The Gun is my Brother

by Matt Chisholm

  Little Henry Wragg got himself on his hind legs and walked stiffly into the center of the men.

  ‘That ain’t the point,’ he boomed so the great Rock seemed to echo with his bass. ‘We’ve got duties as citizens. This man’s purely bad. Justice has to catch up with him some time an’ it should ought to be now.’

  Smelling grinned through his sweat and dust.

  ‘That’s what I like to see,’ he said, ‘real public spirit. You comin’, Henry?’

  Wragg said, ‘Yeah, I’m comin’.’ He went to his horse and swung up.

  Smelling ordered, ‘Steve ‘n’ you, Harve. Fork your ponies.’

  The two men were Smelling’s riders, so they couldn’t refuse. But they didn’t have to look as if they liked it. They got astride and rode out slowly behind Smelling and Wragg under the disinterested gaze of the rest of the posse.

  Bob Thurminger wiped the sweat from his face with his hand and flicked to rid himself of the wet.

  ‘Damn fools,’ he declared. ‘We saw dust. That means somebody come outa town. I’d swear that dust was one horse an’ no more. Spur’s around here someplace. Whoever come out to him took his horse away, the one he went over the bluff on.’

  The sheriff raised himself on one elbow and remarked, ‘That’s quite a theory, Bob. If you’re right, chances are there’s a gun lookin’ at us right now.’

  Bob grinned and said, ‘That’s what I’m thinkin’.’

  They lay around and thought about that. The more they thought, the less they liked it.

  Finally, a man got to his feet and asked, ‘Do we do something about it or do we jest ride out?’

  Another offered, ‘I’ve rid the ass off’n me. I don’t aim to do that for nothin’ any day.’

  By the time the heat started them nodding, even though they might have been under the eye of a gun, the sheriff got them started and they staggered wearily to their feet. They poked around the rocks and stunted brush for a while and found nothing. One man started up the narrow goat-track that led to the cave, but he didn’t get far. Risking his neck wasn’t that much fun.

  An hour or so found them in the saddle again after the horses had been watered at the creek and going slowly back to town. It would be a long time before most of them volunteered for posse work again. The sheriff found himself quite pleased. More and more he found himself in sympathy with Spur. Great God, if the man wasn’t wanted anyplace, why, that gave him quite a case. Not that he’d ever be able to do anything about it—but the law might be on his side. Admittedly, he’d shot some men, but who the hell wouldn’t when he’d been shot up like Spur had?

  The man had sand, no two ways about it. Metaphorically, Sheriff Carlson doffed his hat to the gunman. There was gratitude, not only respect, in the mental gesture. Spur had killed Bontine and that son should have been cut down long before. Shwartz was no decoration to the community either—but there was a chance he might live. More was the pity. Sincerely, he hoped Wragg had been wrong and Spur hadn’t headed for the badlands. He had a sneaking feeling that the quarry was near or on the Rock. Maybe he’d know soon, maybe he’d never know. At least he had the satisfaction to know that Saturday with Bontine drinking wouldn’t mean the sheriff walked the streets of the town in fear of his life and his reputation.

  Late in the evening, there was the sound of horses in the street outside his house and Smelling and Wragg came knocking at the door.

  In the parlor the two men stamped dust all over without apologies. Their anger made them partners. The sheriff got a kind of sinking feeling, sensing these men were reaching that limit of patience when they start to do crazy, unpredictable things. In spite of stage hold-ups, robbery in the back alleys, a bank robbery last fall and a lot of internal politics, Carlson had managed to hold the town fairly steady. His instinct told him the whole damn place would blow up in his face if he didn’t act really smart. He was tired and he didn’t feel smart.

  His malice led him into an unfortunate opening remark. ‘You boys look all wore out. Where’d it get you?’

  Smelling growled thick in his throat, ‘You want me to tell you, Carlson?’

  ‘By God, if you don’t, I will,’ Wragg rumbled.

  Something told the sheriff that this was it.

  ‘Do tell,’ he invited, leaving the malice in his voice as a protection, but knowing it was only an irritant.

  ‘It got us to the Overell place,’ Smelling declared. ‘Where I knew damn well it would take us. You gotta case here and you best do something about it.’

  A direct threat, there. The sheriff measured himself against the rancher and couldn’t find himself big enough to buck Smelling. He looked around the shabby room, knew the house wanted doing over, remembered the small account in the bank. He wasn’t getting any younger. Yet still there was some stubborn pride in him and he hesitated to back up like his good sense prompted him.

  ‘You got a case, I’ll do my duty.’

  Wragg said, ‘We aim to be sure of that.’ Resentment at the little man’s tone gnawed at Carlson, making him say in the firmest voice he could find, ‘You pressuring me, Henry?’

  Their eyes met and the deadly gaze of the small man did something to Carlson he didn’t like.

  ‘Yeah,’ Wragg said, ‘I’m pressuring you.’

  The sheriff sat on a hide chair and made a great show of getting comfortable.

  ‘Why?’ he said casually.

  The two men stared at him.

  ‘On’y want you to do your duty,’ Smelling told him.

  ‘Against Lucy Overell. Against this man Spur. What’re you afraid of, you two?’

  He wondered at his own courage, quaked a little, then steadied himself.

  ‘Hosses’ trail went clean up to the house,’ Smelling blustered, raising his voice.

  ‘So what?’

  Smelling’s voice climbed in incredulity.

  ‘So what! We trailed ’em outa the badlands. What the hell more do you want?’

  ‘You trailed ’em out of the badlands down to the ford, up to the house. There’s a mess of hoof-marks to and from the ford and you know it. In any case, horses travelling from the Rock through the badlands to the ford and on to the house don’t prove a thing. Or are you saying Spur’s back at the house again?’

  They looked perplexed. Looked at each other while Smelling scratched his great head.

  Wragg pulled himself together, tugged at his heavy moustache, looking more like an irate rooster than ever.

  ‘Now see here,’ he boomed, ‘don’t go gettin’ goddam smart. You know as well as we do that damn woman’s been helpin’ Spur.’

  The sheriff put his fingertips together. Looked sage and felt alarmed at himself.

  ‘Why shouldn’t she?’

  Their jaws dropped.

  ‘What the hell’re you sayin’?’ Smelling demanded.

  ‘What’s Spur done that she shouldn’t help him?’

  They both struggled with themselves and their words, choking.

  Wragg roared, ‘You gone clear outa your mind?’

  Smelling howled, ‘The goddam murderin’ sonovabitch … killed a good man, come into town bold as brass and starts a-hellin’ all over … What’s got into you, man?’

  The sheriff hauled himself to his feet. He wagged a forefinger at them.

  ‘Spur brought a dead man into town to report killing him just like any good citizen would. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘He killed the parson.’

  ‘How’d you know that? I haven’t had a chance to ask any questions.’

  ‘Claimed parson shot at him!’ Smelling shouted. ‘My Gawd, we all know that’s a lie to start with.’

  The sheriff raised his own voice.

  ‘How do we? What do we know about Garret? Came in here a couple of years back and said he was a man of God. How do we know he was? Might have been on the run for all we know?’ He suddenly warmed to his theme. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time a killer dressed up as a parson, would it? The stage robberi
es started around the time he come here.’

  ‘You sayin’ he was a road-agent?’

  ‘Of course, I’m not. I’m just showin’ you you don’t know any more about the parson than you do about Spur. Or Adam for that matter.’

  Smelling wiped his face with the palm of his hand.

  ‘Henry,’ he said in a broken voice, ‘this boy’s gone clear out of his haid.’ He picked up his hat and clapped it on his head, sending dust over the room. ‘A man comes in here and shoots the hell outa the place and we got to pat him on the head.’

  In a strangled voice, Wragg whispered, ‘Let’s get outa here. The Council’ll hear about this.’

  They reached the door and Carlson stopped them.

  ‘Hold hard.’ They turned and put their angry gaze on him.

  ‘I’ve been a nice polite sheriff till now,’ he said. ‘Thought of the town. Maybe put law a mite above justice. Don’t you boys pressure overly or by God maybe I’ll start thinking real hard about justice.’

  Wragg lowered his deep voice to its harsh whisper.

  ‘You threatenin’ us?’

  ‘I’m tellin’ you for your own good; you can make the little fellers around town quake in their socks, but you don’t amount to two cents worth of cold piss to me.’

  Wragg’s hand shook on the door-jamb. Smelling saw the signs and for once made a move to avoid trouble. He slapped the little man on the shoulder and laughed, bellowing, ‘Let’s get outa here, Henry. I know when I ain’t wanted. The sheriff’s tired. Tomorrow he’ll see things different.’

  The big man wrenched open the door and propelled the little one through into the hall and on towards the street, leaving Carlson surprised and not a little scared at what he had done. Smelling was power because he had men and land; Wragg was power because he had his cold temper and his terrible gun. Yet he knew he wouldn’t go back. Well, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t. Well, he hoped he had the guts not to.

  He had to think … clear his head and think. Think about those two swaggering out on to the street. He’d like to know … he’d give a hell of a lot to know just what they were saying now.

  Smelling was saying, ‘How many goddam times do I have to tell you not to buck Carlson?’

  ‘Take your hand off me, Smelling. I don’t allow nobody to do that to me. I come and go when and how I please an’ if’n

  I want to brace that goddam sheriff, I will. Get that into your thick head.’

  A man went by on the sidewalk and they stopped talking till he was out of earshot.

  ‘Ferget it,’ Smelling said. ‘Now, we gotta talk. We gotta get things clear. That Carlson’s startin’ to turn a few things over in what he calls his mind.’

  They stopped in the empty street, halfway to the saloon. Here no one could hear them without their seeing him.

  Wragg said, ‘Yeah. Better to have a show-down before he gets to thinkin’ than after. That’s why I—’

  Smelling’s heavy voice trembled a little as he remarked, ‘That what he said about the parson. For a minute I thought he knew.’

  ‘Guessing wild,’ Wragg opined.

  ‘Come damn near the truth.’

  ‘Then why’d you stop me?’

  ‘We pass as honest men. If we’re goin’ to stay in business we gotta stay that way.’

  Wragg fingered his chin and said, ‘Maybe it’s time we finished up here. A man can play his luck too long.’

  Smelling gave what for him was sober thought. He pursed his thick lips and pulled at the lower one.

  ‘I ain’t ready. It’s a year since we pulled in any big money.’

  ‘One more job, eh?’ Wragg was grinning like a small, hungry coyote.

  ‘Yeah. Git that clear-thinkin’ brain of yourn to work, little man.’ He slapped Wragg on the back jovially again and Wragg slapped his hand away.

  ‘You blown-up ox,’ he roared. ‘Take your sweaty hands off’n me else you won’t live to do no job.’

  Smelling’s laugh changed into a giggle.

  ‘Hell, I was joshin’ you, Henry … you know that.’

  Henry Wragg put his hat on dead-straight and looked at the big man in the same way as he said, ‘I know. But then I never did care to be joshed. You know that.’

  ‘Come and have a drink.’

  ‘No. I have to go and do some of that clear-headed thinkin’, like you said.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sam Spur was alone for four days and four nights before fresh supplies arrived. Lucy Overell brought them and that surprised him, because he hadn’t thought she was the woman to make a ride like that.

  He was lying sheltered by the brush from any eyes that might have been below, soaking in the sunlight after hours of sleeping in the dark of the cave. Strength was returning rapidly to him, his wounds were healing, his nerves getting back to their old steadiness. So much so that when he heard the sound of hoofs from below, he calmly rolled over and got the pistol lined up on the rider without the sudden stutter of nerves he might have expected.

  When he saw it was a woman, he lowered the hammer carefully and waited. It wasn’t until he heard her clear voice calling, ‘Mr. Spur … Sam Spur,’ that he got up and showed himself. He would have gone down to her, not wanting her to risk the precarious climb, but she wouldn’t have it and came crawling up to him on her hands and knees.

  He searched the country for any sign of dust and could see none.

  She had brought food for him, a rifle and ammunition. She had, she explained, left another horse tied in the rocks out of sight, and said that he must get out of here as soon as he was strong enough. All this came out of her in a rush as she crouched near him in the candlelight and then the confusion and the shyness came, the realization that she was here in a shadowy cave alone with a man.

  ‘You didn’t ought to have come, ma’am,’ Spur admonished her. ‘It’s not seemly. I’ll make out.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she had the nerve to come back with, ‘you’re nearly out of food.’ But she was aware that this man wasn’t as sick as he had been back in her house. This man was looking at her with the eyes of a well man who hadn’t seen a woman like her in a long time. Yet she trusted him in a way she had never found it in her to trust a man except Will.

  ‘That’s my husband’s rifle. It’s old but it’s good. As you probably know.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Now you ride out of here soon as you can get in a saddle. I don’t have to tell you about these things … but don’t take risks—ride only at night. You can see dust from here right back in town.’

  He smiled a little at the advice, but he said, ‘I’ll do like you say.’

  They were silent for a moment, neither finding anything to say, but both having something they had to tell the other, uncommunicative but close, suddenly easily intimate.

  ‘You said maybe I could help you in some way, Mrs. Overell,’ Spur prompted.

  She went to speak, her eyes on his face as if measuring him in some way, hesitating.

  Her lower lip trembled a little when she said, ‘It’s about Will—my husband.’

  Softly, he said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘He said something before he died. I thought then perhaps he was light-headed because he’d lost a lot of blood. I dismissed it. My sister thought he might have been right, but it seemed madness to believe it. The parson couldn’t have …’ Her voice trailed away.

  Spur came alert.

  ‘The parson? What about him, ma’am?’

  ‘Sounds ridiculous…’

  ‘Just be ridiculous. I won’t laugh. Good grief, I shot him, remember. He bushwhacked me and I killed him.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘What did Mr. Overell say, ma’am?’

  She became aware that his hard hand had come over her wrist. It tightened a little and somehow the grip seemed to anchor and steady her. She was no longer a woman alone with a stranger. She could talk to this man.

  ‘Will said it was the parson that shot him.’ />
  They stared at each other unblinking for a moment.

  Spur let go of her wrist and tapped a thumb-nail on his teeth thoughtfully.

  ‘It adds up,’ he said.

  ‘You think Will was talking sense?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe he was at that. He was after the road-agents and such. This parson jumped me. Tried to kill me, but he picked an unlucky one—unlucky for him and maybe for me too. I had cash on me, ma’am. Maybe, I wasn’t the only one that knew it.’

  ‘Cash? You mean, that belt?’

  ‘You never looked in it. You wouldn’t. Robbing me would have been better’n robbing a mail coach. I came this way to buy land. Settle down. I wanted to buy quick, get my roots down before I started fiddle footing again.’ He grinned a little ashamedly at the thought. ‘Sign of old age.’

  ‘You mean the parson meant to rob you?’

  ‘Well, shooting a man’s a good start to a robbery. He can’t stop you if he’s dead. I’m trying to think of who knows I was carrying cash.’

  ‘Where did you come from when you come here?’

  He flicked her the wary glance of a man who lives guardedly.

  ‘From Danesburg. Nobody knew me there. Before that Denver. Must have been there. The bank knew. Maybe someone in the bank talked. Seems the obvious thing. It’s no never mind, though. The betting is the parson knew. Or he was just chancing his luck. There’ve been hold-ups around here in the last couple of years. Does anything stop a parson from being a thief as much as any other man? If this man was a parson.’

  ‘If he wasn’t, he played the part well.’

  ‘Could be he was an experienced con man.’

  She said, ‘It means a lot to me to know that Will knew what he was saying at the end.’

  He nodded and patted her hand.

  ‘So this is the favor you’re asking me,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she told him quickly. ‘I’m not asking any favor except that you get out of here alive.’

  ‘You’ve fixed that for me. I’d say you wanted me to find the man that killed your husband.’

  ‘What can you do now? Every man’s hand is against you. You’re wounded.’