Buchanan's Seige (14 page)

"The powder's no good to us, maybe. But the dynamite
might be useful," Buchanan said.

"No!" Kovacs was white but determined. "Is blow up
my house, everyt'ing. No!"

Buchanan felt the strong opposition. He asked, "What
do you think we're goin' to do with it? Eat it?"

The shooting from the trees slowed down. Clouds drift
ed back to blot out the stars. It did not rain, but it was a
black night.

Kovacs said, "Off my property. I will take it away. Out
there." He pointed to the back of the house and the open
fields.

"Where it can be set off by a bolt of lightning, any
spark?"

"Is then God decides." Kovacs crossed himself. "Is not
to blow up my house. My barn."

"The Lord helps them as helps themselves," Buchanan
said. "I say we cover this stuff up, protect it, and maybe it
will save us all."

Cactus asked, "Who's goin' to stay out here and watch
over it? Not me, Buchanan. You already got my boss
killed. I ain't lookin' for any of the same."

"Uh-huh." In the darkness, Buchanan composed him
self. It was the time to be patient. He had seen Kovacs
bend under the strain earlier in the day. As the siege con
tinued, the pressure would be greater on them all. "Tell
you what. You do what you want with the powder."

Before they could detect what he was up to, he picked
up
a box of dynamite under each arm. "I'll put this where
k
won't do any harm to us."

"No!" cried Kovacs. He ran at Buchanan, missed him
in the dark, fell into a stall on his face.

Buchanan kept on going. When he got to the back door, Amanda was there, waiting, holding it open for him.

"What happened?" she asked breathlessly.

"Plenty," Buchanan told her. "Which is the closet with
th
e most room?"

She led the way to the door. He put the boxes down
with great care. "Bring me a lantern, please."

The others were crowding around now. He motioned
them back. Amanda came, shielding the light so that it
would not betray them to the gunners across the way.

Buchanan stowed the two boxes of dynamite in the
depths of the closet. Nothing less than a cannon ball could
break through the stone walls, he thought. It was as safe as
a silver dollar.

He got out his Barlow and pried open one of the boxes.
The sticks were packed in sawdust with care. He needed
now only to get back to the wagon and find caps and a
couple of coils of fuse.

He sat back on his haunches and looked at Amanda.
For once in his strenuous existence, he was thoroughly
weary. His exertions of the past hour had been prodigious.
Worse, they had not quite been appreciated by at least two
of the company of defenders.

She said softly, "You should get some rest."

"Can't make it right now," he told her. He got to his
feet and stretched. "Kovacs is crackin'. How about the
others?"

"Why . . . everything seems as it was," she said. "There
were almost no ricochets, thanks to your buffers. Trevor
and the Whelans are on the roof."

"Yes, I know. They did good." He hated to send them
to the barn. It was the most vulnerable spot. He went to
the rear door, paused. "Try and talk to Jenny. I got to see what I can do outdoors right now."

The Indian girl drifted to his side. "Let me speak with
Pieter."

"That might work." He hesitated, but the girl was past
him and running before he could stop her. He followed.

It was still dark in the barn. Cactus was standing near the door closest to the house. As if she could see in the
night, Raven swerved and sped into the field behind the
barn.

Cactus said, "He took the powder out there."

"He's got the wind up," said Buchanan. "Can't hold it
against him. He's never been in this fix before."

"Ain't likely to be in one again," said the cowboy.
"This here'll be the last if somethin' ain't done."

"Something like what?"

"There's horses out there, I heard 'em. Best we should round 'em up and ride out before mornin'."

"You think the women could get away?"

"Some of us could. Way it is, nobody's got a chance."

"Bradbury offered to let us go."

"That was before Durkin got his'n. Things is different
now, leastways for me. Sutter too, I expect."

"Sutter's in no shape to ride. But if you want to go,
Cactus, grab yourself a saddle and dab a pony. Nobody's holdin' you here."

He could not see the man, but he could almost feel the
thought processes going on. Finally, Cactus said slowly, "I
mind the man left the Alamo. He lived. But it was a bad
life. No, I ain't about to go alone. I'll stick. For now."

Buchanan said, "Okay. Now, there's a dead man in the
house. Supposin' you go in there and tote him out here
and tuck him in a corner of the barn. It's no good leavin'
corpses around live folks. Makes 'em think too much of
what might happen."

"Who, me? I ain't no undertaker."

Buchanan said, "Cactus."

"Yeah?"

"Either go in there and tote out old Thorne, or get that rope and saddle and ride out."

After a moment, the cowboy said, "Okay. But I ain't
forgettin' any of this. I'll see you later, maybe."

"Uh-huh," said Buchanan wearily. "You do that."

Poor Durkin had not lived to carry out the threat.
Maybe this one would. Someone was always coming after him with intent to do bodily harm. It was a sorry circum
stance, especially for a peaceable man.

He waited at the barn door, but there were no shots
coming from the knoll. He thought that Badger's long rifle
may have caused them to hole up, count their losses, and
t
hi
nk awhile. He climbed into the wagon again.

He found the fuse, a good-sized coil. There were several
caps scattered about the wooden bottom of the wagon
body. He picked them up. He was able to find only a half
dozen. He wished there were a dozen more. He put them
in his pocket and dropped back to earth.

Badger's big gun boomed again. The old mountain man
was keeping them occupied all right. Buchanan we
n
t
into
the barn.

The Indian girl called, "Mr. Buchanan."

"Uh-huh."

She came close to him. "He has put the powder far
from the house. It is hard to talk to him. He is disturbed."

"Yeah, I know how it is for him."

"I think there will be more trouble."

Buchanan said, "Lordy me, gal, you're right. You don't
know haw right you are."

"Dan Badger is out there. I could go to him."

"Reckon you could. You do get around. But we need
you here real bad. Who'd take care of the wounded?"

"Yes. You are right." She was silent. "I will wait until I
have spoken with Dan Badger."

"If he comes in, you mean?"

"He will come in when he is needed," she said. She had complete confidence. "You will see."

"I'll be happy to see."

They went back into the house. It was still pitch dart;
Amanda had fixed the lantern so that it shed light only for
a few feet around it, placing it behind the door. Kovacs sat
on a kitchen chair, staring at nothing. His wife sat beside
him, her hand on his arm. They were silent. Raven went to them, but they did not move or speak.

Buchanan went up to the roof. He had to drag himself,
he was so weary. Trevor and the Whelans were stretched out on blankets. An occasional shot came from the trees, and once in a while, they answered in order to let the attackers know the house was well defended.

Buchanan said, "Someone's goin' to have to take over
in the barn."

"How come?" asked Rob Whelan.

He told them about Durkin, about the brief
mutiny,
about the breakdown of the Kovacs. They listened, and
he
could feel the
dampening
of their spirits. He end
ed.
"Maybe the Whelans, huh? I know you want to be tog
eth
er. The two of you could
do the job. I'll be movin' back
and forth."

"You believe they will try the barn again?" Trevor
asked.

"They may make a charge in the dark. They may make
it any minute. But we got the best of that. The barn's their
best bet."

Fay Whelan said, "Durkin wouldn't have got it if he
hadn't gone out."

"Maybe not."

"What do you say, Rob?"

"I say there's straw to bed down in. We can take turns
watchin'. It's risky all right, But what ain't?"

Buchanan said, "I'll stay up here for a while."

"Any orders for down below?" asked Rob Whelan.

"It ain't the time to be givin' orders. Like I said, we got some problems," Buchanan said. "You want to swap blan
kets? You take mine to the stable, leave yours here?"

"Why ... sure."

"I'll be checkin' with you later."

They went down from the roof. Buchanan rolled onto
th
e blankets.

Trevor asked, "Is there anything I can do, old man?"

"Old man is right," said Buchanan. "Just. . . watch . . .
awhi
le . . . wake me before sunup. . .." His head dropped.

He
was asleep.

Colonel Bradbury fought against sleep. In the glade,
th
ere was a meeting of furious, red-eyed, cursing men.
O
v
er behind the knoll, the sound of shovels could be
h
eard. They were digging a trench to bury the dead. The
wou
nded lay in the trees on the damp earth and bled. The
o
dor of moss collided with the odor of their blood.

Bradbury had been a sergeant in the Big War. The title
of
Colonel was self-administered when he came to Texas
lon
g ago; it lent dignity. For that matter, hundreds of oth
ers h
ad done the same. But he did know the rudiments of
military
action, and he knew the sickness that came upon
men in battle. He was afraid to sleep.
It
would be easy for them to dispose of him, now that
the
fever was on them. They could throw him in the trench
and tell any sort of lie to cover themselves. There were so
many of them now that confusion reigned.

Fox was saying, "We got to run over 'em. The wagon
full of dynamite was a good notion, but that goddam Buchanan and that fool Durkin spoiled it."

"We got Durkin," said Morgan Crane. "I been wantin'
him outa the way."

"We just got to go down there and blast 'em out.
There's more dynamite," Fox insisted.

"They ain't up to it," Pollard said. "Too many of 'em
caught it with the wagon."

"We're payin' them plenty."

"That makes no never mind," Pollard told him. "Gunnies want a chance to live, too. You got to reckon on that
Buchanan."

"It was Brad sent for him." Fox stared at his friend and
ally.

Bradbury spoke. "It was some of you hung Adam Day.
That's what turned Buchanan. I know him."

"Then you shouldn't have sent for him."

Bradbury shrugged. He was in a hopeless position.

Pollard said, "I'm beginnin' to feel like I know him good. And lemme tell you, what I know I don't like for
a damn."

"We'll get him and all the rest," roared Crane. "Deal
er's right. We got the men. We can run right over that lit
tle bunch of nothin' down there."

"I still say we get to the barn," said Fox. "One way or
another. Dig under the house and blow 'em to hell."

"Who's goin' to dig?" asked Pollard.

"Get the barn and someone'll dig. I'll put a gun on 'e
m
if I have to," Crane said.

"You think Buc
hanan wouldn't know what was goin’
on?"

"What could he do about it?"

"Set a counter-charge," Bradbury told them.

"There's got to be some way." Fox was beside himself.
"A
ll
these guns, everything we got."

"That there house is like a fort," said Bradbury. "Y
’
lay a siege, starve 'em out. Pick off whoever shows him
self. It takes time. And we've not got that much time."

"The boss is right," said Pollard. "We got Durkin,
maybe we got a couple more through the windows. We got
to keep pastin' them thataway."

"Word is bound to get out. There'll be trouble . . .
maybe the militia, maybe even the damn army."

"That's the way it is." Pollard stood his ground.

"Then there's that big Sharps out there," said Fox.
"Makes the men nervous."

"I got men out lookin' for him," said Pollard. "We'll get
that son."

"Badger," Bradbury said. "Men like him opened this
country. He was a friend of Carson and Bridger and Beckwourth."

"I'll open him up," Pollard promised. "It's that damn
stone house worries me."

"Trevor," growled Crane. "Kovacs, a damn farmer.
The Whelans, a couple bums from no place. Pig farmers.
Women."

"And Buchanan," said Bradbury.

"Agh, you've turned against us," cried Crane. "Come
on, let's get away from this. We got to figure somethin'
.

They went away toward the knoll. Two more wagons
cam
e through the woods, plodding along, bringing m
ore gun
ners. Bradbury shook his head, watching them. Riff-
r
a
f
f
,
saloon dregs, saddle bums, he thought. They were
sc
raping the bottom of the barrel. The world had gone
lo
co and he sat in the middle of it, helpless.

He thought of Consuela and their children, of his
h
acien
da
and the money in the bank and the cattle roaming
the
range. He had enough, he had made it all the way. He
wondered
why he was here with these people formerly his
friend
s and associates. It was a nightmare.

T
h
e fever was on, the people in the stone house had to
sa
crificed. But for what? Fox and Crane were wealthy
enough.
Pollard had a fine job at the ranch. What had got
into
them all that they should strive to own the entire
country, that they should hang Adam Day and burn out
Trevor and come here to kill?

His stomach turned over. Now he knew he could not
sleep even if he had the opportunity, even if there was not
a rifleman watching him every moment.

The night went away. Badger came in at noon. He sim
ply walked to the back door, the long rifle cradled. The
mule was not in sight. Coco saw him first and blinked.

"Man, you IS a ghost."

"Y' larn out there," Badger told him." You don't want
to be seen, then they don't see you."

"That's a trick I'd like to learn," said Coco. "They seen
me too good." He was still hobbling, still bent to the aches
of his ribs.

Amanda bustled with food for the mountain man.
Raven came in and sat close to him. They seemed to be
able to communicate without speech.

"Buchanan asked, "How is it with them?"

"They still bringin' in men. They got a reg'lar army out there all right."

"If you got a notion, I'd admire to hear it."

"None whatsoever. 'Ceptin' you got a place, here, they
got to get to it." He unslung a large leather pouch. Raven
took it and removed various rootlike plants and leafy
herbs. "Can you stay alive long enough, somethin's bound
to give."

"Could you get the women out?" Buchanan asked.

"Might could after dark tonight."

Amanda said, "Not me. Not Jenny."

"Raven could go," said Buchanan. The Indian girl was
already at the stove, separating the plants, scrutinizing
them closely, working with a sharp paring knife. "She gets
her medicine brewed, she can tell the others what to do. I don't see any reason a Crow gal should stick here."

The Kovacs looked stricken. Raven gave them a loving
glance but was silent at her labor.

"Maybe I'm wrong," said Buchanan. He was already
,
distraught about Jenny and Pieter. "It's up to her."

Badger ate. Buchanan was worried far more than h
e w
ould allow anyone to see. There were Cactus and Sutter,
now talking together in one of the bedrooms. True, he had saved Sutter's life, but he knew the way these men thought
—it was on his orders that Sutter went to the house and
was wounded. Neither of them were reliable. And Badger
...
he was unpredictable, a man on his own, with his own
philosophy.

The mountaineer was saying, "The good Lord don't
want them people to prevail. Trouble is, sometimes He
ain't lookin' down on you all. . . . Got to figure, He's got
plenty to worry about all over the world."

"Never call on strangers when neighbors are near," sug
gested Buchanan.

Trevor came into the kitchen for a bite to eat. "Right-o. One does the best he can and accepts the Lord's help with
humble gratitude." He looked at Buchanan. "Thome's on
the roof. I'll take him something to eat."

"They're quiet out there," Buchanan replied. "I don't
li
ke that any time."

A bullet sang its way through a window as if to prove
him
right. He did not like any of it. He went into the big
room. Weevil was at a window with a rifle.