by Jonas Ward
"At first we had . . . love. He was handsome. You'd never know looking at that . . . him . . . that . . ." She bit her lip, a shudder running the length of her body and limbs. She shook her head. "Love doesn't thrive on a one-man farm. It flies out the window on a summer breeze. Loneliness takes over. But I cared for him . . . about him. Until we quarreled."
Buchanan filled in the pause. "My Pa used to say, 'Love in a tub—and the bottom fell out.' Can be fixed sometimes."
"Sometimes ... I saw the war coming. I knew we were in the way. Our wire was cut so often, our crops trampled. It's not going to get better."
"Things generally get worse before they get better."
"Colonel Bradbury offered to buy us out. It wasn't much money, but it would have provided a new start, in different country. Adam wouldn't have it. He had learned to love this country. He had worked since he was eighteen to have a place of his own. It was his religion."
"Man's like that." And poor Adam Day had died on his land in the most terrible fashion.
"So I left him."
"Reckon you didn't want to leave."
"I didn't want to leave him. But I'd learned to hate this place. I'd learned to hate farming. It was a mistake from the start." She drew herself up. "Which does not mean that I accept Adam's murder."
"No. I can see that."
"I'll sell to Bradbury. And I'll use the money to bring in law, for the little ranchers and farmers." Her eyes blazed.
Buchanan shook his head. "They already bought the law. It's the way they do. Seen it before. Time'll come. But it ain't here yet."
"I'll go to Washington."
"Seen that, too. By the time anything happens, the war's over, and everybody left alive is plumb peaceable and agreeable."
"Something must be done. I won't quit until it happens."
"Yes, ma'am." She was heading for another disaster. Maybe she was that kind, doomed to losing. He replenished the blazing fire. The kettle was beginning to heat up. He looked in a cupboard and found coffee and a grinder.
He turned the handle, and the aroma of the bean came into the room, soothing, promising.
"You don't think anything can be done."
"Not thataway, ma'am. I'd let it rest, think on it."
"You're like the rest of them," she flared at him. "Afraid to make a move. Afraid nothing will come of it. Afraid to take a chance."
"Well, now, I'm kind of a peaceable fella," he told her. "I am against lynchin'. Feel pretty strong about it. Wouldn't say I'm goin' to duck out, run away. But it's best to bide time until the cards are on the table."
"Just like Adam. Bide your time, bide your time." She stood, her hands doubled into fists. "Men! Damn all men in this country."
She ran out of the kitchen. Buchanan tended the fire. The water would boil in a few moments. He had not eaten since noon, and now night was coming on. His huge frame demanded food. He found a pan and some bacon grease and eggs and bread gone stale. He put on the pan and opened the stove and toasted the bread on a long fork. He put the toast on the warming shelf and found two platters and made the coffee and broke eggs into the pan.
She came back into the kitchen. She was wearing Levis and boots and a wool shirt. Her hair was braided and wound around her head. She was handsome and strong again and able to smile ruefully.
"I have a temper, you see. I apologize. You've been more than kind."
"Think nothin' of it, ma'am. Set yourself and eat. No matter what, a body's got to eat."
It was amazing what strong coffee and simple food could do—but she was an unusual woman, Buchanan was learning. Now she wanted to listen, and he talked about himself a little, telling her of his roving life and of his trials and tribulations in seeking peace, making it comical and' light so that she smiled, almost laughed, caught herself and sobered.
"Coco, you mentioned a Coco Bean?"
"A black man, a prizefighter. A friend." He told her of Coco's consuming desire to match himself at fisticuffs against Buchanan. He told her of Coco's fear of firearms, with which he was continually becoming involved. "Me and Coco. Always in trouble, one ruckus after another."
She said, "I read in the paper before I left about a prizefight. In Butte, I believe."
"Nobody beats Coco," said Buchanan. "Right now I wish he was here. He's a comfortin' man to have beside you."
"You're a comforting man yourself, Buchanan."
"Well, thankee." He hesitated, then went on. "You say Colonel Bradbury offered to buy you out?"
"He did. I don't think he's an evil man."
"He sent for me. Now you see, he knows I'm not violent, like. Maybe he thought things could be straightened out with some doin' of mine. No guns."
"I wouldn't deny it. Morgan Crane is different, headstrong, an angry man. Dealer Fox is properly named, devious, not to be trusted. The others sway with the winds. Bradbury's foreman is Sime Pollard, said to be a killer."
"Sime Pollard. Yes, indeed." Pollard was a fine cattleman, but he was a quick gun when provoked. Buchanan had known and disliked Pollard years before, in the Southwest.
"Then there's Jigger Dorn. He's new, they brought him in. It's said Dorn will call in other gunmen."
"Yes. Dorn will get them if somebody wants them. That's his business. Calls himself a lawman. He'll wear anybody's badge for a price."
"The town is under control of the big people, of course."
"Town's got to make do with money from ranchers and farmers."
She said, "The other people, Adam's friends . . ." She broke off as a wagon rattled outside and jangled to a stop.
Buchanan picked up his sixgun from where he had placed it conveniently on a shelf. They went to the door. She held a lamp, and Buchanan stayed out of the light. A man and a woman called out and came toward the house.
"It's the Kovacses," said Mrs. Day. "And the girl, Raven. They're our people."
The man was short of stature and thick-bodied, round-headed, bearded, blue-eyed. His wife was the same height and could have been his sister, sturdy, thick-limbed, pleasant of mien. The girl was slim and dark with black hair down to her waist. She was, Buchanan realized, an Indian.
They murmured their condolences, and Mrs. Day wept in reaction. Buchanan took the man—his name was Pieter Kovacs—to the shed. They uncovered the body, the message still pinned to the hickory shirt.
"A lie," said Kovacs.
"Best look in the barn." They found a lantern and Kovacs held it high in the dimness. Chickens squawked and ran underfoot. A work horse neighed and Buchanan found the oat bin and fed him. An old dog raised his head, blinked, and went back to sleep.
Buchanan looked around. There was a fresh hide flung across a sawhorse. Fresh beef hung in hooks along a wall. The brand on the hide was Bar-B.
Harness was tossed in a jangled heap. Buchanan picked it up, looked at the hook where the carcass was hung. He snorted.
“A lousy frame-up."
“Is so."
"Somebody killed the beef and hung it on the harness looks. No farmer would do that; harness is precious and hard to come by."
"By me this is true."
"They must've been real mad at him."
"Ah, yes. While the missus was away." Kovacs spoke with an accent, but his meaning was clear. "Adam, he was upset, no? He went to town. Bradbury offer to buy him out. Adam cursed. Because of the missus, you see?"
''Sure. I see."
"Adam cursed Bradbury. Pollard, he got in the way. Adam, he hit Pollard."
"He hit Pollard and lived?"
"In town, it was. Adam he never carried gun. This is known. Pollard, he made threats."
"Kept his promise, seems like."
"Yes. Everyone will know. And nothing will be done." Kovacs was bitter. "I too have been asked to sell to the Cattleman's Association. And others."
"You thinkin' on it?"
The man's blue eyes became flinty in the light of the lantern. "Not thinking. Not selling."
"You know what it means?"
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"I know." He gestured. "I am from Poland. I know trouble, bad trouble."
Buchanan said, "Maybe you do. But I got a notion that this means a range war. And until you get into one of them rangdoodles . .. You’re just an amateur of trouble."
"They cannot hang us all." .He hesitated. "Something should be done about Adam, no?"
Buchanan debated a moment. He was into it now whether or not he liked it. A lynching was a horror to him. He said slowly, "You got a wagon. It won't be safe around here from now on. Maybe we better take Adam to town."
"To town?" Kovacs brightened. "Ah. Is so."
Buchanan went for his guns and his belongings. Once again, it had happened to him. Fate was against a man of peace, he recognized. Fate ... and people.
Buffalo was a small town trying to find its place in the rich land all about. Its Main Street was wide but not very long. There was the general store, the smithy, the one-storied hotel and way station for the stage, two saloons, and scattered dwellings for the people of the community. There was no local law, only the sheriff based in Sheridan who came that way so seldom as to be a stranger.
In back of the Powder River Saloon, there was a large room for the cattlemen's pleasure. Pat Noonan, who owned the place, was a Celtic gentleman with an eye to profit and a throat for whiskey. The back room was kept sacred to the nabobs of cattledom, Sheridan County style. A quota was then present, bottles on the tables, glasses clinking. The mood, however, was somber.
Outside, horses wearing the Bar-B, the Z-D, the M-C, and other brands lined the hitching racks on both sides of the street. Men entered and left the other barroom, the Deuces Wild, gathered in small knots talking. They were lean men, riders, clanking their spurs. They were restless this night.
In the rear of the Powder River, Colonel Bradbury brooded. He was a florid man, bulky, big-nosed, full-lipped. He wore a mustache and a trimmed beard. He affected soft buckskins and leggings and wore a hat with slanting brim.
Sime Pollard, the colonel's foreman, leaned against the wall, his lips tight. There was a slight bruise along his jaw-line. He was a big man with long arms dangling to his knees, and he now wore two sixguns tied low on his thighs.
Bradbury said, "I don't like it a damn bit."
A blond man in tweeds and a hunter's cap said, "Rotten bad, you know. Against it, always have been."
"We're all against it, Trevor," Bradbury said heavily. "Still, it had to come. Adam was stubborn. They're all stubborn."
"Have a right, haven't they?" The Englishman had gray eyes and smooth skin.
Dealer Fox said, "You two, I declare." His eyes were close set, his mouth turned down, a thin man always thinking in devious fashion.
Morgan Crane was a giant. He wore his round hat square on his head, his jaw thrust forward, his irregular teeth showed but not in a grin. "Day had it comin', I tell you. Got to clear 'em all out. No other way. We cut their fence, they mend it. Cows hung on it half the time. How we ever gonna grow with them chokin' off the graze?"
"Matter of human rights," Trevor said. His voice was light, he seemed frail compared to the others. "Man's home his castle, all that y' know."
"Damn their lousy cabins," Crane roared. "Castles my left hind foot."
"Caught him red handed, slicin' up your beef," said Fox.
Trevor said, "I rather doubt that."
Pollard moved against the wall, his hand going to his gun butt. "Don't call me no liar."
Trevor ignored him. "Should turn the fella over to the law. say I."
Bradbury said, "Whoa, now. Pollard caught him. One of your riders was along."
"'Oh, yes. And one of Mr. Fox's men and one from M-C. Rather odd, what? I mean, they ridin' together and goin' straight to Day's place and all that rot?"
"He's callin' us all liars," said Pollard. "We tracked him down, is the way it was."
"And strung him up without a trial."
"He got a trial. Judge Lynch presidin'," said Dealer Fox. "My man told me."
"Ain't you never heard of loyalty to your men?" demanded Crane. "Didn't they teach you nothin' in bloody old England?"
Trevor did not lose his calm manner. "They taught me to honor the law of the land."
"Judge Lynch is the law of this damn land."
"It is a very bad law," said Trevor. "The common law of this country is based on Blackstone. A man is innocent until he is proven guilty by a jury of his peers."
“That law's too damn common." Crane laughed loudly of his own remark. "Peers. I hear you're a damn peer. Now we got to get a bunch of galoots like you to hold a trial?"
Trevor said, "I've always thought you were uncouth, Crane. Now it is proven. Colonel Bradbury, if no action is taken against your man, Pollard, I'm afraid I must take steps.”
"Now, Trevor. You got to understand. These people moved in on us. We were here first. They will undermine us if we let 'em. Why, you've lost cattle your own self. You know they're rustlin' a herd here and there, selling it off in Montana or Colorado."
“Not proven against Adam Day, a farmer."
"Stealin' one head's as bad as rustlin' a hundred."
"You believe that?"
"It ain't like he needed it for food. Nobody minds if a man's hungry, he butchers a steer now and then. Day's a troublemaker."
"Was. Was a man," said Trevor.
"Wait a minute," Crane shouted. "He said 'steps.' I wanta know what he means by that."
"Yes, Trevor. What steps?" asked Dealer Fox.
Pollard moved again. Bradbury stared at him, scowled, shook his head.
Trevor said, "If you persist in ignoring the law, I must turn in my resignation as a member of the Cattleman's Association."
"That means you're goin' agin us."
"That means I will not associate in your actions."
"Then you're agin us," said Crane. "Why, your own men'll quit. They won't fight us."
"Just a minute," Bradbury said. "Trevor, here, he's been here a long time. Invested a lot of his money, built himself a fine spread. He's entitled to his say. He can't help but be one of us. He's big business hereabouts."
"He'll be small potatoes if he pulls out," said Crane. "This here's war. A man's either with us or agin us."
"War," said Trevor softly. "Jigger Dorn. Men like him. Like Pollard. Against a few grangers and small ranchers. Unequal, what?"
Bradbury said, "It's better for them this way, don't you see? Set a few examples, show force they know they can't whip. Kovacs, now, you know how he is. Mule-headed. Rob Whelan, him and his ex-whore wife, he's another. Cut them people down and the rest of 'em will quit, leave the country."
"One merely kills a few, eh? Human sacrifices, as in the Bible?" Trevor shook his head sadly. "Not cricket, old man, not at all cricket."
