by Jonas Ward
She said, “He don’t look like much.”
“He is not much. He does have dynamite and caps that we need, though. No use getting in Buchanan’s range, you know.”
She said, “You want me to do anything?”
“You might talk to him. Nice and soft. You know how. He hasn’t even seen a woman in a long while.”
“You go on!” she said, pleased. “You think I could?”
“No doubt about it.” Wilder watched her sidle up to the stranger. It was a laughable sight, but it might work. If she could work the man up to being reckless, it would be perfect.
Jake was bellowing, “Where’s she at? Where’s ’at woman with my bottle? Wilder, where you at?”
“Right here. Take another drink, Jake. It’ll make you feel better.”
“No dynamite. You understand? Wait ’em out. When it’s dark enough, we go in.”
“Sure, Jake. Here’s your bottle. Sure enough.”
Wilder went back to his horse. If they could break down one wall, he thought, they would have a chance at Buchanan, who would do any reckless thing to protect the women. Once he was out of the way everything would be easy.
Wilder had no real ambition to take over the girl and the ranch. What he enjoyed was triumph. If he got Buchanan, he could travel the glory road. No matter how it was accomplished, he would take the credit. His head swam in dreams of glory.
It was twenty miles to the reservation. Johnnybear had to stop finally to get back his breath. He was in the forest now and safe from gunfire. It was the only place he could think of going, back to the Crow. Crazy Bird and the remaining young braves could help. The old people would be against it, he knew. It depended upon how they reacted to the hanging of Walking Elk.
Maybe they didn’t mourn Walking Elk, because he had disobeyed the orders of the old men. Maybe Crazy Bird and the others were now under arrest. There were Crow scouts working for the army. The Crow had their own forces of order. He had to figure out which way to proceed. He did not believe the old ones would listen to talk from a boy, especially a boy dwelling among the whites.
The plight of the Caseys made him tremble despite himself. If nothing else, he promised the trees around him, he would go back and die with them or avenge them in some fashion.
The wind came from the mountains. The stars vanished one by one. The moon was obscured. Buchanan’s heart sank. It was dark in the house, so no one could safely move about. He cautioned them and groped his way into the kitchen. The dogs made small sounds.
Mrs. Bower said, “You reckon the barn is first?”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan.
Sandy, the one-eyed dog, woofed and rubbed against Buchanan’s leg.
“There’s someone out there,” he said. “Behind the damn barn. I got a notion ...”
He never finished. There was a puff, an explosion that rocked the earth. A blinding flash of light showed the barn going to pieces, one stone after the other. Buchanan said, “They played it smart. Now they got protection.”
He leaned through a broken window and sprayed lead into the night. Mrs. Bower joined him. Sandy lurched at the door, barking. Buchanan played a hunch and opened it. The dog went straight past the barn. In a moment there was a yell and the fat stranger came into the light of burning hay and straw. The dog had his teeth fastened into his leg. The man screamed again and Buchanan shot him. He fell into the fire. The dog wheeled and came back to the house unharmed.
Buchanan said, “Never threaten a sheep dog, seems like.”
“Who was that jasper?” Mrs. Bower asked.
“A miserable drifter. A prospector, I’d guess. Wilder knew how to use him.”
“They’ll have to wait for the fire to die down,” she said.
“They can wait.”
“They got to move before daylight.”
“It’s not yet midnight,” he told her.
“If they do fort up in the barn, then what?”
“Then they’ll try some more dynamite, prob’ly,” said Buchanan. “If it stays dark as it is now, they got a chance.”
“Not before we kill a few.”
He said, “You’re sure a cool one, lady. Bless you.”
Buchanan made his way back into the parlor. He told them, “It ain’t good, no matter how you look at it. Shoot anything that moves out there.”
“The darkness,” mourned Susan. “If I could just see them.”
Casey said, “If they get to the house with dynamite ...”
“If they do, we’ll leave,” Buchanan promised him. He did not say where they would go. His shoulder was hurting and his patience was growing short. It was all right to admonish the others, but he could not hold out much longer himself. He felt Coco beside him.
Coco whispered, “I’m goin’ with you.”
“Not yet.”
“They gonna come in. This black night, they can’t see us any better than we can see them.”
“Don’t let the others know,” said Buchanan. Coco, as usual, was reading his mind.
Peter Wolf was at a window in the bedroom. Shawn Casey and his daughter each held another side of the house. Mrs. Casey was trying to maintain calm on the fourth side. It was a pitifully weak defense against Wilder and the men he commanded.
Buchanan hunkered down in the dark and waited. He rotated his left arm with care, trying to work out the pain. He silently slid out of his heavy cartridge belt and put his rifle aside. He filled his pockets with ammunition for his revolvers and loosened the bowie in its scabbard.
Claire Robertson talked to Dr. Abrams and his wife. Bascomb and others from the town listened without expression. The saloon was crowded, but the people were cowed.
When the explosion took place, the air shivered, the sky lit up. Claire’s voice broke as she cried, “My God, they’ve gone mad! They’ve killed them all! Now will you come with me?”
The townspeople were startled. They stared around at one another. One or two shuffled their feet. A voice said. “It ain’t right nohow.” Bascomb picked up his shotgun but stood, irresolute, behind the bar.
Claire said, “My father wouldn’t do that. It’s that man Wilder and the woman. My father’s woman. They’re doing it.”
“Your pa’s drunk most o’ the time,” said a farmer.
“I know. But he wasn’t always like that. If you’d all come and help ... Oh, please. I’ll ride ahead of you. He won’t let them harm me. Please!”
They muttered to one another. They milled around talking, talking. They did not start for their horses or carriages or wagons. Dashing out of the saloon, Claire burst into tears.
She wept apart so that they would not know. Then she went back to them and redoubled her pleas.
Buchanan said, “If you folks don’t hear me, just keep watch. I’ll be moseyin’ around.”
“Where? What are you up to?” asked Susan.
“Don’t fret. Just watch and shoot anything that comes at us.”
He went into the kitchen. He found Mrs. Bower in the pitch-dark and put his lips close to her ear. “You got any shoe blackin’?”
She giggled. “Last time I looked you were wearin’ brown boots.”
“It ain’t funny.”
She asked, “Are you goin’ out there?”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned against him. She was very soft, yet her body was firm and strong. “It’s plumb loco. And yet it ain’t. They might could blow us apart.”
“Blacking for my face and hands.”
“I can do better. Wait just a few minutes.” She moved across the room. She opened the oven door and lit a tiny candle. She was like a cat in the dark, he thought. He saw that she had a cork on a long fork.
Coco said, “I’m peelin’ off my shirt. Let ’em try to see me in the dark.”
It was best to see the funny side, Buchanan thought, but the job ahead was grim. If the wind changed and the moon and stars came out, the finish could come in a few moments.
The tiny flame did not illuminate the room, but he could make ou
t shapes. The lamb lay quiescent in a corner. The dogs stirred and again Sandy came to him. The dogs, he remembered, did not bark; they were trained not to alarm the herd of sheep. Two of them were fighters. Sandy was a veteran, wise to the ways of the plains.
Mrs. Bower came with the cork, immediately had another in the fire. He applied the blacking to his face. He wondered if it would be slippery on his hands—that he could not dare to risk. His mind worked methodically over what had to be done.
When she was ready with the second cork, he tried it on the back of his hands, decided against dyeing his palms. The candle was extinguished.
She said, “You could get clean away if you wanted.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So go with God.” Her hand gripped his arm.
“We’ll need His help and that of the devil,” he told her.
They opened the door and slid out, Buchanan in the lead. Coco had learned through the years to follow him by day or night. They waited while the dogs filed out with them, then made straight away for the ruins of the barn. The dogs were close by but not too close, Buchanan thought. They were sniffing the odors of fire and burning, smoldering hay and straw.
Like all consummate plainsmen, Buchanan was a keen observer. Once over a piece of ground, he could remember every stone, every stalk of grass thereon. He knew precisely how many yards lay between house and barn. One revolver in hand, the other thrust into his Levi’s, he worked his way to the ruins.
The earth was steaming from the conflagration. The air reeked with strong odors, worst of all that of the burning flesh of the fat prospector. Sandy growled low. Buchanan flattened himself to the ground.
Dave Dare’s voice said, “Get behind that big stone and light the lantern. Careful, now.”
“We light up and Buchanan shoots hell outa us,” said someone.
“Got to have it. Think I can handle this stuff in the dark?”
“It won’t go off without the caps. Tricky damn stuff.”
“I can manage. Put it down behind there. Got to get closer.”
“Too damn close.”
“Wilder sets there and gives orders. He ain’t takin’ any chances, now, is he?”
“Jake’s drunk again. What the hell we gonna do, him and the damn woman drunk?”
“You heard Wilder. He’d as soon cut down on us if we don’t do like he says.”
“Yeah, and if we do, look what happened to McGee and Semple.”
“We got orders. There just ain’t any way out of it now.”
There were three of them, all Cross Bar riders, Buchanan realized. Wilder was saving his own killers for the finish.
Coco touched his arm. “You’re best at sneakin’ around. I go right in.”
Buchanan estimated the odds. The dog at his side moved when he did, a good sign. He nodded agreement to Coco and with the dog crawled over broken stones through blackened straw. He felt a twinge in his shoulder. He saw the small light of the dark lantern and proceeded even slower. It was crucial that he make no sound to alert Wilder and his gunmen.
He felt the dogs nearby and put out a hand to steady them. He came close enough to see a box, which unquestionably held the dynamite. He tucked away his Colt. He took a deep breath. The timing must be exact or all was lost.
He went forward with a rush. He struck Dare behind the collar and whirled. Coco was throttling the second cowboy. Buchanan reached for the third.
The last man was covered by dogs. They had him down and were nuzzling at his throat. He tried to yell.
Buchanan hit him on the chin. He lost consciousness.
Coco asked, “Now we got ’em, what we do with ’em?”
“Stuff their mouths with their rebozos,” said Buchanan. He went to where the dim silhouettes of hobbled horses wandered nearby and selected lariats. He came back and remembered knots an old salt had taught him one time in San Francisco. He trussed up the three semiconscious victims and stored them out of sight. It was then he noted that the wind was changing.
He said, “Now it’s time to hustle. The less light on us the better. Take the lantern. Close the slide but keep it handy.”
Coco said, “You reckon we can find all those jaspers in time?”
“I reckon we got to.”
There was sporadic firing of guns. Flashes came from the roof where Gowdy and Indian Joe were holding out. The wind suddenly became a gale. A slice of moon peered down upon the scene. Two horsemen came toward the house riding like Comanches. They separated. The gunfire increased.
Buchanan said, “Grab a couple of sticks of that dynamite. Cap them and follow me.”
He began to run. The horsemen were swifter. Shots from the house did not prevent them from coming close.
Each of the men on horseback reared back and threw objects. Buchanan said, “Too damn late.”
He was not close enough to find a target for his short guns. He ran as fast as he could. Coco was still with the cache of explosives. One of the thrown objects fell near the house and sizzled. Choking, Buchanan ran toward it.
The door opened. Staggering, Peter Wolf appeared. The moon showed more light. Wilder’s men concentrated their gunfire.
Peter Wolf reached the dynamite stick before Buchanan could get to it. He picked it up. The fuse burned close. Peter Wolf reached back and threw it far into the night. It exploded in midair. He turned to go back, stumbled and fell. Buchanan picked him up on the run. Lead tore through the air around them.
Susan was at the door. Buchanan came through. She slammed it behind him.
Peter Wolf was smiling in the moonlight. There was another hole in his chest. They put him on the couch and Susan leaned over him.
He said, “They ... can’t ... get that ... close. No good ...”
She said, “Peter, don’t talk. You’ll be okay. Just don’t try to talk.”
Blood seeped from one corner of his mouth. He still smiled. He said, “You do ... what... you got to do ... ”
Buchanan turned away, wiping tears from his eyes. His face hardened. He picked up his rifle and went wordlessly from the house. Coco was staying close to the wall, in a shadow.
Coco said, “They got him, didn’t they?”
“They got him.”
Coco looked at the capped dynamite sticks in his hands. “Tom, I don’t shoot people. It ain’t right. But the ladies. Peter Wolf. Walking Elk.”
Buchanan said, “Look into your heart, pardner. Into your heart.”
Buchanan walked toward the ruins of the barn, past the bound men on the ground. He whistled.
Nightshade came on a trot. The stars were showing their twinkling heads but he did not notice. He tightened the cinch and adjusted the bridle. A voice called to him, “Buchanan!”
It was Susan. She carried her rifle and wore her revolver around her waist.
He said, “Go back there!”
“Peter died,” she said. “He was able to say one last thing. To me.”
“Go back, girl!”
“He told me he loved me.”
“You knew that.”
“He died for me,” she said.
“No reason for you to die.”
“You heard him. ‘You do what you got to do.’”
Buchanan said, “I heard him.”
“You’re doin’ what you got to do.”
“Damn it, girl ...” But he could see it all, see into her head and heart. “I’m going to ride around them.”
“I’m going to stay here and make sure they don’t get into the barn like before.”
He said, “The good Lord protect you, girl.”
Words had become useless. He gave Nightshade his head and went westward. The fleet horse covered ground in great leaps. Out of view of the attackers, Buchanan reined in. He attached the leather reins to the horn of the saddle. He held the rifle in his right hand and a revolver in his left. He was now behind Robertson’s group. Their numbers had been reduced, but the most dangerous fighters still were able.
He sat a moment i
n thought. In the house—and on the roof—were people who were not skillful marksmen. Coco was in shadows but vulnerable. The girl was outside where a stray bullet could kill her.
It was his style to charge. No matter the odds, no matter the wounds he had suffered, he had always been the aggressor. This time he dared not fail. Yet he knew the odds were against him. He pondered his strategy.
Johnnybear was standing straight, talking to the old ones on the reservation. “Buchanan has been a friend to the Crow. The Caseys have been good to me, to the half-Crow, Peter Wolf. The cattle people hanged Walking Elk. All I ask is your young men.”
The oldest chief said, “What you say is true. But if we interfere, the soldiers will come. All will be blamed on us. The young men, they are doing penance. We cannot do as you ask.”
Johnnybear stood taller. “Then give me a gun and a horse and let me die with my friends.”
There was a silence. Then Crazy Bird walked into the circle. He said, “My blood brother died on a tree. It was a tree that once was in our forest, on Crow land. Old men, you cannot stop us. We will go!”
The other young braves came with horses, one for Johnnybear. The old men puffed their pipes. They did not say more. The little band rode out.
In the town Claire was losing her voice. Now Bascomb and Dr. Abrams were also talking. The townsfolk still shifted from one foot to the other.
A woman cried, “For shame! If the cattlemen win, we’ll be next. They’ve already showed us what they are.”
Bascomb said, “If we ride out, they can’t stop all of us.”
“Some of us will be stopped,” said a farmer. “I got a family.”
“Sooner or later you won’t have a farm,” said Dr. Abrams. “Robertson wants every foot of land for his cattle.”
“The man Wilder don’t know mercy,” said Bascomb. “I never was no brave man, but this time we got to do somethin’.”
Claire said hoarsely, “My own father. I’m begging you against my own father.”
They stirred. They began to move toward wagons, buckboards, saddle horses. The moon shone down upon them, a town in motion.
