by Jonas Ward
Buchanan said, "Now, that makes sense. Badger? Can you keep that dally on the jailhouse?"
"Even so," said Badger.
"Then let's do what Trevor says." He called out, "Coco?"
"Still here."
"We're comin' in. Be ready to butt your head against that wall. Weevil . . . you use the bunk for a batterin' ram."
"You'll get us all kilt but okay, it's better'n chokin' on a rope," said Weevil.
Buchanan led the way through the alley alongside the hoosegow. Trevor trod lightly at his heels. They paused before showing themselves. The sound from the saloons had increased. Any moment now the lynch mob would muster the courage to act.
"Two, three guards," said Buchanan. "Can we make enough noise to fool 'em for a minute?"
"If they are wassailing, they are for us."
"Wassailin'," said Buchanan. "A fancy word for gettin' pie-eyed. Let's move."
They raised their voices to the sky. "This way, boys. No use to wait no longer. String 'em up."
They swept into the office of the jail. Three men were pulling at the necks of three bottles. " 'Bout time," said one. "Take 'em and damn their souls."
"Uh-huh," said Buchanan. He swept the first man down with the barrel of the rifle, slammed the head of the other against a desk. Trevor hit the third with the butt of his gun, cracking the skull, bringing blood.
Buchanan said, "Don't even need keys. These sons left the doors open for the mob."
"I believe the other sons are advancing," said Trevor.
Buchanan peered out the door. The mob was swarming from both saloons, joining in the middle of the street. The night air was polluted by shouts of drunken threat.
Buchanan said, "Hope that old mule can pull with us helpin'. Otherwise we might be in a mite of a fight."
"Carry on," said Trevor.
They ran into the cells. Weevil had the bunk loose and was pushing it against the wall. Coco was groaning, but his shoulder was ready when Buchanan went past him like a freight train, shouting as he went, "Badger! Kick it!"
Trevor was slight, but he could seize the end of the bunk in Weevil's cell and use it as a battering ram. Buchanan shouted once more, and they all hit the wall at once.
There was a grinding sound. Nails screeched, leaving lumber. Buchanan smashed at the wall with all his might and main. Coco bent to the task, grimacing with pain.
And outside, the tall mule made one more effort: The wall began to give, slowly at first. Buchanan leaned back, then hit it again with the weight and the strength of two men. The wall toppled, not without dignity, grudgingly slapping to earth.
Coco gasped, "I'm about beat, Tom."
"Get to a horse. Trevor will help. . . . Weevil, you're an old wrangler. Can you ride?"
"Anything that's got hair on it." The hotel man hobbled over the fallen ruins of the wall.
"Badger! Get 'em mounted," called Buchanan. "People seem to be comin' in."
Trevor had already sent one shot crackling down the ·corridor outside the cells. Buchanan saw Pollard duck and run, yelling for horses as he foresaw the pursuit. It would be a running retreat, Buchanan thought, shooting low, knocking down a man over whom others tumbled.
He said, "Got it blocked. Let us make tracks."
"Right-o." They ran for the horses. Badger and the rescued pair were already galloping into the night. "No fun shootin' ducks on a pond, eh?"
They leaped into the saddles. Now men were shooting at them, and silhouetted against a starry sky, they were good targets. Buchanan paused to empty the magazine of his Remington into the motley crew of attackers, thankful for the booze they had put away to the detriment of their aim.
Trevor was riding. In the distance, they could see the three horsemen ahead of them.
"You know the back ways?" asked Buchanan.
"Not so well as our mountain man."
"Then keep him in sight."
Buchanan dropped back. Trevor hesitated, saw the reasoning behind Buchanan's order, went on. Alone Buchanan waited. One horseman appeared, then another.
He fired at them. The first man went down. The second veered off wildly, reined around, and rode helter-skelter back into the town.
Buchanan rode. He could see Trevor ahead. If worse came to worse, he thought, he could find his way back to Kovacs' place. He was a plainsman, he could retrace any course he had once traversed.
No other horsemen appeared. He spurred into the night. They would not risk his gunfire now. They knew well his destination. Cool heads would restrain all but a drunken, headstrong few, he thought. Tomorrow it would begin.
Tomorrow the siege would be laid. The Cattleman's Association could wait no longer. It would be their sincere
endeavor to do away with all witnesses of what had thus far taken place. They would know that the Kovacs' house
was the logical point of last defense for the people of the Wyoming plains. " - ,
Coco's ribs were broken. Fever set in due to the hard ride from town. Buchanan was worried by the sight of his friend's sunken eyes and by his muddled muttering.
Raven went out into the night with a small, sharp knife. When she returned, her arms were laden with certain plants from the fields behind the house. Dan Badger worked with her over the stove, preparing a poultice and a steaming gruel. Coco lay in the Kovacs' bed and breathed with greater ease, slumbering.
Badger looked over Weevil's wounds and found them painful but superficial. "He's an old man, tough but a bit feeble. Put him on blankets in thar with Coco. Wish we hadn't made 'em bang down that wall."
"Saved their lives," Buchanan said.
"But now we know they'll be after us by mornin', eh?" Trevor was calm as always. Sometimes he seemed a bit too cheerful, perhaps.
Buchanan said, "They'll be gatherin', all right. It won't be any joke. It's an army they're puttin' together."
The others were silent. Raven moved about, watching Coco, attending to Weevil as he groaned at every motion of his aching body. It was a pitiful group, Buchanan thought. There seemed no way they could prevail.
He went outside. There was no sound but the chirping of insects, the song of birds, and the ripple of the nearby creek. The stone barn was close to the house, which, he knew, could be good or bad as the case might be.
Dan Badger joined him. "Right nice night, ain't it?"
"Just fine."
"Got me a cabin up in Crow country. Got an old Sharps that's oiled and ready. Got lead and powder. I'll be moseyin' along for now."
"But you'll be back."
"That gun'll shoot straight and far. Hate to use it on people. Comes the time a man has to take a side."
"You and me, we got no stake here," said Buchanan. "Save only one: folks shouldn't be ground down for reasons of greed."
"You savvy, Tom Buchanan. The Lord looks down."
"And thanks for takin' care of Coco," Buchanan said.
"A black brother. Jim Beckwourth was my friend afore he went over. A good man. Plenty black men in the old days. People don't know."
"There's whole heaps that people don't know." Buchanan sighed deeply.
There was the sound of a wagon approaching. Buchanan's hand dropped to his gun butt. Badger faded from sight like a ghost in the night.
A voice bellowed, "Halooo the house. It's me. Durkin."
The door opened behind Buchanan, and he moved quickly out of the light thrown from within. Trevor stepped into the dimness, rifle in hand.
"Bull Durkin?"
The wagon came closer. The loud voice called, "Got the news from Jackson. Been travelin' since sunset. Cactus and Sutter is with me."
"What do you want?" Trevor's voice was harsh.
"To come in. That you, Trevor?"
"It is, indeed. Why should you come here?"
The springs of the wagon creaked, and a man came into the light. Inside the house, people crowded the door and the two front windows. Trevor held the rifle steady.
The man was no more than five feet seven inc
hes tall. He was as wide as a barn door. His arms hung to his knees. He had a wide face and a protruding jaw. He looked—he looked like a bull, Buchanan thought.
"I come because I caught them damn rustlers this mornn." The man's conversational voice come from the deep chest like a foghorn on the river. "Tried to tell Dealer Fox. He put ten men on me, run me off. They lynched Adam, they gone too far."
"But you're not in it," said Trevor. "You're up in the hills, on the high plain."
"I ain't in it now," said Durkin. "You wanna bet I wouldn't be in it when they clean yawl out?"
Trevor half turned to Buchanan. "He's a wild one. Fights everyone, including the association. I can't guarantee him."
Buchanan stepped into the light. "Bull, when did you tarn rancher?"
"Buchanan. Heard you was around. This here time we are on the same side." Durkin's voice was not friendly, but it sounded respectful.
“They ran you out of New Mexico. You still hangin'rustlers?”
"Strung up two this mornin'," said Durkin doggedly. "Think on it. Because of them, Adam Day got lynched, this war is made possible. Nobody'd believe me agin the association, that blames the rustlin' on the settlers."
"But you beat a nester and ran him off your graze," Trevor said. "Didn't you, now?"
"Another settin' of a nest," Durkin growled. "Buchanan'll tell you, this here's a war to the finish. I may be rough, but I ain't no damn fool. Never could git along with Fox and them. Its fish or cut bait, and I'm here to fish for them gunnies bein' brought in."
Trevor, uncertain, asked, "What do you think, Buchanan?"
"First, I better tell you, Bull, there's another couple of guns on you. Just in case."
"Be pretty dumb if there wasn't." He held up empty hands. "You need me and you need Cactus and Sutter."
Buchanan said, "There's the barn. Cactus and Sutter could hold out there."
"Okay," said Durkin. "I got ammunition and food in the wagon. I got blankets, everything we could grab onto."
"One bad move, Bull," said Buchanan. "Just one. Then it'll be you and me. Right?"
Durkin grinned. His teeth were jagged. "Ain't never tried you yet. If'n I do, you'll know it."
"I'll know it, all right. And you won't forget it."
"Suits me." Durkin turned and bawled, "Git the wagon into the barn, there. Feed the hosses and turn 'em loose. No use to git 'em kilt right off. Bed down."
Cactus and Sutter were hard-bitten riders, no more, no less, Buchanan saw. They obeyed without question. Both wore their holsters' tied low on their flanks. No doubt they were gun hands, as Bull Durkin had been before he swung his loop wide enough and often enough to put together a herd down south. It was a touchy situation, but there seemed no other course than to accept aid at face value.
Durkin followed his men. Badger slid out of the deep shadows as Trevor came close to Buchanan.
"The association lynched Adam Day. He lynched the rustlers this very day," Badger said. "Watch him."
"Wouldn't trust the man across the creek," said Trevor.
"So long as we know all that," Buchanan told them. "When the attack comes, we'll know a lot more. If him or one of his men prove wrong—kill 'em."
“I don't like it," Trevor murmured. "I don't like it at all, y' know."
Badger said, "May the good Lord protect you." Then he was gone, and the sound of the mule running was fading in the night.
Trevor said, "Perhaps we should have sent him for help?"
"Whereabouts? With the telegraph wire down, it would take days to get enough help here. And you know the association's got political power."
Trevor shrugged. "Right-o. We make the best of it, then."
"Better check on 'em." Buchanan went into the house.
Whelan was unhappy. "Buchanan, you know that bastard . . . 'scuse me, ladies, but that's what he is ... we oughta run him off right now."
"And have a shootout before the war even starts up?"
"He's no good."
"Is so," said Kovacs. "A bad man."
The women were silent, but now Pa Thome spoke up.
"Yawl went into town and picked up a wornout old one-legged coot and a nigger."
"Uh-huh." Buchanan was patient, but time was running on his forbearance.
"I swan to ginney, that's might peculiar goin's on."
"You do, huh?"
"Vittles bein' short enough. Them two won't be no help."
"You think so." He swallowed hard, containing himself.
"You got the nigger in a bed. Where I come from, he'd foe on the floor and glad of it."
"I see. Where you come from. Hog Land?"
"Mississippi, by Gawd. Where a nigger's a black nothin’.”
"And you were a slave owner?"
Thome was taken aback. "Who, me? I didn't own pot or winder. We come out here after ma died, Sonny and me. Scrabbled to git a homestead and some hawgs."
"Looks like you been around 'em long enough to act like one," Buchanan snapped.
"Whut you say? Whut's that?"
"Coco is my friend. Understand that. Get it into your thick head, Mr. Thorne. Get it good."
"A nigger is yore friend?" The pig farmer was aghast.
"What's more he could take you in one hand and your son in the other and crack you like walnuts. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't take advantage of trash like you." Buchanan took a breath, seeking control. "Coco's like me, a peaceable man. I know you're ignorant, which is some sort of excuse, but Mister, you walk careful around me and don't let me hear you call Coco a nigger, not ever. You hear me?"
The man said, "Goddlemighty, Mr. Buchanan, I didn't go for to make you all that mad."
"Uh-huh," said Buchanan. "Did it, though, didn't you?"
"Uh, well, I hear you." The hog farmer retreated.
Amanda exhaled. She said, "Well, that was quite a lecture. But about Bull Durkin, now. He is a dangerous character."
Fay Whelan said, "He made a run at me once. Had to pull down on him. I swear, hawg farmers, stove up people. We are in a fix."
"How come you trust the rest of us?" asked Buchanan.
Rob Whelan interposed. "We know about you. You got to remember, Fay and me, we've had to stand by each other. Maybe we got some to learn. But we only know we got each other. Maybe we won't even have a house when this is over. Maybe we'll be dead."
"Like Badger says, only the good Lord knows," Buchanan said.
"One thing," said Fay.
"Uh-huh." Everybody wanted something, and they all came to Buchanan.
"Rob and me, we go together. You're the boss here so far as we're concerned. But don't try to separate us."
