.

  “Maybe you didn’t notice, but Brick’s down.”

  “I noticed.”

  The man called Brick had a hole in his forehead. He lay in a disordered heap not far from the Indian.

  Reck said, “You goin’ to torture the bastid, Fritz?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “Round up the cattle and drive them back to the place where we came into the woods.”

  “What about the Injun?”

  “Put him on Brick’s horse and bring him along.”

  Reck shrugged, put away his gun and did as he was told. Wilder lit a cheroot.

  On the rim of the arroyo Ramirez lay dead. Two men carried him down. Wilder nodded. “That’s two of ours. We have one of them. We’ll get the rest later. They need a lesson.”

  He rode back along the trail Ramirez had found for them.

  Crazy Bird and three braves crept in the grass. They came to a vantage point. One of their band had died from his wounds during the flight. They watched while the other was tossed aside and Ramirez carried down.

  Crazy Bird said, “Walking Elk’s dream is over.”

  “Yes.”

  “They have him. We must try to rescue him.”

  “Yes.”

  But there was no heart in them. The sudden attack had taken their spirit. Crazy Bird knew it; nevertheless, they followed at a distance. When they came to the place Wilder had selected, they crouched, watching. Among them they had one musket and an old revolver and two bows with arrows.

  It all happened very swiftly. Two men with rifles were guarding the scene. They saw Wilder uncoil a rope and throw it over a tree limb. They saw a loop being arranged around the neck of Walking Elk. They saw him spit at Wilder, saw the blow to the face he received in turn.

  Crazy Bird said, “Do you want to die with my brother?”

  There was a silence.

  He said, “There is no chance. We will die and he will die.”

  They shook their heads. “Walking Elk had the dream.”

  “It is not said that we should die unless we could save him.”

  They murmured assent. Tears were in their eyes, but they knew they had no chance.

  Two men dragged Walking Elk beneath the limb of the tree. Wilder pulled the rope taut. They
all joined then and hauled. Walking Elk was lifted from the ground choking, his arms and legs jerking, blood streaming from his wound. Crazy Bird had the only reliable gun. He knelt. He took aim. He fired. The bullet struck Walking Elk in the head. Crazy Bird and the other Crow braves ran to their horses. They were gone before the white men realized what had happened.

  It was morning when Buchanan found the hanging figure of Walking Elk. He had been riding to cover the rear of the sheep traveling north. He rode up and held the body in his sore left arm while he cut the rope with the bowie he had taken to carrying these days. He laid the Indian youth on the ground, noted the bullet hole in his head. He cut trail until he learned how many men had taken part in the lynching. Then he rode into the forest and backtracked all that had taken place the previous day. He climbed to the rim of the arroyo and formed his own picture of what had happened there. The trail of the stolen cattle was broad enough for a tenderfoot to trace. He heard the whinny of a horse. It was an Indian pony roaming loose.

  He cajoled the horse, caught it up and rode back to where Walking Elk reposed. He put the dead body on the pony and headed toward the Crow reservation.

  Buchanan saw the Crow young men as they came at him from four directions. He sat Nightshade and awaited them. They rode in slowly, scrutinizing him. Then one came close.

  “I am Crazy Bird. Walking Elk was my blood brother.”

  Buchanan said, “I bring him to you,” speaking in Crow.

  “It is a good thing you do.”

  “It was a shameful way for him to die.”

  Crazy Bird rode close to the corpse, looked at the head. “It was my bullet that killed him.”

  “Good,” said Buchanan. “It was brave.”

  “Do you know the men who came after us?”

  “I reckon I do.”

  Crazy Bird gulped. “There are too many. Walking Elk had the dream.”

  “Peter Wolf told me of it.”

  “I did not share the dream. But I am not free. I must go to the old ones and mourn. I must do penance.”

  “That is for you to decide.”

  “You know our ways.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “I respect your ways.”

  “You are not one of us. You cannot understand.”

  “May well be,” said Buchanan.

  Crazy Bird intoned, “We have seen the end of the dream. From now we will fight no more. We will return to the old ones and follow their ways.”

  “As you say.”

  “You have taken our land; you have come with the bluecoats and the cattlemen and we are destroyed.”

  “Go in peace,” Buchanan said. There was no profit in arguing that he did not own an inch of land, that he sympathized with them, that he did understand their problem. He knew that there was no solution. They rode away leading the pony that bore the body of Walking Elk. Their shoulders were bowed; they were in mourning for more than the dead warrior.

  Buchanan turned Nightshade around. The echo of far-off shots came on a breeze. Nightshade pricked up his ears and was in motion before Buchanan could touch the reins. The sound came from the north.

  The volume increased as he rode. He loosened the rifle in the scabbard. There was no question but that the sheep were being raided. When he saw riders as dots on the horizon he withdrew the rifle.

  They were already departing before he came within range. He fired uselessly, merely to let them know that reinforcements were available.

  Gowdy and Indian Joe were entrenched behind the dead bodies of sheep. He came to them and they arose shakily. Gowdy said, “God, I thought you was more of ’em for a minute there.”

  The dogs were scurrying, rounding up the frightened, milling sheep. Neither Gowdy nor Indian Joe was injured. Buchanan asked, “Who?”

  “A dude jasper and some uglies,” said Gowdy. “They rode off to town.”

  Buchanan said, “Fritz Wilder.”

  “That was him? I didn’t get a close look. Too busy tryin’ to fight ’em off.”

  “You get any of ’em?”

  “Nope. They moved too quick and left too sudden. I ain’t in practice,” said Gowdy apologetically.

  “Never mind,” said Buchanan. The bile was rising in him. “I’ll have a word with Jake.”

  “You want us here? With the herd?”

  He thought a moment. “Best push ’em until tonight. Then come into the house.”

  “Seems right,” said Gowdy soberly. “Wilder, he’s sudden and meaner than a basketful of rattlers.”

  “Might’s well bring in the dead sheep for food.”

  “We’ll do that.”

  Buchanan waved to them, and a few hundred yards away he stopped beneath a tree. Mrs. Bower had made him a lunch of bread and meat. He sat under the tree and ate it, calming himself as best he could, realizing that he could not charge in several directions at once.

  When he had eaten, he remounted and rode to Cross Bar. He tied up Nightshade and walked to the veranda. Jake was in his usual spot, bottle beside him, shotgun at hand.

  Buchanan said, “Jake.”

  “Buchanan. Have a touch?”

  “No, thanks. Wanted to talk.”

  “No damn use. They stole my cows.”

  “You got ’em back.”

  “They killed two more of my men.” Jake glared. Again his voice was hoarse and uneven. His nose glowed red.

  “Not your workin’ men. Your guns.”

  “I got guns to protect me.”

  “So they hang a young Indian.”

  “The Injuns stole my cows and killed my men.”

  “Your men attacked them. Two lives for a lousy twelve cows, Jake. Think on that.”

  “I don’t got to think. I got to keep what I got and I got to expand. Expand. You understand that?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s called piggishness,” said Buchanan. “Your new man Fritz Wilder just shot a dozen sheep. No reason, just cut down on ’em.”

  “The hell with the sheep. Fritz got me back my cows and taught the damn redskins a lesson. That’s the way she lays.”

  Claire appeared in the doorway. “Shame,” she cried. “For nothing at all the blood is running. More graves on your hill. Is that what you’re building, Papa, a graveyard?”

  “You git back in the house, girl. This here is man talk.”

  “Men are certainly doing noble deeds hereabouts,” she said. “Brave men shooting sheep.”

  “And young Indians,” Buchanan added. “It’s got to stop, Jake. I’m tellin’ you true.”

  From Buchanan’s right Boots Semple’s voice came. “You ain’t gonna live to tell nobody ...”

  Buchanan spun and drew. Semple fired left-handed, and the bullet knocked Buchanan’s hat from his head.

  Buchanan shot him at the belt buckle. Semple folded slowly like a half-empty grain sack.

  Claire cried, “Buchanan!”

  Before he could turn a chain was around his neck. He gagged, floundering. Cobber yanked on his glittering chain. Claire grabbed for her father’s shotgun. Buchanan choked, “No, girl ... no!”

  Cobber growled in his glee. He threw his weight into his effort. Buchanan went with the pull. They staggered backward. Buchanan could not breathe. He dug an elbow into Cobber’s middle. He met muscle like pig iron. Still they went backward.

  The world was beginning to turn black. He had never felt closer to death. It was excruciating, fighting for air. He had forgotten he had the Colt in his hand.

  He pointed it to the ground behind him. With his last remnant of strength he pulled the trigger.

  Cobber howled with pain. His grip on the chain diminished. The bullet had clipped his foot. Buchanan fired again. Cobber fell away, sobbing. Buchanan reeled, coughing, seeking to fill his lungs. Claire still held the shotgun, pale, eyes like saucers. He motioned to her that all was over, turned to see Cobber on the ground, his right leg shattered.

  He managed to walk to where Semple lay. This time the job was done. Semple lay in a pool of blood. He wa
s dead. Buchanan looked at Jake, fixed in his chair, his mouth hanging open. “Now you’ve seen part of it. Next time, Jake, it could be you. Let Fritz Wilder advise you ...”—he coughed through his pain—“and it’ll happen.”

  Cobber was moaning. Buchanan went to him and looked down. “Maybe Jake’ll have Wilder shoot you like they shoot horses.”

  Claire called, “Please, Mr. Buchanan.”

  He retrieved his hat, looked ruefully at the hole through the crown. “I do thank you for your try, Miss Claire. Trouble was, if you fired off that scattergun, you might’ve killed both Cobber and me. Ask your Papa.”

  He was weak as he walked to Nightshade, but he managed to keep his head high and his shoulders square. There was an angry red mark around his neck, and his left shoulder had begun to ache again. He still had a bit of difficulty in getting a full breath of air into his lungs. He mounted and rode out, not looking back to where Dave Dare was going to Cobber and Jake still sat in his chair for once without words. It had not, he thought, been a profitable visit. Jake’s drinking had brought him under the spell of Wilder, no question about that. There were too many dead; too much blood had been shed. There was, he knew, more to come.

  When he arrived at the Casey stable it was late afternoon and his throat ached.

  Coco was tending the black lamb.

  Buchanan said, “I hope he’s okay. He got us into this.” His voice was a raven’s croak.

  “Lemme look at you,” said Coco. There was a scarlet ring around the thick neck. Coco said, “They try to hang you?”

  “They hung Walking Elk,” said Buchanan. In slow, hoarse, measured tones he related the events of the day.

  Coco said sadly, “Guns and rope and chains. We got ourselfs into the biggest mess yet, didn’t we?”

  Buchanan nodded.

  “You figure there’s any way outa this?”

  Buchanan shook his head.

  “You reckon Cross Bar’s comin’ for us?”

  “Wilder,” Buchanan whispered.

  “The man’s a devil.”

  Buchanan nodded again.

  “No help from the Crow?”

  Buchanan again shook his head.

  Coco petted the lamb. Johnnybear was removing the saddle and bridle from Nightshade, pouring oats into the bin, silent as always. Buchanan started for the house.