Buchanan 15 Page 8

  “He’s got you buffaloed, all right,” said Dave Dare.

  Cobber’s bunk was larger than the others, in a corner of the long room. He bent painfully, rummaged beneath the cot and came up with a length of bright steel chain of small, elongated links. He ran it through his big hands.

  “Run into a black b’ar oncet,” he rumbled. “Up in the mountains beyond Denver. Big bugger. Jest for fun I snuck behind it. Got this here around his neck. Choked him t’ death.”

  “Black bear,” said Dave Dare. “Buchanan, now. He’s more of a grizzly.”

  Cobber wagged his beard. “The day’ll come. By God, the day’ll come.”

  The rider called Bowlegs asked, “What you think the boss’ll do now, Dave?”

  “I dunno. He was kinda funny about it. Said he warned us all, like. Said he told us not to go near Buchanan.”

  “Him drunk again, he’ll say anything.”

  “Didn’t give a damn about McGee nor Semple. Said let ’em rot. Said they was plain dumb,” Cobber said.

  “What about them sheep?” Bowlegs asked.

  “Said leave everything be till Buchanan leaves,” Dare told him.

  “What if Buchanan don’t pull stakes?”

  “I dunno,” said Dare testily. “I just take orders. And I obey ’em. That’s why we’re alive.”

  After a moment Bowlegs said, “Y’ know, Cross Bar don’t need nothin’ more’n we got. Them sheep are trouble, sartain. But they ain’t that much trouble.”

  “It’s up to the boss,” Dave reiterated. “This here’s a good place to work, ’ceptin’ for winters. It’s up to Jake.”

  “And his gal.”

  “Now, you hush up on her.”

  “C’mon, Dave. You know she’s been seein’ that half-breed out on the range. We all seen her waylayin’ him.”

  Dave Dare grabbed the smaller man by the shirt. “By geez, you keep your mouth off her or you draw your pay. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  Bowlegs squirmed away. “All right, Dave. All right.”

  The other riders averted their faces, busying themselves with small, useless tasks. Dave Dare knew. They all knew. All but Bowlegs also knew enough to keep their knowledge to themselves.

  In the main house Jake Robertson poured whiskey for himself and Mrs. Bacon. Claire watched, resigned. Robertson said, “I done told them.”

  “We know,” said Claire. “They went in to kill Buchanan. You warned them. One dead, one crippled, one beaten. Now what do you propose?”

  He drank. “Gotta bring in bigger and better guns.”

  “To kill Buchanan and the Caseys?”

  “Hush such talk,” said the housekeeper. She reached out and touched Jake’s hand. “Your pa ain’t out to hurt people. Just to get rid of them damned sheep.”

  “To do that people must be killed.” Claire’s chin came out hard and strong. “It is no good, Papa. No good.”

  “Protection. They got Buchanan. He already killed McGee, didn’t he?” His speech was slightly slurred, his eyes unfocused. “You been to school too much, baby. You don’t know what it takes to hold on to what you got.”

  He finished his drink. Mrs. Bacon followed suit and trotted to the sideboard to pour another for each of them. Claire watched, smoldering. Mrs. Bacon had been speaking up more and more as days went by. There was an Irish girl, an immigrant, in the kitchen now and a boy to help her. Mrs. Bacon was beginning to rule the household.

  Claire said, “You don’t need to fight to hold what you have. You’re a rich man. You could sell out and we could travel the world.”

  Her father snorted. “Who wants to see the world? My world’s right here. Yessir. On’y place I’d wanta see would be mebbe back home in Texas. The world can go to hell.”

  Claire said, “I would like to see the world.”

  “You can take a journey any ol’ time you want. Do you good. Getcha outta here.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” said Mrs. Bacon, beaming. “You could go any ol’ place you wanted.”

  Claire arose and went to the sideboard. She picked up two bottles of whiskey. She stared hard at her papa and Mrs. Bacon, then went into the kitchen. She emptied the bottles into the sink. Then she went upstairs to her room. She undressed, donned a robe and sat in a chair beside an oil lamp. She rocked back and forth, her mind going around and around. There was no sign of her dimples. Her knuckles were white. Her eyes were dark blue, her chin hard.

  She thought of Peter Wolf, his straight, hard body, his black gaze ... his indifference to her. She thought of Susan Casey. Claire knew she was in love with Peter Wolf, who was, she could plainly see, in love with Susan.

  She could hear her father roaring her name downstairs because of the whiskey. That’s all he would do, holler and complain. Mrs. Bacon would agree and suggest punishment and then Jake would turn on Mrs. Bacon and tell her to mind her own business and then they would open another bottle. It was all part of a scene that had become dismal.

  She considered Susan. She could not hate the girl. If she knew anything, she knew hatred was destructive. She had temperament of her own; she recognized strength in others. The Caseys were good people.

  Then there was Buchanan. In him she saw the epitome of a dying breed. The frontier still existed; she was a part of it despite her schooling, her appreciation of other values. Buchanan stood for what the West believed in, would suffer for, would die for. She saw it all clearly.

  She found no comfort in her clear vision. It was not a time for women in the West. So long as Jake Robertson was alive she would be his daughter and that only. She could only sit back and wait.

  She could, however, ride out and hope to see Peter Wolf.

  A lamp in the Casey stable threw long black shadows. Nightshade moved restlessly in his stall. Buchanan and Coco knelt beside the little black lamb. Susan hovered, uncertain.

  She said, “Maybe he’s got a fever.”

  “He’s real peaked,” said Coco.

  Johnnybear came with hot water. No one knew exactly what to do with it.

  “He won’t eat,” said Buchanan. “His belly’s swole some.”

  Coco brought a horse blanket. “Keep him warm. That’s what you do with babies, ain’t it?”

  “I never had a baby,” Susan said.

  “I got some of that medicine the Crow gave us the recipe for,” said Coco.

  “That’s for humans,” Buchanan said.

  “Heap big medicine,” said Johnnybear.

  “It’s mainly for bullet holes.” Buchanan was wearing a poultice of the cure-all the Crow girl had given them at the time of the siege. Its healing power was nothing short of miraculous. “Where on the little critter would we put it?”

  They all furrowed their brows. The black lamb blatted his complaint faintly.

  Coco said, “He brought us here, he did. That’s how we all come together. Got to take care of him no matter what.”

  They all looked to Buchanan. At a total loss, he felt the nose of the lamb. “With a dog if he’s got a cold nose, he’s okay. Hot nose he ain’t feelin’ good.”

  “So?” asked Susan.

  “Seems neither one to me.” He rocked back on his heels. His shoulder burned. His left arm was stiff and sore. “Be doggone if I know what to do.”

  Beth Bower said from the door, “Goodness sakes, you folks. Just get out of the way, please.”

  She had a bottle in her hand. The light was kind to her bright hair; her violet eyes were amused. She had a truly wonderful gait, Buchanan thought, a fine figure of a woman. She was about thirty, he thought, young to be a widow and alone in this land. She went to the lamb, tilted its head.

  She said, “If one of you is strong enough to pry open its jaws ...” Buchanan obeyed. She uncorked the bottle. She poured carefully, without spilling a drop. The lamb choked a bit, then allowed the thick liquid to slip down his throat.

  Beth Bower stood up. “Now you-all better go about your business, ’ceptin’ Johnnybear. He’ll have to
do the dirty work, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s that you gave it?” asked Coco.

  “Why, castor oil, of course. Anybody with half an eye could see what ails the critter. Shoo! Inside!”

  They went meekly, following her. The elder Caseys were having a drink in the parlor. They smiled at the trio of would-be nurses. Casey said, “Beth knows about as much as a doctor. She’s been invaluable to us.”

  “Nursed me through a bad spell not too long ago,” Mrs. Casey added. “Took care of Susan’s sprained ankle. Let’s all have a drink, shall we?”

  They chatted. Susan went to the piano. Peter Wolf was missing, Buchanan noted.

  The music was soothing. It was a most pleasant domestic scene, one in which Buchanan seldom found himself. Coco, nursing a glass of milk in a corner, obviously reveled in it. The threat of tremendous trouble ahead seemed to have failed to touch these people, Buchanan thought.

  Yet he caught Susan’s glances from time to time. She did not play the gay tunes. Her fingers were nimble, but the music was tender, sometimes sober. She had seen the violence erupt; she had seen the consequences.

  Now that he was committed, Buchanan knew he must forthwith count the chances, the odds. He had no doubt that Jake would send for reinforcements, probably had already done so. There was no lack of guns for hire. The coming of law in highly populated areas had driven them all to the roads. Jake had money; they needed money. It was as simple as that.

  Buchanan had friends, dozens of them. One of the reasons he kept them, he reminded himself, was that he never called upon them to put their lives on the line. He might bring them in by sending a telegram to Billy Button in New Mexico. He smiled to himself, knowing what the headstrong Billy would think if he were asked to come and fight for sheep people. Billy ran a big ranch on the high plain, fine Herefords and longhorns mixed with newly acquired Angus for crossbreeding. Billy and his wife and son, Tommy, were all the family Buchanan had. There was no way he would disturb their current peace and quiet.

  He wondered if he dared hope that there was a chance to get Jake Robertson to talk bobwire. He doubted it down to his boots. Still, he could try. There was the girl; he had seen something in her that he admired.

  The music broke off. Susan said, “I don’t feel much like playing tonight. I can’t help thinking of poor Arizona.”

  “He’s a tough old brother,” said Buchanan.

  “That other man, the one tried to kill you. He’ll lose his arm, won’t he?”

  “So said the doctor.”

  “For wages,” she mused. “They know they must fight with guns sooner or later. For money.”

  “For hire. It’s a bit different,” Buchanan said. “They ain’t assassins. They hope to hold the shootin’ down through their reputations. They got their pride. That’s why they come for me.”

  Coco added, “It’s always the same. We get to a place, we do somethin’ or other. Then they come for Tom.”

  “The luck of the game.” Buchanan dissembled; he was uneasy at being thought the savior of the West. He was not; he never had been. Time, tide and circumstance had presented situations. He was thrust into them. He did what he thought was right. That was all.

  “Let us speak of other matters,” said Shawn Casey, ever discerning, sensing Buchanan’s discomfort.

  Two men held Semple. The smell of whiskey was strong in the small room where he lay stretched on Dr. Abrams’s operating table. There were clamps for his legs, but his right arm lay free. He was stripped to the waist, his mouth in a ghastly grin. Bascomb stood by, bottle in hand.

  Semple said, “For God’s sake, git on with it, Doc.” His voice was high, his speech slurred. “I can’t swalley much more booze, damn it.”

  “Sorry I don’t have ether, son,” said the doctor. “It’s in small supply. Had a sheepherder in here ...”

  “The hell with your goddam sheepherder. Saw the damn thing off. It’s killin’ me.”

  “Patience ... patience.”

  The thin-bladed surgical saw was bright and clean. Semple stared at it, bleary-eyed. One of the men holding him swallowed hard and turned pale. Bascomb put down the bottle and shoved the man aside.

  “I got a strong stomach, Jeb. Lemme handle this.”

  “Somebody damn well better do somethin’,” howled Semple.

  The doctor said, “In the next room I have a good man in serious condition due to you fellows. If I don’t handle this surgery properly, you might be in worse shape. So kindly shut up.”

  Bascomb said, “Let’s get it over with, eh, Doc?”

  The man named Jeb leaned against the wall. “Makes us all sick, Doc, waitin’ around.”

  Oblivious, the doctor went on, “All during the war we lost patients because of pyemia or gangrene. Terrible. Then Dr. Lister discovered the method we know now, which reduces the danger ...” His saw touched flesh and Semple screamed. No one heard the end of Dr. Abrams’s little lecture.

  In the next room the doctor’s wife wiped Arizona’s lips and smiled at him. She was a plain, patient woman with graying hair. “Pay no attention. He’s operating on the man who shot you.”

  “I wouldn’t wish that on a dog,” whispered Arizona. He was having trouble with his breath. He shut his mouth tight. There had been other wounds, injuries of all kinds. The frontier was rough and he had been a ranch hand before he was a marshal. There had been great days and bad days and this, he thought, might well be the end. He managed a smile to comfort the woman who was being kind to him.

  The tough Texas buggy rattled on the uneven trail between Cross Bar and Sheridan. Mrs. Bacon handled the reins. Jake Robertson nursed a bottle and talked incessantly every yard of the way. The stars shone on the land, lighting the trail. In the distance a working dog barked at a strayed sheep.

  “Nobody understands,” Jake said, “’Ceptin’ mebbe you. My daughter, she’s into all them newfangled ideas. Peace. That’s all she talks about. Peace with sheep men. Peace with Injuns. Peace with every dumb soul in the world. Is that the way I got where I am?”

  “No, Jake.” The front wheel struck a dip and she was thrown against him. “Just take it easy now, Jake.”

  “I told them fools not to go agin Buchanan, didn’t I?”

  “You sure did, Jake,” she said soothingly, liking the contact with his heavy body. “Their own fault they got in trouble.”

  “Buchanan, he was a friend, I thought. Not that I blame him for what happened. What I can’t abide is him sidin’ with the sheep people. I thought he might go on his way. He won’t, not now. The boys went agin him, and I know his pride. He’s a Texan for all his New Mexico talk. The Lord knows I don’t wanta fight him. But a man’s got to stand up for his rights. I brought all them cows to Wyoming and I’m goin’ to keep ’em here and no bobwire and to hell with sheep.”

  “You got every right.”

  “Dave and them, they’re dumb, but they’re all right. Good cattlemen. They earn their pay. Ain’t tough enough. Oh, they’ll fight if they have to. Need better guns.”

  She said, “If you think so, Jake.”

  “Damn Cobber, tryin’ to fight Buchanan with bare hands. McGee and Semple, now, they had the right notion even if it didn’t work for ’em. You got to take Buchanan by surprise. Not that I’d have anything to do with a bushwhack,” he added hastily. “Not my style, not at all.”

  “I know. You’re an honest man.”

  “I hope to God. I pay my way. I bought the damn sheriff. He won’t bother none with Sheridan. I know the governor of Wyoming well enough. Leastways I think so—never trust a politician. What I got to do is protect what I own.”

  “You sure do, Jake.” She drove into the town. It was pitch-dark, but a light burned in Dr. Abrams’s hospital and before the post office-telegraph office. “Where you want to go?”

  He said, “Tie up at Doc’s. I’ll have a look.”

  She obeyed. He tipped the bottle, swallowing then coughing. She took the whiskey and sipped herself. With an effort he
managed to step down. Then he stumbled.

  She said, “Jake! Be careful. I swear, you come in here without a gun and guzzlin’ liquor and ...”

  “Hush up, woman. I’m like Buchanan thataway. Only carry a weapon when you mean to use it.” He laughed. “You comin’?”

  She crawled down and they went arm in arm to the door. Mrs. Abrams opened it, wan with exhaustion. She said, “I thought you might be stopping by.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jake removed his hat. “My man. Is he alive?”

  “He is.”

  “Like to see him, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Abrams said, “This way, please.” She led him to where Semple lay, the stump bandaged, his eyes closed. The odor of antiseptic was strong. Mrs. Bacon said, “Lordy, he does look beat.”

  Dr. Abrams came from the next room. “Mr. Robertson, you might come with me.”

  Jake said, “Why, sure. Anything I can do.” He fumbled in his pocket, took out money. “I’m payin’ all bills.”

  Dr. Abrams was silent, leading the way. Jake stopped dead in his tracks. Arizona lay with his hands across his chest, coins upon his eyelids, a tight little smile on his lips.

  “Christ!” said Jake. “I didn’t know.”

  “Your money won’t bring him back. It won’t replace the arm of your man in there, who probably killed him.”

  Jake said, “Now look, Doc. I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “The men who attacked Buchanan work for you.”

  “They was goin’ against my strict orders. I got proof.”

  “You may need it.”

  Jake began to back out of the room. “Semple ... he’ll be held for the circuit court, then?”

  “If I have anything to do with it. If I can find your sheriff.”

  “Now, Doc ... I’ll see the sheriff is notified. Right’s right. Arizona, he was a good man.”

  “You couldn’t buy him,” said Dr. Abrams coldly.

  “Now ... now ...” Jake put money on the operating table. He said, “All right. It was wrong. They done wrong.” Mrs. Bacon was staring at him. She took his arm as they went outdoors. The street was silent. She walked him to the carriage.