by Jonas Ward
"They'd pick us off like settin' ducks," said Tanner. "Men ain't gonna just go and be shot down."
"They're bein' paid to fight. In advance. We got a heap of money invested here."
"Sure you do. And they figger to live to spend it." Tanner laughed. "Only thing you got goin' is the women. They'd like to git hold of them women."
Bradbury stirred. Tanner cast him a contemptuous glance. The wagon squeaked its way out of the glade. No one had bothered to grease the axles. There were too many men from different parts of the country and no one man to maintain strict order, which was a weakness. If he could get out of there, he thought, he might rid himself of complicity in the entire operation.
He said, "About the telegraph line, Dealer. Maybe I better take a couple men and make sure it stays down."
"Best idea you had yet," said Fox. He turned to Dorn. "Send three men to keep that wire down. Don't kill anybody. Just keep 'em away from where it's cut."
"Right," said Dorn.
Fox looked at Bradbury. "No way you can duck outa this, you know. We're in it together now."
A shaft of sunlight cut through the branches of the trees and fell upon the face of Bradbury's longtime neighbor and associate. "Why, Dealer, you're scared! You're as scared as I am!"
Fox ducked his head into shade. "Maybe I am. Maybe this won't go like it should. But by God, I'm stickin'. I ain't runnin' out like an old woman."
"Stickin'," said Bradbury. "I suppose that makes you a man."
"It makes out that we got everything at stake here, and I don't give a damn who suffers, I'm savin' my own skin."
Bradbury nodded. "Yes. Lookin' back, I see it. You was always out to save your hide. All the way through. You and that fool Morgan Crane. He thinks you're real clever. Maybe you are, Dealer, maybe you are. But this time, you and Morgan bit off a big chaw."
Fox turned abruptly away. He walked to where the old killer, Dab Geer, sat honing a Bowie knife. He motioned toward Bradbury with his head, and Geer showed toothless gums in a leer. It was better to talk with Morgan and Pollard at this time. They had no trepidation, they knew the stone house could be destroyed with all who were inside.
Bradbury debated with himself. He could shoot Geer with the rifle from where he sat. He could get to his horse and make a run for it. He might even be able to send a message to the governor asking help, thus removing himself from the siege and all that it stood for.
But he could not bring Adam Day back to life. The town knew. Pollard had been at the lynching, and Pollard was Bradbury's man. The parade of the corpse through the town had labeled him. The fight with Buchanan-— everyone knew what was involved. Trevor's abdication, the burning of Trevor's place, a stupid operation now that he thought about it. Nobody believed the story about Trevor and Fay Whelan. Only fools would think up such nonsense to make a case for themselves.
Dealer was right. They were in it together. They were in for it in every manner and fashion. The only way out was to destroy the witnesses and hope the word of the Cattleman's Association and their hired guns would prevail.
If he had only thought it through beforehand, if Buchanan had only arrived earlier, before the lynching . . . His mind boggled. He sat staring at the gun in his hands, an aging man lost in his own land.
On the lee side of the knoll, Dealer Fox spoke privately to Morgan Crane. "Supposin' somebody does repair the telegraph wire before our men can get to it?"
"Dammit to hell, why didn't we leave a guard on it?"
"We didn't. So we got to move fast. We got to get to that barn, then to the house."
"Yeah. You're right, Dealer. Blow up the damn place." Morgan Crane stared down the lee side of the small hill. "How we goin' to do that? There's too much open space yonder twixt us and the barn."
"Sime," called Dealer Fox. "Sime!"
The foreman of Bar-B strolled up from the wagon, a seamy-faced man, a veteran of the cattle drives, the honky-tonks, the gambling dens. "Got enough ammunition, all right. Now what is it?"
"The barn," Crane said in his harsh manner. "Gotta get the dynamite and stuff down there and blow 'em out."
Pollard looked at Fox. "He gone crazy or somethin'?"
"It's got to be done and quick."
"You're gettin' the wind up," Pollard said. "Slow down. They got us stopped for a while."
Fox said, "The telegraph wire. Somebody could send for troops, militia."
Pollard shrugged. "That's your business. There's nobody here would try and get to that stable in daytime. And I ain't too sure about night."
Fox bit at a fingernail. "All right. Night. We'll try it after dark."
"We? You goin' down there?" Pollard grinned.
"I'll damn well go," yelled Crane. "What's got into you, Sime? How come you're speakin' up so biggety?"
"My neck's on the line," Pollard told him. "Half the men we got here came on account of I sent for 'em. They ain't makin' any brash moves without me okayin' 'em. See?"
Fox said hastily, "We appreciate, Sime. We know what you done ... are doin'. But we got to move fast."
Pollard said, "I'll think on it." He went back to the wagon, speaking to the men, ordering the safe storage of the explosives and the boxes of ammunition, not looking back at the ranchmen.
Crane growled, "Brad never could handle him. Spoiled him rotten. He needs to be took down a peg or two."
"Brad's already been taken down," mused Fox. He won't ever be the same man."
"The others don't count," said Crane. "They ain't here, they won't mean nothin' when this is over."
"Right." The other members of the association had not been consulted. They would not interfere, but neither would they take part in the siege, Fox knew. They were spread far and wide over Wyoming and southern Montana and would leave everything to Bradbury, Fox, and Crane, providing only the funds from the common treasury and silent support. It could be an opportunity to move into a commanding position in the cattle business of two states. "Morgan?"
"Yeah?"
"If Brad and Sime don't come outa this alive that makes us boss. Right?"
"Brad won't show himself to get kilt. Pollard? I dunno."
"Sime's got all those gunners with him. Might be a good idea to take care of him afore he tries somethin' on his own."
Crane considered. "Dorn's my man. Maybe Tanner and Geer, too. They got a few will stick."
Fox nodded. "First we blow up them damn rustlers and such. Then we take care of Brad and Sime."
"Take care of 'em?" Crane was always slow.
"One way or another. They're dangerous."
"Dangerous? Yeah ... well, okay."
Fox was staring at the wagon. He said, "I got it."
"Yeah?" Crane's mind could never quite keep up.
"The wagon. Come dark, they can use it for cover. Wheel it down to the barn. See how that could work?"
"Hey, you always do think up somethin' good. Lemme go tell Sime."
"No," said Fox. "Not now. Wait."
"Why wait, Dealer?"
"Let Pollard stew a bit. Then we'll spring it on him."
"If you say so. I'm gonna send a few more rounds trough them windows. Might get somebody lucky. Wish I could get at that Trevor. Or Buchanan."
'""Maybe you will, Morgan. Maybe you will." He watched the big man go for his rifle. Maybe it would be a good idea if Trevor or Buchanan got Crane, he thought. Then there would only be one supreme outfit in the country. People were so damn stupid, they got in a man's way. . . . They had been his friends, but in his life, he had found that friendship could be costly.
Buchanan was on the roof. He had an old-fashioned spyglass that Jenny Kovacs had produced, saying, "Vas my father's." There was no action near any tree that could command high gun against the house. Trevor, then the Whelans, and now Buchanan had been able to sweep that section and keep it clear.
The firing from the barn had been sporadic. The wide doors at each end were parallel to the zone of enemy fire, and Durkin's men had to be wary of sho
wing themselves. There was no way that Buchanan could yet be certain of Durkin. Only time would tell about his true loyalty. He had his own food and guns and ammunition—and his own notions.
There were hollow, ringing sounds from below, then a cry of pain. Trevor came onto the roof, crawling to Buchanan.
"The elder Thorne," he said. "Add one to the wounded."
"I've been thinking about that," said Buchanan. He handed the spyglass to Trevor. "I'll send the Whelans up. This is the best possible place long as there's light to aim by."
"Right-o."
Buchanan went below. The Indian girl was already attending to Pa Thorne, who had been hit in the chest by a ricochet. The wound seemed serious enough and Buchanan went into action. He removed the mattress from a bed and figured angles, then hung it on the wall.
He said, "Get everything that'll prevent a bullet from bouncin' around. Rugs, pillows, everything. Look at where they been hittin', cover that spot. Sorry about your belongin's, Jenny, Pieter."
"Is nothing." But their eyes proved they were not telling the whole truth. They had built and furnished a house of which they were proud, and now it was being ripped apart.
Raven called, "I think you had better come, Mr. Buchanan."
Pa Thorne was stretched on the long table. He was breathing with difficulty. A lung had been punctured, Buchanan knew at once. The pale eyes were losing what little _ light had been in them.
Thorne whispered, "What you said about the nigra. I thought on it I don't want to go with my evil beliefs on my conscience."
"Well, then, you don't have to worry," Buchanan told him. "You made it up, thinkin' on it."
The dying man looked at his son. "See? I ain't got no bad feelin's no more. It's all right. You fight 'em, Sonny."
"You'll be all right, Pa. Don't talk like that."
"Never did have much good lungs," said Pa Thorne. He coughed once, then closed his eyes. Raven shook her head, touching him.
"He's gone," said Buchanan. He picked up the body, wrapping the blanket about it. He carried it into the corner of the second bedroom and deposited it there. It was another problem, corpses could not be stacked like logs, there had to be a disposition of them. He found Sonny Thorne behind him, dry-eyed but solemn.
"Comes night, we'll bury him," Buchanan said.
"Yes. ye know, I'm wonderin'. Pa and the way we live. Raisin' hawgs, gettin' drunk in town, seein' the whores. Tain't much of a life."
"It's what you and him were fightin' for," Buchanan said.
"Y' know, the association never even made us an offer."
"They didn't have to, Sonny."
"I know, you're plumb right. They'd just gobble us up." His knuckles tightened on the old rifle he had not relinquished. "They got Pa, all right. But by God, they ain't got me yet. I aim to git me a couple of 'em afore they do."
He went to a window and stared out. A bullet whizzed post his head and struck one of the cloth mufflers the Kovacs and Amanda had hung. Sonny poked out the gun and returned the fire, wildly, just to serve notice.
Buchanan went across to where Coco was sitting up in bed. "You feelin' more like yourself?"
"That ole Injun gal," Coco said wonderingly. "She is pure voodoo."
"Not voodoo. Crow Indian. They know a lot of things."
"Prettiest hi ole gal I ever did see." Coco was not usually interested in females; he was a dedicated prizefighter, always in top condition in case a bout should be offered. When the urge became too strong, he had always been able to find a house that obliged with a convenient black woman. "Her hands are like the wings of doves."
"Doves?" Buchanan stared. "Like doves?"
"You just don't understand. You just a big bullyboy. That gal's healin' me. It's a plain miracle."
"I'M a big bullyboy? YOU are a little flower? I-swan, Coco, you must still be possessed by the fever."
"Go tend to your fightin'," said Coco. "I get up outa here, I'm goin' to whup you all over Wyomin'."
"That's better," said Buchanan. He looked at Weevil. "What about you?"
"Had the dizzys. They whomped me so on the head that my eyes got crossed. Like Coco says, the gal knows what to do. Gimme a gun anytime you're ready. I can do any-thin' but scout. A one-legged scout won't cut it."
Buchanan nodded. It was time to check with Durkin in the barn. He went into the kitchen. Amanda was again putting together sandwiches.
"Food holdin' out?" he asked her.
"Everybody brought some. But there are a lot of mouths to feed. Have some soup."
It was best to eat when he could get it, there would come a time when he'd miss meals, he knew. She paused to watch him, smiling secretly. He was uneasy.
"It ain't funny. One of us gone already," he said.
"I know. You make it plain." Still she smiled at the corners of her mouth, with her eyes. "You do go all the way. You don't mince words."
"Wouldn't be right to cheat people with promises. In this kind of a fight, everybody should feel like he or she won't get it. Correct. But you can't get around the odds."
"We face the odds every day of our lives," she told him. "I'm thinking of the time when this is over."
"That's good."
"Of you and me. We'll be ... friends."
Again he noted how each varying emotion transfigured her, made her interesting, even beautiful. "Sure. We'll be friends. If we live."
Raven came into the kitchen and accepted soup. He had yet to see her really smile. She moved always to where she was most needed, silent, graceful. He could imagine how Coco felt about her.
She said, "Your fighting man is afraid of guns, isn't he?"
"He tell you that?" ;
"He spoke of many things he will not remember."
"Yeah, the fever. But he does hate guns. Scared? No. I never knew Coco to be scared."
"A fine man," she said, stating it as a fact.
"You oughta hear what he says about you."
"I have heard." Now she did smile slightly, her eyes widening. "It is nice to know what a man feels."
"You'll know a heap about men before you're through," he told her, grinning.
She sobered immediately, lowering her eyes to the soup. He had met nuns like her, he thought, dedicated to others, selfless.
He finished the soup and went to the back door. The sun still shone as it dipped toward the mountains. Clouds billowed in the sky. The open door of the barn seemed a mile away. The sharpshooters in the trees and on the knoll were watching. Every so often they would fire a shot on the chance of hitting someone.
Buchanan hitched up his pants. Without warning, he opened the door and began to run toward the stable. He heard Amanda gasp, "No!" behind him. He zigged and zagged. He could cover ground like a grizzly, with deceptive speed.
Bits of lead tore the ground before him and behind him.