Buchanan's Seige

by Jonas Ward

  "No reason to do that." He was relieved.

  "Way it is with us," Rob said. "One goes, t'other won't know how to cut it."

  "Okay and good luck." He gestured. "How about standin' guard out there awhile?"

  "Fine with us."

  . They went off into the night, prowling, never more than a few yards apart. They had come a long way together, Buchanan thought. They had scrambled for a place in life. Rob was right: even if they survived, they might lose it all and be forced to begin all over again. What they had put together was really themselves. Perhaps that was enough. He found himself staring at the high ceiling of the big room. He went outdoors and saw there was a stone parapet around the edge of the roof.

  He went back inside and called to Kovacs. "Hey, is there a trapdoor to the roof?"

  "Is so. In closet."

  The closets were in the hallway between the kitchen and the main room. Buchanan asked, "You got a ladder?"

  "Is so." Kovacs opened a closet door. There was a sturdy wooden ladder leading upward. Everything about the Kovacs property was staunch.

  Buchanan said, "That trap's too tight for me. Hey, you, Sonny Thome. Take a look up there."

  The skinny man went up the steps, removed the trap. "Good roof," he called down. "Hard to set afire, I reckon. Should I git some water up here in case?"

  "You do that," said Buchanan. "Leave that ladder right where it is. We'll keep a gun up there."

  He walked around, examining every detail of the house and its furnishings. Amanda Day followed him, watching.

  In the main bedroom, he made certain Coco and Weevil were sleeping. In the other bedroom, she spoke to him.

  "You think of everything, don't you?"

  "I try, ma'am." He sat down on a chair, weary of a sudden. "Wish there was some way to get yawl out of here."

  "But we belong here."

  "Sure, you do. Only there's a heap of guns will say you got to get out."

  "You think we'd run, even if we could?"

  "I think you'd be fools not to. Look, we got the WhelanS and Trevor. They'll stand up. Kovacs is no fighter.

  The hawg farmers—you can look at them and see what they are. Bull Durkin—we don't know yet which side he's on ... besides his own side." He waved an arm. "Out yonder they're bringin' in an army. They got to kill us now to save their own necks."

  "Of course. But you won't let them." Her coolness was amazing.

  He shook his head. "Such faith no woman should have."

  "Bradbury?" she asked. "He did try to buy out Adam. Could you get to him?"

  "Tried that. Fox and Crane got him over a barrel. I know he was against lynchin' or he wouldn't of called for me. But right now, he's the enemy."

  "Then they'll kill us." She considered. "If they do, there'll be a stench in the land, an uprising of the righteous!"

  "Now, lady, don't be figurin' on martyrdom. Once in your grave, you don't count. It's a big country with plenty of room for the livin', and those who survive keep right on mindin' their own affairs. Let the dead stay buried, they figure."

  "You don't believe in anything much, do you, Buchanan?" Her eyes were bright and a bit sad.

  "Time and circumstance," he said. "A man does what he can. Belief? I got my beliefs."

  She stood a moment staring at him. Then she went quickly from the room. He shrugged. He was not one to speak to strangers about what he believed.

  He got up and went out of the house. He found the big buckskin in the corral and saddled him, spoke to him, mounted and rode out.

  He rode over the terrain from which the attack must come. There were some high trees clustered at the front of the house which he would wish to have leveled if possible. There was a knoll to the west behind which the forces of the enemy could deploy in safety. Neither prospect pleased him.

  He rode around for some time, squinting at his friends, the stars under which he had so often slept. He thought about the people gathered at the Kovacs' place and how he had come among them.

  He removed his hat and said a few words to his own private deity, which was not an old man with a long white beard sitting up above the clouds, but something quite closer to Buchanan and his natural surroundings.

  Colonel Bradbury's hacienda was old-Spanish design, an elaborate place designed by Consuela, his Spanish wife of many years. She was the daughter of a consul, they had met in Austin. She was a woman of strength with deep, dark eyes; no longer young, growing heavy of body but still handsome.

  Servants brought whiskey and carafes of water to the leaders of the Cattleman's Association, who were out on the patio. Torches threw light upon the scene.

  Dealer Fox said, "We got those rustlers that Durkin bung, and buried them where nobody'll find them. Now we got to get Durkin."

  "We're addin' up a big total," Bradbury said. He was uncomfortable, unsure.

  "Pollard and them can handle it."

  Morgan Crane said, "But I'm the boss in the field. I'm givin' the orders. I know how."

  "Certainly, Morgan," said Fox. "Pollard and Dorn and Tanner and Geer will be your lieutenants."

  Crane drank deeply. "Just make damn sure of it."

  Bradbury sat back. Morgan was a fool. Fox was getting close to the deep edge, he thought. "There's women in that Kovacs' house. Four of 'em."

  ""What of it?" demanded Crane. "Did we send 'em there? Is it our business they gang up with the men and the s? You think they won't shoot us quick enough?"

  Bradbury said, "By God, we don't make war on women. First thing to do is palaver. Give the women time to get out.”

  "And have them tellin' lies all over? It's too late for Brad. Too late."

  "And the hell with 'em," roared Crane.

  "And what about when it's done?" asked Bradbury. "Then what story do we tell?"

  "Our own story," said Fox.

  "They're rustlers and killers. Anything we say they are. Right, Dealer?"

  "That's the way it's got to be," said Fox.

  "And all those men we brought in? You think they won't talk when it's over?"

  "Let 'em talk. Nobody'll believe them against us. You got to realize, Brad, we are the law."

  "Sure," said Crane. He tossed off another drink. "By God, that's us. The law: We own this country, we come in here and took it and made it ours."

  "There can't be two sides," Fox insisted. "It's either them or us."

  "Yeah, Brad, you gotta remember that."

  Bradbury said, "I'm goin' to give those women a chance to get outa there."

  Crane began to holler, but Fox put up a hand. "Tomorrow we'll talk about it. Dawn, ain't it? Pollard said dawn was best, like when Injuns attack. People ain't awake and ready. There's no sun to cheer 'em. Dawn."

  Crane said, "And the hell with the women."

  "Come on, Morgan, you've had enough to drink," said Fox. "Come on, now."

  They left, Crane swaying, unsteady, his voice loud and disputatious as Fox led him to the buckboard outside the fence that surrounded the patio. Consuela came from the house and sat opposite her husband.

  "You heard 'em," he said.

  "You are into it very deep."

  "I don't like it about the women."

  "You hanged Adam Day."

  "Not me. I was against that."

  "You were not there to prevent it. You wished Adam Day and the other people would go away. So you hired Pollard and you have your association. And a man was hanged."

  "Damn it, woman, there's nothin' I could do about it."

  "I know," she said.

  "What could I do? Let 'em overrun us? Give up to 'em? After all I done to build this place, this ranch?"

  She smiled. "Can you see them taking it away from you? Those little people? Can you see them stealing and burning ... and lynching?"

  He stood up. He paced the patio with its imported flagstones, its high fence, its flowered paths. "There's nothin' I can do now but get the women out of there."

  "They will not go," she told him.
r />   "You don't know that."

  "I would not go," she said softly.

  "Like Dealer says, it's them or us."

  She shook her head. "I am glad the children are away."

  "You turnin' against me, Connie?" He looked despairingly at her, his hands spread. "Are you, finally?"

  "No."

  "But you're against what's happening."

  "Yes."

  "There's nothin' I can do. It's too late."

  "Yes. It is too late." She arose and went into the house, closing the door behind her.

  He walked back and forth, back and forth. It had all happened too fast, he told himself. There was no way he could have stopped it. He had sent for Buchanan, he had tried, knowing Buchanan's way with people.

  Now they would kill Buchanan. Meaning no harm, indeed meaning well, he had brought the big man he so respected to his death.

  But the women ... He had never harmed a woman in his life.

  And if he tried to interfere, if he went too far, Dealer and Crane would kill him, he saw clearly. The other members of the association would stay out of it and back op Dealer and Crane through necessity. The whole matter had got completely out of hand.

  There was no escape, now. If he tried to stop the forces be had helped set in motion, he would lose wife, ranch, children, everything. He picked up the whiskey bottle and drained it.

  Trevor was on watch when Buchanan rode the buckskin in. The horses would be a problem. It was best to turn loose any which could not be protected by the stone barn.

  Trevor said, "Cactus and Sutter are holed up. Durkin's in the house. He'll be trouble whichever way it goes."

  "Yes," said Buchanan. "Been studyin' the layout. Good to have people in the barn. The roof’ll do, too, behind that stone parapet. Dangerous, but we'll have to risk it."

  "Too many of 'em, right? Pick off a few. Maybe discourage 'em for a while. That's it, isn't it?"

  "Uh-huh," said Buchanan. "That's the way it looks. Got to keep thinkin' on it, though. No use givin' up before the thing starts."

  "Yes." He went on, "Ever been to England?"

  "Not yet. Thought of Scotland sometimes. Might look up the Buchanans. And the MacNamaras."

  "Filthy climate, England. Excepting this time of year. Hants is lovely this time of year."

  "Hants?"

  "Hampshire. Town of Romsey on the Test. One could walk across the Test in boots, but we're that way, the British. Folks have a place near Romsey."

  "I see." .

  "Very green. 'The grass is greener on the old sod,' they say. It's very green here, now, isn't it?"

  "I'd say so."

  "Different hue of green. Ah, well."

  "Wish you were back there?"

  "Not really. 'We owe God a death.' Shakespeare, y' know. Doesn't make much difference so long as it's in a good cause. How many people just... die?"

  "Everybody's thinkin' of dyin' around here," said Buchanan. "Me, I'm studyin' about how to live."

  "Good man," said Trevor. "Right-o." He wandered away, making his rounds.

  Buchanan went into the room where Coco and Weevil were lying around the floor, each choosing a spot. The hog farmers were together near the fireplace. The Kovacses were in the second bedroom with the Indian girl. The Whelans lay close together wrapped in blankets, their guns at their sides.

  Buchanan went into the room where Coco and Weevil were awake with their pain. He unrolled his blankets, closed the door, keeping his voice low.

  "Yawl gettin' along?"

  "The old man and the Injun gal," said Weevil. "They done good for us."

  Coco moistened his lips. His voice was far away. "Can't walk around, Tom. He musta beat hard on me. I kayoed him, but he musta hurt me more'n I knew."

  Weevil said, "Sometimes he thinks it was the prizefight where he got beat."

  There was some of the gruel left in a mug. Buchanan smelled it, choked a bit, then gave it to Coco sip by sip, holding the round, black head in a big hand. He had become extremely fond of his friend over the years. "You goin' to be all right. Just try and sleep."

  Coco swallowed, made a face, closed his eyes. "I hit him with two rights, Tom. He had to go down. How'd he, come to hurt me so?"

  "Just sleep," Buchanan whispered.

  After a moment, Coco was breathing easily, lying on his back, hands crossed on his chest. Buchanan sat down and removed his boots.

  Weevil whispered, "He never hollered once. I hollered. Told 'em all I know. That black man, he's dead game."

  "Can you put names on those who beat him?"

  "Pollard, Dorn, Tanner, Geer. Some others, maybe. They gone loco, I swear."

  "Power," said Buchanan. "Little men with power they're not used to. They hanged a man, y' see. Made 'em feel big."

  "It's beyond me."

  "Beyond ordinary understanding." He put his head down and willed himself to sleep. For a while, it did not work. He saw Coco being beaten; he saw Adam Day's contorted features. His mind went to what was coming.

  It was no good to dwell on it. He had covered every angle that he could conceive.

  The woman had said that he didn't believe. That rankled. He wrestled with it for a few moments, then his weariness combined with his wish and he slept. The Indian girl awakened Buchanan. The first pink light reflected from the mountains westward was peeking through the narrow window. He reached for his boots.

  She said, "Everyone is in the house. The bad people are nearby."

  "It's time." He went into the kitchen and used water to wash his hands and face, not throwing it out, saving it in case of fire. He went to the door and opened it a crack.

  The first bullet splattered against the heavy portal, and : swung it closed, and now everyone was awake in the Kovacs' house except Coco, who slept fitfully, turning and moaning at the pain in his chest.

  Buchanan said, "They'll be' pepperin' the windows. Don't anybody answer their fire until I give the word. Can't waste ammunition."

  He went to one of the windows at the front of the house. A shot pierced the glass, and he knocked out the rest of it with the butt of his rifle. He could see them on the knoll, and a puff of smoke came from the trees, high up, as the other window was smashed by a fusillade. He aimed at an angle, not showing himself. It was important to make them fearful right now, at the beginning. He took a deep breath. Another shot and another puff of smoke, and he pressed the trigger.

  There was a yell and a crashing of branches. A man tumbled from limb to limb and lay still upon the ground.