by Jonas Ward
It was Jigger Dorn and Dealer Fox and Morgan Crane who appeared from the shelter of the trees. They walked only a few steps and stopped.
Fox called, "Where's Buchanan?"
"Never mind him," Cactus replied. "We wanta talk terms. We wanta know if you'll let us all go."
"Listen at the cowpoke," said Crane. "It's some kinda trick," Jigger Dorn said, grinning like a death's head. "Get 'em."
Buchanan grabbed a rifle from the table. Shots rang out. Dorn was firing his revolver. Buchanan got off one shot, then Coco slammed the door.
Buchanan ran to the window. Dorn was down. The others had already dashed back to safety. Every gun from the trees and from the knoll began to shoot. Lead poured at the house. Cactus and Sutter lay in a pool of blood. Buchanan said dully, "You might want to see, Pieter. You might want to learn what good it does to talk to those people out there."
He turned away, sick at heart. Now they would be coming in force, he was certain of that. Trevor was hurt. The Kovacses, looking wan and lost, crept away to their bedroom. He went to where Sonny Thome lay.
He knelt and felt for a heartbeat. There was none. The young hog farmer was dead. Cactus and Sutter had done damage before paying the price.
He went to the deep closet in which he had placed the boxes of dynamite. They would come with the wagons, he knew. They had discovered a way to have some protection when they attacked.
He opened the box and selected three sticks. He tied im together with wire. He fingered a detonating cap. It was necessary to soften the dynamite to insert the cap the way he wanted it.
He struck a taper and lit the stub of a candle-he had c in the barn. He held it steady. One wrong move and he would blow up the house, and at the moment, it mattered a bit less to him than it had before.
The moment passed. He inserted the cap. He attached a short piece of the fuse.
He remained in the closet. He had six caps, he wanted to make a half-dozen bombs. He was not altogether certain that he had done the job properly. Once, he thought he might have gone too far. Once, he was afraid he might set off a spark and finish everything right then and there.
He persisted. It was going to be a bad night, as bad as any he had ever known. He drew a deep breath and went out to the kitchen.
Trevor's right shoulder was bandaged, the healing Indian poultice was in place. Amanda was once more getting food together. Her face was pale and she did not smile.
Trevor said, "Good bit of luck I'm ambidextrous. Shoot with either hand, you know?"
"You'll get your chance." Buchanan dropped heavily into a chair. Coco came and sat beside him. "It'll be a doozer tonight, I promise you that."
"The Whelans?" Trevor was cool.
"I'll talk to them. If the attack is on the house, we’ll bring 'em in. We'll need every gun. We'll need Amanda and Coco to reload."
"I can shoot," Amanda said flatly. "If I must, I can shoot at them."
"Just keep the gun loaded," said Buchanan. He looked at Coco. "Think you could get up on the roof with me?"
"I can do it."
"I got me a bit of an idea," said Buchanan.
"If they come all the way, with more than one wagon..."
"I'm countin' on it."
He looked at Pieter and Jenny, clinging to one another, completely lost, now, hopeless, abandoned. He went to stand before them.
"It's just too late," he said kindly. "It's gone too far. You saw what happened; we lost three guns tryin' to talk to those people out there."
They did not reply. He sighed and went to the back door. Amanda was waiting, knowing he was heading for the barn and the Whelans.
She said, "You tried. Don't blame yourself."
"It is their house," he said. "Their barn, their land. Maybe we should've made the fight somewhere else. But it had to be made. More and more, I know it had to be made."
She reached for his hand. "Win or lose, we'll make the fight."
He returned the pressure. Then he ran for the barn with food in his pockets. The Whelans were staunch, he thought. He would remain with them for a while. He needed to know what the enemy was planning. He felt looser in the barn, from which he might venture a scout again if necessary.
Dealer Fox stood in a wagon behind the knoll and sipped out whiskey rations. He was guarded by Tanner and Geer, both well plied with liquor. Tin cups were filled, emptied, passed around.
Morgan Crane had his own bottle. He was frustrated, angry. "Got to git goin'," he repeated over and over. "Got to git them bastards where I want 'em."
Sime Pollard, notably sober, stared at the men. "Only way this bunch'll get us there is if they're stone drunk. I got the shooters in the rear guard where they might do good."
“Git 'em all up there," roared Crane. "Git every damn up there."
Pollard said, "No."
“You tellin' me?" Crane whirled around, feom the wagon Fox said, "He's right, Morgan. We agreed; he's in charge of deployin' the men."
“I dunno," shouted Crane. "You and him. You let that greaser Miguel scare you off. You let Brad and his woman
sit there, no tellin' what they're up to. I dunno but it's time somebody else took charge here."
"Like you?" asked Fox.
“Like this affair's got to be finished tonight," Crane declared. "We still got a hundred men. If they can't get down there and wipe out that lousy little crew of rustlers and turncoats and whatnot, then there's somethin' damn wrong.".
"Buchanan," muttered Pollard. "That's what's been wrong all along. Buchanan."
Fox continued to dish out seconds and thirds to those who wanted the whiskey. If they became wild enough, he thought, they would charge through any gunfire and reach the windows of the house and throw in the torches he had ready for them. Once the place was afire the rats would have to depart the house. Then it would be all over in a minute or two, and the burying could begin and the story embroidered for public release.
Now one of the crew began to lead a group in song, "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord . . ."
It was not tuneful, but it was loud and it raised the hackles of men who had sympathized with the South ia 1861. A long, screaming Rebel yell mounted to the oblivious stars, and the dissidents were shouting, " 'Way down south in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away, look away, look away, Dixieland .,."
In a jiffy, they were facing each other, brandishing knives, fists, tin cups. Fox had stacked the rifles, but one man drew a hideout short gun.
Morgan Crane drove among them swinging his fists. Pollard buffaloed the man with the gun. They milled in a confused welter of violence.
Fox said, "Fire over their heads. Damn, they'll kill each other off."
Tanner and Geer obliged. Bullets flew close enough to the embattled men to cause them to duck. Pollard laid out another man.
Fox shouted, "That damn war's long since over, This one right here's what you're bein' paid for—better money than you ever got from the gov'ment."
They were quiet under the lash. Someone hollered. "More whiskey, that's the game, boys."
Fox doled it out in smaller quantities. It had been a narrow escape. Mob spirit had to be controlled, directed. The trouble was that the best of the shooters had died in the earlier, brave attempts on the house. He prayed for another hour, and then it would be over. All but taking care of Bradbury and his wife, he added to himself. That was another matter....
Miguel said to the guard, "We will move. For what it is worth, we could kill you now if we must."
The guard said, "Sime'll kill me if you try to git away."
"We are not running," said Miguel.
They watched each other like two bulldogs, ready to fight if necessary. The Bradburys walked to where they could see what was going on beyond the knoll.
They watched and listened to the howls, then Bradbury said, "A mob. A drunken mob."
"It started with a lynching," she reminded him.
"Curse the day I hired Si
me Pollard."
"He's a good cattleman. The association began this other thing that brought us here."
"I know. I know," he groaned. "I see it all now. I see it when it's too late."
Fox was handing out the torches and giving instructions. He lit one and held it high over the scene. The flickering flame threw a macabre glow over the motley crew. Geer and Tanner still held their guns at ready. Pollard I lounged, scornful, indifferent. Crane waved his arms as usual, shouting, exhorting them to "go down there and git it over with."
"They will go and face the guns from those people in that house?" queried Miguel, unbelieving.
"They hired out to do just that," said Bradbury. "It's charge the house or be shot down by Pollard and Geer and Tanner and Crane. And maybe Fox, I dunno. Dealer ain't real brave, but the madness is on 'em."
She took his arm and led him gently away, back to the comparative safety of the glade in the woods. She said, "But you regained your sanity. It will be remembered."
“Maybe," he said dejectedly. "I'm part of it. No way OUT. Pollard was there when they lynched Adam Day."
""You were not there. We'll think of a way. The children will never believe you're part of it."
They sat on the fallen tree trunk. She poured the last of the wine. Miguel and the guard faced one another, squatting, alert. The sound of the mob grew louder. The reflected glow of torches lit the sky behind the knoll.
Bradbury fingered his rifle. Their time would come, he thought. He was weak for want of sleep. His head nodded.
Consuela put an arm around him, pulled him close. He tried to remain awake but could not. He slept fitfully, moaning, twisting, turning. She managed to get his head down into her lap, taking the rifle and placing it at her side. It was a long time since they had been this close.
Buchanan talked with the Whelans as they ate. The noise from the other side of the knoll was increasing.
"Drunk," said Rob Whelan with satisfaction. "Never did see a drunk man could hit a bull in the ass with a shovel."
"Rob," Fay protested. "You promised not to talk like that."
"It's a time for anything rough," Rob said. "It's like old days, some."
"But not quite?" Buchanan asked.
"No, not quite, you bet," Fay answered for her husband. "We was always alone."
"Until we got together," Rob said. A figure showed himself against the skyline, and Whelan fired his rifle offhand The man fell backwards.
Buchanan said, "Heard a lot about you and your shootin. I see nobody was prevaricatin'."
"That's what started the trouble," Rob said. "I was too good too young."
"Leastways you know what's goin' on," Buchanan said to him. "There's Cactus and Sutter layin' out there. They didn't know."
"Neither did Durkin," Fay said. "Always tryin' to be the big man."
"All his life," Buchanan agreed. "Thing is, if those people over yonder do make a rush, we haven't got enough guns to stop 'em."
"Take a lot of 'em along, though," Rob said.
"That ain't good enough," protested Fay. "We come this far, we want to keep goin' awhile."
"That's what's needed," Buchanan said. "You got to want it real bad. If we knew which way they were comin', we could do better. Cover me."
He was off and running before they could reply. He went westward, describing a circle, again aiming to get behind the knoll. It was easy to see that the action would come from there. The sharpshooters in the trees were not about to charge across open ground to the house.
He was amazed that there were no patrols out. Any military skirmish was unsafe unless patrols were maintained. He was able to crawl within a couple of hundred yards of the enemy force. He could distinguish the leaders by the light of the torches. The mood of the men was plain to see; they were singing and dancing and waving their arms. He knew at once that Fox and the others had passed out the booze.
It was enough to learn at this time. It meant a wild and feckless charge by the numbers, the drunks little caring whether they lived or died. He began his retreat.
In a moment or two, he knew he was not alone on the prairie. He sank behind a clump of furze and waited, all his senses attuned to sound or movement.
Time passed. There was danger that the attack would begin, leaving him out here when he was needed indoors. But his plainsmanship was sound; he knew the first motion on his part might make him a target. He held his breath. He was prone, facing into the slight breeze in the direction from which he imagined he had heard the sound.
A hand clamped upon his shoulder.
He rolled over, cocking the rifle, but a soft voice said, "Now, son. Now, now."
"Badger," he whispered. "Dang you. I might've shot ya.”
The mountain man chuckled. "You're good, Buchanan. But not that good."
Buchanan relaxed. "Reckon you're right there. I'd bet no other man in the country could come up on me like that.”
"It's the way we was." Badger held the Sharps rifle in his hands, peering at the yelling people behind the hill. "I might could pick off one or two. Wouldn't do much good."
"No. Best to wait.. .. Did the Indian girl go home?"
"You agin it?"
"Not so long as she can make it."
"Muley'll git her home. You know about Chinook and his people?"
"Can't say I do, 'ceptin' they're peaceable."
"They turned in all their guns. The army don't bother 'em none. Says they're a good example. They use bow and arrow, fish, hunt a little, grow some maize. She'll be safe with old Chinook."
There was no good in telling of Trevor's wound or the despair of the Kovacs', which had encouraged the two cowboys to rebel and attempt to parley. . . . Buchanan put it out of his mind for the present. "You could've gone with her."
"Yep. Thought on it, too. Old codger like me, should be thinkin' of the grave. Just couldn't take another gun away. This land belongs to them folks."
"The land." Buchanan sighed, beginning to gather himself for the trek back to warn the defenders that a drunken mob was about to attack. "You think of the land. Me, think about the people. It's a big subject, maybe too big to augur on."
"The Lord will provide," said Badger. "Do you get goin' now. I’ll be out here somewhere or t'other."
He melted into the darkness—but it was not that dark, and he had the gift of the invisible cloak, Buchanan thought, making his own way toward the Kovacs' barn. When he was a boy, his mother had regaled him with such marvelous tales—the seven league boots—he never had figured out how long was a league. . . . He came close enough to rise, and he ran the rest of the way to the safety of the stable, calling out to the Whelans.
It was none too soon. The howls were growing loud; the torches threw an eerie light. They came first in a wagon, as Buchanan had imagined.
The Whelans came from the shelter of the barn. Buchanan knelt between them. They could see the charge forming.
Rob said, "They must be drunk to the boots. Givin' us light to shoot by."