Buchanan's Seige (12 page)

"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. Lem
m
e
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
t
rough them windows. Might get somebody lucky. Wish I
c
o
uld 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 showing 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 Bu
chanan.

"The elder Thorne," he said. "Add one to the wound
ed."

"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 Buchan
an 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 be
longin'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, Bu
chanan 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.
y
e
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 relin
qui
shed. "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 Ko
vacs 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 condi
tion in case a bout should be
of
f
ered.
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
h
eard Amanda gasp, "No!" behind him. He zigged and
zagged. He could cover ground like a grizzly, with decep
tive speed.

Bits of lead tore the ground before him and behind him.

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 re
marked. "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.