Buchanan's Seige (7 page)

"Don't matter to them. They like to lynch people. Say
it's a lesson. Shows who owns the country."

"Uh-huh. Me and Buchanan, we seen a lot of people
want to own what ain't rightly theirs. Come to a bad end,
all of 'em."

"You and Buchanan never seen an army like they got
here," said Weevil dully. "They even cut the telegraph
wire so nobody can get to the capital or any place like o'
that."

"It sounds right evil," said Coco. "It sounds like Tom Buchanan will get his dander up."

"He ain't never been up against nothin' like this."

Coco lay back down. He hurt all over. He thought his
leg might be broken. "Uh-huh. And they never been up
agin anybody like Tom Buchanan."

He had never been hurt this bad, he knew. It was a tre
mendous shock. He could talk brave to the one-legged
man, but he had seen lynchings in the South, he knew all
about them. And he was so bad hurt he wouldn't be able
to punch it out with them when they came, to make them
shoot him. It would be like stickin' pigs, and he had al
ways loathed that time of year back on the plantation
when he had been a slave boy.

The Kovacs' house was staunch, but pitifully few were
gathered there. Too many women, Buchanan thought. Not
enough men to man the windows.

Then at noon two riders came in on work horses. They were tall and skinny, with prominent Adam's apples. They
were father and son, name of Thome.

The old man was gray-haired, his pale eyes washed out.
The son was a younger edition of the father. They carried
old Remingtons and a pouch of ammunition.

"Badger, he tole us about it," said Pa Thorne. "Knew
we'd be in for it, we're on Bar-B land. Knew the richuns
would be after us. Always are, wherever you go."

"Ain't no place to run," said Sonny Thorne. "Brought
some cornpone and jerky and a couple hams. Reckon
they'll git the rest of our hawgs."

Kovacs explained, "Is pig farmers." He did not seem
pleased.

Buchanan was not favorably impressed, but anyone
who could shoot was welcome. The windows would have
to be double-manned against a possible charge. There was
always the fire hazard, and the enemy had proved itself
fond of setting fires. Then there was the question of casu
alties. ... There was no way to avoid it.

The women served food. There seemed enough for a
short siege, but there were many mouths to feed. Water
from the creek was stored in every possible receptacle.
The creek ran nearby, but it would be under sharpshooter
attack when the siege began.

There was no possibility that there would not be a siege,
Buchanan knew. The ranchers had to attack, they had
begun with the hanging of Adam Day and gone on to burn
out Jack Trevor. There was no turning back for them,
they were into it and had to finish it. He had been through it before, one way or another. He meant to make every preparation, to advise everyone to stay put in this strong
stone building ... and to say their prayers.

He prowled the ample big-room with its three narrow,
high windows, two on the front, one on the side opposite
the fireplace. The door was thick, seasoned wood on heavy hinges. It was defensible.

There was a hall leading to the kitchen where there
were two similar windows and a rear door. The two big
bedrooms led off the hall, each with one window. All
would be manned by shooters with rifles.

People milled about, visiting, a change from their ordinary day to day existence. There was a holiday air, which
would soon enough be dissipated.

Buchanan heard voices in the kitchen. Trevor was
speaking to Amanda Day.

Trevor was saying painfully, "But surely, dear lady,
you cannot
believe that I had any hand in th
e murder of
your husband?"

"That is for you to decide," she answered coldly.

"It was upon that rock that I split from the others of the
Cattleman's Association." Now he spoke with dignity.

"Too late to save Adam."

"Yes. Too late." Trevor sighed. "I can only crave your
forgiveness."

"A man like Buchanan arrives too late, but had he been
here, it would not have happened."

"You may be correct. He moves quickly and with skill."

"I must prepare more food," she said, her accents still
icy.

Trevor wandered into the hallway. He peered at Bu
chanan. He said, "A beautiful lady. Beautiful."

"I noted," said Buchanan. "Give her time."

"Time? Eh? What?"

"Been around a lot," Buchanan said. "Man's voice
gives him away sometimes."

"I say, now. Really, that's a bit much."

"Uh-huh," said Buchanan. "Scuse me all to pieces."

He went into the kitchen. Amanda was cutting bacon. She did everything with grace. He wondered what kind of a man the fanner Adam Day had been when she met him.
Not the same man who was hanged, he knew.

She looked at him, and her face softened. "Are you
hungry?"

"Always, ma'am. Good thing I don't eat every time. I'd
be bigger'n a house."

"Never," she denied. "Not you."

He accepted a sandwich of bread and cold meat.
"Heard you talkin' with Jack Trevor."

She frowned again. "They burnt him out, but does that make him one of us?"

"Depends on what you mean by
us.
Seems to me we got pushed here together, willy-nilly. Can't expect us to be all alike."

"Trevor is landed gentry. Noble birth and all that."

"Can't hold that against him."

"I don't trust him."

"Your privilege, ma'am. Thing is, he can shoot, and we need shooters."

"You're very sure of that, aren't you?"

"Man can see a storm brewin' if he knows the country."

"You believe in people, don't you, Buchanan?"

"Some." He chewed on the sandwich. The lady had re
covered quickly from the hanging of her husband.

"And you can be exasperating."

"Uh-huh," There would be trouble outside and trouble
a
side, no question about that. Amanda Day was not a
woman to reserve opinions.

Raven came into the kitchen. She moved with light
grace, but there was something about her, something not
qu
ite full-blooded Crow. He swallowed and spoke to her.

"Your people in the hills?"

"These are my people," she replied gravely
. "Jenny Pieter
."

"But the Crows. Are they the
peaceable
tribe?"

"Ask Badger. He knows."

"Uh-huh." He finished the sandwich. The girl was as ret
icent as most Indians, but she seemed utterly devoted to
Pieter and Jenny Kovacs. There were good Indians and
bad Indians and good white people and bad white people,
and sometimes he thought there were more bad whites. He
decided to forget about Raven for the time being. If she wanted to stay and take a chance on dying with the white
people who had raised her, that was none of his business.

He went to the door and opened it, scanning the hori
zon. The lush and lovely countryside lay fallow in the af
ternoon sun. It was good land. It was the kind of place
over which people fought.

The tall mule came into sight, running, the mountain
man swaying with the rhythm. Buchanan closed the door
behind him and went to meet Badger.

"Whoa, now." The deepset eyes peered down at Bu
chanan. "You ken a black man name o' Coco Bean?"

"I do."

"Jackson, the stage driver, he give me word."

"Uh-huh?"

"Stage loaded with gunmen. Comin' in by the dozens."

"About Coco."

"Yeah. He's in the jail."

"Whatever for?"

"Could be 'cause he allowed as how you're his friend."

"It's that bad already? Any friend of mine is in trou
ble?"

"Worse'n that. Weevil's jailed, too. They're plannin' on lynchin' the two of 'em."

Buchanan started for the corral and the big horse.
Badger followed him.

"Nighttime," said the mountain man. "They allus do
their foul deeds at night. Got to drink a lotta likker and
all. Got to talk a lot, make theirselves believe."

"Right."

"Reckon we go in, eh?"

"I go in. Coco's my friend."

"Got to know the way. Let it get dark."

Buchanan hesitated. "You know a way?"

"Ridin' around, an old man like me, he gets to know."

"Just the two of us?"

"Mebbe."

"Trevor?"

"Mebbe. Two horses and the Britisher would give us a
better outlook, sorta."

"Dynamite?"

"Jail ain't that hefty. Might hurt 'em. Your friend and
Weevil is already beat bad."

"They beat Coco?"

"Did so, says Jackson."

Buchanan said, "Coco's a gentle soul. Nobody should
hurt Coco."

"Don't git too mad," said Badger. " 'Tain't good fer
what we're gonna do."

"A thick rope," said Buchanan.

"Yep. My idee exackly."

Trevor came from the house, curious. Buchanan told
him the latest bad news.

Trevor said, "Oh my, yes. When do we start?"

They started at twilight. They led two horses and car
ried a coil of heavy rope borrowed from Kovacs. They
rode into the dark, going around the town behind Badger
and the tireless big mule. They carried rifles and revolvers, and Trevor had a keen hunting knife from Sheffield in England, the best of steel.

There were few stars. Badger brought them by a devious path through heavy undergrowth, past the smelly
town dump. They crossed behind the buildings facing the
main street.

The noise from the Powder River and the Deuces Wild saloons was reaching a peak. Buchanan heard his name
mentioned a half-dozen times. Curses were called down
upon Trevor. Kovacs was not ignored, nor the Whelans.

Pollard was heard to yell, "We got pos'tive proof the
Whelans burned out Trevor. They're all dogs. They got to
be treated like dogs."

"Trevor messin' with Whelan's woman," roared Mor
gan Crane. "No good British whoremaster."

Trevor nudged Buchanan, who nodded. Badger sat on
the mule and shook his head. They went around behind the jail, which was a wooden building, not much more
than a shack. There had been little use for a strong hoose-
gow up until now. It was staunch enough for overnight
drunks or vagrants, no more.

There were two barred windows, high up. Buchanan
reined his horse close to the wall of the jailhouse and
spoke into its ear for a moment, calming it. Then he gin
gerly climbed upon the saddle, bracing himself against the
wall while Trevor held the bridle. There was glass, which
he did not want to break for fear of alarming the jailers, who might be sober. He managed to get out his Barlow, open it, and attack the putty. He removed the glass and
handed it down to Badger,

Coco's voice came from the darkness within, soft and
confident. "That you, Tom?"

"It ain't Santa Claus," said Buchanan. "How you doin'
in there?"

"Wantin' out, mainly."

"How's Weevil?"

"He's bad. But they give him his leg back."

"Where's it hurt most?"

"Thought they broke my leg. Guess not altogether.
Banged up my ribs good, though."

"You got any power left?"

"How much you need?"

"Might need a shove against this wall."

"You need it
...
I better have it. They gonna hang us,
Tom."

"Yeah. So I hear." Badger was handing up the rope.
"Grab hold of this. Pass it on to Weevil."

He got down, moved the horse to the other window. He
removed that pane of glass.

"Weevil, you hear me?"

"I do."

"How many guards in there?"

"Two, three. Drinkin' a lot of booze right now."

"Sure they are. Stick your end of the rope out to me,
can you? Get on the bunk or whatever."