One Man, One Gun

by Matt Chisholm

  The woman was out of the saddle, screaming at the Mexican, gesticulating hysterically to him. The man had his rifle up pointed at Avar but no shots were coming from it. The weapon was empty. Avar fired. The Mexican was lashing his horse with his quirt, rifle thrown aside, fleeing for his life. Avar swept forward, pulled his horse back onto its haunches, yelling to the man with him to go after Hijinio. The man thundered on. The woman was turned to Avar, screaming. He piled from the saddle, saw the gun in her hand and couldn’t stop his charge. She fired, missed. He batted the weapon from her hand and swiped her across the face, back-handed. She fell away from him.

  He stood panting, looking down at her, taking in the rounded lines of her body, the heaving contours of her magnificent breasts. Lust and fury flared in him.

  The other men were coming in now, heaving their horses to a halt, dust drifted. One of them was a Mexican. He slipped from the saddle and started to help the woman to her feet. Avar took him by the shoulder and heaved him aside. He bent and caught the woman by her long black hair and wrenched her to her feet.

  The Mexican said: “No.”

  With wild eyes, Agar said: “Keep out of it, greaser.”

  The man stood poised, the instinct to help the woman clashing with the instinct to survive himself. His brown face was shining with sweat. He backed up cautiously. The other Mexicans there, stayed still, wary. They knew the uncertain violent temper of this Anglo.

  The woman herself was still now, staring past Avar, her face set in stony dignity as if suddenly she had caught up with her pride.

  Avar flung her toward the riders.

  “Get her on her horse,” he said. He turned his back and walked to his own.

  The men were still for another moment, then one of the Mexicans said: “Senorita.” She crossed to her horse and the man helped her to mount. The rider came back from the east. He had lost Hijinio, he said. Avar growled at him suspiciously. The man was a Mexican and Avar guessed that the pursuit had not been too enthusiastic. He turned his horse and headed back along the valley. So they had the woman and the Storm boy. There would be at least one hanging this day. He wondered what Rolf would do to the woman. It bore thinking on. That Rolf sure was a hard man. There was no knowing what he would do. It was a crying shame they didn’t have Harrison. If the man had any sense, he was riding hell for leather out of the country.

  They travelled easily at a steady trot. The horses were tired and they had the ride home ahead of them. Avar chuckled to himself. Old Rolf had made a good profit. He’d sold two fine bulls, he had the cash in his pocket and now he had his bulls back.

  They climbed the ridge, following the sign of the bulls, the Delaware riding in the van. They came into rough sloping country scattered with trees, brush and rocks. There ahead of them were the two bulls grazing. Mr. Rolf sat on a rock smoking a cigar. At peace with the world. The two riders sat on the ground a short way off. Young Storm lay on his face with his hands tied behind his back.

  The Indian stopped.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said.

  They all stopped.

  “What the hell?” Avar growled out.

  He turned and looked at Manuela Salazar. He saw that she was smiling. His blood ran a little cold.

  “Hunt cover,” he yelled and reached down for his carbine.

  A shot sounded.

  Avar threw his arms around the neck of his pitching horse. Frozen, the others watched him. Slowly, Avar slipped to the ground. His horse side-stepped away from him. They knew he was still alive because he groaned.

  “Come on down,” a voice bellowed from below.

  The men started their horses forward and down.

  Manuela Salazar said to one of the Mexicans: “Juanito, attend to Avar or he will die.”

  The Mexican turned back and dismounted.

  They rode on down. They saw that young Storm was on his feet and there was a gun in his hand. Prescott Harrison stepped from cover, his repeating rifle in his hands.

  “Line ‘em up over yonder, Jode,” he said. “Take their guns.”

  They dismounted and lined up. Jody didn’t get between them and Harrison’s rifle. He took their guns from them and hurled them away. The men looked at Rolf. The man’s face was ashen and his eyes were wild. They now saw that his hands were tied behind his back. The Mexican came running down from above.

  “Avar is dead,” he said. There was not much regret in his voice.

  “That’s one man I don’t regret,” Harrison remarked conversationally. “You come after us, Rolf, an’ you’ll end the same way. That’s a solemn promise. All right, get your boots off, boys.”

  They protested. One of the Mexicans wept openly. But they removed their boots. Jody collected them, tied the mule-ears together and hung them from a saddle horn. Next, Harrison gave orders for all the saddles to be removed from the prisoners’ horses. That done, he and Jody ran the animals off.

  The last was too much for Rolf. He sprang to his feet, shouting —

  “By God, you’ll hang for this. All of you.”

  “Maybe you’ll try at that,” he said. “You’re fool enough. Let’s go, folks.”

  Jody stepped into the saddle. Rolf was staring at Manuela. He said a word that no man used to a woman in that country.

  Harrison was in the act of mounting. He paused and looked at the man, considering. His eyes looked deadly. Then he climbed wearily into the saddle and started driving the bulls. The three of them rode away and they did not look back.

  None of them spoke until they were over the ridge and into the valley.

  “Is it finished?” Manuela asked.

  Prescott shrugged.

  “Who knows when anything is finished?” he said. “Time beats distance, I reckon. Maybe Rolf’ll come a-lookin’. Maybe we’ll meet up in a coupla years. Maybe he’ll show sense an’ cut his losses.” He grinned suddenly. “I’m countin’ my gains right now.”

  Manuela smiled at him and they rode on.

  Several miles further on, Hijinio rejoined them. He rode down out of the hills and looked a little apprehensively at Harrison. The bearded man merely said: “Keep them bulls movin’, hombre,” and left it at that.

  Jody thought: They all thought at home I wouldn’t make it. They were damn near right.

  Would he have done it without Harrison? He faced up to it and decided, no, he would not. But he reckoned that what had happened to him had had the effect his Pa had wanted. He wasn’t quite sure what that was, but he’d learned something on the trail. He’d lost Honoria as soon as he won her, but somehow he was going home richer than when he had set out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They came down toward Three Creeks across the edge of Ed Brack’s land, possibly because it was across their route, certainly because Jody hoped that one of the hands would see those two bulls and take the news to Ed. But they didn’t see a living soul and came down into the Storm valley over the saddle and there breathed their horses.

  Jody looked at the others.

  Hijinio was nodding, smiling.

  Manuela turned to Jody.

  “So this is where you live, Jody,” she said.

  Harrison’s eyes were everywhere, assessing the land below him.

  “By God,” he said. “Boy, this is pretty fair country.”

  Jody didn’t say a word. He was so damned glad to be home, he couldn’t speak. It looked just as he had left it. He realized that he hadn’t been gone any time at all. But a great deal had happened in that time. He felt that the Jody Storm who had ridden out of here no more than a few weeks back had been nothing but a callow boy.

  They rode down and pretty soon their horses’ hoofs were going swish-swish through the lush grass. The tired horses and the bulls picked up, knowing that water and bait was ahead of them. They passed longhorns that lifted their heads and gazed as they passed. No longer wild stock on the rich grass and in the security of the valley, they did not now turn tail and run at the sight of a man. They would still go
re a man on foot, of course — they wouldn’t have been longhorns if they didn’t.

  Harrison looked at them appreciatively.

  “Plenty tallow there,” hell said.

  They came in sight of the two creeks under the western wall and there was the house, low and stout on its rising ground, smoke rising reassuringly from the chimney. The horses moved in the corral to the east of the house. It was time for the evening meal. Jody could make out figures in front of the building. Excitement rose in him.

  Manuela started tidying her hair.

  “I am in no condition to meet folks,” she said. “Prescott I can’t be seen in pants.”

  “Don’t you fret,” said Harrison. “You look jest fine.”

  “I look awful.”

  “Beautiful,” said Harrison and looked at her with a kind of pride.

  As they rode around the edge of the corral, Ma and Pa were there, walking to meet them. The others came behind. Jody drew rein, stepping down from the saddle. His father’s horny hand gripped his. For a moment, nobody said anything. The corners of his father’s eyes were crinkled. Ma put her arms around him briefly. Then there were Kate and Melissa. They were not short on words. The others were shaking his hand — Uncle Mart, George, Clay and Sarah — Sarah kissed him. Pete Hanno and Riley Brack, grinning, praising the fine bulls, making jokes. They must have known he was coming. They were all here.

  He introduced Manuela, Harrison and Hijinio. There was laughter, backslapping. Pete and Riley took the horses. Pa sucked his pipe and walked around the bulls, nodding. He looked around at Jody. His eyes said that Jody had done well.

  “We nigh gave you up, son,” he said. “Any trouble?”

  Jody looked at Harrison.

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Jody said.

  Harrison said: “I could say different an’, given time, I shall do jest that, folks. I have a tale to tell that’ll make you sit up an’ take notice. That son of yourn, Mr. Storm, he sure is a heller.”

  Pa smiled a little.

  “We did suspect it, Mr. Harrison,” he said.

  Later around the table, their bellies full, the men belching softly, they talked. Or rather Harrison talked. He held the floor, enjoying himself to the full. Manuela, wearing one of Kate’s dresses, watched her man tolerantly. Ma and the girls seemed captivated by Harrison. Even Pa and Uncle Mart seemed to have warmed to the man.

  For once in his life, Jody found that he didn’t have anything to say. For once, he was content to sit still in the enveloping presence of his family and savor it. He heard Harrison telling of the events of the past few days. He made no mention of Honoria and for that Jody was grateful. It was as if he were listening to a story about a stranger.

  When Harrison was through, Will turned to his son and said: “Sounds to me like you did pretty well, son.”

  “Aw,” said Jody, feeling all their eyes on him, “I made out, I reckon.”

  About the Author

  Peter Christopher Watts was born in London, England in 1919 and died on Nov. 30, 1983. He was educated in art schools in England, then served with the British Amy in Burma from 1940 to 1946.

  Peter Watts, the author of more than 150 novels, is better known by his pen names of "Matt Chisholm" and "Cy James". He published his first western novel under the Matt Chisholm name in 1958 (Halfbreed). He began writing the "McAllister" series in 1963 with The Hard Men, and that series ran to 35 novels. He followed that up with the "Storm" series. And used the Cy James name for his "Spur" series.

  Under his own name, Peter Watts wrote Out of Yesterday, The Long Night Through, and Scream and Shout. He wrote both fiction and nonfiction books, including the very useful nonfiction reference work, A Dictionary of the Old West (Knopf, 1977).

  PICCADILLY PUBLISHING

  Piccadilly Publishing is the brainchild of long time Western fans and Amazon Kindle Number One bestselling Western writers Mike Stotter and David Whitehead (a.k.a. Ben Bridges). The company intends to bring back into 'e-print' some of the most popular and best-loved Western and action-adventure series fiction of the last forty years.

  To visit our website, click here

  To visit our blog, click here

  To follow us on Facebook click here