Buchanan's Seige

by Jonas Ward

  "Bugs ain't got nothin' to do with it," Crane roared. "Crickets be damn. We got to either stop the rustlin' now or lose everything we got with our hard Work."

  "I suggest the rustling is being done by a gang taking advantage of the situation," said Trevor. "Trailed a herd myself last month. Nobody from here involved. Four or five men driving over the mountains, through the pass into Montana. Not our people at all."

  "You couldn't track a cat in your own yard," said Crane. "I believe you are agin us. I never did like your palaver. My gran'daddy fit you people at N'Yorleans and whupped you. Come over here with your money and buy your way in, then lord it over everybody."

  Trevor said, "I repeat, Crane, you are a boor. I might add that never did I care for your loud mouth."

  The big man knocked over his chair as he leaped to his feet. "By God, I don't take that from any man."

  Bradbury said, "Here now. None of that. You asked for it, Morgan. You've been askin' for it. Just simmer down."

  "I'll clean him good," raved Crane. "I'll mow him down and tromp on him."

  "No," said Bradbury.

  Trevor smiled faintly. "He's such a windbag. Why not let him try it?"

  Bradbury said, "He's too big for you, Trevor. You ought to know that."

  "Not at all," said the Englishman. "I'd be happy to oblige him. He's a clumsy clown, you know. Isn't he, now?"

  Crane lunged. Trevor stepped aside, then back in. His left fist shot out. It clipped Crane in the eye. The big man roared again but could not stop his forward impetus. He ran into the wall when Pollard moved away.

  Bradbury said, "I said no. I mean no."

  "You can't stop me!" Crane was coming around.

  The door to the saloon banged open. Pat Noonan stuck in his head and called, "You gents better come on out here. There's somethin' goin' on you ain't gonna like."

  "What? What is it, Noonan?"

  "Might say it's a parade. Only it's bein' led by a corpus. Better come and see for yourselfs."

  Crane started to yell, was stopped by Bradbury's quick gesture. He mumbled something about killing Trevor and was escorted out of the room by Pollard and Fox.

  Bradbury said, "I think you're making a bad enemy, Trevor."

  "Oh, quite. Always detested the man. Should we join the gawkers?"

  "Crane can be real mean," warned Bradbury. "I can only hold him back a wee bit when he gets started."

  "You needn't hold him back, old man."

  They went through the bar, which was deserted. Bradbury insisted, "You know what Abe Lincoln said. 'We got to hang together or we'll hang separate.' "

  "Benjamin Franklin," murmured Trevor. “‘We must all hang together or assuredly we shall all hang separately.' Upon the signing of your Declaration of Independence. Not quite apt under these circumstances, what?"

  But Bradbury was staring at the street, where pine torches gave more light than had ever shone on a moonless night in Buffalo. People lined up on the boardwalk across from the saloon. None were of the Cattleman's Association; most were faceless people beneath the notice of the mighty.

  A wagon was coming slowly toward them. Two riders, a man and a woman, rode beside it. Behind it, a man in a fur hat rode a tall mule. Three people were on the wide seat of the wagon, sitting straight.

  The driver was Pieter Kovacs. His wife was at his side. Next to her was Amanda Day.

  In the wagon body stood Tom Buchanan, legs spread apart. With his knees, he supported a reclining board, set at an angle that allowed all to see its burden. Buchanan held a newly lit torch, which burned fierce and bright.

  The light of the torch fell upon the contorted face of Adam Day as he lay bound to the plank.

  Trevor said, "Damn. Now it's down the drain."

  Bradbury could only stare. His stomach turned over. He tried to look away and could not. He knew Trevor was correct, the challenge was there, plain to see and understand.

  Sime Pollard was ghastly in the flickering light. He moved close to his boss, and another man, all in black, came to stand beside him. This man smiled at the sight of the procession. His name was Jigger Dorn, and he smiled often and laughed a lot, even while cutting down another victim with his swift guns.

  Pollard said hoarsely, "Let us get 'em now, Boss."

  Bradbury found his voice. "That's . . . that's Tom Buchanan in the wagon. Buchanan! I sent for him to work for us!"

  "Wrong man," said Trevor.

  "Damn it, I hoped he could keep the peace. Buchanan never wants to get into a fight."

  "Perhaps not," said Trevor. "But there he is."

  "Let us get them," Pollard said again. "Me and Jigger."

  "And have the whole damn town on us?" Bradbury fought for control. "You want to wipe out the town?"

  "Now or some other time," said Pollard. "I know the feelin' around. They ain't for us."

  Dealer Fox said, "Pollard's right. But we can't do it. The governor'd be in with the army."

  "We own the damn gov'nor," said Morgan Crane.

  "Not to that extent," Trevor warned them. - "No," said Bradbury heavily. "We got to let this ride. We got to make plans. You'll get your chance, Sime, you and Dorn and the rest of you. It's got to come. I see it now. I thought maybe . . . but there's Buchanan ridin' with 'em."

  "Judge Lynch," said Trevor. "Very great man, you said. Nothing like setting an example. Well, gentlemen. I bid you farewell."

  He brushed between Pollard and Dorn. He ran lightly, a slim figure, to the side of the wagon. The horseman and die man on the mule drew in. Trevor smiled and put up a hand to Buchanan, who peered down at him. "What the hell?" Dealer Fox said. "He ... he told us goodbye." "Let me gun him," begged Pollard. Buchanan now took Trevor's hand and lifted him into fee wagon. A murmur ran along the line of citizens watching with their torches beginning to burn low.

  Morgan Crane bellowed, "A goddam Benedict Arnold. I told you. Them damn Britishers ain't to be trusted nohow, no time, nowhere."

  Two more men pulled in alongside Pollard and Dorn. They were squat, ugly Toad Tanner and ancient, evil Dab Geer. All looked at Bradbury. "That Buchanan stove up Cactus an' Dorgan."

  "No," he said. "The country won't stand for no massacre in the streets of the town. This has got to be done smartlike."

  "Yep," said Dealer Fox. His eyes were gleaming. "Come inside. Pay them no heed."

  Bradbury turned. Crane reluctantly followed, then Pollard. The hired gunmen remained in front of the saloon, watching, hands fluttering near their gun butts. Their eyes followed Trevor, now standing with Buchanan, helping to keep the pitiful corpse from rolling as the wagon slid in the ruts of the dirt street.

  In the back room of the Powder River Saloon, Dealer Fox said, "Sime, you mind that door."

  "I hope you got somethin' good," said Crane. "I hope to hell it has to do with that British bastard." "You got your hope," said Fox. "Like how?"

  "You see he's left us, joined them. You know how he is, thickheaded. Okay. His house is built of wood. His barn's full of hay. Supposin' it got burned down right quick?" "No," said Bradbury. "He's got friends a-plenty." "Supposin' we make it like the nesters done it, startin’ a war because of Adam Day?"

  Crane said, "Hey, that's mighty good. Leave somethin' around like it was them. Pollard and his boys can do it." "It's for the good of us all," said Fox. It's for the country in the long run. We all agreed on that."

  "I don't like it," said Bradbury. But he was in it. He visualized his holdings in distress, his herd scattered—even the burning of his own house. It had to be nipped in the bud. It had to be stopped before he was cut off from all his ambitious aims, politics, Washington. "It's a hiyu notion," said Crane.

  “It can work. We'll never be caught at it," said Fox.

  "For the benefit of all," Bradbury murmured.

  "You betcha," said Crane. "How 'bout it, Sime? And turn loose his cavvy and take a run at his herd, scatter it. Anybody tries to stop you, kill 'em and leave 'em where they'll get the blame, see?"

/>   "Best if it works that way," said Fox.

  "Boss?" Pollard looked at Bradbury and received a nod. "Okay. And believe me; Trevor's men won't do nothin'. We talked to 'em. They don't cotton to his ways. Like cleanin' outhouses alla time. Baths, he wants 'em to bathe durin' the week, even. And the way he talks through his nose and all. They won't make a move. We'll tell 'em to run off, leave the country."

  Bradbury took out a roll of currency. "Pay them off. Makes for good feelin' thataway."

  "Pay 'em nothin'," said Crane. "Not me, I won't."

  Fox added some money. "Brad's right. Smooth things over best we can."

  "People around here's got to learn which side their bread's buttered on," said Crane.

  "For their own good," Bradbury felt compelled to say. He had to make himself believe it. He tried very hard to believe it.

  The grave was deep. They wrapped Adam Day in a blanket and lowered him and stood irresolute with the shovels. The old man took off his fur cap and came forward.

  "You all know me. Dan Badger. I come into the mountains in '35, a youngun, green as buff'lo grass. Me and the others, we walked the ranges and down into Yellowstone and up to Canady and down to Mexico. We seen it all. We seen you folks come in and it was good. And we seen the cattle fatten and it was good. And now, because of the good things, we come to bad things. And this yere is one of 'em, this lynchin' of a good man, Adam Day. And I say to the Lord, an eye for an eye/ a tooth for a tooth, like it was laid down. And I say Adam was the first man; and now this yere Adam is first to be martyred in this yere country. And it's a bad thing, Lord, but we must face up to it. I never fit Indians, Lord, because they was friendlies. And they had to go, and I'm plumb sad about that. But this kinda thing, Lord, this has got to stop so our mountains and our plains and our valleys shan't suffer under the cloud of Your wrath . .. Amen."

  Half the town was there, not many people, the storekeeper and the blacksmith and some others. A chorus of murmured amens fell softly on the night. Buchanan and Kovacs began to shovel dirt into the grave.

  The woman was tearless. She stood with Mrs. Kovacs and the couple who had ridden with them, the Whelans, a young man with a face too old and a young woman, pretty but with eyes that could grow Hard and cold. They owned a small ranch, they had lived a lot in other places, and they knew what had to come. Raven Kovacs rode a buckskin pony from which she did not dismount. Jack Trevor held his hat over his heart and was silent.

  The sound of clods falling on the dead man was forlorn. Some of the townsfolk turned away, the others followed until there was the small knot of them who were aware of what was portended. Buchanan knew who they were by now. He plied the long-handled shovel, and his mind went around, and he knew that once again he was in for it.

  When the task was finished he said to Trevor. "You know where Bradbury might be?"

  "I do."

  "Will you take me to him?"

  "A pleasure," said Trevor.

  "There's gunnies around," Rob Whelan warned. "We better cover you."

  The wife, Fay Whelan, wore a gunbelt and a holster as though they belonged upon her.

  Buchanan said gently, "Why, now, it's against my habit, but I happen to be carryin' a Colt tonight. Don't put yourselves in no trouble for me."

  "Nor I," said Trevor. "They won't make a move in town this night."

  "We must make plans," said Kovacs. "They will move when they have time to think."

  "Better go on home," Buchanan said. "I'll come to you when I can learn a thing or two."

  Kovacs said, "Yes. Best to go home now. Meet tomorrow at my place?"

  "There's gonna be a war," said Whelan. "I been in range wars. I'm warnin' yawl."

  The old mountain man said, "I knew Adam Day. He was good to me. I will ride here and there. Then I will let you know."

  "That is good," said Kovacs. "Nobody knows where Dan Badger rides."

  Buchanan said, "Yeah. Well, drop my gear at the hotel. I'll be seein' you."

  Amanda Day came to him. "I'll go with the Kovacs tonight. But I want to thank you, Buchanan. I want you to know I believe in you."

  "Just don't fret too much," he said. "It's a hard way to live, but don't fret too much."

  He watched them go. The Indian girl rode the pony as though born in the saddle. The wagon rumbled, the Whelans, always side by side, went into the night. Trevor inhaled.

  "A man makes a choice, eh? Must do. It's a bad situation, Buchanan."

  "Whelan. He looks familiar," said Buchanan.

  "It is told that he was once a hired gun. The lady, well ... a dance hall girl. They married and came up here and homesteaded. But they are cattle people, so their stock is vulnerable, on open range, y' see?"

  "I see it too well," said Buchanan. "Let's talk to the colonel and them."

  They walked to town. Trevor was incisive and clear in his recitation. He laid out the scene from the point of view of the ranchers.

  "There are rustlers. We've all lost beef. But Adam Day was no rustler. His mistake was in mauling Pollard. You know, one of my own men was along when they did it. I've long suspected my employees are not to be trusted."

  "Then you're in real trouble, Trevor."

  "Oh, yes."

  "You stand to lose a lot."

  "Quite."

  "They didn't let you in on the plot against Day?"

  "Of course not. I believe that was Pollard's revenge. I believe Crane and Fox wanted to begin a war, and this was the way Pollard chose."

  "You tote a gun, Trevor?"

  "Beneath this jacket. Snug, you see?"

  "If you can get it out."

  Trevor made a lightning pass. A short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 appeared in his hand. "Gambler fella was in town. Broke. Staked him, fed him a bit at the ranch. Tried to teach me the regular way, no good at all. This came easy."

  "Gambler name of Luke Post?"

  "Why, right-o. You know him?"

  "I know him.

  "Fine chap. Taught me a lot."

  "He taught you right good." They had come to the edge of the tiny settlement. "Funny, these here people make their livin' mostly off the big ranchers. But when the Indian gal rode in and told 'em what was up, they all come out with their torches."

  "Very British, therefore very American," said Trevor. "Your heritage lies in our nation, y' know." - "My grandma was born in Scotland. No love for your people. But I see what you mean."

  People still talked in little shoals. They walked to the Powder River Saloon, and Trevor looked up and down the racks and said, "Odd. Pollard and the men are gone. But Bradbury's horse is here. And, yes, Crane's and Fox's."

  "Trouble, trouble," said Buchanan. "Let's have a palaver with the big men."

  Noonan eyed them with suspicion and a bit of fear as they went to the back room. Buchanan slammed open the door, and Trevor followed him in. The men at the table started back, Crane kicked over his chair.