The Gun is my Brother

by Matt Chisholm

  Tomorrow, he told himself, I’ll ride. I’ve got to ride.

  He’d keep the animal. The men might be after him now. Even tonight he might have to somehow get into that saddle and ride out.

  He unsaddled slowly. When he had taken the bridle off, he tied one end of the split-rein around the horse’s neck the other around his own left wrist.

  After that what he needed most was fire. But he dare not light one. Nor did he have the strength left to gather fuel. He wrapped the saddle-blanket around him and lay down. He worried for a second about how the horse would find anything to eat and then he didn’t know anything. Sleep or unconsciousness dropped on him like a black cloud.

  Which, maybe, was a mercy.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After Spur had made his leap from the bluff on the black, the men gathered on the edge of the timber. Some of the hardier souls had winkled the woman off the top of the bluff, even though she had fired at them a couple of times with the rifle the outlaw had left behind.

  They’d been mad. And Smelling had been madder than them all. His voice was the one to announce the bitch ought to be hung. But nobody, however mad they might be, liked the sound of that. Some even spoke of their admiration. Said they’d never knowed a spunkier female. No, sir.

  But they were pretty mad, just the same and she’d have had harm done to her, if her sister hadn’t come out from the house and led her away. Sarie had been alternately weeping and shouting, then, and a few of the men had been a bit ashamed and embarrassed though they couldn’t have said why.

  ‘Nothing more we can do tonight,’ Sheriff Carlson declared. ‘Get some shut-eye.’

  ‘Shut-eye, my ass,’ Smelling said. ‘The man’s hurt—he can’t git far.’

  A sane spirit said, ‘You chase that son of a gun on a night like this if you want, Mr. Smelling.’

  ‘Nothing more we can do till daylight,’ the sheriff repeated.

  Henry Wragg limped up and caught the words.

  ‘No?’ he said witheringly. ‘How about those two women? They know where he’s headed. He can’t go far. He’s hurt bad. You watch the women and you’ll come up with him.’

  They could all hear and see the anger in the little man, sense the venom in him.

  ‘We don’t have to do a thing like that,’ Carlson said. ‘We’ll pick up his trail come morning.’

  ‘You do what you like,’ Wragg bit off, ‘an’ I’ll do what I like.’

  Carlson told him curtly, ‘You want to miss your sleep, that’s your affair.’

  Men began to drift away.

  One said, ‘God knows how many good men cut down. I don’t give up so easy. I’ll see the sonovabitch hung if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Murmurs of assent.

  Wragg found the sheriff at his elbow.

  There was a sudden and unexplainable animosity between them.

  ‘I sent the telegraph,’ Carlson informed him.

  The little man’s face was eager.

  ‘Yeah?’

  The sheriff seemed to take some delight in telling him, ‘I got a reply.’

  ‘What it say?’

  ‘It said there wasn’t a reward out for Spur. Nothing. He’s not wanted.’

  The little man was flabbergasted.

  ‘Not wanted?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Wragg stabbed a white forefinger at Carlson’s chest.

  ‘How about Texas? I’ll bet you ain’t heard from Texas. The Rangers wanted him bad. Shot a man in the back in Fort Griffin. I heard that from a man that saw it.’

  The sheriff batted down the offensive finger and snapped, ‘That man was a God-damned liar. Spur never shot a man that way in his life. Never had to. I’m tellin’ you he’s not wanted in Texas. Governor’s pardon for services rendered to the State.’

  The little man turned and walked away a couple of paces. He swung back abruptly and said, ‘So there ain’t a reward. The hell with the reward. He shot men in this town, didn’t he? Or is he such a damn good friend of yours you’d say the man that said that was a liar?’

  The sheriff pushed his hat on to the back of his head.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’. Nothin’s been proved against him. Not a damned thing.’

  ‘He shot the parson didn’t he?’

  ‘Sure, he did. Never denied it. Brought the body in open as the day. Could a man do more?’

  Wragg gathered himself up.

  ‘Carlson,’ he said, ‘you’re makin’ me sick in the stomach. The guts run out on you or somethin’? You ain’t man enough to get Spur—I am.’

  The sheriff smiled bitterly.

  ‘Yeah—I recken you are.’

  He turned and walked away into the timber.

  He went home, feeling as worried as a prairie dog with a snake in his hole. Even his fat, comfortable wife couldn’t dispel the mood. In fact, he found her fat and comfort a downright insult. Nobody had a right to be anything else but worried right then.

  This affair could blow up into something pretty big and he knew it. He was a compromiser and a gentle talker, but his wish to be either was slipping from him. Wragg and Smelling were getting on his nerves. So was all this shooting.

  He went to bed and couldn’t sleep and hated his wife because she could. He lay praying that Spur would manage to ride out of the country never to come back, but he had the feeling that his luck had turned sour and that Spur would fort up someplace again and there’d be another fight.

  What in hell had gotten into the men around here? Why had they suddenly become fire eaters?

  The answer to that was simple—the killing of the parson. He’d been respected as a holy and inoffensive man. By most people. Carlson reckoned some knew different. He only suspected. He had never been satisfied about Will Overell’s death. If there hadn’t been local pressure put on him he’d have looked deeper into the matter.

  God, would he never get to sleep? His bones were tired agony in his body, his mind churned its fretful thoughts this way and that.

  Who had told him emphatically that Will had asked for trouble going out against the stage-robbers, the poke-snatchers?

  His mind flicked back and came up with the names Wragg, Smelling, Schwartz. Charlie Bontine had been at the end of the little line someplace. The sheriff shuddered a little when he thought of the condition those men were in now, all at the hand of Spur. The men who cut a wide swath around these parts for a long time had been whittled violently down to size by one man. The thought was impressive and startlingly pleasing.

  Wragg was all shook up; Shwartz was all shot up; Bontine was toes up. Only that big windbag Smelling had come through so far without a scratch. Maybe he’d catch up with Spur and walk into a small portion of lead, then maybe it would be as quiet as it had been around here before he got bloated.

  Carlson thought about the big man’s quick rise to prosperity and local influence until he was big enough to swing the vote in Carlson’s favor.

  There was an unpleasant taste to that that the sheriff didn’t like. He was a man with some pride and he didn’t like to think he was the puppet of a man like Smelling.

  Why? What was wrong with Smelling?

  He didn’t know for sure, but he’d have a bet on his first guess.

  He started to think about Lucy Overell’s dead husband and, doing so, fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The following day a great many things happened in no particular sequence.

  Nick the Greek wanted to know where the damn-hell that goddam Englishwoman was and didn’t them women never show no gratitude? The sheriff awoke bad-tempered and was short with his fat comfortable wife who promptly made her good man uncomfortable by telling him if he couldn’t get out of their bed in a better mood than that he could go prepare his own breakfast. Mr. Smelling gathered some of the men who found it expedient to hang upon his every word because some part of their livelihood or their very existence depended upon his goodwill and headed a ‘delegation of cit’zens’ to th
e sheriff’s office and raised hell because the unfortunate man wasn’t there to attend to official business. When he arrived in response to some raucous shouts and a gun emptied into the blue sky, they demanded he lead a posse in pursuit of ‘that mad-dawg killer’. He had but little choice in the matter. When a horse had been saddled he rode at their head, a reluctant and mentally-confused leader. He had some heavy problems on his mind and Sam Spur was only part of them.

  The fact that Carlson had not fallen asleep till near dawn, had risen late, found difficulty in coaxing breakfast out of his rebellious wife, and hence been late to his office, probably saved a man’s life. Sam Spur’s.

  It meant that Sarie had time to reach him.

  She started an hour before dawn after a short and heated argument with her sister who was scared about a woman making such a ride through the dark. Her fears were not unfounded.

  The moon had disappeared and the only guide the woman had was the creek at her right hand. That didn’t prevent her travelling at a reckless pace, knowing that she had to reach the wounded man with time to spare, because it wouldn’t be long before the posse took up the same trail.

  The fact that the townsmen could follow her trail was not lost on her. They’d follow it all right and she’d sure have to rustle to get Spur into cover before they came up with her. She was aware that she might not be able to locate him and that she’d have to be smart to prevent the posse from trailing him through her.

  But there was too much urgent action called for to worry. All she could do was go ahead, hope for the best and keep on going, no matter what.

  She did that.

  It was a terrifying ride that neither she nor the horse liked. Twice it stumbled and once nearly landed her in rocks and once into the creek. But she went on, hoping she had timed the ride right and would come to the Rock with the dawn.

  She reached it just after daylight and spotted Spur in a moment from the piteous whinnying of the black that was both hungry and thirsty. Going with a clatter into the rocks she found the man where he had fallen, wound untidily in the horse blanket. Before she dismounted, she looked over her back trail and saw the wisp of dust that denoted horsemen were riding out of town.

  That gave her something like an hour. Which wasn’t bad. She could do what she wanted to in that time, if she hurried.

  She had prayed that Spur wouldn’t have passed out, because she couldn’t have got him to the cave without his co-operation and when she shook him she was relieved to have him lift his head, give her a wintery smile and say, ‘Why, ma’am—’

  On her knees beside him she asked, ‘Can you stand?’

  He blew out through parched lips, ‘Phew … I’m plumb tuckered out.’

  ‘Look,’ she told him, ‘we don’t have long. The posse’s left town. We have to move fast.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said and made an attempt to get to his feet. She got around behind him and heaved with both hands under his armpits and between them they got him up.

  ‘Where’s this cave?’ he asked.

  She pointed up the rock.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You can’t see it from here.’

  ‘Any of those boys know their way up.’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  She tied her horse and led the man by the hand, putting a strong thin arm around him when he staggered. Over one shoulder she carried a gunny-sack filled with provisions and a couple of canteens of water. When they got to the face of the rock, she had to release him.

  ‘Follow me close,’ she instructed. ‘If you feel you’re going to fall, lie flat and wait. It’s hands and knees from here on.’

  ‘All right,’ he said and watched her start up a narrow track about wide enough for a thin goat, dragging her load behind her. He got down on his hands and knees and followed her, not looking down from the start, staring at her scuffed heels.

  After a long while, during which on one halt to rest he gazed out over the plain and noted the slowly approaching dust, he found himself crawling into thick brush. Stopping, he realized that the woman was out of sight. He looked around and could find no explanation of her disappearance.

  He took advantage of the fact to lie down and rest again. He stayed like that until he heard her say not so far away, ‘Come on in.’

  He went ahead, using hands and shoulder to get through the obstacle and suddenly found himself crawling into a small candle-lit cave. Righting himself, he sat down and looked around. The walls on either hand were a couple of feet away, the wall in front of him was out of sight beyond the candlelight.

  The woman said, ‘Will found this place last year when we were picnicking for Janey. I guess you’ll be safe here.’

  He nodded, feeling pretty safe now.

  ‘You best get a-going,’ he told her. ‘I saw the dust.’

  ‘I’ll take the black horse,’ she told him. ‘There’s no time to get you the saddlegun—but you have the pistol. I’ll bring the Henry to you when it’s safe.’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Don’t come again. Too risky. I’ll make out. You and your sister’ve done enough. More.’

  ‘I’m gonna do as I think best.’

  They glared at each other in the weak light and suddenly the woman laughed.

  He asked, ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Nick’ll raise hell over me being gone so long.’

  ‘The Greek?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He reached out and put a hand on hers where it lay on her knee.

  ‘I’m grateful,’ he said.

  She gave his hand a little pat and said quickly, ‘It’s nothin’ I told you—me and Luce’ll want your help maybe.’

  He didn’t feel curious.

  ‘Any day,’ he said. ‘But don’t come back just now. There’s food there and I’ll make out.’

  She stood up, stooped a little under the low roof of the cave, saying, ‘The cave goes back a good way. Go further in if you want. Sorry there’s no blanket.’

  Then she went out and he heard her scrambling movements for a few seconds and after that there was the dead silence of the cave pressing around him. He saw she had left him a bundle of home-made candles and some matches. When he inspected the gunny-sack he found there cans of food, including tomatoes which made ‘the saliva flood his mouth, canned meat, a little bread, biscuits and a pack of Bull Durham and some papers.

  It came to him with real clarity for the first time just what these people had done for him. The widow and Nick the Greek’s woman, incongruously sisters. A man in his boots could forget there was that kind of goodness in the world.

  He opened a can of tomatoes and drank them down greedily. They weighed heavy on his stomach, but they made him feel good just the same, slaked that terrible thirst that burned his throat. Hunger and thirst satisfied, he sank back against the wall and rolled himself a smoke. Time for that before the posse came around.

  He wondered if the woman would get away all right. He hoped so. Didn’t know when he’d admired a woman more. Both of them for that matter. Cute little girl, too.

  Sleep tugged at his eyelids. He fought against it, assessing his injuries, feeling quietly confident now that he’d come through this okay.

  Then what?

  He smiled in the candlelight and said conversationally, ‘I owe that little old town a thing or two.’

  Sarie crossed the creek, ran the horses for a couple of miles across the grass beyond and into the badlands before she swung north. She saw nothing of the posse. By noon she was at her sister’s place and answering her anxious questions.

  ‘Yes,’ she told her, ‘I found him all right. He looks a real mess, but he’ll make out. They don’t come much tougher than that.’

  She ate and went on to the Greek’s, laughing at the suggestions that when next one of them took food to the wounded man, it should be Lucy Overell.

  When she walked into the kitchen of Nick’s place, the Greek got himself all worked up into one of his screaming mads and threatened her with a knif
e. Fie didn’t use it though, because there were some men eating out front. So he hit her instead, kind of quietly. When she bit his hand, he knocked her into a corner.

  She took it. She had to eat and she wasn’t going to live off her sister who, God knew, had enough to do with her little bit of money as it was. Besides, Sarie was feeling pretty good for the first time in years.

  The posse wasn’t feeling so good.

  For one thing, the sheriff might be a foot wider around the waist than he should have been to act the part of a tough frontier lawman, but he surely rode the butts of those enthusiastic deputies. He meant to. This whole crazy business was making his temper pretty short and he felt he wanted these boys not quite so keen on doing this kind of thing.

  By the time they got to within the shadow of the Rock they had dust in their throats a quart of Wright Schwartz’s hottest whiskey wouldn’t cut. They were stiff; they were hot; they were tired. Even Smelling, who spent his life in the saddle.

  It was Smelling who picked up faint sign near the creek opposite the rack. Most of the others were sheltering in the small shade offered by the outcrop, sweating in the airlessness.

  The big man swung out of the saddle and said to nobody in particular, ‘One hoss rid in. Two rid out. That’s what it looks like.’

  Someone said, ‘Magic.’

  ‘I bin thinkin’ … Spur come in here in the dark. Couldn’t git no fu’ther—he was hurt bad. Fell off’n his hoss or somethin’. Rider comes along and gives him a hand. Rid off across the creek and headed into the badlands.’

  Thurminger, so dog-tired he didn’t give a damn for the rancher, sneered, ‘You feel like ridin’ into that goddam furnace, you do it.’

  ‘That’s what I aim to do. I’ll ketch up with that sonovabitch if’n I have to do it on my high lonesome.’

  The sheriff groaned. There was some moral obligation here and the thought of it made him feel like hell. He wished now that he hadn’t set the pace he had.

  ‘For God’s sake rest up awhile, Smelling,’ he croaked.

  Bob Thurminger said, ‘If he’s crossed over the creek he’s safe. Cleared out. We’re rid of him.’