by Jonas Ward
“I never seen you like this,” she said in a small voice.
“I never been like this.” He reached into the buggy for the whiskey, drank deeply emptying it, then stared at the bottle, shook his head. “Now we’re in for it.”
“Like you said, you didn’t tell them—”
He cut her off. “Arizona saved Buchanan’s life. Don’t you know what that means?”
“Well ...”
“Buchanan will never leave here until Semple goes to trial. That could be a month, two months. You know how slow the judge is makin’ his rounds.”
“Buchanan would believe you if you told him it was against your orders.”
“Makes no never mind. Arizona is dead.”
“Can’t you do somethin’?”
With a visible effort, he pulled himself together. He gestured and she followed him down the street. The post office and the telegraph station were in the same building. Jake rapped on the door. A light came on, a voice called, “Closed for the night, damn it.”
“Jake Robertson here. Open up.”
The door opened up a crack. “Mr. Robertson? What’s wrong?”
Jake pushed his way inside. “Every damn thing.” He produced more money, threw it down. “You, Simpson, you know me. I want to send a telegram. Right now.”
“Well, sure.” Simpson was a skinny man with a scrawny beard. “If it’s that important.” He slid the money into a drawer without counting it. “Anything you say.”
Jake said, “What’s more, I don’t want another soul to know about it. You understand?”
“Sure, Mr. Robertson.” He scurried to his key. “You want to write it down or just tell me?”
“No writin’.” He thought a moment, wishing he had another drink. He put his hands to his head and began talking. “To Fritz Wilder ... care of Delaney’s Saloon, Casper, Wyoming ... Hell, you know Casper’s in Wyoming ... To Fritz Wilder ... Need half-dozen your men ... Soon as possible ... Top pay like always ... Don’t answer this ... Get here ... Sign it ‘Jake.’ Just ‘Jake.’ Understand?”
“The stage from Casper will be through day after tomorrow.”
“I know all about that. Damn it, send the message.”
Simpson’s hand tapped the key. Jake listened until the last echo died sharply in the room. Then he said, “One word outa you and Fritz will come for you, too.”
“You know me, Mr. Robertson. I ain’t never let you down yet, now, have I?”
“Just so it ain’t the first time.” He was staggering now as he went to the buggy. He clambered in with some difficulty. The woman turned the horse around and headed for Cross Bar.
Jake muttered, “This ain’t a good thing. This is a damn bad thing. Buchanan, he’s a good man. Why in tarnation hell did he have to come here at this time?”
She said, “There’s a bad time for everything, Jake.”
“And a good time, damn it.”
“Lots of good times. The bad times come and go. Man like you, he makes the good times come.”
He wanted to believe it. He slumped in the seat. His mind was clear enough. He saw things he did not want to see. He heard sounds he hated to hear. He would have preferred to sleep, but sleep would not come to him, not even when he was home and in Mrs. Bacon’s bed.
Six
For two days Buchanan rode the plain, sometimes with Coco, sometimes with Shawn Casey. He learned to appreciate the border collies and the McNabs, the work dogs who were gentle when need be and fierce if necessary. Because of the dogs, Casey explained, fewer herders were needed. Without the dogs it would have been impossible to control the herds.
Of the men engaged in herding, only Gowdy and Indian Joe seemed to be fighters. There was a Mexican, Manuel Cordova, who had pride and whose dogs were fighters at his command. He had no stomach for guns, he told Buchanan, nor did any of the other Casey employees.
However, for these two days there was peace. The sun shone; clouds made many-storied palaces floating high in the blue sky. All was calm.
On the third day Susan and Peter Wolf and Shawn Casey gathered at noon upon the handy hilltop that Buchanan had used for an observation post. The sheep browsed, and far away the cattle of Cross Bar were somnolent, bunched near the big house. Six men came riding from Sheridan, traversing the rough trail to the ranch. Buchanan unlimbered his field glasses.
His jaw hardened. He said, “Fritz Wilder. I’d know him anywhere, anytime.”
“Wilder?” asked Casey.
“The wildest. A boss gunslinger. Fast and mean.”
“Six of them to replace Semple and McGee,” said Susan. “And Miss Priss talked about peace and good will.”
Buchanan said mildly, “I wouldn’t reckon Claire had anything to do with it.”
“They’re here,” she retorted.
Peter Wolf said, “They’re here to wipe us out.” He had his rifle half out of the scabbard when Buchanan stopped him. “Better now than later.”
Shawn Casey said, “No, Peter. We can’t do that, you know.”
Buchanan returned to his field glasses. “Uh-huh. Shawn’s right. And looky yonder.”
He handed the glasses to Susan. She squinted and then said, “Robertson’s buggy. She’s drivin’. Miss Priss.”
“So we’ll talk.”
“I won’t believe a word,” said Susan.
Peter Wolf was silent, uneasy. Shawn Casey was hopeful. Buchanan waited, hoping for the best, fearing the worst. Fritz Wilder was evil; he was without compunction. Men who rode with him did his bidding or suffered grave consequences. It could be that Robertson wanted the gunslingers as a threat, a bulwark behind which he could command without resorting to violence. It could be that the owner of Cross Bar was about to deliver an ultimatum.
The riders below reined in. The carriage stopped and Robertson talked to the horsemen. Claire sat straight and aloof during the conversation, Buchanan noted.
He was certain that he had been right about the girl. Now, if only Peter Wolf would make his manners ... He put the thought aside. Peter had eyes only for Susan Casey.
Fritz Wilder and his men rode on toward Cross Bar and were soon out of sight beyond a ridge of land. Buchanan could see a herd of cattle to the south and sheep to the north. Down below to the west lay the ravine into which the sheep had been driven. It was, he thought, a proper spot for a meeting.
The carriage came slowly up the hill. Buchanan and the others dismounted. Claire tied up the reins to the buggy, and Jake tilted the springs getting to earth, bandy-legged, overweight, flushed. Claire was wearing a divided skirt and a blouse through which her creamy skin showed. She darted a glance at Peter Wolf, then looked away.
Claire said, “Papa, you haven’t met Susan Casey and her father, Mr. Shawn Casey.”
“Pleased, I’m sure.” Jake did not offer to shake hands. The smell of alcohol was strong on him. “You wanted a meetin’. This here’s a good place.” He waved a thick arm. “It’s all out yonder for everybody to see.”
Shawn Casey said, “Room enough for everybody.”
“If everybody will agree,” Buchanan said.
Jake glared at him. “You talk like you own some part of it. It ain’t yours to palaver about.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “On t’other hand, seems like you and your people sorta put me into it.”
“Please,” said Claire. “Can’t we talk about peace among us?”
Shawn Casey said, bowing, “That is my sincere hope.”
“Me too,” said Jake. He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Now, this here is a map.” He extended it to Casey. “Y’ see how I got it figured? That graze I marked is mine. I need every foot of it.”
Casey studied the map. “In other words—you need a hundred miles square. Why, that even covers the Crow reservation.”
“What I need I take. And I hold it.” He swelled up like a balloon. “Now, you hear. I offer you ten thousand dollars to build you a new house wherever you go.”
Susan gasped a
nd started forward. Peter Wolf restrained her. Buchanan laughed and everyone stared at him.
Buchanan said, “I’ll give you twenty thousand for your house and stables and all you got here, Jake.”
“You’re crazy, man.” Jake’s eyes popped.
“Plenty of graze in Wyoming, Montana. Easy drive for your beef. I don’t see anything wrong with the deal.”
Claire said, “Now, really, Mr. Buchanan.”
“You ... you are plumb loco,” stammered Jake.
“Could be. On t’other hand, Fritz Wilder and his guns don’t scare me all that much.”
“You done laid out two of my best men. I ain’t sayin’ you did wrong, the way it happened. But you done it, and I aim to protect myself.”
“Against Mr. and Mrs. Casey and their daughter?”
“And that breed and the Injuns roamin’ around.”
Buchanan motioned Peter Wolf to stay still. “And me?”
“By God and you, too, Buchanan! I knowed you a long time and I know how good you are. But I’m Jake Robertson, and nobody is goin’ to stop me from grazin’ my cattle.”
Buchanan waved an arm. “Your cows are eatin’ good.”
“I’m bringin’ in twice that many. You hear? I’m growin’. I aim to be the biggest cattleman in this here country.”
Buchanan said deliberately, “That’s the booze talkin’, Jake. There’s outfits like the Powers in Montana would eat you alive. Come down to earth and let’s talk sense. Like bobwire.”
“Bobwire!” Jake became apoplectic. “Bobwire! Buchanan, with my own hands I’ll shoot anybody strings wire.”
“You couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a shotgun,” Buchanan told him bluntly. “You just brought in a half dozen outlaws. Do you think the governor will stand for it?”
“I know he will! I know my right to defend myself.”
Buchanan shook his head. “You’re beatin’ a dead horse, Jake. Sober up and think it over.”
Claire spoke up suddenly, “Papa doesn’t want war. Honest he doesn’t. I don’t want war.” She was staring at Peter Wolf. “Why can’t we get together? Be partners. Share and share alike.”
Susan snapped, “Trust your father and his killers? Allow our sheep to be run over cliffs?”
Shawn Casey sighed. He handed the map back to Jake. “Mr. Robertson, let me think this over. And you think about it as well. Consider all the elements. The government has leased grazing rights to all of us. Think about that. Perhaps we can talk again.”
“There ain’t but one thing to talk on. Sheep ruin the grazin’ for the cattle. We got our rights and we can handle any little old thing comes up. That’s the whole of it.” He stalked back to the buggy.
Claire lingered, pleading. “Something can be done. Something must be done.”
Susan said, “Maybe you and Peter can figure out something.” She started for her horse.
Peter Wolf had turned brick red. Buchanan waved an arm. He said, “Somethin’ is bein’ done. Look yonder.” Under the bowl of cerulean Wyoming sky all was plainly visible. The Cross Bar riders were gathered, rolling cigarettes, talking. On the far side of the herd of cattle several young men on ponies were working with incredible speed. While Jake hollered to high heaven, they were cutting out a dozen fleet young steers, expertly gathering them, driving them westward.
“Shoot off a gun, damn it!” yelled Jake. “Get them knuckleheads started after ’em.”
“Don’t have a gun among us,” said Buchanan. “This here was a peace meetin’, remember?”
“Claire, get in the damn buggy,” Jake howled.
“Not me, Papa,” said Claire. “It’s downhill and risky. Texas buggies turn over too easy.”
Jake gathered up the reins and whipped the horse. It was downhill all the way, and the weight of the buggy was not equal to the speed of the animal. In twenty yards the vehicle turned over. Jake bounced loose, rolling over and over. He sat up, waved a fist and began running.
Buchanan said, “By the time he gets there, the Crow on the reservation will be eatin’ prime ribs.”
“Walking Elk is ridin’ today,” said Susan. “Now, Miss Robertson, how do you like seeing your stock run off?”
Claire said, “We can spare them. I’ve heard the Indian agent isn’t feeding the Crows well enough.”
Susan was baffled. “You do catch on to a lot of things. If only your father could see through a hole in a millstone.”
“My father ... He is still my father,” said Claire. She looked at Peter Wolf. “Could you give me a lift back to the ranch?”
There was a moment when it seemed he would refuse. Then he coughed and gave her a hand up into his saddle. He did not mount. He led the horse down the hill to Cross Bar.
Susan said, “She sure dotes on him.”
“Kinda one-sided,” said Buchanan. He was watching the Indians drive the stolen cattle into the woods. His heart was heavy. Jake would never hold still for it, he knew. The Cross Bar riders would go in pursuit. There was really no place for Walking Elk to hide from a determined search. No good would come of it in the end.
Susan was saying, “Maybe it would solve everything if Peter took up with her.”
“It could make things ten times worse. To Jake a half-breed is lower than a snake’s belly. No, my dear, there’s no way out that I can see.”
“Except to fight.”
“Uh-huh.” It was a fight against odds as huge as he had ever faced.
Shawn Casey said, “I’m against fighting. I hate violence. But there does come a time.”
Susan started. “You will stay and fight, Father?”
“Ten thousand dollars. That did it. We built that house to live in,” Casey said to Buchanan. “It’s our home.”
“Uh-huh,” said Buchanan. “A home.” He thought of Billy Button and how it had been necessary to defend the ranch in New Mexico and how they had nearly lost it and what it had meant to them all. “Reckon I know about that.”
He brought his field glasses to bear. Walking Elk and his men and the cattle were gone into the woods. The Cross Bar men had awakened as the herd milled and were riding in pursuit. Jake was down to a walk, obstinately making his way to the scene of action.
“Nothin’ to do here,” said Buchanan. “Might’s well go back home and think about whatever.”
Whatever wasn’t much to bank upon, he thought. They rode under the faultless blue bowl of a sky.
Once into the trees Walking Elk said, “Crazy Bird, you and Eagle Feather cut brush.”
They obeyed, tying it to their blanket saddles with braided lariats of their own manufacture. Again they rode hard, finding passages in the forest known only to them, their tracks covered from anyone less astute than the most canny plainsman. Night came and on they went, tireless, to an arroyo wherein grew grass for grazing. There Walking Elk delegated one disconsolate brave to stand as sentinel and keep the cattle from straying.
The tiny stream which trickled into the arroyo had become a small river from the rains. They bathed in it, gleeful, boasting of how they had fooled the white eyes and taken the cattle for meat.
Walking Elk donned his clean leggings and shirt and summoned Crazy Bird. “Leave only the guard. We will now go to the old men.”
Crazy Bird, second in command, a thoughtful youth, asked, “Is that wise, brother? The old men do not believe as we do.”
“We must make them see. They must believe.”
“They are blinded by defeat. We know this.”
“They are being cheated. The sign will be clear. It is a time to strike while the cowman and the sheep man fight each other.”
If Crazy Bird had doubts, this was no time to show them and he knew it. Walking Elk was riding the crest of his triumph, driving now for his ultimate dream. The five braves followed in single file, taking devious routes to the reservation. It was late and the fires were low when they arrived.
They made their way to the main lodge, where a low fire burned within.
&
nbsp; They were summoned inside. Lone Eagle stood tall, gazing at them, his visage stern.
“So you have returned.”
“With good news, my chief,” said Walking Elk. “The white eyes are fighting each other. We have taken beef for the warriors. It is safely hidden in the place you know. It is time to arm and strike!”
“Strike.” The chieftain seemed to grow taller. “And you have provided meat. For how many? How many rifles have you?”
“We have a hidden store of guns.”
“Muskets. Worn-out rifles. Pistols, unsafe. We know what you have stolen, Walking Elk.”
“The meat ...”
“Do you think they will not know it if we have fresh meat not provided by the agent? Do you think they will not be searching? Fool! You could bring us all down. Forget you ever stole the meat!”
“It is the time, I tell you! We will send to our brethren. They will come with us. Yellow Hair was killed, his men with him. It can be done again!”
“And you will lead them. Yes, you have always wanted that. I have watched you. I have noted with great sadness that you are not of these times.”
“I am of my time!”
“Too little and too late,” said the chief. “You have never seen the bluecoats ride. You cannot accept the massacres. Even now you could bring the wrath of the white man down upon the women and children and the old people of this tribe.”
“I say we can fight!”
“And be slain.” A woman moved in the background; a child whimpered. Lone Eagle pointed a long arm. “You will go, Walking Elk. You will find your rainbow, but there will be death at the end. You must not bring that to us. You may depart in peace this time. But do not return until you have seen the error of your ways.”
“I will go. You will live to be sorry. I am sending to the Blackfoot, the Sioux, for help. You shall see.” He shook a fist. “I am ashamed to be a Crow! There is no longer courage in you.”
He dashed out of the lodge. Crazy Bird followed, shaking his head. They went to their horses.
Crazy Bird said, “Lone Eagle is a wise man. He has fought the bluecoats.”
“He is an old fool!” said Walking Elk.