Buchanan's Seige (13 page)

Amanda slammed the door and knelt beside him. "Are
you hurt? Did they get you?"

"Might's well. Scared me to death." Buchanan sat up.
"You sure do look pretty when you get exercised."

She flushed and stood up, moving toward the stove.
"We couldn't do without you, now, could we?"

"You might not do too good with me," he told her.

The sun was going down. Buchanan went into the other
room and made his announcement, two more guns in the
house, Trevor and the Whelans on the roof because they could be trusted.

"Coco, Weevil, you keep your eyes on Cactus and Sut
ter. They make a wrong move, you, Weevil, you shoot
'em. Coco won't do it, and he ain't able to scrag 'em."

"You still don't trust them?" asked Trevor.

"Nope. Could be Durkin wants to get me, figurin' them
to take over the house."

"Then why not put them on the roof with us?"

"You'll be too busy to watch 'em close enough." He
looked at Weevil. "You seein' straight now?"

"Fine, thankee." He picked a revolver from the arma
ment on the long table. "Up close I can get 'em both. I
■
think."

Kovacs said quietly, "I watch. If I got to, I get one."

"Good."

"I do not like," Kovacs said. "But I do it."

"Nobody likes any of this," Buchanan told him.
P
rob'ly some people out yonder don't like it, neither."

But Kovacs was unhappy, he knew. The man had not
complained, but it had to be a fearful time for him, his
wife, and their adopted Indian girl. Amanda seemed
tougher, more dedicated. The Whelans knew what had to
be done and would carry through. Trevor was somewhat detached but willing.

The problem was that they all looked to Buchanan, who
h
ad no stake in the fight
—all excepting Durkin, perhaps.
Someone had to outmaneuver the
enemy
and none but
Buchanan had the experience and the quality of leader
ship.
Except, perhaps, Durkin again. He went to the door
and set himself for the short run. He called to the people
on the roof, and they laid down a line of fire.

He made the quick dash. This time only two shots came
close, but either one would have killed him. He wondered
if his luck was gradually running short.

Durkin greeted him. "Looks like rain. You fix things up with them in the house?"

"Anytime your boys want to try and make it."

Durkin said to the cowboys, "You seen Buchanan do it.
Make up your minds."

They hesitated, looking at one another. Then Cactus
went to the door. Buchanan joined Durkin. Trevor waved from the rooftop, and they began to fire. Cactus darted to
ward the house where Amanda held the door open. He
made it.

Sutter said, "Well, here goes nothin'."

He lowered his head and went in a bull rush. He was a
heavy man and lacked speed, agility.

He was almost to the house when he went down, one
leg knocked from under him. Buchanan, watching even as
he fired at the sharpshooters on the knoll, saw him fall.

He said, "Keep at it, Durkin," and ran.

He made his zigzag pattern. As he came close to Sutter,
the bullets were raining about him. Without breaking
stride, he picked up the heavy man and hurled him
through the open door, following, dragging Sutter past
Amanda. The door slammed and Amanda's white face be
trayed her fear.

Raven came. They stretched Sutter on the table. The
bullet had gone cleanly through the calf of his leg. The In
dian girl went to work on it as though she had been
trained in a first-class hospital.

Sutter looked up at Buchanan. "Much obliged. They
woulda filled me with lead if you hadn't come along."

Cactus said, "Never did see a man so damn strong. Sut
ter, he ain't no lightweight."

"Just you two help these people in here," Buchanan
said. "Just try and make a fight."

Sutter winced, then grinned. "Thought we might cross yawl, didn'tcha, Buchanan?"

"It ran through my mind."

"Ran through ours, too. Like they might've paid us off
big if we pulled it out for 'em."

Buchanan said, "You wouldn't have got away with it
.
So don't do us any favors. Just be good boys."

He took a deep breath. He looked at the barn door. It
seemed as though it had moved farther away from the
house. Twilight was coming on, and he could wait and di
minish the risk. But Durkin was out there alone. It was
wrong to leave a man to himself at a time like this.

Buchanan ran. Again they came close to hitting him.
He did not know if it was closer than before, but he could
n
ot shake off the feeling that sooner or later one of those
bullets would bear his name.

Durkin was staring out through the gathering darkness
toward the enemy on the knoll. They would furnish the
problem of the coming night. The sharpshooters in the
trees would not attack lest they be cut down in the clearing
is front of the house.

Buchanan said, "Sutter got it in the leg, nice and clean."

"Hadda happen. Thought they might get you this time."

"Uh-huh," said Buchanan. "Had the same thought my
self.
"

"Yuh never know," said Durkin. He glanced at Bu
chanan. "Mighty white of you, pickin' up Sutter. You
don't even know him or nothin'."

"'Seems like a good enough man."

"Just about," said Durkin. " 'Twas a big thing to do. I
ain’t
forgettin' it."

They settled down to wait. As always, waiting was the
w
or
st of it.

N
ow
it began to rain, a steady, dismal drizzle. Buchanan
gl
ared at the knoll; he sensed there was much activity back
th
ere. There had been little firing from that direction in
the
last hour.

No light shone from the house, lest the inhabitants be
lin
ed as targets for the men in the trees. Once in a while,
t
h
e
r
e was a flash of lightning and Trevor and the Whelans
tried
to pick off those across from them with little success.

Durkin said, "Buchanan, you mind when we first butted
heads?”

"A long while ago. East Texas," said Buchanan.

"We was youngsters. There was that Fourth of July tur
key shoot and fair."

"I remember." He wondered what they could be up to
out of his sight and sound, behind that hill.

"I was bigger'n you, then. There was a little gal named
Susie Brown. I was courtin' her."

"That I don't remember."

"You won the turkey. You won the sack race. You won the potato race. Then we rassled."

"Uh-huh. I remember that. You were strong as an ox."

"Yeah. And you throwed me."

"A trick," said Buchanan. "Pa taught me."

"Susie Brown, she went home with you."

"She did, now?" He thought he heard harness creaking.
He wished Durkin would stop reminiscing.

"Never would go with me no more. From that day, I
swore to get to be a bigger and better man than you, Bu
chanan. I worked. I saved. Lost it all a couple times. Oh, I
heard about you. Ran across you in El Paso that time.
Seems to me you didn't have nothin'. I was gatherin' some
beef, then."

"That's right. You were doin' right good." A wagon
wheel squealed beyond the knoll.

"You moved up and down and around. You ain't got a
thing except what you carry on you. Right?"

"Yep," said Buchanan. "That's correct."

"I got land. Paid for. I got cattle grazin' that land. I got
a nice house and am lookin' for a bride."

"That's right fine." Now there were voices, but he could not distinguish a word that was said.

"Yep. I finally had things goin' good. Then this hap
pened. Never would knuckle down, you know that. Bound
to prove I'm a better man than you."

Buchanan couldn't see the man's face, but the serious
ness of his mien was patent in his voice. "Why, that's oka
y
with me. I like what I do. I hope you live to own Wyoming, Durkin."

"And here you come. Ready to fight. Nothin' to gai
n
. .
Just a damn hero."

"Nope," said Buchanan. "Scared. And hooked into i
t
without meanin' to take a hand."

"Yeah? Well, when this is over you are goin' to answer to me, Buchanan. We'll see who's the best man."

"You'll have to get in line," Buchanan said. "Coco's
first."

There was more noise behind that knoll. He was certain he detected the reflected light of torches. He had to know
what was going on. Again a wagon wheel creaked.

"I dunno what you're talkin' about. But we'll see who's
who." Durkin was becoming agitated by his long-standing
grievance. His voice grew louder, he swung his long, heavy
arms. "You hear me? You're gonna have to show me.
This time I'm gonna beat out what little brains you got."

He peered into the darkness. The rain fell gently on the
roof of the barn. He reached out a hand.

"Buchanan?"

There was no reply. He whirled around.

"You hidin'on me?"

Still no answer. Suddenly Durkin felt alone. He dared sot strike a taper and make himself a target. He swung
a
r
o
und the barn, calling Buchanan's name. It took him a
few
moments to realize what had happened. He shook
him
self together, bringing his mind to the present.

He listened. He looked. He cursed beneath his breath.
T
hen
he levered a shell into the chamber of his rifle and
ease
d out of the barn, a squat, heavy man prowling into
bl
ackness, feeling the rain on his face, going in a circle,
approaching the scene of activity behind the little hill.

Buchanan was already out there. He was in the open,
so
if a sudden wind should come up and dispel the
clouds
he would be in a very unpleasant position indeed.
At least
he didn't have to listen to Durkin, he thought, ap
p
lyin
g all his plainsmanship to sneaking around the north-
fla
nk
of the knoll. He stopped and listened again. Wagon
springs
creaked as though someone was loading up. He
was gett
ing closer to the enemy ranks. He heard Morgan
Crane’
s loud voice, and a man laughed, and he thought
that was
Jigger Dorn. He flattened himself and crawled on
wet grass.

Then he saw the torches planted in the ground. There was the wagon with the squeaky wheel. It was almost to
the top of the knoll, and it was headed for the barn. There
were men behind it, but no horses to pull it.

Dealer Fox was giving orders. Pollard was talking to
men who now aligned themselves on the side of the wagon
that would not be exposed to fire from the house or the
barn.

There was a steady fire from the trees at the front of the
house now. It was a much steadier attack than before.

Morgan Crane yelled, "Make sure you get the damn
fuses lit in time."

"Yeah," Buchanan breathed. "Thank goodness for one
big mouth tonight, anyway."

They were getting ready, he saw. He moved with speed
down into the path the wagon must take to get to the barn. Now he wished he had brought out Trevor or the Whelans
to help. Durkin might do some good from the barn....

A shot sounded. One of the men at the wagon went
down. There was a shout. The wagon began to move, pro
pelled by the men behind it and alongside it. It picked up
speed going down the hill.

Durkin's powerful voice echoed in the night, "Buchan
an! Where the hell are you? They're gonna blow up the
damn barn!"

Twenty men behind the hill turned guns toward the
sound of the voice. Buchanan lay flat and began firing as swiftly as he could pull the trigger.

There could be no help from the house. They were out
of that line of fire. Durkin still shot into the mass of the
enemy. Men fell, there was confusion . . . but the wagon
was rolling rapidly, and now Buchanan saw the glow of
the tip of a fuse.

He emptied the rifle. Then he began to run. Durkin was
still shooting. Men scrambled away from the wagon. They
had lashed the front axle so that it would remain on
course. He stumbled over a prone body, recovered him
self. As he twisted around, he caught a glimpse of Durkin,
who had rushed into the light of the torches.

The underslung rancher had his revolver in his hand.
He was fanning it, not bothering to aim. The attention of
the entire crew was on him.

They fired at him. He went down on one knee. He
reached behind his neck and yanked out a long, gleaming Bowie knife. He rushed at them.

Buchanan gulped. He was at the tailgate of the wagon.
He tossed the rifle aboard. He grabbed hold with both
hands and vaulted into the body of the wagon.

He had to go by the feel of things, now. He saw the
spark of the fuse. It led to a box, upon which was stacked
another box. There was enough dynamite to blow up half
the county. The rain had stopped, but everything was slip
pery and greasy. He scrabbled with his hands.

All the men had fallen or been shot away from the wagon. Buchanan stumbled and fell as the speed de
creased. There was just enough momentum to reach the
barn. They had timed it well.

One hand touched the fuse. He snuffed it out. He clam
bered at once to the seat of the wagon. There was still
danger that it would collide with the stone barn
and
that a
spark would set off the whole thing.

He reached for the wagon pole, which had been lashed
to keep the axle from swerving. He took it in his hands
and braced his feet, swinging out with all his might.

He felt something give. The front wheels spun loose. He
came down on the pole. His muscles swelled to bursting
under the strain.

He pointed the wagon north and slightly away from the barn. He exerted the last remnant of his enormous power. Inch by inch, he fought the wagon to a standstill. Leaning hard against it, he sagged against the pole for a moment,
drawing deep breath into his aching lungs.

Durkin had proved himself, he thought now. Durkin
had died proving to himself that he was the better man. It was good that he believed that, going down and out. Cer
t
ainly he had given Buchanan time and opportunity to act.
If dying well proved anything, Durkin must have been sat
isfied with his end.

Shots were coming at the wagon. Buchanan found
strength to climb into the body. There were kegs, obvious
ly containing gunpowder. He moved these and the boxes
of dynamite to the rear end of the wagon body.

He heard voices from the barn, then. Kovacs called to
him, and then Cactus yelled for Durkin.

Buchanan said, "Here."

They came running. They stared at the wagon. The
clouds were drifting away, there was starlight.

Buchanan said, "Cactus, cover us. Pieter, help me get
this stuff into the barn before we all get blown to bits."

"Where's Durkin?" Cactus was already lining up the
men showing themselves on the knoll.

Buchanan handed a heavy keg of powder to Kovacs,
who ducked his head as he lugged it into the barn. " 'Fraid he went over. He was tryin' to stop 'em."

Cactus began to shoot. Buchanan picked up a box of
dynamite and, carrying it as though it were a crate of eggs,
ran past Kovacs into the shelter of the stone stable. Ko
vacs was scared as bullets came wildly out of the night, but
he too brought in a box of dynamite.

Cactus said, "He was a hard man, Durkin. But fair."

"He went out dead game," Buchanan told him. It
seemed the second keg of powder was heavier than the
first. He staggered with Kovacs into the barn. He remem
bered his rifle and jumped into the wagon to retrieve it. A
bullet whistled past his ear. He juggled the rifle, knelt, in
serted cartridges. He leveled at the knoll and sent shot
after shot at the exposed enemy.

Out of the distant darkness, now dimly lit by the stars,
came a booming sound. Morgan Crane bellowed some
thing and the firing toward the barn ceased.

"What the hell was that?" demanded Cactus, reloading.

"That was Dan Badger," Buchanan told him, sighing in
relief. "What you heard was a Sharps buffalo gun. Makes
people stop and think."

"They will catch him," said Kovacs fearfully. "They
will kill my friend."

"I doubt it," said Buchanan. "Let's get this junk stored
where it can do the most good."

Cactus said, "This stuff could blow us all to hell."

"Is so," said Kovacs.