Sime."
"Take care of 'em?" Crane was always slow.
"One way or another. They're dangerous."
"Dangerous? Yeah ... well, okay."
Fox was staring at the wagon. He said, "I got it."
"Yeah?" Crane's mind could never quite keep up.
"The wagon. Come dark, they can use it for cover. Wheel it down to the barn. See how that could work?"
"Hey, you always do think up somethin' good. Lem m e go tell Sime."
"No," said Fox. "Not now. Wait."
"Why wait, Dealer?"
"Let Pollard stew a bit. Then we'll spring it on him."
"If you say so. I'm gonna send a few more rounds t rough them windows. Might get somebody lucky. Wish I c o uld get at that Trevor. Or Buchanan."
'""Maybe you will, Morgan. Maybe you will." He watched the big man go for his rifle. Maybe it would be a good idea if Trevor or Buchanan got Crane, he thought. Then there would only be one supreme outfit in the country. People were so damn stupid, they got in a man's way. . . . They had been his friends, but in his life, he had found that friendship could be costly.
Buchanan was on the roof. He had an old-fashioned spyglass that Jenny Kovacs had produced, saying, "Vas my father's." There was no action near any tree that could command high gun against the house. Trevor, then the Whelans, and now Buchanan had been able to sweep that section and keep it clear.
The firing from the barn had been sporadic. The wide doors at each end were parallel to the zone of enemy fire, and Durkin's men had to be wary of showing themselves. There was no way that Buchanan could yet be certain of Durkin. Only time would tell about his true loyalty. He had his own food and guns and ammunition —and his own notions.
There were hollow, ringing sounds from below, then a cry of pain. Trevor came onto the roof, crawling to Bu chanan.
"The elder Thorne," he said. "Add one to the wound ed."
"I've been thinking about that," said Buchanan. He handed the spyglass to Trevor. "I'll send the Whelans up. This is the best possible place long as there's light to aim by."
"Right-o."
Buchanan went below. The Indian girl was already attending to Pa Thorne, who had been hit in the chest by a ricochet. The wound seemed serious enough and Buchan an went into action. He removed the mattress from a bed and figured angles, then hung it on the wall.
He said, "Get everything that'll prevent a bullet from bouncin' around. Rugs, pillows, everything. Look at where they been hittin', cover that spot. Sorry about your be longin's, Jenny, Pieter."
"Is nothing." But their eyes proved they were not telling the whole truth. They had built and furnished a house of which they were proud, and now it was being ripped apart.
Raven called, "I think you had better come, Mr. Buchanan."
Pa Thorne was stretched on the long table. He was breathing with difficulty. A lung had been punctured, Bu chanan knew at once. The pale eyes were losing what little _ light had been in them.
Thorne whispered, "What you said about the nigra. I thought on it I don't want to go with my evil beliefs on my conscience."
"Well, then, you don't have to worry," Buchanan told him. "You made it up, thinkin' on it."
The dying man looked at his son. "See? I ain't got no bad feelin's no more. It's all right. You fight 'em, Sonny."
"You'll be all right, Pa. Don't talk like that."
"Never did have much good lungs," said Pa Thorne. He coughed once, then closed his eyes. Raven shook her head, touching him.
"He's gone," said Buchanan. He picked up the body, wrapping the blanket about it. He carried it into the corner of the second bedroom and deposited it there. It was another problem, corpses could not be stacked like logs, there had to be a disposition of them. He found Sonny Thorne behind him, dry-eyed but solemn.
"Comes night, we'll bury him," Buchanan said.
"Yes. y e know, I'm wonderin'. Pa and the way we live. Raisin' hawgs, gettin' drunk in town, seein' the whores. Tain't much of a life."
"It's what you and him were fightin' for," Buchanan said.
"Y'
"Take care of 'em?" Crane was always slow.
"One way or another. They're dangerous."
"Dangerous? Yeah ... well, okay."
Fox was staring at the wagon. He said, "I got it."
"Yeah?" Crane's mind could never quite keep up.
"The wagon. Come dark, they can use it for cover. Wheel it down to the barn. See how that could work?"
"Hey, you always do think up somethin' good. Lem m e go tell Sime."
"No," said Fox. "Not now. Wait."
"Why wait, Dealer?"
"Let Pollard stew a bit. Then we'll spring it on him."
"If you say so. I'm gonna send a few more rounds t rough them windows. Might get somebody lucky. Wish I c o uld get at that Trevor. Or Buchanan."
'""Maybe you will, Morgan. Maybe you will." He watched the big man go for his rifle. Maybe it would be a good idea if Trevor or Buchanan got Crane, he thought. Then there would only be one supreme outfit in the country. People were so damn stupid, they got in a man's way. . . . They had been his friends, but in his life, he had found that friendship could be costly.
Buchanan was on the roof. He had an old-fashioned spyglass that Jenny Kovacs had produced, saying, "Vas my father's." There was no action near any tree that could command high gun against the house. Trevor, then the Whelans, and now Buchanan had been able to sweep that section and keep it clear.
The firing from the barn had been sporadic. The wide doors at each end were parallel to the zone of enemy fire, and Durkin's men had to be wary of showing themselves. There was no way that Buchanan could yet be certain of Durkin. Only time would tell about his true loyalty. He had his own food and guns and ammunition —and his own notions.
There were hollow, ringing sounds from below, then a cry of pain. Trevor came onto the roof, crawling to Bu chanan.
"The elder Thorne," he said. "Add one to the wound ed."
"I've been thinking about that," said Buchanan. He handed the spyglass to Trevor. "I'll send the Whelans up. This is the best possible place long as there's light to aim by."
"Right-o."
Buchanan went below. The Indian girl was already attending to Pa Thorne, who had been hit in the chest by a ricochet. The wound seemed serious enough and Buchan an went into action. He removed the mattress from a bed and figured angles, then hung it on the wall.
He said, "Get everything that'll prevent a bullet from bouncin' around. Rugs, pillows, everything. Look at where they been hittin', cover that spot. Sorry about your be longin's, Jenny, Pieter."
"Is nothing." But their eyes proved they were not telling the whole truth. They had built and furnished a house of which they were proud, and now it was being ripped apart.
Raven called, "I think you had better come, Mr. Buchanan."
Pa Thorne was stretched on the long table. He was breathing with difficulty. A lung had been punctured, Bu chanan knew at once. The pale eyes were losing what little _ light had been in them.
Thorne whispered, "What you said about the nigra. I thought on it I don't want to go with my evil beliefs on my conscience."
"Well, then, you don't have to worry," Buchanan told him. "You made it up, thinkin' on it."
The dying man looked at his son. "See? I ain't got no bad feelin's no more. It's all right. You fight 'em, Sonny."
"You'll be all right, Pa. Don't talk like that."
"Never did have much good lungs," said Pa Thorne. He coughed once, then closed his eyes. Raven shook her head, touching him.
"He's gone," said Buchanan. He picked up the body, wrapping the blanket about it. He carried it into the corner of the second bedroom and deposited it there. It was another problem, corpses could not be stacked like logs, there had to be a disposition of them. He found Sonny Thorne behind him, dry-eyed but solemn.
"Comes night, we'll bury him," Buchanan said.
"Yes. y e know, I'm wonderin'. Pa and the way we live. Raisin' hawgs, gettin' drunk in town, seein' the whores. Tain't much of a life."
"It's what you and him were fightin' for," Buchanan said.
"Y'
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