The Gun is my Brother

by Matt Chisholm

When he’d stopped the bleeding by holding it with the fingers of both hands, listening for any approach as he did so, he heard the woman calling.

  At first, he couldn’t make out what she was saying or where she was. Slowly he realized that she was calling his name. There was something eerie about lying in the middle of those men trying to kill him and that woman’s thin voice floating to him in the moonlight.

  ‘Spur … Spur … Sam Spur.’

  He listened to it, trying to place it. Failed.

  ‘Sam Spur … you alive?’

  My God, he thought, it was Nick the Greek’s woman. Mrs. Overall’s sister.

  He lay quiet, considering it, wondering why she was calling to him. Some of the utter loneliness slipped away from him for a moment.

  Urgency was in the voice as it went on calling his name.

  ‘Spur … answer me, if you’re alive!’

  It came to him that it was possible that someone cared whether he lived or died. The woman who had smiled at him in the eating-place, standing by the dirty Greek, warning him of the men on the street. Graying hair falling over her eyes—not a woman a man would give a second glance to.

  He pushed his chin up at the sky and gave her back a shrill rebel yell.

  The sound of the old Texas challenge sent a thrill of association through him … brought back a brief glimpse of the small band of Rangers riding into that bunch of Comanche bucks after they’d taken a white child. Old Pike Ronsson drunk that time in Fort Griffin, yelling his challenge to the lawmen … the voice of the Texan’s pride in his wildness, his independence.

  It must have done something to the townsmen because they got their guns talking again. It didn’t gain them much, but he had to embrace the old earth for quite a while so as not to have his head shot off.

  When he heard the horse running, he raised his head.

  When he sighted it and realized with a little start of alarm that it was coming towards him, he grabbed for the Henry and got ready to knock the animal over. Coming off a horse at that speed a man wouldn’t be much use no matter how good a rider he was.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lucy Overell stood by the window and wondered with an almost hysterical desperation how long a solitary man could hold a bluff top against a town of angry men. Every fusillade of shots could be felt inside her; each time she felt as though her own flesh had been blasted by lead. The night of Will’s death came back to her again and again.

  Janey was close up against her mother, and crying. Lucy had never seen the child so frightened before. She had refused food and kept asking, ‘Will they kill him, Ma? You reckon they’re gonna kill him, Ma?’

  When Spur had lain wounded and unconscious the whole affair had seemed a game of make-believe to the little girl. When the shooting started, she had stepped into a grown-up world she had never known before. The bullets were real bullets now and the wounds were real wounds. It wasn’t exciting being an outlaw, it was wretched and frightening.

  Lucy’s sister Sarie had shown little emotion throughout except for an angry refusal to leave the house while the shooting was going on. She had expressed no concern for the fate of the man her sister had sheltered.

  Mrs. Overell’s surprise was considerable when Sarie suddenly burst out shrilly, ‘My God, we don’t have to stand here cryin’ our eyes out for him. We gotta do something.’

  Lucy Overell turned from the window and said, ‘Whatever can we do, girl?’

  ‘Do? We can stop them killin’ the poor fool. He’s a better man than all of ’em.’

  She went to the door and wrenched it open savagely. The hair fell over her face and she made no effort to throw it back.

  ‘Sarie!’ Mrs. Overell called, but the other was gone into the moonlight, running along the front of the house across the yard and into the barn.

  ‘What’s Aunt Sarie gonna do?’ the child wanted to know, but her mother couldn’t tell her.

  Sarie hardly knew herself. Nor did she know why she was doing it. Somewhere in her was a warmth for that man out there alone surrounded as a hurt animal might be by a circle of coyotes. Warmth, because he had spoken to her civilly, because she had helped him once and maybe felt some form of proprietorship over him, some responsibility.

  She might not amount to much around here because she was a headstrong, passionate and impulsive woman, but she was no fool. She knew the only way out for Sam Spur and she meant him to have the chance to take it.

  To take it, he had to have a horse. So she was going to get one to him. Or have a damned good try.

  When she got into the barn she leaned against the wall to get her breath and found that she was shaking. Whether from fright or excitement, she didn’t know. She didn’t care—there wasn’t time.

  She decided to take the black: Will’s night-horse. He used to call it his ‘swimmin’-hoss’ and he’d always boasted it would take a man through anything so long as he liked the way the hands held the lines. He’d go through fire or water and stand for the firing of a gun.

  She laughed hoarsely, thinking that tonight the animal would have the finest chance to prove itself it had ever had. Or was ever likely to have.

  Heaving the heavy saddle on to the horse’s back was no easy task for her, but she made it, leaving the stirrups long as Will had had them—Spur was as long in the leg as he had been. When it came to the bridle and bit, the black fought her and tried to bite. That calmed her a little and she had the presence of mind to soothe the animal before she went ahead. The horse made one attempt to kick the barn to bits and then calmed down.

  Her one great fear was that Henry Wragg or one of the other men who must be around here someplace would come to investigate.

  However, she got the black out of the stall and led him to the door without being interrupted and with great difficulty climbed astride. She couldn’t put her feet in the stirrup-irons so she stuck them in the stirrups above them and clamped tight with her knees. Her dress rode up high but she was in mood to worry about that.

  She had got the lines in her hands and was ready to head out when another burst of firing came. She listened intently and could hear no reply from the top of the bluff. That really scared her. Maybe Spur was dead? Maybe she was doing this for a dead man.

  Walking the horse into the yard, she saw the door of the house open and her sister come into the moonlight with Janey still clinging to her.

  Lucy Overell asked, ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing?’

  ‘I’m gonna get him out of there.’

  ‘You must be crazy. You’ll be killed.’

  ‘They wouldn’t shoot at a woman.’

  ‘Are you going to ride to him?’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘How will they know you’re a woman? They’ll just see somebody on a horse. Don’t do it, Sarie. For God’s sake.’

  ‘Get in the house, Luce. There’ll be lead flyin’.’

  Lucy came to the side of the horse and the animal danced a little.

  ‘He’s not shooting now. He could be dead.’

  Sarie said, ‘We’ll find out.’ Raising her voice she started calling his name: ‘Spur … Spur … Sam Spur.’

  ‘There,’ Lucy said eagerly, ‘you see.’

  Fright plunged through the woman on the horse.

  She called again and now she was screaming.

  ‘Sam Spur … you alive?’

  The whole night seemed to go still, listening to her.

  ‘Spur … answer me, if you’re alive.’

  The seconds seemed to go by as slow as hours.

  A man came into the yard from around the barn and asked, ‘What in hell you playin’ at, woman?’

  It was Henry Wragg.

  Lucy Overell turned on him fiercely.

  ‘You get away from my house, you—’

  Wragg broke into a run. She could see the white bandage around his head bobbing up and down comically.

  ‘Hey, you—’

  A wild shrill yell sounded from the bluff.


  Wragg stopped abruptly and turned his head in that direction. His face twisted itself up in mortification.

  Sarie yelled, ‘You hear that?’ and rein-whipped her horse with the sharp swish of hide. The black gathered its hind legs and went off on the run. The little man shouted at her and got into action again, made a grab for the reins and ran into the horse’s shoulder. The charging weight bowled him off his feet as if he were lighter than a feather.

  The woman took the horse around the end of the barn and every night sound was cut off from her by the rolling of the hoofs. It broke its stride to pitch once, but she whipped it ahead and cried it on till it got the bit between its teeth and ran.

  Over to the right she saw the sharp flash of a gun, but had no way of telling if the shot was meant for her or not. It came to her then that Spur might mistake her for one of his attackers and shoot her. That brought a screamed, ‘Don’t shoot … Spur don’t shoot,’ from her.

  A dark mass of brush loomed suddenly beyond the horse’s ears and she swerved to the right; the black almost lost its footing on some loose stuff, changed stride skillfully and drove on. The earth reared up and the black started heaving against the start of the grade. She laid on the reins again, beating him into keeping the same reckless pace and prayed he wouldn’t fall.

  Any moment now, she told herself, she’d have to be mighty careful or she’d be over the edge and into the creek fifty feet below.

  A man seemed to rise out of the ground a little to the right and he shouted something. Somehow she knew this was Spur and she heaved on the reins. The black started to come to a hopping, slithering halt as she glimpsed the silver glitter of the water below her. The man got a hold on the cheek strap and heaved the horse around by main strength and then she was tumbling out of the big saddle and collapsing on the ground.

  The guns started and the lead began to fly. When she tried to get to her feet, Spur thrust her back to earth again saying tersely, ‘Stay down.’

  ‘The horse,’ she panted, ‘it’ll be hit.’

  His hand held her down and he didn’t speak. In a moment he crept forward maybe ten paces and fired several times into the timber and after that everything was quiet.

  When he came back, he checked the horse was unhurt and said to her, as he squatted gingerly by her side, ‘That was a fool thing to do, ma’am.’

  She could think only of one thing—his getting out of there.

  ‘The horse,’ she said breathlessly, ‘he’ll get you away.’

  He thought about that.

  ‘You got in here,’ he told her. ‘I don’t reckon there’s much chance of my riding out of here.’

  ‘That wasn’t my idea,’ she told him. ‘You go over the bluff.’

  That shook him. But when he thought about it, maybe it didn’t seem such a crazy idea. Men had ridden horses over bluffs before. He’d seen it done. Done it himself once when he was running from a bunch of Caddoes.

  ‘Can the horse do it?’

  ‘Sure. That was Will’s night-horse. They don’t come any better. He’d jump over the moon for you.’

  ‘So I get out of here by diving in the creek. That’s fine. I’m beholden to you. You took a pretty long chance doing what you did. But what about you?’

  ‘Don’t you fret about me, Spur. I’ve looked after myself this long, I guess I can do it once more.’

  ‘You think because you’re a woman…’

  ‘No—not that. Just that I don’t have to be very smart to be smarter than those fools out there. You get on that horse and fly away, young man. Now listen to this—’

  ‘Ma’am, I can’t do this. Shucks, you took a real terrible risk just now—’

  She gripped his arm and shook it a little, her eyes showed bright and glittering through the hair that was hanging over her face.

  ‘You listen to me. You’ll get out of here and so will I. Don’t you have no doubt about that. You think I would’a come in like that if I wasn’t damn sure I could get out? No, shut up and listen, man. You go over into the creek. Those boys’ll shoot at you a couple of times, but the chances are you’ll get clear. You stay here and you’re deader’n last week’s mutton. The horse’ll take you to the next bend. Come ashore there and ride if you have to, but stay in the water if you can. About a half-mile downstream there’s a rock shelf to the west. It’s big and you could lose anybody there. Come back to the creek five mile down. You’ll know it by Indian Rock. It stands so you can see it for fifty miles around. The cave we told you about’s there. You won’t find it—nor will nobody else. We’ll come to you there.’

  Sam said firmly, ‘No call for that, ma’am. You’ve done enough. More.’

  ‘You don’t have no choice. A strong wind’d carry you off.’

  ‘Now, see here, ma’am—’

  Temper gusted out of her so he drew back from her.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, will you do like I say. Didn’t Luce save your life? Didn’t she?’

  ‘Surely, you know that.’

  ‘Well, then, you think she wants to see everything wasted? ‘Sides we ain’t doin’ this for you entire. No, sir. We got a motive. You can help us.’

  ‘I can?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There ain’t time. I’ll talk about that later. Get goin’ now before I lose my temper.’

  After a moment’s silence, he said, ‘All right.’

  He came half-erect, reached out a hand and brushed the hair from her face. They looked into each other’s eyes, the one pair pain-filled, the others bright and dark, bitter from having seen too much of men like Nick the Greek.

  ‘You’ll do, girl,’ he said and saw the sudden glisten of a tear come.

  Then he was on his feet, moving with some difficulty towards the horse, carefully putting a foot in the stirrup-iron and turning his head to look at her once more.

  ‘Luck,’ she said.

  ‘You too, ma’am.’

  He measured the distance to the edge of the bluff, knowing this would have to be done in one quick movement because he would be exposed against the skyline. If the horse baulked it could be the end of him.

  When he moved, his injured leg failed him and he had to cling to the saddle to save himself from falling. But he kept going, rearing up astride, feeling the horse gather itself for a pitch and drove the spurs home, yelling at the same moment.

  The black jumped for the edge, tried to turn away from it, but found that iron hands kept him going straight ahead. For one dreadful moment, Spur thought he wouldn’t keep it going that way, then he felt the animal’s will come under his hand. The black took two heaving jumps to the end of the grade, paused almost imperceptibly and then took off.

  A shot sounded.

  Men were shooting from the other side of the creek, but there was scarcely any awareness in him of the danger from them—he was entirely occupied with the sensation of his battered body falling rapidly, his stomach heaving and turning, a terrible and never-ending passage of time before he hit waters. He went under, he felt, over his head, but he didn’t know. Suddenly the horse whinnied and then was swimming strongly.

  Guns sounded from ahead. Flashes stabbed at the shadows under the timber on the far side of the creek. He was going straight across.

  When he brought the black’s head around, the animal obeyed willingly and set off downstream, swimming as happily as a fish.

  Something struck the saddlebow a violent blow and Spur didn’t need any second prompting to slip from the saddle and grab for the tail as he went. That way he went out of there with the lead driving up little water spouts around him. They came to the first bend and, when he had made certain that they were not being followed by riders on the shore, he headed for that away from the town and soon heard the black’s hoofs sounding on rock.

  They came dripping and heaving out of the water and at once Spur climbed into the saddle again, guiding the willing animal away from the water.

  When he halted and listened for
sounds of pursuit, there was none. The light breeze touched him and sent a paroxysm of shivers through him that was a serious warning. He sent the black forward at a brisk walk south, then swung slightly east until he saw the moonlight reflected in the waters of the creek. By this time he was frozen to the bone and his teeth were chattering.

  He found a ledge overlapping the water about four feet from the surface and was pleased. He didn’t like the idea of another ducking, but if he was to stay alive he had no choice. Backing the horse from the edge, he touched it with the spurs and drove it headlong.

  The black took the leap like an angel and again Spur thought he went in over his head and again he was in the water clinging to the animal’s tail, heading it downstream with some difficulty as it now showed an inclination to go straight across.

  The cold of the water nearly took his breath away and by the time they lurched out of the creek nearly a mile downstream and sighted Indian Rock looming pale and ghostly in the light of the moon he thought he would pass out with the cold. But he knew he had to keep on for a whole lot longer.

  Starting off afoot, leading the horse for a short distance, he tore some brush up with his hands and went back to the edge of the water and wiped out the tracks. After that he went forward with a leapfrogging advance, returning each time to wipe out the sign left. Then he reached sandstone and tried to get into the saddle to ride over it, failing twice and falling hard because by now he was a damned sick man and not knowing how to go on. He compromised by hanging on to the saddle and allowing the horse to half drag him along.

  Like that they came into the moon-shadow of the high-rearing rock and stumbled blindly into the mass of nature’s debris that was strewn around the landmark. Without the horse he would never have made it.

  Once he stopped and said out loud to himself, ‘I’m finished.’ His body agreed with that, but his will didn’t. It never would.

  He never knew how he found the spot he wanted, deep in the rocks, that would provide shelter in the day, giving him a view of the creek, high enough to overlook a fair amount of country, a ledge overhead for shade. Once there, he faced the problem of the horse. What to do with it? Let it go and perhaps give his position away; keep it here—that left an even chance of it giving him away, too.