The Gun is my Brother

by Matt Chisholm

  ‘I’ll tell you what I could do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I could kill the man that killed your husband.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all over and done with. There’s been enough bloodshed. With you men it’s nothing but guns.’ It was the first time there had been a bite to her words since he had first seen her.

  ‘Guns,’ he said soberly, ‘are the only thing in the West that hold the white man’s world together. They’re as good as the man that holds them. All right—we won’t quarrel about that. You don’t have to like violence, you’re a woman. But a man doesn’t have to like it either. Lots of things a man has to do he doesn’t like. But he does them. If he’s a man.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘I know. You have my thanks for everything you’ve done.’

  She hesitated again.

  ‘Mr. Spur … there is something … Don’t come back—ever. Maybe I did save your life. In that case, you owe it to me. Go somewhere else and find your land, buy it and put your roots down. You’ll never put them down here.’

  He got off his haunches and took a knee-stride towards her. He kind of shied then and stopped, looking at her. Something in the look made her glance away.

  ‘I won’t promise that,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘By God, I’ll tell you straight. I’ve met a lot of women here and there, ladies some of ’em … shucks, what’s the use? Any road—I ain’t promising a goldarned thing, ma’am, and that’s for sure.’

  She went to move away, maybe to go, but he said, ‘Wait,’ and unbuttoned the front of his shirt, fumbled for a moment with the buckle of the money belt around his waist and finally heaved the heavy thing out and thrust it into her hands.

  ‘There’s ten thousand dollars there. Take it. Keep it for me. If’n I don’t come for it, it’s yours,’ he told her.

  She flushed and protested, ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘There’s nobody else to have it. Maybe, I’ll be a long time coming, maybe I won’t come at all.’

  ‘You’d trust me that much?’

  ‘Yes. It’s safe with you. Nobody’d guess you had it.’

  She got up and stood as straight as she could under the low roof, stooping so her face was near his and he reached up a hand, touched her cheek lightly so she couldn’t move away and kissed her softly on the mouth.

  She didn’t make a move, except to brush his hair back with her free hand from his face and say, ‘Watch out for yourself, Mr. Spur.’

  He grinned back at her and said, ‘I surely will, ma’am. Tell Janey goodbye for me. My thanks to your sister. I’ve never looked for kindness like you two’ve shown me.’

  Then she was gone and he didn’t see her go, but sat in the darkness, conserving the candle which was his last, not wanting to see her ride away.

  Smelling pushed a willow branch aside and pushed his head to his horse’s ears so he could see the better.

  ‘There she is,’ he told Wragg, ‘climbin’ down now.’ He whistled softly and added, ‘Must be a cave in the face of the rock behind that brush. We got him sittin’, Henry.’

  Waspishly, the little man said, ‘He’s had several days to mend. Don’t go underestimatin’ him, man.’

  From up in the rocks came the sound of horse’s whicker and as Smelling’s horse went to reply, the big man grabbed the animal brutally by the nose. Wragg whipped smartly out of the saddle and held his own mount in the same way.

  ‘Jumpin’ snakes,’ he whispered, ‘what’s she got in her hand?’

  Smelling chuckled.

  ‘I cain’t see at this distance. But we’ll know purty soon now.’

  Wragg snapped his head around and told him, ‘No damned foolishness now, Smelling.’

  The big man’s chuckle turned to a laugh.

  They waited.

  When they heard the clatter of hoofs in the rocks, Smelling said, ‘Henry, you git that long gun of yourn on that brush and keep it there. I’m gonna talk with the little lady.’

  ‘Mind what I say?’ Wragg ordered. ‘Let me go.’ He swung into the saddle, but he was too late. Already, Smelling had spurred his big roan out of the willow and was driving at a climbing run up the grade from the creek. Wragg swore a little and heaved the Spencer from the saddle-sheath, knowing he daren’t move from here if Spur was up there in the Rock. He’d take this up with that empty-headed fool Smelling later. My God, things hadn’t been run right since the parson had died. They’d never be run right again until Henry Wragg took over. Which he would do when the time was ripe. He had a feeling that time wasn’t far off.

  He sat in the saddle listening to the sound of the retreating hoof-beats, not liking it a bit, because he had a high regard for the widow and he didn’t like that great ape going after her. Smelling had a regard for her right enough, but he couldn’t call it a very high one. The big man rated women like cattle and horses, by their use to him.

  Smelling sighted Mrs. Overell clear of the rocks and found he had to use quirt and spur to cut the distance between himself and his quarry. It was tricky ground and neither he nor the roan liked it. A foot wrong here and either of them could get a busted neck. He had to get close in to the woman before she sighted him. She was on that sorrel of Will Overell’s and it was known for a fast horse.

  She heard him after a half-mile, took one quick look at him and got that little horse running. Smelling swore savagely. The roan was sweating now. The sorrel was running as if this was a game or something, liking it, starting to pull away without a lot of trouble. The big man got mad for one reason because he didn’t like anybody having faster horses than his. He explained to himself that the roan was carrying double the load of the sorrel, but that didn’t stop the woman from increasing the gap between them.

  They kept at it for around ten minutes and by that time the big man couldn’t stand it any longer. With a sound like some maddened animal, he tore the rifle from beneath his right knee and levered a bullet into the breech. He knew what he was doing was plain crazy and could bring about his own end, but he did it just the same. Beyond himself, entirely in the grip of his blind anger.

  He fired and the shot went past the woman and kicked up the dust. She turned a startled face over her shoulder and involuntarily swerved the pony to the right as if that would help her avoid the second shot. The sudden turn caught the sorrel on the wrong foot and it went over.

  The sight of the woman hitting the ground limp like a rag-doll and then to lie still, cooled his anger till it was like ice. The sweat lay cold on his flesh. He turned the roan and thundered up. Getting out of the saddle before the animal had halted he ran towards her.

  She stirred as he came up and turned blank eyes on him.

  ‘You hurt?’ he panted. ‘Good grief, girl, why didn’t you halt? You think I’m chasin’ you for fun?’

  She sat up slowly and held her hand to her head. Her eyes slowly cleared until she could see him plainly.

  ‘Have you gone crazy?’ she demanded in a weak voice.

  ‘You should ought to’ve stopped,’ he growled lamely.

  She started to get up and he went forward to help her, but she snapped at him to get away from her. Abashed, he stood back and watched her from under his heavy brows, morosely, hating himself and hating her because she made him feel like that.

  When she looked around for her horse, he did the same and saw it had halted about twenty yards off and seemed to be all right.

  He advanced towards it, but it swung away in spite of the trailing rein. Swearing, he fetched his rope and caught the animal with his first throw. Leading it back to the woman, he said, ‘You seen Spur up on the rock, huh?’

  ‘Take the rope off my horse and I’ll get on, Mr. Smelling. Sheriff Carlson will be interested to hear about this.’

  She was as cold with him as she had ever been and now there was anger simmering quietly behind her words. He writhed.

  His answer was to go t
o her saddlebags and open one. Finding it empty, he tried the other. He chuckled deeply in his throat and pulled out Spur’s money-belt. Grinning, he turned to Lucy Overell.

  ‘The killer pays you well,’ he said.

  ‘Put it back,’ she told him, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

  That made him give a roar of laughter. Suddenly he felt good. This was one on Spur, one on Henry, one on the woman who had never given him a willing smile. It was even one, somehow, on her dead husband who had poked his nose once too often into other people’s business.

  He buckled the belt and tossed it over his own saddle horn, saying, ‘You been in that cave with Spur. Alone. They hear this in town, they’re think you’re no better’n your sister. I’ll keep the money. You won’t say nothin’—not if you have sense.’

  She darted for the money, but he caught her by the hair where it was gathered above her neck and spun her away so she fell in the dust. When she got up she was spitting as much with anger as to get the grit out of her mouth. All her fear had left her.

  ‘You filthy great hog,’ she screamed. ‘Give me that money. Give it to me … give it to me…’

  Smelling started to feel even better. He felt so good, he forgot the need for caution, a closed mouth.

  ‘No, I reckon I’ll keep it. Your husband sure spoiled a good business for some of us for a whiles. We lost heavy. I guess you kind of owe this to us.’

  Through the dust on her face and her disheveled hair, he saw her go white. The sight sobered him a little.

  In a small breathless whisper of horror, she said, ‘It was you.’

  ‘No. Not me.’

  ‘Who?’

  He thought about that, considered it safe.

  ‘The parson,’ he told her. ‘There’s nothin’ you can do about that.’

  ‘I’ll do something about it,’ she promised him.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Don’t be foolish now. Get on that cute little horse of yourn and ride. Keep your mouth shut. There’s more in this than you know. You talk an’ the sheriff or nobody else won’t be able to help you. Hear?’

  He took the rope from her horse and she mounted. Feet settled in the stirrup irons, she looked down on him levelly.

  ‘It’s you who’s being foolish, Mr. Smelling. You’ve never been more foolish in your life—except when one of you killed my husband. You were foolish even to be a partner of the man who did it.’

  Neck-reined, the sorrel turned and at the touch of her heels, ran northward with the fear of the man behind still sick in its rider. She let the hard ride sort some of her confused thoughts out before she began to think of what lay before her now.

  Having no saddlebags Smelling took his roll from behind his saddle and placed the money-belt inside. Mounting, he went at a trot back towards the towering Rock, wondering how Wragg had made out. The big man guessed the luck that would get both of them killed wouldn’t be his. Maybe Spur hadn’t even poked his goddamned head out of the cave—if there was a cave and Spur was there. If he had sense he’d lie low. That’s what Smelling would have done in his boots.

  The sun was high now and the heat oppressive. The big man cursed it as he cursed it every day of his life and scattered the sweat-drops with his flicking hand. When he clattered into the first outlay of the loose rocks, he came on the black Mrs. Overell had brought Spur. Halting, he untied the tie-rope and led the animal down towards the willows.

  Somebody yelled something and startled him. His own sudden movement alarmed both horses and they started pitching a little. Above the sound of their hoofs he heard the distant spi-ing of a rifle and lead whistled shrilling in his ears. Glancing over his shoulder he saw smoke drifting thinly above the brush on the Rock’s face.

  Whinnying, the black tried to break away, but was hauled forcibly in the direction of the willows as Smelling raked his roan with the spurs. The next instant, they were crashing into cover and the bullets were tearing the leaves in search of them.

  Henry Wragg came thrusting his way through and boomed,

  ‘You plain damn fool,’ and showed himself jumpy with anger and fright. That made Smelling wonder. He’d never seen Henry scared of anything.

  Smelling dropped from the saddle, landing straddle-legged and said, ‘Well, the son of a bitch is there all right. We got him fine, Henry?

  The little man made a hissing sound of disgust.

  ‘We’re stuck in the middle of this damned willow. That don’t stop bullets. That bastard up there can shoot the eyes out of a gnat.’

  Smelling laughed.

  ‘He didn’t shoot no eyes outa this gnat just now.’

  Yanking his rifle from the saddle, he wormed his way over to the far right of the cover and took a look. A glance over his shoulder showed him there was plenty of cover offered by the creek bank.

  ‘Keep his head down, Henry,’ he called, ‘I’m gonna git around into the rocks on his left.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Smelling got out of the willow with a rush, jumped into the shallows of the creek and started along, crouching down and hurrying. He wanted to get this over with. The money was burning a hole in his bed-roll and he wanted to get it as far away from Henry Wragg and that man Spur as fast as he could. With Spur dead, everything would be fine. Maybe with Henry dead things would be even better.

  He got out of the creek and took a run into the first rocks, throwing himself down hard on his face and kissing the dirt lovingly as two balls sang a song of death in his ears.

  By God, he thought, that hombre’s quick. He couldn’t have known I was comin’ in this way.

  He had known before what kind of a man they were up against, but the closeness of that shooting brought the fact home bitterly.

  He started worming his way forward. The rifle up on the Rock was silent now. Maybe Spur was low on ammunition. Made a man feel good to think of coming up with Spur when he hadn’t got around to his name.

  Smelling got to crawling again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Spur had twelve shots left.

  That was enough for the present situation. He inspected the shadows and reckoned there were around four hours till night. That would be the time to go down and settle with those two.

  He waited out the long hours, smoking, listening to the faint sounds of one of the men crawling in towards the foot of the Rock, occasionally taking a peek out through the brush to locate him exactly, but not shooting.

  The gunfire and its associated memories had stimulated him, bringing to his aid that coldness of mind that could consider the possibility of his flesh being once more torn by lead and at the same time watch men’s moves as a chess-player would watch the inanimate men on a checkered board. Three horses in the willow with one of the men, one man below creeping closer. It might or might not be possible to wait for dark, but that time would be best for him and he wouldn’t jump the gun unless he was forced to. Patience now, as always, was his strongest weapon. His courage never waned with waiting, but grew in steadfastness.

  Towards dusk, as he was drinking a can of tomatoes, the gun in the willows started up and drove him back into the cave. Which, he thought, was a fool thing for them to do because if he was in there, they’d never get him unless they had long enough to starve him out.

  After a while he crawled back on to the little shelf again and tried to locate the man directly below and could not.

  He was going to get out of here and soon, either riding or walking and those two men down there weren’t going to stop him. The only question that rode him at all heavily was what happened down the trail to town between the man who had ridden back and who he guessed was Smelling. That they must have met, he didn’t doubt.

  Should he go into town or turn south down the creek?

  The question was snatched from him by the rifle in the willows ringing the echoes and sending shot after shot ripping and tearing through the brush, making him hug the ground as he heard them clipping savagely against the rock and whining, as if in g
hostly pain, away into the blueness of the sky. One found its way into the cave-mouth arid went crazy in there.

  The racket kept his nerves dancing, but it didn’t dull him to the danger from the man below. He collected a small pile of rocks near the edge of the little shelf.

  Suddenly, ‘Hey, you up there … hey, Spur!’

  He lay quiet and the voice came again.

  ‘You don’t stand a chance Spur. Come on down, man.’

  The man back in the willows was angry and his shout showed just how angry.

  ‘Leave him be—we’ll blast him outa there. He ain’t in the cave. He’s on the ledge. We can kill him there. Shut your mouth and git shootin’.’

  The man directly below Spur bellowed something obscene back and made a dart towards the Rock.

  Spur poked his head forward, saw the man through the dried foliage of the brush and sent his first rock out into space. It struck and shattered itself about six feet to one side of the man and Spur received a roar of rage back in response.

  Then Smelling turned his voice on the man in the willows.

  ‘Get him … he’s wide open. Kill him, man.’

  The rifle started pumping lead as fast as a man could work a lever.

  Spur crawled back hurriedly into the cave again and knew that patience might not see this out. The big man was now at the foot of the path leading up here. The man by the creek had the range of the shelf outside the cave.

  Abruptly, he made his plans, came to a decision on his immediate action. He’d walk out there. Those men couldn’t be defeated here and now if he stayed in the safety of the cave. Excitement briefly pumped his heart faster, then he calmed, knowing he would have to do this coolly.

  Checking the Remington pistol, he thrust it into the leather-lined pocket over his right buttock, ‘knowing he could pull a gun from there as fast as from a holster.

  That done, he crawled into the brush again and yelled, ‘I’m coming down.’ and tossed the Henry far out from the Rock, heard it crash and splinter on the rocks.

  Silence.

  Smelling shouted, ‘Come ahead, then.’

  There was one slightly sickening moment as Spur faced the fact that they might gun him down as soon as he appeared.