Buchanan's Seige (2 page)

The spokesman said, "One of them, huh?"

"One of them preacher people. Doin' good. Sidin'
with
rustlers."

The woman sprang toward them. "You can't say that
about us! You dirty rats ..."

One of the men reached out to slap her away. The other delved into his pocket for a weapon.

Buchanan left the first man to the woman. He saw her
d
u
ck and return a blow. The man with the gun was more
da
n
gero
u
s. He had cleared it, a small revolver. Buchanan
grabbed his wrist and executed a swift turn. The man spun
ov
er, head first
the
gun dropped to earth. Buchanan
kicked it away,
and then
hurled the man into the high wheel of
th
e stage, where he hung, motionless.

Now, the second man was trying to escape Mrs. Day
a
n
d to yank out a hunting knife, which stuck in its sheath
between
his shoulder blades. Buchanan took one step and
got
hold of the man by the nape of the neck. Spinning him,
h
e slammed him alongside the first man. They hung like
dotting for sale, side by side over the rim of the
Mrs. Day was going after them when Buchanan
stopped her.

"They didn't hang your husband," he said sharply.

She froze, shoulders slumping. Buchanan went to the pair and one by one he hoisted them into the stagecoach.
He took his gear from the boot
—rifle, bedroll, carpetbag.
He removed his six
guns
from its wrappings. He stepped
back and fired one shot.

The hanging rope parted. The body of Adam Day stamped to the ground. Mrs. Day let out a little shriek,
and then
stood like a stone, her face a mask.

Buchanan said to Jackson, "Better go ahead. I'll stay
and do what's proper."

Jackson looked down at him. "I dunno what your game
.
B
u
t you better be good at it. Adam was well thought of.
T
his h
ere means trouble in big bunches."

Buchanan
sighed. "My game? My game's tryin' to stay
out of
trouble in big bunches. It just plain never seems to
wor
k o
u
t. Remember, if you see Coco Bean, the fighter,
lead him here quick."

"I’ll r
emember." Jackson lowered his voice. "Miz Day,
I’m plu
mb sorrowful. So will they be, your friends."

She nodded. Her glance went to the stiffening body of
he
r husband, then to the horizon, back finally to Buchan
an. The stage creaked as the six horses leaned into har
ness, then rolled toward the town.

Buchanan said, "I can tote him."

"Better we leave him."

Buchanan looked up at the black birds hovering ever
nearer. "Buzzards. If you'll go ahead, I'll manage."

She had a small piece of luggage. She hesitated, then
said, "It's right kind of you."

It was a strange sight, the woman walking with long
strides, Buchanan following with the body over his shoulder. They went past the trees, down the road a
hundred yards. They turned off, and the house was anoth
er hundred paces from the road. They walked slowly, now. There was a truck garden and fields beyond, where crops
were beginning to grow in serrated rows of different hues.
There was a barn and a shed. Buchanan went to the shed
and found a tarpaulin. He lay the man down and covered
him well, tucking in the canvas against rodents. The
woman watched him without words.

He said, "Name of Tom Buchanan, ma'am. I'll be fetch-
in' my soogans. Until somebody comes, I could stick
around."

"I'd be grateful, Mr. Buchanan. She spoke as though
educated beyond the scope of frontier wives. "I'll be glad
of company."

He went to where he had left his gear and brought it to
the house. The woman was somewhat chameleon
-
like, he
thought. She had seemed mousy when he first saw her
coming aboard the stage. Then, when her emotions were
aroused, she had been beautiful as a mama puma in rage.
Yet she had quickly regained control of herself.

He entered the house and found it undistinguished,
which also was
puzzlement
, considering the woman and
how she seemed. It needed paint inside and out. It was not
as stout-built as needed for Wyoming winters. There was a
pump at the sink in the kitchen, which contained a large
stove, a table,
half
-dozen straight chairs, rude cabinets,
and a
cupboard. Amanda Day had removed her cloak and was coaxing a fire. He waved her away, taking over. She sat
down, her face blank.
She wore a blouse and a long traveling skirt. She was
younger than he had thought. The lines of her body were
lo
ng
and finely
made;
her bosom high. Her eyes were
hazel
, guarded by curved, thick lashes. Her chin was firm
but
rounded.

“There
was water in the kettle. The fire leaped, and Bu
chanan
fed it from the wood box. He pumped water and
washed
himself at the sink, rinsing away the dust of travel,
wiping
himself dry on his bandanna. The woman watched,
and
h
e realized she was coiled, and again he thought of the
female
p
u
ma.

She said, "I
must talk. Do you mind if I talk?"

“It’s
natural," he said. "Better to talk. I'm a good lis
tener.”

Her h
ands twisted in her lap, and he saw that she was
not wearing
a wedding ring. The fire crackled in the iron
stove
.
She
spoke in a low, level tone.

“
I left
him
,
you see. That's the trouble. I left him."

"But
yo
u
were coming back?"

"'Yes. I pawned the ring to pay the fare. I thought of
him
,
caring, worrying. I was the schoolteacher. He
was
the
farmer from Indiana. For three years I tried. Then
I failed
him. The winters, the loneliness. I am from San
F
rancis
co. Do
y
ou know what I mean?"

"R
e
c
k
on I do."

""The
wo
rk. So hard. The chores. He hired when he
needed help,
the most of it he wanted to do himself. He
was
very strong. At night, he would be asleep over his sup
per
. In
the morning, he was a giant for the work. It was
to
o much
."

"
Gets t
hat way, sometimes." He recognized what she
was telling
him. He knew how women suffered on the
fronti
er
w
hen their men worked too hard, stayed away too
long, w
ere not easy and smiling and comfortable in the
b
ed.
It was one of the reasons he had shied away from
marriage.

"A
t
f
i
rs
t
we had . . . love. He was handsome. You'd
neve
r
know
looking at that . . . him . . . that . . ." She bit
h
er
li
p
,
a
shudder running the length of her body and
limbs.
She shook her head. "Love doesn't thrive on a one-
man farm. It fli
e
s out the window on a summer breeze. Loneliness takes over. But I cared for him . . . about
him
.
Until we quarreled."

Buchanan filled in the pause. "My Pa used to say, 'Love
in a tub
—and the bottom fell out.' Can be fixed some
times."

"Sometimes
...
I saw the war coming. I knew we were
in the way. Our wire was cut so often, our crops trampled. It's not going to get better."

"Things generally get worse before they get better."

"Colonel Bradbury offered to buy us out. It wasn't
much money, but it would have provided a new start, in
different country. Adam wouldn't have it. He had learned
to love this country. He had worked since he was eighteen
to have a place of his own. It was his religion."

"Man's like that." And poor Adam Day had died on his
land in the most terrible fashion.

"So I left him."

"Reckon you didn't want to leave."

"I didn't want to leave him. But I'd learned to hate this
place. I'd learned to hate farming. It was a mistake from
the start." She drew herself up. "Which does not mean
that I accept Adam's murder."

"No. I can see that."

"I'll sell to Bradbury. And I'll use the money to bring in law, for the little ranchers and farmers." Her eyes blazed.

Buchanan shook his head. "They already bought the
law. It's the way they do. Seen it before. Time'll come. But
it ain't here yet."

"I'll go to Washington."

"Seen that, too. By the time anything happens, the
war's over, and everybody left alive is plumb peaceable
and agreeable."

"Something must be done. I won't quit until it hap
pens."

"Yes, ma'am." She was heading for another disaster.
Maybe she was that kind, doomed to losing. He replen
ished the blazing fire. The kettle was beginning to heat up.
He looked in a cupboard and found coffee and a grinder.

He turned the handle, and the aroma of the bean came
into the room, soothing, promising.

"You don't think anything can be done."

"Not thataway, ma'am. I'd let it rest, think on it."

"You're like the rest of them," she flared at him.
"Afraid to make a move. Afraid nothing will come of it.
Afraid to take a chance."

"Well, now, I'm kind of a peaceable fella," he told her.
"I am against lynchin'. Feel pretty strong about it.
Wouldn't say I'm goin' to duck out, run away. But it's best to bide time until the cards are on the table."

"Just like Adam. Bide your time, bide your time." She
stood, her hands doubled into fists. "Men! Damn all men
in this country."

She ran out of the kitchen. Buchanan tended the fire.
The water would boil in a few moments. He had not eaten since noon, and now night was coming on. His huge frame
demanded food. He found a pan and some bacon grease
and eggs and bread gone stale. He put on the pan and
opened the stove and toasted the bread on a long fork.
He put the toast on the warming shelf and found two platters
and made the coffee and broke eggs into the pan.

She came back into the kitchen. She was wearing Levis
and b
oots and a wool shirt. Her hair was braided and
wound around her head. She was handsome and strong
again and able to smile ruefully.

"I have a temper, you see. I apologize. You've been
more than kind."

"Think nothin' of it, ma'am. Set yourself and eat. No
matter what, a body's got to eat."

It was amazing what strong coffee and simple food
could do
—but she was an unusual woman, Buchanan was
learning. Now she wanted to listen, and he talked about
himself a little, telling her of his roving life and of his trials
and tribulations in seeking peace, making it comical and'
light so that she smiled, almost laughed, caught herself
and sobered.