by Jonas Ward
She went into the house. It was a simple, plain shack, but she had managed dimity curtains and Navajo rugs. She began to undress, smiling to herself in anticipation.
Rob came in fast. "Pack some duds. Food, the guns and shells. Whatever we got."
"Why? ... What?"
"Fire. Over Trevor's way."
"Fire?" It was a frightening word in that country.
"A big damn blaze. And my barn shotgun's missin, the one with my initials carved onto it."
"My God." In their experience, they were quickly aware of the implication. Adam Day had been framed, now it was their turn. She flung her Levis back on and yanked at her boots. Then she said, "Somebody's been here. You know my silk rebozo? The one you got me in Juarez? It's gone."
"Yeah, sure. You got that side o' bacon. Let's make a big package."
"The dirty bastards," she said, moving quickly to obey.
"Sure. Has to be somethin' anybody'd know is orun. Just like they done Adam, they're tryin' to stick somethin' up ours. You get over to Kovacs, hear?"
"Not alone."
He said, "Look, nothin's gonna be left here. Nothin', you hear me? I gotta get to town. Buchanan and Trevor. I got to ride with them."
She was making a swift bundle of basic possessions, clothing wrapped in bedding. She went into the kitchen and wrapped cold meat and newly baked bread and a side of bacon. "Make a pack for little Tony, he'll carry it. You take Gray. I'll take Red and the pack. We'll go first to Kovacs...."
"Hell," he said, "Trevor mightn't know he's bein' burned out."
She slumped. "Hadn't thought on that. You're right, Rob. Only ... if anything should happen to you and I ain't there; I'd die, I swear I'd die."
He hugged her tight, fiercely, kissed her on the mouth. "You and me, Fay, you and me. Now, let's git movin'."
He saw to his revolver. He packed two rifles and several boxes of ammunition. He had a derringer and a Smith and Wesson .44 double action, a new pistol. It was the one habit he could not shake, being prepared with guns and bullets.
Tony was a willing, small worker. The mounts were as named, a gray and a chestnut-red. Once their minds were made up, the Whelans moved like a trained team. In a very few minutes, they were mounted with Tony on a lead line.
They sat a moment looking at the modest house, looking out over the fields past the barn, the pasture where the cattle were scattered. They would not see that little herd again, they knew. They had tried; they had done their best, and now it was to be taken away from them.
They wasted no words. They were aware in their simple fashion that they had done their best in this place. There was nothing left to do but put up a fight for survival.
Trevor had driven a buckboard to town. Buchanan heard only a few words of Whelan's message before he began to pack his belongings.
Trevor said, "But we've always been friendly, Rob. How could anyone possible believe you would burn me out?”
Whelan shrugged. "You know the name they give us. You been friendly, sure. Five'll get you a hundred they lay it on Fay and you."
"No! How beastly can they be?"
Buchanan said, "Whelan knows."
"I know," said Whelan. "I been there and back." They hustled to the livery stable. It was past midnight. Buchanan lashed his soogans in the buckboard, Whelan rode off. Trevor brought out a pair of matched bays. Buchanan helped him hitch them up.
Trevor said, "They move fast, what? Never quite knew I was associating with such people, y' know. Rough country and all that, but nothing like this I assure you."
"Let's get on the road," said Buchanan. "If Whelan runs into any of 'em, the killin' will start right there."
They mounted the buckboard, and Trevor picked up the reins. He had good hands, Buchanan saw at once, he knew his horses. He took the team out, let them warm up before he broke them into a trot. They wanted to run when they were on the road for the home ranch.
They were very swift. Buchanan clung onto the seat, his rifle in one hand. Everything had indeed happened with astonishing speed since his awful vision of Adam hanging from the roadside tree. Colonel Bradbury could never have acted in this manner, without careful planning, with the animal violence required for such deeds. There were forces within forces, more brains than were in the head of either Bradbury or Morgan Crane.
Not that it mattered. The worst had happened; this was war and the lines were clearly drawn. Like Whelan, he had seen range wars before. It was civil strife there was nothing worse in the West. Murder in the name of injustice was part of it. A scarlet wind blew over Wyoming, and soon he saw the reflection against the sky.
Trevor drove like a man in a race. When he turned off the main road, he guided the buckboard over rough terrain with consummate skill. The odor of smoke was around them now, and the fire was dying. It was too late to save anything, Buchanan knew. Trevor was cleaned out as only flames could manage it.
They came into the yard and pulled up. The horses snorted, and Buchanan went to their heads, knowing their fear of fire. Whelan came from the ruins of the stable. Trevor ran to the house, which was ghostly, the walls standing awkwardly crooked in the starlight.
Whelan called, "Stay away. It'll collapse on you any minute."
They gathered and watched the dying flames. Buchanan asked, "Any sign?"
"Oh, sure. Two horses. Me and Fay, we always ride together. They took my shotgun and her rebozo along. They'll be showin' it all over town, claimin' Trevor made a grab for Fay and she got mad and we burned him out."
"They drag the other sign?"
"Yep. Not too good, neither. They ain't real smart."
Trevor sighed. "The house was too good for burnin'. Modeled it after my brother's country place in Hampshire. Shame, isn't it?"
"Damn shame," said Buchanan. "They turn loose the stock?"
"Yeah. Even them coyotes wouldn't burn a horse in a barn," said Whelan. "I dabbed onto the stallion and that big buckskin devil. All I could find."
"Saddles?"
"You do think of things. Got a couple was hangin' on the corral rails."
Buchanan turned to Trevor. "You happen to have a smokehouse?"
"Why, yes."
"Load the buckboard with all the food you can find. We can ride the horses."
"But to what place? Where?" asked Trevor.
"Kovacs' place," said Whelan. "It's solid."
"Know a trail around town that'll get us there?" asked Buchanan.
"Certain."
"Best be at it. They're bound to go for Whelan's spread next."
"We knowed that when we seen the fire," said Whelan.
"What about the other farmers, small ranchers?"
"Wouldn't bet on 'em," Whelan shrugged, "it ain't in 'em. They hang to their own places. If they don't see it happen—they believe it won't happen to them."
They went about their tasks. They were ready to leave when Dan Badger rode in on the mule, unmistakable against the starlit sky."
"Saw the fire," he said. "Got here soon enough to track 'em in."
"Who were they?" asked Trevor.
"Pollard and that laughin' devil, Dorn. Toad Tanner and Dab Geer. Them two new ones was on the stage with Amanda and Buchanan."
"But none of the ranchmen."
"Course not. They hire. New ones come in on the stage agin. More will be comin'. Hired guns. Country full o' scallywags."
"You ridin' with us?"
"To the Kovacs' place?"
"It's where the fight'll be," said Buchanan.
"Like you say." Badger nodded. "Me and them afore me, we didn't open God's country for men like these to hog it, to kill other folks. Some of us had a vision, we seen it is the promised land. Everything's here, all good. Better the Injuns kept it for themselves, so sez I."
They loaded the buckboard and drove over dark, back ways, slow and careful. They passed through three small farms and a ranch and told the story. They were met with suspicion, they were met with fear and trembling. No one joined them despi
te dire warning. Each family clung to its homestead.
On the last leg of their journey, Buchanan remarked, "Some of them will sell out. Some of them will run. The rest’ll suffer like you, Trevor, from the fire."
"I see it now. It is new to me. The rustling, that always went on. There have been lynchings. I knew about them, but it was not my business. It was something I did not approve, but Judge Lynch is strong in cattle country. I've been wrong."
"One man can't do much," Buchanan told him. "Right up to when Bradbury sent for me there had to be some feelin' that things could be worked out. He knows me. No, it's a force of evil. Once begun, it spreads like prairie fire."
"I should've acted, y' know. The gov'nor, someone in Washington. I should've tried."
"You paid your dues tonight," Buchanan' said. "Now it's can-we-live-through-it?"
"But you need not. It is not your war."
Buchanan said sadly, "Might say that. On the other hand, I saw the man Adam strung up to that tree. I saw what I didn't like in town. Maybe it wasn't mine, but it sure has got to be somethin' I can't walk away from. Didn't take long, neither."
"Quite," said Trevor. "Nasty business, but here we are and all that."
"You been here long?"
"Long enough to think of it as my country, y' see."
"Ah, yes. That's a heap o' time, figure it that way."
"Younger son," said Trevor, smiling gently. "Family's rolling in it. Sent me out here to establish myself and fortune. Didn't expect much. Fooled 'em."
"Could be you lost it all."
"Not to be worried about. Start again."
"If you live." Buchanan was curious.
"Oh, yes. Life, eh? A lease on something not ever permanent, now, isn't it?"
Buchanan was satisfied. "You'll do to take along. Let's get to the Kovacs' spread and make some plans."
They were a tight little caravan, Whelan, the tall mule carrying Badger, the lead horse, the buckboard, all traveling to a rendezvous with violence.
Coco Bean rode the stage with growing trepidation. Jackson, the driver, had greeted him in Billings, recognizing him, tellin him that Buchanan was looking for him.
"They ain't give me a shotgun. You could ride with me."
Coco shuddered away from the proffered, wicked weapon. "Guns! Don't want no guns. Don't ever come to me with no gun."
Jackson stared. "Buchanan said you was a fighter."
Coco held up two hard, round fists like cannonballs. "You see them? They fight. They fight real good. They knocked me out a big ole miner in Butte. No guns. Them!"
"See whatcha mean," said Jackson hastily. He climbed up and shoved the shotgun into a boot fitted for that purpose. "Okay. If you a friend of Buchanan, reckon you're all right. C'mon up here if y' like."
Coco climbed up, shoving his portmanteau onto the top of the stage with other luggage. There were five men squeezed into the tonneau of the stage. None of them looked like good company. Coco was wearing Levis, tight around his formidable legs, walking boots, a hickory shirt, and a round hard hat. His glad rags were in the bag. He had learned that when meeting Buchanan he must be ready for emergencies, and this already loomed as another of those bad times where guns were involved. He had a mortal fear and hatred of all kinds of guns.
Jackson gathered up the ribbons. Gauging in the wind, he spat tobacco juice over his shoulder, missing the luggage, missing the stagecoach. "Them fellers below there? Hired guns. Comin' to help the big ranchers."
"Guns," said Coco dispiritedly. "Had I the sense the Lord gave a duck, I would git down from here right now."
"Seen a man lynched, mighty near. Your friend Buchanan, he's agin the big ranchers, seems like."
"Uh-huh. Right smack in the midst of it all." Coco did not need to be told. He had been following Buchanan around for a long time, hoping to settle the issue of who was the better man with his fists. Something to do with guns always interfered. Usually Buchanan managed to catch a bullet some place in his big carcass.
Jackson said, "There's doin's around Buffalo. Ain't heard the latest, but we'll soon know. . . . Up there, Dan, Tom, let's take 'em out. Gee, now!"
It was not a long trip in miles from Billings to Buffalo, but it seemed ages as Coco worried atop the stage. He was a proud but humble man who was a holy terror in the prize ring and a lamb outside the squared circle. He had done well in the West since meeting Buchanan in an El Paso Texas Ranger jail. If it were not for all the shooting...
On the other hand, he knew Buchanan did not solicit trouble, indeed, did his best to avoid it. They had enjoyed some rare times, laughs and peace together. Much as he might want to be elsewhere, when Buchanan was in trouble, Coco must hie himself thence.
He brooded all the way to the stage station in Buffalo. There he rescued his luggage and descended, looking up and down a street deserted of casual strollers. Jackson had pointed out the hotel. He went toward it.
The lobby was deserted. He put down his bag and frowned, hearing voices from the back of the hotel. He moved uncertainly toward a door, which was closed.
He heard a man's voice cry out, "All right! All right! Don't hit me again."
"Buchanan went out with Trevor, right?"
"Yes ... yes .. ." The man was in agony.
"Buchanan took his luggage, right?"
"Yes."
"That's it," said another voice. "Buchanan's sidin' them. It figured thataway."
"Should we kill this one?"
"He didn't want to talk," said the other voice. Coco tried the door. It opened. He edged it, scowling. It seemed to him that someone was hurting a friend of Buchanan's. He applied his eye to the crack.
Someone held a one-legged man against the wall. Another was holding a revolver with which he had been striking the crippled man, whose face was bleeding, whose expression of pain and fear was too much for Coco's sense of justice.
He rammed open the door, flew across the room. He hit the man with the gun and knocked him flat as a flounder. He grabbed for the other man.
Something struck him across the back of the neck. He went down on hands and knees. A boot kicked him in the ribs. Another foot reached him from the one who had been holding the crippled man.
Coco had not reckoned on the third man, who had not spoken, who had been behind the door. Now they put the boots to him in turn. Before he passed out he heard one say, "A black sonofabitch at that."
When he awakened, he was in a jail cell. He lay on a hard pallet and had difficulty in breathing. One leg was doubled under him. His face was puffed, his eyes almost closed. He had great difficulty in sitting up.
Bars divided two cells. In the other was the one-legged man, blood drying on his face.
"Name of Weevil," he croaked. "Thanks for tryin' to help."
Coco's voice also creaked. They had struck him across the throat during the methodical beating. "You're welcome. Lotta good it did."
