The Man Without a Gun

by Lauran Paine

  The key was too small for Logan’s desk, that was obvious. Nor was it large enough to fit the locks on the wooden filing cabinets. Then what, exactly, did it fit? It must be something in the office or Logan wouldn’t have kept it there. He turned around and looked more sharply at the room. Whatever it fit, Logan clearly did not want it found; if he had hidden the key, he would also have hidden whatever it belonged to.

  Excitement came; his heart thudded loudly. He started at the south wall and examined each piece of furniture, each drawer, each cabinet with minute care — and he found nothing.

  He then returned to the desk, sat down, and tried to imagine where a man of Logan’s temperament would hide something. Again he met with no success. Actually, beyond knowing that Logan was a vindictive and unscrupulous man, he knew nothing about his personality.

  For a long time he sat there visualizing each piece of furniture, swiveled Logan’s chair around, and stared at the walls.

  Still nothing. There was no indication of a secret hiding place; each wall was of full-length planking. He got up suddenly and took three large steps forward — then stopped. A slightly metallic ring had come. He went back to the desk, reached down, and pushed Logan’s chair far back, then let it snap forward. The sound came again. He spun the chair around, shook it, then went to work with his pocket knife, removing the back of the chair.

  There was a small, dented tin box in among the chair back’s wadding. He removed it with mounting excitement, went to a rear window, and inserted the key. It turned easily, the lid opened, and lying exposed to Jack’s sight were a number of carefully folded papers, yellow with age and brittle to the touch.

  He put the box on the desk, went to both front and rear windows for a careful study of the alleyway as well as of the main thoroughfare out front, then, reassured, returned to the desk and the chore of examining his find.

  The first paper was a cancelled mortgage on some residential property in Herd, apparently Logan’s home. There was a grant deed pinned to the mortgage and both were dated nearly twenty years earlier.

  The second paper appeared to be someone’s last will and testament. It was written in a very elaborate Spenserian script complete with shadings and flourishes. He laid it to one side and examined the third paper. This was a birth certificate. While holding it aloft with one hand, Jack rifled through the remaining papers, found them to be cancelled records of monetary loans to Joshua Logan, and left them in the box. Then, before attempting to read the papers he had kept out, Jack re-locked the little box, placed it carefully back in the chair’s wadding, and screwed the backing into place again.

  X

  Briefly, as Jack sat at Joshua Logan’s desk in the utter solitude of the gloomy office, a dazzling burst of hard yellow sunlight shot over distant mountains, fell into valleys, and spread with incredible speed over the desert floor to flood Herd with hot light. A wind-shaped wafting of gray clouds moved off and for a while Logan’s office was brightened by this afternoon brilliance. Then, as swiftly and as unexpectedly as it had come, the yellow glare dissipated and the shadows came back. Jack made a cigarette, lit it, and spread the crisp paper with its Spenserian script before him on the desk top. In a clear but very archaic style, the will stated that the estate of Isaiah Logan, father of Jason and Joshua Logan, consisting of six thousand federal dollars, a wearisome list of personal items, and a four thousand acre ranch, was to be divided equally between Jason and Joshua. Reading further, Jack’s eyes came to a codicil that caught his attention. Long-dead Isaiah Logan’s bitterness showed through the precise wording — Joshua was to share in his father’s estate only providing he made full and adequate provision for the rearing and educating of an illegitimate son.

  Jack re-read the paragraph. The cigarette between his lips grew cold. He leaned back in Logan’s chair, picked up the birth certificate with cold fingers, and unfolded it. It listed a boy-child’s weight, size, color hair, eyes, and — all that was omitted was that the child’s eyes were of the deepest blue.

  Jack put the certificate down, re-lit his cigarette, and stared at the father’s name — Joshua Logan, not Jason Logan. Rob was Joshua’s son, not the son of the man who had been killed in a flash flood — not the son of the man he thought was his father.

  The still, hushed office seemed to turn cold.

  Jack picked up the stage schedule. It was for the run between Herd and Bartlesville, Arizona Territory, and was dated ten years earlier. A heavy hand had encircled a date of departure from Herd and the time of arrival at Bartlesville, in blue crayon pencil. Pinned to the schedule was a cryptic message on faded yellow paper, the type of paper used by railroad telegraphers.

  To: Section Foreman — Herd, A.T.

  Warning Stop Bridge And Upper Dam Muerto Cañon Washed Out Stop You Have Two Hours Grace Stop Advise Evacuating Area Immediately Stop Chicago Notified.

  Signed Belmont

  Northfield A.T.

  Written beneath this message on the same paper and in the same heavy blue-crayoned hand was a note to a stage company official stating that the railroad office at Herd had received word of possible danger that the Muerto Dam might wash out. It did not say that the dam had already washed out!

  Josh Logan, knowing death was certain for anyone venturing into Muerto Cañon after the dam had burst, had deliberately permitted the stage company to send a coach into the cañon –driven by his own brother.

  A stunned, icy sensation swept over the big man. He sat for a long time without moving, then very carefully refolded the damning evidence of murder and worse, put it all into his coat pocket, and left the desk to stand by the window, looking out.

  Early evening’s shrouded haze was coming over the range, over Herd, over the faraway mountains, as though to soil this day, or perhaps end it and cover one man’s knowledge of another man’s terrible iniquity.

  A thought crossed his mind and he drew up, studying the roadway. There was no traffic at this quietly gray supper hour and that meant only one thing — Sundance had been unable to find Logan, or had not been able to bring him back to town. This, the big man thought, was unusual. Sundance always got what he went after.

  He made another cigarette, not because he wanted it but rather to occupy his hands. When it was fragrantly lit and the shadows were deepening, he lingered at the window waiting, but finally, certain that Logan was not coming, he left the office the same way he had entered it, through an unlocked rear window, and found the lowering darkness of night an ally while he went around behind Buck’s barn.

  There was a little riffle of chilly wind blowing up the valley. It swayed lanterns and moaned along the backsides of buildings. It also put a cold scent of hastening winter into the night. Another thing this ragged wind did was reveal a man standing south of Buck’s place, stamping his feet and swinging his arms to keep warm. Beside him, leaning against a shed, was a shotgun.

  Jack watched the coated figure, obviously one of Logan’s spies. The man stamped with sufficient vigor to indicate that he resented his job, and thought it senseless. The big man moved across the alley among the far shacks, westerly, then completed a circle that brought him up beside the shed that shielded Logan’s man. He inched along it, shot a careful look around a corner, and saw the shotgun less than three feet from him. He drew in a big breath, stepped out into plain sight, grabbed the shotgun, and flung it backward into the night. As the railroader was turning, attracted by the sound of his gun striking the ground, Jack pivoted his weight, dropped one shoulder behind the blow, and struck. Logan’s man went over backward with an abrupt look of astonishment frozen on his face.

  Jack used the sentinel’s belt and scarf to bind and gag him. Then he rolled the man into the lee darkness of the shed and left him there.

  From the darkness beyond the livery barn Jack could see old Buck part way up the runway, fidgeting with some harness. There was a top buggy between the old man and the alley entr
ance. This brought a thin smile to the big man’s face; Buck never left a buggy out in the runway in his life. It was clearly a screen to hide the granary, and the alley entrance beyond, from the front entrance of the barn. Jack whistled, low, and moved into the swaying lantern light.

  Buck turned, looked over his shoulder, then stabbed with a thumb toward the grain room door. The big man moved inside, angled right, and passed through the ajar granary door. Instantly, in that darkness, he was aware of a second presence.

  “Jack...?”

  The voice was fluted and rising. He relaxed.

  “Amy?”

  She moved closer as he reached back and pushed the door farther open to admit light.

  “Buck doesn’t like the idea of me being here.”

  She was holding something out to him. It shone palely, like bone. He reached forth, felt it, and drew back his hand.

  “Take it,” she said, thrusting it at him. “It was my father’s. It’s loaded.”

  He was shaking his head when he answered. “I told you...it’s against the law for me to carry a gun.”

  She pushed the steel against him. “You’ve a right to defend yourself. They mean to kill you, Jack.”

  He pushed the gun aside and reached for her. She came without resistance, put both hands against his chest, and tilted her head. He kissed her, and in the breathless moment when their lips touched she could feel the hot run of his temper and the deep hunger that was in him. Then he pushed her back.

  “How’s Rob?”

  “Like a cricket,” she said, a little unsteadily and thankful for the gloom. “Will Spencer searched the town a few hours back.” Her teeth shone in a curved smile. “He didn’t come to our house.”

  “Did he search here?”

  The smile widened. “Not only the barn, but he even searched Buck’s house.”

  Jack relaxed. “I guess it was wise of you two to move the boy.”

  She was straining to see into his face. “Buck told me about you sending that gunman after Logan.”

  He began to scowl. “I can’t understand what’s holding the Kid up.”

  “Perhaps Logan just wouldn’t come....”

  Jack made a mirthless, short laugh. “He’d come, all right. You don’t know Jack Britton. When he goes after a man, he gets him.”

  She looked at the gun in her hand. “Do you suppose Logan has discovered that the Kid is working for you?”

  Jack shook his head. “No. It’s something else.” He shrugged. “Well, the Kid said he might not be able to make it today.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow.”

  “Then please take this gun, Jack.”

  He regarded the gun thoughtfully, finally took it, and put it on a shelf. “Is your uncle around?” he asked, facing back toward her.

  Amy was going to reply when voices came mutedly to them from beyond the granary door and up the runway near the top buggy. One voice was Buck’s. The other, equally as unmistakable, belonged to Sheriff Hoyt Farmer. She touched his arm with one hand and put a finger to her lips. They moved stealthily forward and listened. Sheriff Farmer’s drawl was clearly recognizable.

  “Where is he, Buck?”

  “Where is who?”

  “Hell, let’s not beat around the bush, Buck. You know damned well who I mean...your friend Jack Swift.”

  “Well, now,” the old man retorted with exaggerated indifference, “what makes you think I’d know?”

  “If you don’t, nobody else does, Buck...unless maybe it’s your pardner in this thing.”

  “What pardner?”

  “My niece...Amy.”

  “Amy?” Buck replied scoffingly. “Why, that’s the dangedest thing I ever heard, Hoyt.”

  “Is it?” the sheriff said quietly. “She’s not home tonight, Buck. I figured she might be here talking to you.”

  “You can see that ain’t so,” the old man growled.

  “Can I?”

  “Sure.” Buck was still speaking with emphatic conviction. “She ain’t here...and furthermore, if you’re after Swift, I got a hunch you’ve got a heap of ridin’ to do.”

  “How so?”

  “By now Swift an’ the kid’re a hundred miles from Herd and still goin’.”

  For a brief moment there was silence, then the sheriff said: “I kind of doubt that. I’ll tell you why. On the stage up from Yuma I rode with a couple of strangers. Both of ’em was coming to Herd and both of ’em had come a long way in a big hurry to get here.”

  “What in hell has that got to do with Swift and the boy?” Buck demanded.

  “If you’ll give me a chance to finish,” Hoyt Farmer said, “you’ll maybe understand.”

  “Go ahead and finish then,” Buck grumbled.

  “One of the men was a border gun for the Chiricahua Land and Cattle Company. A young feller named Armstead.”

  “Armstead? What of it?”

  “He used to have another name, Buck. The Calabasas Kid.”

  Jack and Amy could visualize Buck’s look in the ensuing silence before Sheriff Farmer spoke again.

  “The Calabasas Kid was an old friend of Jack Swift’s. Then there was this other feller...a cowman, by golly, from over near Tucumcari, feller named Connelly. Tex Connelly. They told me they got another friend, too, who is on his way here. Feller named Red Ewart, a deputy U.S. marshal from down around Wagon Mound.”

  In a weak voice Buck said: “I don’t understand.”

  “I do,” Hoyt Farmer said. “Neither of those fellers knew I was the law hereabouts. I don’t wear the badge in other counties. They told me a lot more’n I’d’ve told them. They’re old friends of Jack Swift’s. Someone sent ’em a telegram from here that he was in bad trouble.”

  “A telegram?”

  “Yeah. As soon as I got back to town, I went to the telegraph office. Someone’d sent ’em word all right, but it wasn’t Swift. The wire was signed with the initials S.K. Now then, you got any idea who S.K. is, Buck?”

  The liveryman’s answer was almost inaudible. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” the sheriff said, his voice quickening to a sharp, disapproving tone. “It stands for the Sundance Kid. He’s in Herd, too...but of course you didn’t know that...and he’s also an teammate of Jack Swift’s.”

  Buck said nothing. Jack and Amy heard the slow scrape of a match over a wagon tire, then smelled Hoyt Farmer’s pipe.

  “That’s why I don’t think Swift’s left town, Buck. Because his old gunfighting friends are coming here from every direction to help him. Does that make sense, or doesn’t it?”

  Buck’s answer was feeble. “I guess it does, Hoyt. Only....”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well...god dammit...gunfighters mean bad trouble.”

  “That’s no revelation,” the sheriff said.

  “Well, something ought to be done.”

  “Now you’re getting wise, Buck. Something’s got to be done, and fast, or there’s going to be all hell bust loose. Now you tell me where Swift is so I can talk to him.”

  “You’ll lock him up,” Buck said faintly.

  “Maybe...maybe not. If I do, I’ll also lock Josh Logan up.”

  Buck’s voice grew stronger. He had obviously made a decision. “You can’t hold Logan, Hoyt. He’d be out in half an hour. But Logan’d frame Jack back into Yuma...and you’d uphold the law.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “’Fraid I don’t set much store by your kind of law, Hoyt. Sorry...I don’t know where Swift is.”

  “Buck,” the sheriff said menacingly, “you old coot, I can also lock you up for aiding a fugitive.”

  “First you got to prove that’s what I’m doin’.”

  There was an interval of silence, then the sound of Hoyt Farmer
knocking his pipe against a wagon hub, and finally his soft drawl again.

  “All right, Buck. Then carry a message for me. Tell Swift, if he buckles on a gun, even to defend himself, he’s going back to Yuma. I didn’t make that law, and I went to see the warden at Yuma Pen to see if he would overlook Swift carrying firearms just long enough to save himself.”

  “And...?”

  “The warden told me what I knew...that the law makes no exceptions.”

  Buck swore in towering disgust. “An’ you got the guts to ask me to help you preserve that kind of law!”

  Hoyt Farmer’s voice grew more distant as he moved away from the top buggy, heading for the dark roadway beyond. “You tell him that, Buck. And you tell him I’m going to watch his friends like a hawk...after I get back from hunting up his hide-out in the hills tomorrow.”

  Buck did not appear at the granary door right away, and, when he finally did, he looked puzzled more than frightened. With only a glance at Amy he drew Jack back away from the door.

  “That ain’t like Hoyt at all,” he told the big man. “He never rode out of town before when there was gunmen around. I don’t understand it.”

  Amy spoke as she moved away from the door toward them. “I know my uncle very well. He will not compromise with his oath of office.”

  “Then why’s he deliberately ridin’ into them damned hills when he knows Deputy Spence searched ’em and found nothing?”

  “Because he won’t compromise with his principles, either.”

  “Huh?”

  Amy was talking to Buck, but she was looking at Jack. “He believes a man has the right to defend himself. He also believes in upholding the law...if he was in Herd and trouble started....”