by Jonas Ward
"By God, I'd rather take it outdoors."
"You might get the chance, too." Buchanan went into the bedroom and looked at the owners of the stone house.
Pieter and Jenny still sat on the bed, close together. Their eyes were devoid of emotion, now. Jenny fingered a rosary, her lips moving.
Buchanan said, "Sorry about all the damage. But the buildings are solid, nothin' can happen to them."
"Is lost our lil girl," said Pieter.
"She'll be back."
"No." He was positive. "Her people no fight, kill."
"Uh-huh. Reckon most of your fight was for her." Buchanan shook his head sorrowfully. "Once into it, there's no way to stop. You saw them cowboys get killed. Talk stops after the first shot is fired. That's just the way it is."
"It can never be right again. If we live . .. we go," said Pieter Kovacs. "Is not worth it."
"I'm right sorry. You got a nice spread here." He left them. Words could do nothing at this time, and he knew the first rays of morning would soon spread into the Wyoming sky. Some people were like that, brave as brave until that certain nerve was exposed. With them, it was the Indian girl they had reared, who had become so important to them. They should have left with her, he thought now. It would have been better all around if they had gone to the far hills and the Crow tribe.
He beckoned to Coco, and they climbed the ladder to the roof. Bullets flew above their heads as they crawled to the parapet.
Rob Whelan said, "They are sure settin' up somethin'."
"You note their target."
"Yeah. The house."
"Like we said before. You want to go back to the barn?"
"You got a good reason?" Whelan scowled, dubious. "Seems like we need all the guns right here."
"Look at it this way: if they hit here full force, a flankin' fire from the barn'll come in mighty handy. And if Badger's still out there, it might do a heap of good."
Fay Whelan said, "You ain't lettin' me out because I'm a woman, are you, Buchanan?"
Buchanan grinned. "Beggin' your pardon, but you haven't been actin' girlish since this whizbang began."
"Now, that's the nicest thing's been said to me in a long time," she said.
"You totin' that dynamite?" asked Rob.
"Figured it might be useful." Buchanan stretched out and removed two bombs from his pants pocket. "Me and Coco, we can handle this. You might leave an extra rifle, pick up another downstairs."
"It makes sense," said Rob, eyeing the stick of dynamite with distrust. "I don't know nothin' about that stuff."
"Come on, honey," said Fay. "I'll bet Buchanan knows."
He had, indeed, experienced an occasion when explosives had saved some lives under different circumstances. It did not give him too much confidence about these crude, homemade bombs. But he thought of the war wagons that the enemy had for its attack and took out the rest of the bombs, stowing them close to the parapet where they would be safe from a random bullet. Coco was reloading the rifle left behind by Whelan,
Buchanan said, "This won't be a picnic, you know that."
"Don't expect a picnic," Coco said. "Hope that little old Injun gal got clean away, is all."
"She did. I talked to Badger."
"Then they didn't get the old man."
They went to the ladder. Coco was awkward making the climb, favoring his broken ribs, using the power of his long arms to haul himself up. Buchanan carried the rifles and ammunition. They snaked their way under constant attack from the trees. Darkness prevented sharp marksmanship, but the first tendrils of dawn were spreading in the east.
Buchanan said, "Damn trouble is those people. They got the nubby on us."
"Guns," said Coco. "Stinkin' guns."
Buchanan picked a spot from which much of the firing seemed to be emanating. He watched for dots of red, then shot into a dim mass of thick branches. For a couple of moments, nothing happened. He persisted.
Bodies made sounds, and there were hoarse cries as men fell from their perches. Limbs creaked and splintered. Heavier fire came at once from other sections of the small forest.
"They must be about ready to hit us," Buchanan said. "Keep that dynamite handy. And be careful."
"Careful? I treat it like thin-shelled, white hen's eggs," Coco said.
"Be ready with the matches."
"If I can hold 'em steady. This here stuff's worse'n guns. It goes off, it kills us all."
"Don't let it go off. Hold it ready, is all."
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," Coco told him. "Thing is, what am I ready for?"
Buchanan had no answer. He could only wait. He believed the attack would come at the house. If it did not, he would transfer the dynamite and his body and Coco's to the barn. It was once more a matter of waiting and sweating and hoping he was correct.
Dealer Fox moved away from the main body at the knoll. It was just before dawn, and the torches flickered. In his pocket was a capped stick of dynamite attached to a very short fuse, like a firecracker. He had thought about this all night, and his courage was screwed up to its highest pitch.
Pollard, he thought, would be next. He could handle Morgan Crane and the others. Bradbury, then Pollard, that was the way it had to be.
He came to the glade. He spoke to the guard, sending him to join the main body. Bradbury sat with the rifle loosely held in his hands. Consuela stood, expressionless. Miguel held the shotgun ready.
Fox said, "Conny, Brad. This is goin' to be it. This is goin' to blow 'em out. Pollard's got it figured."
"Women and all?" asked Bradbury.
"They had their chance. It's got to be clean, now. Then .. . well, Pollard's makin' demands. He wants the Bar-B."
"Pollard? He wants to own the Bar-B?"
"He hired those gunners. He's got Tanner and Geer on his side. What can I do?"
"I wouldn't expect you to do anything," said Bradbury heavily. Consuela moved, her hand hidden in the voluminous folds of her skirt. "Nor Morgan."
"We been friends a long time. Morgan's drunk, he don't count. No, I got to look out for you best I can."
"Look out for us? How?"
"The carriage. Miguel can drive you. Take off and keep goin' until you hear from me," Fox said rapidly.
"And where would we go to be safe?"
"Sheridan . . . Cheyenne. . . . Just don't say nothin', lay low. I'll do what I can here."
Miguel said in Spanish, "Do not believe him. He lies."
"Hush. Do as he says," Consuela answered in the same language.
Miguel hesitated, then went for the horses. Consuela smiled at Dealer Fox.
"It is good of you to allow us to escape. Morgan and Pollard would have killed us."
"Yes. They spoke of it."
"And made it look like an accident," she went on. Miguel was hitching up the team.
"That was the idea," said Fox. "I couldn't hold still for that, after all we been through."
"All the years buildin' the country," said Bradbury. He put the rifle into the carriage. "So you're goin' to finish 'em down there, are you?"
"Sime figured it all out. We got the men in the trees, there, to keep 'em holed up. With the wagons and some dynamite ... it'll be over in a few minutes."
Miguel climbed to the seat and picked up the reins. Fox came a little closer in the dim light. "Goodbye for a while. You can depend on it, I'll be in touch."
"Yeah," said Bradbury. He turned and helped Consuela into the carriage. Then he suddenly wheeled and faced Fox.
In his eagerness, Fox had taken the dynamite stick from his pocket and was reaching for a taper. Perhaps he thought the uncertain light would conceal his intent. Perhaps his nerve had nearly given out, and he had to make a move.
Bradbury went for his holster gun. He hadn't drawn in years, in fact he had never been fast. Fox struck the match.
Consuela's hand came from her wide skirt. She had not relinquished the revolver. She lifted it and fired.
Fox spun around. Bradbury's Colt
cleared. He shot Fox through the head. The match fell atop the slumping burned a moment, flickered out with the life of the man.
Consuela said, "I saw it in his eyes. And so did you, husband."
"Yes. I saw it."
Miguel said, "That man, he could not tell a truth. Should we go now?"
They looked at one another. They shook their heads.
Bradbury said, "No. Pollard's alive. Pollard wants the Bar-B. Pollard!"
"Morgan's alive," said Consuela. "He will join with Pollard."
Miguel said, "I think we must kill them, then."
There was a sound behind them, a man coughed. They whirled and stared into the huge muzzle of a Sharps rifle.
Dan Badger was watching them.
"Miz Bradbury, gents," said the mountain man, "I seen it all. Might've shot him myself. Aim to do a little shootin'
afore this is over. Mought advise you all. Stay close, folley me. Could be a help."
"But they'll kill those people in the Kovacs' house."
"Could be. In that case . . . we'll all go with 'em." The deepset eyes blazed at them. None of the three cared to
deny him.
Buchanan squinted at the sky. It was pink, and it would be red, Wyoming red. All the signs pointed to a hot day. He lay there on the roof, pinned down by constant firing from the trees. It was at great risk that he kept any kind of watch on the knoll from whence he knew the attack had to come.
He said to Coco, "Don't lift your head. Believe me. Stay down low and wait until I tell you to move."
"Don't you worry about me. Them bullets sound like a mess of hornets to me."
"They kill quicker."
"I don't even like hornets. I been bit by hornets."
"They got to begin," Buchanan muttered. "The Whelans will see 'em first, no doubt. If we hear the Whelans begin to shoot, we'll know."
"Yeah, but what good'll that do if you can't see?"
"Just have to risk it." He removed his hat and put it on the muzzle of the rifle. He raised it slowly above the parapet. It was promptly riddled with bullets.
"They got enough light to line up on us. They never did have that many good shooters in the trees. Means they got somethin' real hot planned for us this time."
Coco said, "Don't say that. It gets any hotter, I ain't goin' to be here. I'll be melted clean away."
Buchanan himself was sweating. The women below and the nature of the fight—for the rights of citizens—combined to make this the most meaningful battle of his life on the frontier. And it seemed to be a fight he could not win.
Perhaps he had been wrong to stake out the roof. He could not make a move so long as the sharpshooters in the trees concentrated their fire upon him. Maybe he should go down and join the Whelans in the barn.
Some instinct of battle had made him choose this stand. Even now it nagged at him, held him there, his hat full of bullet holes, depending upon his ears and his highly developed sense of imminent and dangerous action to guide him.
He heard the sound of firing from the barn. The Whelans were involved. He managed a one-eyed peek above the parapet.
There were two wagons already started down the incline from the top of the hill. Men were pushing, also clinging to the sides, dangling their legs to provide no targets for the Whelans. A part detached itself and went toward the barn, firing rifles, ready with revolvers, and Buchanan prayed for the brave former outlaw and his saloon-girl wife.
There were men in the first wagon. He recognized Tanner and Geer. He saw them pick up sticks of dynamite, just like those that were beside him. Both sides had arrived at the same conclusion; explosives would turn the tide, he realized. The fire from the trees continued. He showed an eye, and a bullet barely missed him. It was dawn now, the sun rising bright, the clouds scudding before its bright gleam.
Buchanan did not bother to reach for his rifle. He would be dead before he could get in a shot. .,
The first wagon was coming closer. Geer was lighting the fuse on one of the dynamite bombs. Buchanan knew it would be directed at the house, where Trevor and Weevil were firing as fast as they could, knocking over a man here, hitting a leg there, doing their best to stop the inexorable advance of the wagons.
Buchanan found his own three-stick bomb. He looked at Coco and said, "This might be it for me. Can you light the rest of 'em and throw 'em down?"
"If they get you, I'll be able to do it." Coco's eyes were bright with tears. "Lemme try it first? You can shoot if I don't make it."
"Not your turn," said Buchanan. "My bombs, I made 'em." He winked and grinned at his friend.
Then he got to his knees. He fully expected at least one bullet to strike him then and there. He lit the fuse with his match. He reached back and threw for the wagon, full arm, with all his strength. Then he ducked. He was astounded to find himself unhurt.
He managed to pop his head back up. He saw his bomb descend upon the first wagon just as Geer tried to throw at the house. There was a shattering explosion. The wagon blew apart. Geer, Tanner, and the men with them vanished.
The echoes had not died when Buchanan heard another sound. It was the booming of the Sharps rifle. The shooting from the trees had magically ceased. Buchanan let out a whoop.
The second wagon came on. Pollard and Morgan Crane stood in the body. Pollard swung and a sputtering bomb described a parabola. It was going to land inside the house, through one of the high narrow windows.
It was ticketed for the death of all within. It could kill Coco and Buchanan on the roof. It could be the end.
Buchanan lunged. Reaching far out over the edge of the parapet, he thrust out a long arm.
His eye was sure, he fielded the bomb. Quickly he let it go, flinging it back from when it came.
Coco threw himself across Buchanan's legs. With one hand, he grabbed at the collar of the shirt, holding it for one moment, feeling it rip. Then he had shifted position.
The bomb went off. It had not quite reached the wagon. Pollard and Crane leaped free.
Buchanan yelled, "Let me down, Coco. Easy does it."
Coco's ribs were caving in. He made one huge effort. He swung Buchanan around, got hold of his wrists. The big man hung a moment, like a pendulum. Shots narrowly missed him. Then Coco let go and Buchanan dropped to earth.
He landed on his feet. He drew his revolver in the same instant.
Pollard was firing. Buchanan did not move. He sent a bullet crashing through the cowman's heart. He spun and saw Morgan Crane with a rifle pointed. He shot Crane clean out of the body of the wagon in which he had been hiding.
The Sharps boomed again. Men came running from the trees with their hands over their heads. Brown men drew the bowstrings and let loose arrows. There were shouts of "We surrender!"
Buchanan stared in disbelief. Around the corner of the barn came the Whelans. They were surrounded and backed by Indians with quivers of arrows and long hunting bows.