The Storm Family 6

by Matt Chisholm

  Evidently, Dale Brophy thought the same thing.

  “It’s never pleasured me more to blow a man’s head off,” he said.

  Styree turned the gun away with a hand.

  “You’ll never win prizes for brains,” he said softly. “Aragon has one treasure up there to the house. But, me, I have a real treasure right here under my nose.”

  So Jody knew that the women had reached the house. He sat up and Styree went on: “This pup is kin to Mart Storm. There ain’t enough gold in the world to buy kin from Mart. This here kid is our hole card, Brophy.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The day began badly for John McCord. And it went on from there. The bad beginning came in the form of Jim Brydon who rode in a couple of hours after dawn with Mart Storm’s horse and the horse was lame. Even so Brydon was riding. Which showed what kind of a man he was.

  McCord went out on the stoop to watch his approach and he knew he had trouble on his hands. There was no one on the place but himself and Betsy. Maybe if he’d worn a gun, it might have been different. But it wasn’t his habit to wear a gun, not on his own place and, even if he had, the chances were he would not have stood a chance against a man like Brydon who lived by the gun.

  The outlaw stepped down from the saddle, ground hitched the horse which had no wish to go anywhere and said: “I need a fresh horse, McCord.”

  The trader saw it coming, but he didn’t duck. It wasn’t really in his nature. He didn’t like Brydon and he didn’t like his kind. It wasn’t that he was a particularly righteous man, for he had offered hospitality more than once to cowhands who had gone wrong and were on the run. He could judge a man, or so he flattered himself. Often the boy would ride on into another country, another job and another life. But this Brydon was a different breed. There was a meanness about him that could be felt like something tangible.

  “I’m clean out of spare horses,” McCord said. “I’m sorry.”

  The outlaw glanced at the corral.

  “They’s two yonder. I’ll take the bay.”

  Brydon had the far-away look of a man who has spent time in the hills alone. He was unshaven and his eyes were rimmed red. There was a lethal moroseness about him. In that mood, he would give pain to another for the pleasure it gave him.”

  “I don’t have a horse to spare,” McCord said.

  Without hurry, Brydon took the retaining thong from the hammer of his gun and slowly drew the weapon. With his thumb on the hammer, he said: “Turn around an’ walk into the house, McCord.” He added: “I don’t feel too kindly. You move wrong an’ this here gun’ll break your back.”

  McCord walked into the big storeroom.

  Brydon halted him and said: “Who’s around here?”

  “Just Betsy and me.”

  “Call her.”

  McCord shouted her name and the Mexican girl appeared.

  “Tell her to ketch up that little ole bay horse an’ rustle some supplies up for me.”

  McCord told the girl. She regarded the outlaw woodenly for a moment, then picked up a rope and walked out of the post.

  The outlaw looked quizzically at McCord and asked: “Don’t you never fight back, trader?”

  “There’s a time for everything,” McCord said dryly. “It’s not time to fight when the other man’s holding the gun.”

  Brydon laughed.

  “You got sense,” he said, “I’ll say that for you.”

  In a short while, they heard the sound of the horse outside as the Navaho girl tied the bay to the hitching rail.

  The heard her call McCord’s name. There was urgency in her voice. She spoke in her own language, but Brydon could hear that urgency.

  “What she say?” he asked.

  “There are riders coming,” McCord told him.

  “Git out front.”

  McCord walked out and the outlaw followed him. They both saw the wisp of dust far across the valley denoting riders coming in from the west.

  “Do you have glasses?” Brydon demanded.

  “Inside.”

  “Tell the girl to go git ’em.”

  McCord spoke to Betsy and she went into the house. A moment later, she appeared with a pair of binoculars in her hand.

  “Take a look,” Brydon told McCord.

  McCord took the glasses and focused them on the dust.

  “Three men and two women,” he said. “Two of the men are on foot. One of them is wounded.”

  “Who are they?”

  “One’s Linda Aragon.”

  McCord took his eyes from the glasses and looked at Brydon, wondering what his reaction would be. Betsy exclaimed and pointed behind the oncoming people. McCord raised the glasses to his eyes again. Brydon squinted against the glare of the sun.

  “Who’s that beyond ’em?” he asked.

  “I can’t see. They’re too far off.”

  McCord expected Brydon to mount the fresh horse and head into the hills. But the man didn’t move. He kept his gun on McCord and said: “You keep looking McCord, an’ you tell me what happens.”

  Minutes passed and then McCord said: “Aragon’s party have spotted the riders behind. I can see them more clearly now. There’s about a dozen of them. One of Linda’s people has fallen back. I don’t know him. He’s hiding in an arroyo. He has a carbine. The riders are coming on fast, flogging their mounts.”

  Brydon could see Aragon’s party plainly now. There were two women mounted, beating the horses into a run. The mounted man behind was hunched up in the saddle, swaying like a dummy tied there on the back of the horse. A small figure on foot fought to keep up with them.

  Brydon said: Tut them glasses on the fellers in the rear. You tell who they are. Hear?”

  The women’s horses were starting to heave their way up the gradual slope on which the trader’s store stood. They could hear the dragging beat of the hoofs now. The horse behind lagged and the man on foot beat it into a run.

  “It’s Styree,” McCord said. “And the whole damned crowd from Aragon. My God, they’re chasing Linda. Brydon, you put that gun away and ride. You’re not wanted here.”

  Brydon smiled.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “Lil ole Brydon shows right here jest how smart he is.”

  McCord said: “God damn you, man...”

  Brydon said: “Git into the house. Fast.”

  The girl spoke to McCord in Navaho. He answered briefly. They walked toward the house. The man in the arroyo was firing. McCord turned his head to see a horse go down. There was a man down there with some sand in his craw. He walked into the house and Betsy followed him. Brydon was close behind them.

  “When they come up to the house,” he said, “you go out and greet them real polite. You be your natchel self, McCord. You play the fool an’ I’ll blow your head off. The Indian stays here with me. You’re real fond of that Indian gal, I’m told. You behave if you want her to stay alive. Savvy?”

  “I’ll do as you say,” McCord said with a calm that nettled the other man. “There’s no need for shooting.”

  “You got sense, I’ll give you that.”

  The horses were nearing the house. The two horses outside whinnied.

  “Git out there now,” Brydon said, “an’ watch yourself.”

  McCord walked to the door. Brydon pushed Betsy forward to one side of the door so he could watch her and McCord without difficulty. Looking past the trader, he saw the exhausted horses stop before the house, caught sight of Linda Aragon’s strained face, the Mexican girl’s frightened one. The same girl Aragon had kicked him out for. This was fine, he thought. More luck had come his way than he’d ever thought possible.

  Aragon was almost screaming to McCord to help her with the wounded man. There came a light popping of shots from the valley below. Brydon hoped the lone rifleman down there would hold up Styree and the boys long enough for him to get into the position he wanted. They were lifting the wounded man down from the horse and half-carrying him into the house. As they entered, Brydon saw
that it was Gregorio. McCord lifted him in his strong arms and laid him on the counter. He spoke sharply to Betsy and the girl hurried to the rear of the house.

  “Where she goin’?” Brydon demanded, fearing that he was losing command of the situation.

  “She’s fetching hot water and whiskey,” McCord told him and started tearing away the clothing from Gregorio’s wound.

  “Git her back here,” Brydon shouted. “I give the orders here.”

  Aragon turned an astonished and alarmed face toward him said: “You.”

  Brydon said: “You git that gal back here, McCord.”

  McCord snapped: “You go to Hell.”

  Brydon changed his mind, rushed to the door, saw the horsemen fanning out along the bed of the valley and slammed the door. He dropped the bar into place and turned quickly. He saw the gun in Aragon’s band.

  Brydon didn’t lose his nerve.

  “I’ll cut McCord down, Aragon.”

  “Do as he says,” McCord told her. “We have our hands full with Gregorio for the minute.”

  Aragon looked from him to Brydon, then glanced at the door.

  “There’s my money,” she said. “It’s outside.”

  Something leapt brightly in Brydon’s mind.

  “Money?”

  He went to the door, knocked up the bar and told the woman: “Go git it. Move now.”

  She opened the door and went outside. A moment later, she appeared with the heavy parfleche and dropped it on the floor.

  “What’s in there?” Brydon demanded.

  “Everything I own in the world.”

  There was a sudden, breathless tension in the large room.

  “Jesus,” Brydon said. “So that’s what Styree’s after.”

  “That and me. Take it and go, Brydon. There’s been enough shooting over it already. I never want to see it again in my life.”

  Brydon was grinning nervously. He held a lot of people here under his gun and it made a man uneasy. There was Styree out there wanting this woman and the gold. He had to play this smart or he got nothing or he was dead. But the stakes were high. The highest he’d ever had offered him.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “I have to make a deal with Styree.”

  “Make a deal with Styree?” she said scornfully. “You must be crazy. You can only make a deal with a man whose word you can trust. This man’s a rattler.”

  There was some sense in that. But, just the same, Brydon knew that if he took to the hills with that bundle there, Styree and those bastards out there would hunt him down till they killed him.

  No, he had to make a deal and he had to have the woman and the gold to deal with.

  It was enough to make a man sweat. And Brydon sweated.

  He kicked the door shut again and slammed down the bar. A small fear started to nag him. Styree alone was enough to scare the wits out of a man. Styree and the bunch with him could scare a man near to death. But the stakes were high. By God, he’d never have another chance like this in his life.

  He strode across the room, took the gun from Linda Aragon’s hand and stuffed it in the top of his pants. There was a rifle hanging on the wall near the door. He took this down and gave it a quick glance. A Spencer repeater. There was a shout from outside and a fist pounded on the door. Brydon started in alarm.

  “It’s Jesus Maria,” Juanita said.

  Brydon cursed. He’d forgotten the man on foot. But the man was a Mexican and he counted for nothing. Brydon yelled at him to get the Hell out of there. Gomez shouted for admittance. In a fury, Brydon fired a shot into the door. They heard the Mexican run along the front of the house. Brydon laughed. The firing of the shot had released some of the tension in him. Faintly, he heard the gun going off in the valley below. But he knew that it wouldn’t be long before Styree reached the post. It wouldn’t take that tough bunch long to over-run one man.

  He turned fiercely on the people there. McCord was wholly absorbed in the wounded Mexican. Betsy had returned. They worked together. Juanita stood behind Aragon as if the other woman would protect her from Brydon.

  The firing in the valley stopped.

  Brydon lifted his head and listened.

  “Now you all be still,” he said. “You do just like I say an’ nobody gits hurt. You hear me good now.” He remembered the Spencer in his hand. “McCord, do you have shells for this carbine?”

  McCord turned his head.

  “No,” he said. And turned back to his work.

  “By God,” Brydon shouted. “You find me shells for this here rifle. Pronto.”

  “There are no shells.”

  Brydon dragged his spurs across the floor, took McCord by the shoulder and turned him. This wasn’t easy because McCord was a heavy man and resisted him. They stood face to face. There was no fear in McCord’s eyes. There was a gun in his face and he wasn’t afraid. Brydon was affronted and puzzled.

  “You find me shells or I drop you,” he said through his teeth.

  “Then drop me,” McCord said. “It’ll have to be from behind because I intend to try and save this man.”

  Aragon said: “Take the money and go, Brydon. You still have a chance to get away.”

  “I don’t fall for that,” Brydon said. “I aim to stay alive.”

  They all heard the horses coming. Brydon strode to the small window to the right of the door and glared out. He could see the riders, within rifle range, bunched, staring up at the house. A shout was raised.

  “McCord ... McCord, show yourself.”

  That was Styree. Brydon could see him slightly in advance of the others. He looked beyond him and saw there was a man on foot. He tried to move away from the riders, but was jerked back and, though Brydon could not see the rope, he knew there was one around his neck. He wondered who the Hell that would be. Most likely the rifleman who had held them up. Why wasn’t he dead?”

  Styree was shouting again, impatient.

  Brydon gestured toward the door with his gun-belt.

  “Outside, McCord, and talk with them. Remember, I have the women here. One wrong move from you and I finish one of ’em.”

  McCord straightened up from the wounded man.

  “Take over from me, Linda, will you?” he said quietly. “The lead’s out, but he’s bleeding badly. Clean the wound and stop the bleeding. Keep him warm. None of you ladies do anything that will get you hurt.”

  Linda Aragon moved to Gregorio and McCord turned from the wounded man and walked to the door. He stopped there and spoke softly to Brydon—”Brydon, you harm one of those women and I’ll hunt you down. If I don’t, Storm will.”

  Brydon was taken aback.

  “Storm?” he said.

  “Mart Storm.”

  McCord didn’t wait to see the effect of the name, but he knew what it would be. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he knew that he would have to play this by ear and find some way out. He had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was not going to come out of this alive. Mentally, he braced himself before he stepped out onto the stoop and started down the slope. As he emerged, Styree walked his horse toward him. As he paced forward, McCord summed up what he could about the man.

  The fellow was a killer and that was about all there was to him. There was no trust in the man toward others and others gave him none. The only thing in McCord’s favor was that a couple of months before, McCord had saved the man’s life as he had done for more than one of the breed. Linda Aragon had a way of bringing her lame ducks to him. He had removed a bullet from the outlaw’s broken arm. He had set the break and watched the arm mend. He didn’t expect any gratitude from Styree. The emotion was foreign to the man.

  Twenty paces from the house, he stopped and waited for Styree to come near, but the outlaw was not going so far to risk a shot from the house. He halted his horse and beckoned McCord to come to him. With some misgivings, the trader went up to him. They looked at each other in silence for a moment.

  Styree said: “I want the woman
and I want what she has with her.”

  “You can’t have either,” McCord told him.

  Styree gave a little sigh.

  “I don’t have no time to waste, McCord,” he said. “I’ll lay all my cards face up on the table. I have an unbeatable hand. I have men and guns here. The boys have the bit between their teeth. I couldn’t stop ’em if I wanted to. You know how it is. They run kinda wild last night. They burned Aragon to the ground.”

  That shook McCord, but he did his best not to show his instinctive reaction.

  Have you gone crazy?” he said. “You’ve destroyed the one place where you were safe.”

  “Not no more. Them Storms came a-lookin’ for us. So, you go back up there an’ tell Mart we have his nephy an’ if he don’t come out with the woman and the gold right smart, we’ll strangle the life outa the kid with him lookin’.”

  “Mart Storm?” McCord said. “You’re mistaken. He isn’t here.”

  “Don’t you lie to me, you goddam do-goodin’ sonovabitch,” Styree shouted. “He has to be here.”

  “He’s not here, Styree,” McCord said. “You can believe it or not, just as you like. But Jim Brydon is. He’s in the house with a gun and he wants to do a deal with you. He has the gold and the women.”

  Styree narrowed his eyes, speculatively.

  “Brydon,” he said gently. “Lil ole Jim Brydon. What do you know about that? Life sure is full of surprises.” He looked up toward the post, thinking. “You go back in there, McCord, an’ you get ole Jim to come out here for a lil’ talk. Jim an’ me get on just fine. I reckon he an’ me’ll do a deal in no time at all.”

  McCord said: “You know Brydon won’t come out here, Styree. He has a gun pointed at you and me right this minute. I’m here to talk for him. I have to because he could harm the women.”

  “All right,” Styree said. “You go back in there an’ you tell ole Jim I’ll do a deal. He come out with the gold and Aragon. He splits with us, I take the woman and we see him safe outa the country.”

  “You think he’ll agree to that?”

  “He’d best. An’, McCord, where’s Mart Storm at if he ain’t here?”

  “How should I know that? My guess is that he’s on your back trail.”