Buchanan's Seige (4 page)

"Oh, quite. Always detested the man. Should we join
the gawkers?"

"Crane can be real mean," warned Bradbury. "I can
only hold him back a wee bit when he gets started."

"You needn't hold him back, old man."

They went through the bar, which was deserted. Brad
bury insisted, "You know what Abe Lincoln said. 'We got
to hang together or we'll hang separate.' "

"Benjamin Franklin," murmured Trevor.
“‘We
must
all hang together or assuredly we shall all hang separately.'
Upon the signing of your Declaration of Independence.
Not quite apt under these circumstances, what?"

But Bradbury was staring at the street, where pine
torches gave more light than had ever shone on a moon
less night in Buffalo. People lined up on the boardwalk
across from the saloon. None were of the Cattleman's
Association;
most were faceless people beneath the notice of
the mighty.

A wagon was coming slowly toward them. Two riders, a
man and a woman, rode beside it. Behind it, a man in a
fur hat rode a tall mule. Three people were on the wide
seat of the wagon, sitting straight.

The driver was Pieter Kovacs. His wife was at his side.
Next to her was Amanda Day.

In the wagon body stood Tom Buchanan, legs spread apart. With his knees, he supported a reclining board, set
at an angle that allowed all to see its burden. Buchanan
held a newly lit torch, which burned fierce and bright.

The light of the torch fell upon the contorted face of
Adam Day as he lay bound to the plank.

Trevor said, "Damn. Now it's down the drain."

Bradbury could only stare. His stomach turned over.
He tried to look away and could not. He knew Trevor was
correct, the challenge was there, plain to see and under
stand.

Sime Pollard was ghastly in the flickering light. He
moved close to his boss, and another man, all in black,
came to stand beside him. This man smiled at the sight of
the procession. His name was Jigger Dorn, and he smiled
often and laughed a lot, even while cutting down another
victim with his swift guns.

Pollard said hoarsely, "Let us get 'em now, Boss."

Bradbury found his voice. "That's . . . that's Tom Bu
chanan in the wagon. Buchanan! I sent for him to work
for us!"

"Wrong man," said Trevor.

"Damn it, I hoped he could keep the peace. Buchanan
never wants to get into a fight."

"Perhaps not," said Trevor. "But there he is."

"Let us get them," Pollard said again. "Me and Jigger."

"And have the whole damn town on us?" Bradbury
fought for control. "You want to wipe out the town?"

"Now or some other time," said Pollard. "I know the
feelin' around. They ain't for us."

Dealer Fox said, "Pollard's right. But we can't do it.
The governor'd be in with the army."

"We own the damn gov'nor," said Morgan Crane.

"Not to that extent," Trevor warned them.
- "No," said Bradbury heavily. "We got to let this ride.
We got to make plans. You'll get your chance, Sime, you
and Dorn and the rest of you. It's got to come. I see it
now. I thought maybe . . . but there's Buchanan ridin' with 'em."

"Judge Lynch," said Trevor. "Very great man, you
said. Nothing like setting an example. Well, gentlemen. I
bid you farewell."

He brushed between Pollard and Dorn. He ran lightly,
a slim figure, to the side of the wagon. The horseman and
die man on the mule drew in. Trevor smiled and put up a
h
and to Buchanan, who peered down at him. "What the hell?" Dealer Fox said.
"He ... he told us goodbye."
"Let me gun him," begged Pollard.
Buchanan now took Trevor's hand and lifted him into
fee wagon. A murmur ran along the line of citizens watch
ing with their torches beginning to burn low.

Morgan Crane bellowed, "A goddam Benedict Arnold.
I told you. Them damn Britishers ain't to be trusted
nohow, no time, nowhere."

Two more men pulled in alongside Pollard and Dorn.
They were squat, ugly Toad Tanner and ancient, evil Dab
Geer. All looked at Bradbury. "That Buchanan stove up
Cactus an' Dorgan."

"No," he said. "The country won't stand for no massa
cre
in the streets of the town. This has got to be done
smartlike."

"Yep," said Dealer Fox. His eyes were gleaming.
"Come inside. Pay them no heed."

Bradbury turned. Crane reluctantly followed, then Pol
lard. The hired gunmen remained in front of the saloon,
watching, hands fluttering near their gun butts. Their eyes followed Trevor, now standing with Buchanan, helping to
keep the pitiful corpse from rolling as the wagon slid in
the ruts of the dirt street.

In the back room of the Powder River Saloon, Dealer
Fox said, "Sime, you mind that door."

"I hope you got somethin' good," said Crane. "I hope
to hell it has to do with that B
ri
tish bastard."
"You got your hope," said Fox. "Like how?"

"You see he's left us, joined them. You know how he is,
thickheaded. Okay. His house is built of wood. His barn's
full of hay. Supposin' it got burned down right quick?"
"No," said Bradbury. "He's got friends a-plenty."
"Supposin' we make it like the nesters done it, startin
’
a
war because of Adam Day?"

Crane said, "Hey, that's mighty good. Leave somethin'
around like it was them. Pollard and his boys can do it." "It's for the good of us all," said Fox. It's for the coun
try in the long run. We all agreed on that."

"I don't like it," said Bradbury. But he was in it. He vis
ualized his holdings in distress, his herd scattered
—even
the burning of his own house. It had to be nipped in the
bud. It had to be stopped before he was cut off from all his
ambitious aims, politics, Washington.
"It's a hiyu notion," said Crane.

“
It can work. We'll never be caught at it," said Fox.

"For the benefit of all," Bradbury murmured.

"You betcha," said Crane. "How 'bout it, Sime? And
turn loose his cavvy and take a run at his herd, scatter it.
Anybody tries to stop you, kill 'em and leave 'em where
they'll get the blame, see?"

"Best if it works that way," said Fox.

"Boss?" Pollard looked at Bradbury and received a
nod. "Okay. And believe
me;
Trevor's men won't do nothin'. We talked to 'em. They don't cotton to his ways. Like
cleanin' outhouses al
l
a time. Baths, he wants 'em to bathe
durin' the week, even. And the way he talks through his
nose and all. They won't make a move. We'll tell 'em to
run off, leave the country."

Bradbury took out a roll of currency. "Pay them off.
Makes for good feelin' thataway."

"Pay 'em nothin'," said Crane. "Not me, I won't."

Fox added some money. "Brad's right. Smooth things
over best we can."

"People around here's got to learn which side their
bread's buttered on," said Crane.

"For their own good," Bradbury felt compelled to say.
He had to make himself believe it. He tried very hard to
believe it.

T
he grave was deep. They wrapped Adam Day in a blan
ket and lowered him and stood irresolute with the shovels.
The old man took off his fur cap and came forward.

"You all know me. Dan Badger. I come into the mountains in '35, a youngun, green as buff'lo grass. Me and the
others, we walked the ranges and down into Yellowstone
and up to Canady and down to Mexico. We seen it all. We
seen you folks come in and it was good. And we seen the
cattle fatten and it was good. And now, because of the
good things, we come to bad things. And this yere is one
of 'em, this lynchin' of a good man, Adam Day. And I say
to the Lord, an eye for an eye/ a tooth for a tooth, like it was laid down. And I say Adam was the first man; and
now this yere Adam is first to be martyred in this yere
country. And it's a bad thing, Lord, but we must face up
to it. I never fit Indians, Lord, because they was friendlies.
And they had to go, and I'm plumb sad about that. But
this kinda thing, Lord, this has got to stop so our moun
tains and our plains and our valleys shan't suffer under the
cloud of Your wrath . .. Amen."

Half the town was there, not many people, the store
keeper and the blacksmith and some others. A chorus of murmured
amens
fell softly on the night. Buchanan and
Kovacs began to shovel dirt into the grave.

The woman was tearless. She stood with Mrs. Kovacs
and the couple who had ridden with them, the Whelans, a
young man with a face too old and a young woman, pretty
but with eyes that could grow Hard and cold. They owned
a small ranch, they had lived a lot in other places, and
they knew what had to come. Raven Kovacs rode a buck
skin pony from which she did not dismount. Jack Trevor
held his hat over his heart and was silent.

The sound of clods falling on the dead man was forlorn.
Some of the townsfolk turned away, the others followed
until there was the small knot of them who were aware of
what was portended. Buchanan knew who they were by
now. He plied the long-handled shovel, and his mind went
around, and he knew that once again he was in for it.

When the task was finished he said to Trevor. "You
know where Bradbury might be?"

"I do."

"Will you take me to him?"

"A pleasure," said Trevor.

"There's gunnies around," Rob Whelan warned. "We
better cover you."

The wife, Fay Whelan, wore a gunbelt and a holster as
though they belonged upon her.

Buchanan said gently, "Why, now, it's against my habit,
but I happen to be carryin' a Colt tonight. Don't put your
selves in no trouble for me."

"Nor I," said Trevor. "They won't make a move in
town this night."

"We must make plans," said Kovacs. "They will move when they have time to think."

"Better go on home," Buchanan said. "I'll come to you when I can learn a thing or two."

Kovacs said, "Yes. Best to go home now. Meet tomor
row at my place?"

"There's gonna be a war," said Whelan. "I been in
range wars. I'm warnin' yawl."

The old mountain man said, "I knew Adam Day. He
was good to me. I will ride here and there. Then I will let
you know."

"That is good," said Kovacs. "Nobody knows where
Dan Badger rides."

Buchanan said, "Yeah. Well, drop my gear at the hotel. I'll be seein' you."

Amanda Day came to him. "I'll go with the Kovacs tonight. But I want to thank you, Buchanan. I want you to
know I believe in you."

"Just don't fret too much," he said. "It's a hard way to
live, but don't fret too much."

He watched them go. The Indian girl rode the pony as though born in the saddle. The wagon rumbled, the
Whelans
, always side by side, went into the night. Trevor in
haled.

"A man makes a choice, eh? Must do. It's a bad situa
tion, Buchanan."

"Whelan. He looks familiar," said
Buchanan.

"It is told that he was once a hired gun. The lady, well
... a dance hall girl. They married and came up here and
homesteaded. But they are cattle people, so their stock is vulnerable, on open range, y' see?"

"I see it too well," said Buchanan. "Let's talk to the
colonel and them."

They walked to town. Trevor was incisive and clear
in his recitation. He laid out the scene from the point
of view of the ranchers.