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
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
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