Buchanan's Seige (3 page)

"Coco, you mentioned a Coco Bean?"

"A black man, a prizefighter. A friend." He told her of
Coco's consuming desire to match himself at fisticuffs
against Buchanan. He told her of Coco's fear of firearms,
with which he was continually becoming involved. "Me
and Coco. Always in trouble, one ruckus after another."

She said, "I read in the paper before I left about a
prizefight. In Butte, I believe."

"Nobody beats Coco," said Buchanan. "Right now I
wish he was here. He's a comfortin' man to have beside
you."

"You're a comforting man yourself, Buchanan."

"Well, thankee." He hesitated, then went on.
"You
say
Colonel Bradbury offered to buy you out?"

"He did. I don't think he's an evil man."

"He sent for me. Now you see, he knows I'm not vio
lent, like. Maybe he thought things could be straightened
out with some doin' of mine. No guns."

"I wouldn't deny it. Morgan Crane is different, head
strong, an angry man. Dealer Fox is properly named, devious, not to be trusted. The others sway with the winds.
Bradbury's foreman is Sime Pollard, said to be a killer."

"Sime Pollard. Yes, indeed." Pollard was a fine cattle
man, but he was a quick gun when provoked. Buchanan
had known and disliked Pollard years before, in the
Southwest.

"Then there's Jigger Dorn. He's new, they brought him
in. It's said Dorn will call in other gunmen."

"Yes. Dorn will get them if somebody wants them.
That's his business. Calls himself a lawman. He'll wear anybody's badge for a price."

"The town is under control of the big people, of
course."

"Town's got to make do with money from ranchers and
farmers."

She said, "The other people, Adam's friends . . ." She
broke off as a wagon rattled outside and jangled to a stop.

Buchanan picked up his sixgun from where he had
placed it conveniently on a shelf. They went to the door.
She held a lamp, and Buchanan stayed out of the light. A man and a woman called out and came toward the house.

"It's the Kovacses," said Mrs. Day. "And the girl, Ra
ven. They're our people."

The man was short of stature and thick-bodied, round-
headed, bearded, blue-eyed. His wife was the same height
and could have been his sister, sturdy, thick-limbed, pleas
ant of mien. The girl was slim and dark with black hair
down to her waist. She was, Buchanan realized, an Indian.

They murmured their condolences, and Mrs. Day wept
in reaction. Buchanan took the man
—his name was Pieter
Kovacs—to the shed. They uncovered the body, the mes
sage still pinned to the hickory shirt.

"A lie," said Kovacs.

"Best look in the barn." They found a lantern and Kovacs held it high in the dimness. Chickens squawked and
ran underfoot. A work horse neighed and Buchanan found
the
oat bin and fed him. An old dog raised his head,
bli
nked, and went back to sleep.

Buchanan looked around. There was a fresh hide flung
across a sawhorse. Fresh beef hung in hooks along a wall.
The brand on the hide was Bar-B.

Harness was tossed in a jangled heap. Buchanan picked
it up,
looked at the hook where the carcass was hung. He
s
n
orted.

“
A lousy frame-up."

“
Is so."

"Somebody killed the beef and hung it on the harness
looks. No farmer would do
that;
harness is precious and
h
ard to come by."

"By me this is true."

"They must've been real mad at him."

"Ah, yes. While the missus was away." Kovacs spoke
with
an accent, but his meaning was clear. "Adam, he was
upset, no? He went to town. Bradbury offer to buy him
ou
t. Adam cursed. Because of the missus, you see?"

''Sure. I see."

"Adam cursed Bradbury. Pollard, he got in the way.
Adam, he hit Pollard."

"He hit Pollard and lived?"

"In town, it was. Adam he never carried gun. This is
kn
own. Pollard, he made threats."

"Kept his promise, seems like."

"Yes. Everyone will know. And nothing will be done."
Kovacs was bitter. "I too have been asked to sell to the Cattleman's Association. And others."

"You thinkin'
on it?"

The man's blue eyes became flinty in the light of the
lantern. "Not thinking. Not selling."

"You know what it means?"

"I know." He gestured. "I am from Poland. I know
trouble, bad trouble."

Buchanan said, "Maybe you do. But I g
o
t a notion that
this means a range war. And until you get into one of
them rangdoodles . ..
You’re
just an amateur of trouble."

"They cannot hang us all." .He hesitated. "Something
should be done about Adam, no?"

Buchanan debated a moment. He was into it now
whether or not he liked it. A lynching was a horror to him. He said slowly, "You got a wagon. It won't be safe around
here from now on. Maybe we better take Adam to town."

"To town?" Kovacs brightened. "Ah. Is so."

Buchanan went for his guns and his belongings. Once again, it had happened to him. Fate was against a man of
peace, he recognized. Fate ... and people.

Buffalo
was a small town trying to find its place in the rich
land all about. Its Main Street was wide but not very long.
There was the general store, the smithy, the one-storied
hotel and way station for the stage, two saloons, and scat
tered dwellings for the people of the community. There
was
no local law, only the sheriff based in Sheridan who
came
that way so seldom as to be a stranger.

In back of the Powder River Saloon, there was a large
room
for the cattlemen's pleasure. Pat Noonan, who
owned
the place, was a Celtic gentleman with an eye to
profit
and a throat for whiskey. The back room was kept
sacred to the nabobs of cattledom, Sheridan County style. A quota was then present, bottles on the tables, glasses
clinking. The mood, however, was somber.

Outside, horses wearing the Bar-B, the Z-D, the M-C,
and other brands lined the hitching racks on both sides of
the street. Men entered and left the other barroom, the
Deuces Wild, gathered in small knots talking. They were lean men, riders, clanking their spurs. They were restless
this night.

In the rear of the Powder River, Colonel Bradbury
brooded. He was a florid man, bulky, big-nosed, full-
lipped. He wore a mustache and a trimmed beard. He af
fected soft buckskins and leggings and wore a hat with
slanting brim.

Sime Pollard, the colonel's foreman, leaned against the
wall, his lips tight. There was a slight bruise along his jaw-
line. He was a big man with long arms dangling to his
knees, and he now wore two sixguns tied low on his thighs.

Bradbury said, "I don't like it a damn bit."

A blond man in tweeds and a hunter's cap said, "Rotten bad, you know. Against it, always have been."

"We're all against it, Trevor," Bradbury said heavily.
"Still, it had to come. Adam was stubborn. They're all
stubborn."

"Have a right, haven't they?" The Englishman had gray
eyes and smooth skin.

Dealer Fox said, "You two, I declare." His eyes were
close set, his mouth turned down, a thin man always
thinking in devious fashion.

Morgan Crane was a giant. He wore his round hat
square on his head, his jaw thrust forward, his irregular
teeth showed but not in a grin. "Day had it comin', I tell
you. Got to clear 'em all out. No other way. We cut their
fence, they mend it. Cows hung on it half the time. How
we ever gonna grow with them chokin' off the graze?"

"Matter of human rights," Trevor said. His voice was
light, he seemed frail compared to the others. "Man's
home his castle, all that y' know."

"Damn their lousy cabins," Crane roared. "Castles my
left hind foot."

"Caught him red
handed, slicin' up your beef," said Fox.

Trevor said, "I rather doubt that."

Pollard moved against the wall, his hand going to his
gun
butt. "Don't call me no liar."

Trevor ignored him. "Should turn the fella over to the
law. say I."

Bradbury said, "Whoa, now. Pollard caught him. One
of
your riders was along."

"'Oh, yes. And one of Mr. Fox's men and one from M-
C. Rather odd, what? I mean, they ridin' together and
g
o
in' straight to Day's place and all that rot?"

"He's callin' us all liars," said Pollard. "We tracked him
down, is the way it was."

"And strung him up without a trial."

"He got a trial. Judge Lynch presidin'," said Dealer
Fox. "My man told me."

"Ain't you never heard of loyalty to your men?" de
manded Crane. "Didn't they teach you nothin' in bloody
old England?"

Trevor did not lose his calm manner. "They taught me
to honor the law of the land."

"Judge Lynch is the law of this damn land."

"It is a very bad law," said Trevor. "The common law
o
f this country is based on Blackstone. A man is innocent
unti
l he is proven guilty by a jury of his peers."

“
That law's too damn common." Crane laughed loudly
of
his own remark. "Peers. I hear you're a damn peer.
Now
we got to get a bunch of galoots like you to hold a
trial
?"

Trevor said, "I've always thought you were uncouth,
Cr
ane. Now it is proven. Colonel Bradbury, if no action is
taken a
g
ainst your man, Pollard, I'm afraid I must take
steps.”

"Now, Trevor. You got to understand. These people
moved in on us. We were here first. They will under
mine us if we let 'em. Why, you've lost cattle your own
se
lf.
You know they're rustlin' a herd here and there, sell
ing
it off in Montana or Colorado."

“
Not proven against Adam Day, a farmer."

"Stealin' one head's as bad as rustlin' a hundred."

"You believe that?"

"It ain't like he needed it for food. Nobody minds if a
man's hungry, he butchers a steer now and then. Day's a
troublemaker."

"Was. Was a man," said Trevor.

"Wait a minute," Crane shouted. "He said 'steps.' I
wanta know what he means by that."

"Yes, Trevor. What steps?" asked Dealer Fox.

Pollard moved again. Bradbury stared at him, scowled,
shook his head.

Trevor said, "If you persist in ignoring the law, I must
turn in my resignation as a member of the Cattleman's Association."

"That means you're goin' agin us."

"That means I will not associate in your actions."

"Then you're agin us," said Crane. "Why, your own
men'll quit. They won't fight us."

"Just a minute," Bradbury said. "Trevor, here, he's
been here a long time. Invested a lot of his money, built
himself a fine spread. He's entitled to his say. He can't
help but be one of us. He's big business hereabouts."

"He'll be small potatoes if he pulls out," said Crane.
"This here's war. A man's either with us or agin us."

"War," said Trevor softly. "Jigger Dorn. Men like him. Like Pollard. Against a few grangers and small ranchers. Unequal, what?"

Bradbury said, "It's better for them this way, don't you
see? Set a few examples, show force they know they can't
whip. Kovacs, now, you know how he is. Mule-headed.
Rob Whelan, him and his ex-whore wife, he's another. Cut them people down and the rest of 'em will quit, leave the
country."

"One merely kills a few, eh? Human sacrifices, as in the
Bible?" Trevor shook his head sadly. "Not cricket, old
man, not at all cricket."

"Bugs ain't got nothin' to do with it," Crane roared.
"Crickets be damn. We got to either stop the rustlin' now
or lose everything we got with our hard Work."

"I suggest the rustling is being done by a gang taking
advantage of the situation," said Trevor. "Trailed a herd
myself last month. Nobody from here involved. Four or
five men driving over the mountains, through the pass into
Montana. Not our people at all."

"You couldn't track a cat in your own yard," said
Crane. "I believe you are agin us. I never did like your
palaver. My gran'daddy fit you people at N'Yorleans and whupped you. Come over here with your money and buy
your way in, then lord it over everybody."

Trevor said, "I repeat, Crane, you are a boor. I might
add that never did I care for your loud mouth."

The big man knocked over his chair as he leaped to his
feet. "By God, I don't take that from any man."

Bradbury said, "Here now. None of that. You asked for
it, Morgan. You've been askin' for it. Just simmer down."

"I'll clean him good," raved Crane. "I'll mow him down
and tromp on him."

"No," said Bradbury.

Trevor smiled faintly. "He's such a windbag. Why not
let him try it?"

Bradbury said, "He's too big for you, Trevor. You
ought to know that."

"Not at all," said the Englishman. "I'd be happy to
oblige him. He's a clumsy clown, you know. Isn't he, now?"

Crane lunged. Trevor stepped aside, then back in. His
left fist shot out. It clipped Crane in the eye. The big man
roared again but could not stop his forward impetus. He
ran into the wall when Pollard moved away.

Bradbury said, "I said no. I mean no."

"You can't stop me!" Crane was coming around.

The door to the saloon banged open. Pat Noonan stuck
in his head and called, "You gents better come on out
here. There's somethin' goin' on you ain't gonna like."

"What? What is it, Noonan?"

"Might say it's a parade. Only it's bein' led by a corpus.
Better come and see for yourselfs."

Crane started to yell, was stopped by Bradbury's quick gesture. He mumbled something about killing Trevor and was escorted out of the room by Pollard and Fox.

Bradbury said, "I think you're making a bad enemy,
Trevor."