by Jonas Ward
The hanging of Walking Elk stuck in his craw. A man who would order such a deed would stop at nothing. Wilder was beyond belief, a cold monster capable of rape, pillage, all the violence known to mankind.
He had known horse thieves, rustlers, gunmen, pimps, card sharps, and the rest of the riffraff of the shifting western frontier. They had come in all sizes and sorts. Few of them are, he thought, basically evil. Jake Robertson, a Texan, a rancher, a family man of sorts, had hired this creature and was backing him. It seemed incredible—and yet it was true and he must accept the fact.
Jake probably did not mean physical harm to the Caseys. But once the fight started, this signified nothing. Dave Dare and the cowboys would be caught up in the action; they had their own grudge against Buchanan. Once begun, it would be total war.
He tried to make plans. The odds were too great. He could not send the women away in the night. Little Johnnybear might make it, but where would he go?
He thought fleetingly of the girl, Claire Robertson. She might well be the sole survivor.
Peter Wolf would come in. With Gowdy and Indian Joe that was three to add to himself, Coco, Casey and the females. Mrs. Bower might be a help; she had a certain air about her that he had discerned. Susan would give her all; she was that kind of a person.
It was far from enough.
He dismounted in the yard, haste riding his back. The stable had been built far enough away to prevent a fire from spreading to the stone house. He loosened the girth of his saddle, tied the bit to the horn. He ran into the barn and found Johnnybear at his chores.
He said, “Son, they’re comin’ at us. Get the horses out. Turn ’em loose.” He found Nightshade’s halter. “Same with the corral. Throw water on the straw and hay. Don’t be too long about that. When you hear ’em, you take off. You understand?”
Johnnybear nodded, imperturbable. “I’ve thought they would come.”
“Just do as I say. Maybe you can make the reservation.”
Johnnybear did not respond. He was already obeying orders. Buchanan ran outside and fastened the halter on the big black horse. He unlimbered his saddlebags and took the rifle from the boot. He said, “You’re on your own. Get goin’.”
He patted the rump of the knowing horse, and Nightshade trotted off into the darkness, not for the first time on his own.
Buchanan shouldered the bags, looked around. A lantern gave a feeble light. The black sheep made a sound. He said, “What the hell, you started it all.” He picked it up and carried it into the kitchen.
Mrs. Bower looked at him and nodded. “They’re comin’.”
“Uh-huh.”
She handed him a glass of milk. “You’ll need food. I’ll rustle up somethin’.”
He put the sheep on the floor. It skittered on skinny legs. “It won’t be in the way.”
“No,” she said. “We won’t let anything get in the way.”
“Is there plenty of ammunition?”
“I saw to that long ago.” She opened a closet. In it were rifles and boxes of shells. “A blind man could see this comin’, Buchanan. The Caseys just don’t know about the way things are.”
“Uh-huh. Two herders and Coco. They’ll need grub.”
“The Caseys had supper. I’ll throw somethin’ on the stove.”
The sound of the piano came from the parlor. Buchanan shook his head. “Won’t be time for that.”
“It don’t hurt anything.”
He said, “You’re mighty cool and calm, missus. You’re quite a woman.”
“Thought you might notice.” She had white, even teeth, and there were slight lines at the corners of her eyes. “I seen the elephant, Buchanan.”
He nodded toward the closet. “I’ll bet six, two and even you can shoot one of them.”
“You win.” She was moving with swift grace putting food together. “I don’t see how we can win this one, though.”
“’Twixt you and me and the barn door, I don’t neither,” he said. “Howsome-ever ...”
“You should have cut out. Glad you didn’t, though. You see the gal?”
“What gal?”
“That Claire Robertson. She came to warn us. I sent her to town hopin’ she could catch up with you.”
“Missed her. Just as well she’s out of it,” Buchanan said.
“She’ll never be out of it. She’s got a conscience, that one.” There was admiration in Beth Bower’s voice. “I put her onto Liz Bacon. Just in case.”
“You know about the Bacon woman?”
“Plenty. Figured you knew.”
“None of our business in a way. I mean, Jake’s gone to the hogs altogether, seems like.”
She produced a flask, winking at him. “A bit of the dog-hair that bit Jake?”
“Uh-huh.”
She poured into jelly glasses. They sat a moment in silence. He hated to go to the Caseys with the news. Susan was playing “Camptown Races,” bright and gay. The Caseys were singing.
The woman said softly, “Life gets all mixed up.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The Robertson gal and Peter Wolf.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Susan and guess who?” She cocked her head to the side.
“I think I hear Coco comin’ in,” he said hastily.
“I wouldn’t open my big mouth if it didn’t look like it might be curtains,” she said. “You know it anyway. Just keep it in your head, Buchanan. Kindness helps.”
It was Coco in the yard, and the herdsmen were close behind. Buchanan looked at them through the window. “Kindness. Uh-huh.”
Mrs. Bower went to the closet, took down a rifle and began to load it with expert hands. “Peter Wolf, Claire Robertson. Susan Casey. And you.”
“Woman, I haven’t got time to palaver with you.” He smiled at her.
“You could do worse.” She returned the smile and continued loading rifles.
He called out the back door. “Gowdy, you and Indian Joe on the roof. Get shells from Mrs. Bower here. Coco, you turn all the stock loose, then come into the house.”
Coco said, “They’re ridin’. We seen ’em.”
“Get movin’, all of you.”
Buchanan went into the parlor. The music had stopped at the sound of his voice. The Caseys were standing, calm, composed. Shawn asked, “Is this the way it must be?”
“We tried everything else,” said Buchanan.
“The girl?” asked Susan.
“Missed her. She’s in town.”
“Lucky girl,” said Susan. “What about Peter?”
“He’s out there. Maybe that’s good.”
“No help from town?” asked Shawn.
“Afraid not,” Buchanan said.
“What should we do?”
It always came down to that. He had to take charge. He said, “Heavy furniture against the doors. It’s a stone house, which is mighty fine. I’m puttin’ men on the roof.”
Mrs. Casey said, “We haven’t a chance against so many.”
“There’s always a chance,” said her husband.
She took his hand. Susan went to them and they embraced. Buchanan went to the window and looked out. There were stars and the promise of a three-quarter moon. Under Wyoming sky that was enough light. He said, “Turn down the lamps. If there’s shootin’, be ready to douse ’em.”
Mrs. Bower came from the kitchen bearing rifles. She began to place them near the windows. She said, “Coco and Johnnybear are missin’.”
“I told Johnnybear to get away.” He paused. “Coco, he hates guns. He won’t shoot anyone. He wouldn’t be any good in here.”
“He might be ... ”
Buchanan said, “Coco’s my best friend in the world. He’ll do his best wherever he plans to do it.” Buchanan put his concern for his friend away in the back of his head. It was necessary to think of the immediate present.
He wore both revolvers. The bowie was strung behind his neck. The derringer was in his belt buckle, where it always reposed
. For a man of peace he was overloaded with weapons.
Two men on the roof, two inside the house, two out in the dark—that was it against the force to come. Three women, good women, he thought, who would not go into a tizzy. He had to add them to the defense. He would rather they were not present, but as long as they were he must accept the fact. It occurred to him that he could not die in better company.
Johnnybear was riding bareback on a sorrel pony he had been allowed to break for himself. In his head was the knowledge of the Crow Indian, his heritage, the great myth. In his heart was love of the white people who had been so kind to him, who had nurtured him, made him one of their own; and in his soul was a prayer that he might succeed in his mission.
Peter Wolf was on the plain, keeping well out of sight, trailing the crew from Cross Bar. In his heart was love for Susan Casey. He knew that the situation was desperate, but in his soul was devout dedication to honor, the honor of both red man and white.
Waiting in secure hiding behind a growth of brush outside the perimeter of the impending fight was Coco. His love for Buchanan was in his heart. In his soul was a longing for peaceful days when the guns would stop shooting.
In the town Claire Robertson pleaded with Dr. Abrams and Bascomb to help. Her throat was sore from talking. In her heart was her hopeless love for Peter Wolf. In her soul she wept for her errant father.
Buchanan could see them well enough. The cavalcade remained beyond rifle range, spread out, revealing a buckboard in the center. Mrs. Bacon held the reins. Jake swayed on the hard seat.
Buchanan said, “This is pure bad. Jake’s too drunk to ride. His brain’s scrambled like a pan of eggs.”
“Putting Wilder in charge,” said Shawn Casey. “Sad.”
The buckboard lurched forward, the horsemen deployed. When his voice would carry, Jake steadied himself and the woman reined in.
“Tom Buchanan!”
Buchanan opened the door. Susan gasped, “No,” but he shrugged and stepped outside.
“Jake, go home. Forget this business. Sober up.”
“You done crossed the line, Buchanan. I ... I got the last word for you. Git out. Git on your hoss and make tracks. Gimme your promise you won’t come back. ’At’s all I want.”
“Go home and think about that. You’re tellin’ me to turn tail and run? You’re real, complete loco, Jake.”
“You got women in there. You want them to get hurt?”
“You want me to run and leave ’em’?”
“It’s on your head, Buchanan. You done me dirt.”
“You did yourself dirt when you hired Wilder. Tell him I said so,” Buchanan replied. “Now hear me, Jake. I could shoot you to pieces where you sit.”
The woman’s hands jerked at the reins, the team balked and neighed.
Buchanan went on, “I prob’ly should do just that. It ain’t my way, and you know it or you wouldn’t dare to come so close. Best you get on with your business. Best you go home, Jake. I’m tellin’ you for the last time.”
The wagon almost tipped over. Jake cursed and seized the reins. The buckboard spun crazily around and the horses broke into a run. The conference was over.
Buchanan closed the door and faced the Caseys. “It wouldn’t help a smidgen if I went out there and got killed. Wilder would have a gun posted to cut me down. All I can do is stick and fight. You see that?”
“We see it,” said Shawn Casey.
“I got to tell you. They’ll shoot out the windows. Lucky the house is stone. They’ll hit the barn, but the stock is gone from there. Keep your heads down exceptin’ when I say to fire. Don’t waste bullets. We got water and grub, and Peter Wolf’s out there and he ain’t about to run. Give Coco a chance and he’ll do his part. You got to get used to bullets flyin’ around you. Wilder, he don’t care if he kills a woman or a child. Wilder is loco.”
“We understand,” said Susan. She was pale, but there was a light in her eyes. “Where do you want us?”
“Mrs. Bower in the kitchen. The rest of you pick a wall. If they charge, shoot low. Man or horse, it’s better’n a wild shot.”
Mrs. Casey murmured, “That I should live to see the day! I could never shoot even a bird.”
“Men are more dangerous,” Buchanan said. “And more deservin’.”
He watched from behind the bulwark of the Caseys’ fine dining table. Wilder was giving orders; he sensed that. The men were scattering. He dimly recognized Dave Dare and the other cowboys. Wilder remained at center stage with Reck, Chalk, Sawmill and the ones he didn’t know. It was not a big force, but it was capable of heavy gunfire. There would be no brave charge. They would sharpshoot and maintain a siege. They hoped to flush him out into the open. Afterward they felt they could scare the Caseys from the country.
He held the rifle ready. The first shot came, shattering glass. Now the fight was joined; now he could shoot without compunction.
He said quietly, “Keep your heads down low. Don’t try to find a target. Main thing is to keep steady.”
There were indeed no targets. Wilder was smart, no doubt about that. It would be an Indian fight, he thought. They’d circle and keep low and start fires. They’d stay out of the light of the fires and shoot away, counting on inevitable panic.
Mrs. Bower called from the kitchen, “The dogs. What about the dogs?”
“Can you see them?”
“Yes. They’re in the yard, prowlin’ around.”
“Bring ’em in,” said Buchanan.
The dogs came into the house. They made no sound. Mrs. Bower fed them and they remained in the kitchen. Buchanan looked in and saw that they seemed to be looking to old Sandy for leadership. The maimed dog lay on his side, his one eye bright as if waiting for action.
“Women and dogs,” said Buchanan to himself. “Hell of a way to fight a war.” He went back to his post. Now the shots came in rhythm, shattering glass, thumping into the sturdy table, crashing into the pictures on the wall.
“Steady,” said Buchanan again.
They were steady. They were good people, strong in their silent way. Even Susan was well under control, fingering the rifle but hunched down, patient.
Now a riderless horse appeared in the near distance, running wild. Shots were fired, but it came on unharmed.
Susan exclaimed, “That’s Peter’s horse!”
“Keep your head down,” said Buchanan sharply.
“Poor Peter,” whispered Mrs. Casey.
Buchanan said, “Susan, open the door.” She moved quickly, unlocking the heavy portal. Buchanan crouched, staring. In a moment he was sure of his eyes. It was Coco and he was running doubled over. Buchanan stepped outside and began firing. He laid down a barrage into the shadows beyond his line of vision.
Coco staggered, caught himself, came on. Susan ran past Buchanan. Casey and his wife were now firing into the distance beyond Coco as well.
It seemed hours before they knew what was taking place. Coco came closer, closer. Over his shoulder was Peter Wolf. Both were covered with blood.
Susan knelt and fired her rifle. Buchanan ran and took Peter Wolf from Coco’s back. They all retreated into the house, stumbling, fighting for breath.
Shawn Casey closed the door behind them. His wife went to Peter Wolf. The wound was in his chest, high on the right. He was pale from loss of blood.
Coco said, “I was tryin’ to get close. Too many. Scattered around too much. Peter, he come ridin’ and shootin’ like crazy. Wilder shot him.”
“So you picked him up,” Buchanan said.
“The horse got away. Peter don’t weigh all that much,” said Coco. “Couldn’t leave him, now, could I?”
Peter Wolf said weakly, “He carried me half a mile, I swear. No man could do that. But he did it.”
“Couldn’t leave him.” Coco’s chest heaved, sweat ran from him. “They’re settin’ there, Jake and the woman and Wilder. They’re cookin’ up somethin’, Tom.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. He thought he k
new what they were plotting. They could not burn a stone house and barn. It would be explosives. It had to be dynamite or gunpowder, whichever was at hand.
Peter Wolf said, “Give me a gun. I’ll take that window, Susan. You reload for us.”
Buchanan said, “When you’re ready that’ll be fine. First some whiskey and a bit o’ rest.”
“I think I got one of them,” said Peter Wolf. His eyes were round and wide. “I tried to get Wilder.”
“Hard man to get,” said Buchanan, “Just take it easy for a while.”
He went back to watching. There were clouds forming overhead, and this worried him the most. Darkness would be an ally to the enemy. The room was full of shadows and the faint odor of fresh blood. One more gun wasn’t enough to protect the perimeter of the house from a bold and sudden sortie with explosives.
Two safe, he thought, Johnnybear and Claire Robertson. For the rest he had fears. Wilder was the key. He only wished that Peter Wolf had been successful.
Wilder blew cigar smoke. Jake was still drinking. The woman came down from the buckboard and shrugged her shoulders.
“He keeps sayin’ no dynamite. Account of the women. He’s strong on not hurtin’ the women.”
“What does he think this is, a Sunday school picnic?”
“He’ll be out of it soon,” she said. “I know him. When he gets drinkin’ like this he can’t stop.”
“I believe you. He’s run his race, you know.”
“Who knows better’n me?”
“If he was finished, it would just be the girl, Claire.”
She laughed. “A handsome feller like you could handle her, now couldn’t you?”
“You have ideas, don’t you, Mrs. Bacon?”
“Just so you get Buchanan outa the way.”
“That’s the general idea. What do you think of the fat man?”
“The prospector? He hates Buchanan.” Wilder looked at the hulking stranger. He had come in with his dilapidated horse and a pack mule, babbling about a dog and Buchanan. He was leaning on a rifle, waiting.
