by Jonas Ward
In another moment, they would have the range. He made a last great leap, and as a bullet zipped past his head, he gained the door of the barn.
Durkin said in his hard voice, "Well, you made it. What you got in your head?"
"How do you feel about it?"
Durkin thrust out his prominent jaw. "You gonna come out here with me?"
Buchanan thought a moment. "Uh-huh. You two come into the house when the light fails. Durkin and me, we'll see how it goes. There'll be people on the roof of the house. That suit you?"
Durkin looked at the cowboys. "You heard him."
"Yeah. And you ain't got a ghost of a chance if they make a rush," said Cactus.
"And if we ain't—then you'll be in a hell of a fix when they take the barn," said Buchanan.
"Six of one, half a dozen of the other," Durkin remarked. "Thing is, I wouldn't have a chance nohow unless we stop 'em right here. Them people in there, they ain't my kind. I'm lookin' out for me. I ain't no hero."
"Most heroes are dead," said Buchanan.
"I noticed."
"I'll be goin' in now. You want to cover me?"
Durkin said, "Not particular. I ain't so crazy about you neither, y' know."
"I figured."
"But every gun counts, and you got them people buffaloed into believin' you're the second comin'. So git goin'." Durkin took his rifle and went to the door at the west end of the barn. The cowboys hesitated, then joined him.
Buchanan began to run. There were shots that came too close. He flung himself down on the ground and rolled for the cover of the corral.
The three guns from the barn began to speak in unison. Buchanan did not wait to learn the results. He jumped up and continued on his way pell mell. Amanda held the door open, and he dove into the kitchen, sliding with his head under the table.
Amanda slammed the door and knelt beside him. "Are you hurt? Did they get you?"
"Might's well. Scared me to death." Buchanan sat up. "You sure do look pretty when you get exercised."
She flushed and stood up, moving toward the stove. "We couldn't do without you, now, could we?"
"You might not do too good with me," he told her.
The sun was going down. Buchanan went into the other room and made his announcement, two more guns in the house, Trevor and the Whelans on the roof because they could be trusted.
"Coco, Weevil, you keep your eyes on Cactus and Sutter. They make a wrong move, you, Weevil, you shoot 'em. Coco won't do it, and he ain't able to scrag 'em."
"You still don't trust them?" asked Trevor.
"Nope. Could be Durkin wants to get me, figurin' them to take over the house."
"Then why not put them on the roof with us?"
"You'll be too busy to watch 'em close enough." He looked at Weevil. "You seein' straight now?"
"Fine, thankee." He picked a revolver from the armament on the long table. "Up close I can get 'em both. I ■ think."
Kovacs said quietly, "I watch. If I got to, I get one."
"Good."
"I do not like," Kovacs said. "But I do it."
"Nobody likes any of this," Buchanan told him. Prob'ly some people out yonder don't like it, neither."
But Kovacs was unhappy, he knew. The man had not complained, but it had to be a fearful time for him, his wife, and their adopted Indian girl. Amanda seemed tougher, more dedicated. The Whelans knew what had to be done and would carry through. Trevor was somewhat detached but willing.
The problem was that they all looked to Buchanan, who had no stake in the fight—all excepting Durkin, perhaps. Someone had to outmaneuver the enemy and none but Buchanan had the experience and the quality of leadership. Except, perhaps, Durkin again. He went to the door and set himself for the short run. He called to the people on the roof, and they laid down a line of fire.
He made the quick dash. This time only two shots came close, but either one would have killed him. He wondered if his luck was gradually running short.
Durkin greeted him. "Looks like rain. You fix things up with them in the house?"
"Anytime your boys want to try and make it."
Durkin said to the cowboys, "You seen Buchanan do it. Make up your minds."
They hesitated, looking at one another. Then Cactus went to the door. Buchanan joined Durkin. Trevor waved from the rooftop, and they began to fire. Cactus darted toward the house where Amanda held the door open. He made it.
Sutter said, "Well, here goes nothin'."
He lowered his head and went in a bull rush. He was a heavy man and lacked speed, agility.
He was almost to the house when he went down, one leg knocked from under him. Buchanan, watching even as he fired at the sharpshooters on the knoll, saw him fall.
He said, "Keep at it, Durkin," and ran.
He made his zigzag pattern. As he came close to Sutter, the bullets were raining about him. Without breaking stride, he picked up the heavy man and hurled him through the open door, following, dragging Sutter past Amanda. The door slammed and Amanda's white face betrayed her fear.
Raven came. They stretched Sutter on the table. The bullet had gone cleanly through the calf of his leg. The Indian girl went to work on it as though she had been trained in a first-class hospital.
Sutter looked up at Buchanan. "Much obliged. They woulda filled me with lead if you hadn't come along."
Cactus said, "Never did see a man so damn strong. Sutter, he ain't no lightweight."
"Just you two help these people in here," Buchanan said. "Just try and make a fight."
Sutter winced, then grinned. "Thought we might cross yawl, didn'tcha, Buchanan?"
"It ran through my mind."
"Ran through ours, too. Like they might've paid us off big if we pulled it out for 'em."
Buchanan said, "You wouldn't have got away with it. So don't do us any favors. Just be good boys."
He took a deep breath. He looked at the barn door. It seemed as though it had moved farther away from the house. Twilight was coming on, and he could wait and diminish the risk. But Durkin was out there alone. It was wrong to leave a man to himself at a time like this.
Buchanan ran. Again they came close to hitting him. He did not know if it was closer than before, but he could not shake off the feeling that sooner or later one of those bullets would bear his name.
Durkin was staring out through the gathering darkness toward the enemy on the knoll. They would furnish the problem of the coming night. The sharpshooters in the trees would not attack lest they be cut down in the clearing is front of the house.
Buchanan said, "Sutter got it in the leg, nice and clean."
"Hadda happen. Thought they might get you this time."
"Uh-huh," said Buchanan. "Had the same thought myself."
"Yuh never know," said Durkin. He glanced at Buchanan. "Mighty white of you, pickin' up Sutter. You don't even know him or nothin'."
"'Seems like a good enough man."
"Just about," said Durkin. " 'Twas a big thing to do. I ain’t forgettin' it."
They settled down to wait. As always, waiting was the worst of it.
Now it began to rain, a steady, dismal drizzle. Buchanan glared at the knoll; he sensed there was much activity back there. There had been little firing from that direction in the last hour.
No light shone from the house, lest the inhabitants be lined as targets for the men in the trees. Once in a while, there was a flash of lightning and Trevor and the Whelans tried to pick off those across from them with little success.
Durkin said, "Buchanan, you mind when we first butted heads?”
"A long while ago. East Texas," said Buchanan.
"We was youngsters. There was that Fourth of July turkey shoot and fair."
"I remember." He wondered what they could be up to out of his sight and sound, behind that hill.
"I was bigger'n you, then. There was a little gal named Susie Brown. I was courtin' her."
"That I don't remember."
"You
won the turkey. You won the sack race. You won the potato race. Then we rassled."
"Uh-huh. I remember that. You were strong as an ox."
"Yeah. And you throwed me."
"A trick," said Buchanan. "Pa taught me."
"Susie Brown, she went home with you."
"She did, now?" He thought he heard harness creaking. He wished Durkin would stop reminiscing.
"Never would go with me no more. From that day, I swore to get to be a bigger and better man than you, Buchanan. I worked. I saved. Lost it all a couple times. Oh, I heard about you. Ran across you in El Paso that time. Seems to me you didn't have nothin'. I was gatherin' some beef, then."
"That's right. You were doin' right good." A wagon wheel squealed beyond the knoll.
"You moved up and down and around. You ain't got a thing except what you carry on you. Right?"
"Yep," said Buchanan. "That's correct."
"I got land. Paid for. I got cattle grazin' that land. I got a nice house and am lookin' for a bride."
"That's right fine." Now there were voices, but he could not distinguish a word that was said.
"Yep. I finally had things goin' good. Then this happened. Never would knuckle down, you know that. Bound to prove I'm a better man than you."
Buchanan couldn't see the man's face, but the seriousness of his mien was patent in his voice. "Why, that's okay with me. I like what I do. I hope you live to own Wyoming, Durkin."
"And here you come. Ready to fight. Nothin' to gain. . Just a damn hero."
"Nope," said Buchanan. "Scared. And hooked into it without meanin' to take a hand."
"Yeah? Well, when this is over you are goin' to answer to me, Buchanan. We'll see who's the best man."
"You'll have to get in line," Buchanan said. "Coco's first."
There was more noise behind that knoll. He was certain he detected the reflected light of torches. He had to know what was going on. Again a wagon wheel creaked.
"I dunno what you're talkin' about. But we'll see who's who." Durkin was becoming agitated by his long-standing grievance. His voice grew louder, he swung his long, heavy arms. "You hear me? You're gonna have to show me. This time I'm gonna beat out what little brains you got."
He peered into the darkness. The rain fell gently on the roof of the barn. He reached out a hand.
"Buchanan?"
There was no reply. He whirled around.
"You hidin'on me?"
Still no answer. Suddenly Durkin felt alone. He dared sot strike a taper and make himself a target. He swung around the barn, calling Buchanan's name. It took him a few moments to realize what had happened. He shook himself together, bringing his mind to the present.
He listened. He looked. He cursed beneath his breath. Then he levered a shell into the chamber of his rifle and eased out of the barn, a squat, heavy man prowling into blackness, feeling the rain on his face, going in a circle, approaching the scene of activity behind the little hill.
Buchanan was already out there. He was in the open, so if a sudden wind should come up and dispel the clouds he would be in a very unpleasant position indeed. At least he didn't have to listen to Durkin, he thought, applying all his plainsmanship to sneaking around the north-flank of the knoll. He stopped and listened again. Wagon springs creaked as though someone was loading up. He was getting closer to the enemy ranks. He heard Morgan Crane’s loud voice, and a man laughed, and he thought that was Jigger Dorn. He flattened himself and crawled on wet grass.
Then he saw the torches planted in the ground. There was the wagon with the squeaky wheel. It was almost to the top of the knoll, and it was headed for the barn. There were men behind it, but no horses to pull it.
Dealer Fox was giving orders. Pollard was talking to men who now aligned themselves on the side of the wagon that would not be exposed to fire from the house or the barn.
There was a steady fire from the trees at the front of the house now. It was a much steadier attack than before.
Morgan Crane yelled, "Make sure you get the damn fuses lit in time."
"Yeah," Buchanan breathed. "Thank goodness for one big mouth tonight, anyway."
They were getting ready, he saw. He moved with speed down into the path the wagon must take to get to the barn. Now he wished he had brought out Trevor or the Whelans to help. Durkin might do some good from the barn....
A shot sounded. One of the men at the wagon went down. There was a shout. The wagon began to move, propelled by the men behind it and alongside it. It picked up speed going down the hill.
Durkin's powerful voice echoed in the night, "Buchanan! Where the hell are you? They're gonna blow up the damn barn!"
Twenty men behind the hill turned guns toward the sound of the voice. Buchanan lay flat and began firing as swiftly as he could pull the trigger.
There could be no help from the house. They were out of that line of fire. Durkin still shot into the mass of the enemy. Men fell, there was confusion . . . but the wagon was rolling rapidly, and now Buchanan saw the glow of the tip of a fuse.
He emptied the rifle. Then he began to run. Durkin was still shooting. Men scrambled away from the wagon. They had lashed the front axle so that it would remain on course. He stumbled over a prone body, recovered himself. As he twisted around, he caught a glimpse of Durkin, who had rushed into the light of the torches.
The underslung rancher had his revolver in his hand. He was fanning it, not bothering to aim. The attention of the entire crew was on him.
They fired at him. He went down on one knee. He reached behind his neck and yanked out a long, gleaming Bowie knife. He rushed at them.
Buchanan gulped. He was at the tailgate of the wagon. He tossed the rifle aboard. He grabbed hold with both hands and vaulted into the body of the wagon.
He had to go by the feel of things, now. He saw the spark of the fuse. It led to a box, upon which was stacked another box. There was enough dynamite to blow up half the county. The rain had stopped, but everything was slippery and greasy. He scrabbled with his hands.
All the men had fallen or been shot away from the wagon. Buchanan stumbled and fell as the speed decreased. There was just enough momentum to reach the barn. They had timed it well.
One hand touched the fuse. He snuffed it out. He clambered at once to the seat of the wagon. There was still danger that it would collide with the stone barn and that a spark would set off the whole thing.
He reached for the wagon pole, which had been lashed to keep the axle from swerving. He took it in his hands and braced his feet, swinging out with all his might.
He felt something give. The front wheels spun loose. He came down on the pole. His muscles swelled to bursting under the strain.
He pointed the wagon north and slightly away from the barn. He exerted the last remnant of his enormous power. Inch by inch, he fought the wagon to a standstill. Leaning hard against it, he sagged against the pole for a moment, drawing deep breath into his aching lungs.