Gunsmoke Justice

by Louis Trimble

  Quarles bent and jerked Parker to his feet. He held him at arm’s length and drove his fist viciously forward. The blow made a soggy sound against Parker’s cheek. He reeled back, off balance, and crashed into a poker table, carrying it over and scattering chips and glasses across the floor. He held onto the table with his hands, using it as a prop while his head cleared.

  Quarles bored in again, implacably. Parker sucked deep breaths and waited for him. When Quarles reached, Parker straightened suddenly and lashed out with the last of his strength. As soon as his fist struck he knew it was a mistake. He could feel the smashed bones in his right hand.

  Quarles stepped back, hesitated a second, and then fell on his face like a great tree toppling. He rolled and got to his knees and hung there, his massive head swaying. Dust from his fall swirled around him and through the dust came his hoarse, bull voice:

  “You had your chance, Parker. Now you’ll go in a box.”

  Slowly he rose, one hand gripping a splintered club made of a chair rung. Parker was standing, his hands dangling helplessly, the strength gone from his body.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BRAD HAD WATCHED the fight with interest. For all Parker’s lack of size, he had been in a fair fight. Brad was no man to interfere when all things were open and equal, but when Quarles went for Parker with the piece of chair rung, Brad figured there was an end to waiting. Fairness had gone. Quarles’ plain intent was to beat Parker’s brains out.

  Brad reached for his gun. His voice was quiet but it ‘carried even to the anger-dulled ears of Quarles across the room. “Beat him with your fists or quit,” he said flatly.

  Quarles swung his head, showing glazed eyes that took a moment to focus on the gun. It scarcely seemed to register, and he turned back toward Parker. “Go to the devil,” he said thickly, and took a step forward.

  Brad knew he could never make it across the room before the club swung down. He did the next best thing. His shot was harsh in the close confines of the saloon.

  Ike Quarles bellowed in amazement, staring at his empty, numbed hand. Once more he swung toward Brad.

  “Just who in hell are you, drifter?”

  Brad’s dry humor that always came when he felt the closing in of tension appeared now. His grin was idle and a trifle insolent. “Referee,” he said cheerfully. His eyes flickered from Quarles to the other men, but no one seemed at all interested in doing anything. He holstered his gun. “Looks to me like — ” He broke off as Jim Parker took a plowing step forward and fell to the floor. He lay still, with wisps of dust settling around him.

  “Looks like it’s over,” Brad amended. He touched the butt of his gun. “Now don’t get the idea of stomping anybody.”

  Quarles stared at him a long, still moment. Then he went to where his hat lay, picked it up and put it on his head. He walked slowly toward the door.

  “This town ain’t for you,” he said softly.

  Olaf had moved near the doorway. His left hand hung stiffly, but his right was up, cocked. “I let him out?” he asked.

  “The place needs airing,” Brad said. “Let him out.”

  Olaf went to the bar; Quarles stepped through to the street and the doors settled slowly after his passing. A sigh like the rustling of aspen leaves went through the room and the poker players came forward to look after Jim Parker.

  “Beer,” Olaf said hopefully.

  “Two,” Brad said. He knew he had taken the wrong step again. The devilish amusement that came to him when things got tight had got him in more than one set-to. Quarles, perhaps, could see the equality in not being allowed to brain a defenseless man, but he would never forget being ridiculed and forced to walk out without making his stand.

  Abe brought the beer. His eyes were bulging and they looked very curious right now. “You never see a gun?” Brad asked.

  “Not in this town.”

  “With things like Quarles crawling around, you need a gun or two,” Brad told him.

  “Who’s doing this shooting?” a shrill voice demanded suddenly. Brad tasted his beer, sighing in pleasure at the coolness, and looked around at the owner of the voice.

  He saw a small, dried-up man with a weathered face and a squared-off, strutting air about him. Brad’s eyes dropped to the star on the man’s shirt front and then down to the pearl-handled gun on his hip. There was anger on his sharp face.

  “I was,” Brad said. He felt the humor working up inside him at the obvious annoyance of this sheriff.

  “You’re under arrest! No gun toting allowed in the town limits.”

  Olaf stirred, setting down his glass. “He bother you, Brad?”

  Brad cut him off with a quick movement of his hand. It was Abe who spoke up. “He was only stopping a killing, sheriff. I’m glad he had the gun.”

  McFee pushed out his lower lip. “Reasons don’t matter,” he said firmly. “When a man comes into this town, he checks his gun. That’s the law.”

  It could have been funny, Brad thought, only the sheriff was plainly in earnest. He said, “That’s a new law to me.”

  “There’s signs at both ends of town.” The sheriff thrust forth his head, his blue eyes bright and hard.

  “To tell the truth,” Brad drawled deliberately, “I smelled beer so strong I didn’t stop to do any reading. Now, if you want to check this gun — ”

  The sheriff put out a skinny hand. Brad marveled at the simplicity of the man. It would be easy to throw down on him and walk out free. But there was an air of confidence about McFee, as if such a situation would be incomprehensible to him. Obligingly, Brad took out his gun and passed it over. He didn’t like doing it, but the sheriff’s intensity warned him that he would get little help unless he cooperated. And sometime he might need help badly.

  Olaf said again, “He bother you, Brad?”

  Brad looked at Olafs gun. “Give him yours, Olaf,” he said. The sheriff snatched it ungraciously.

  “Now start hiking!” he ordered.

  “Wait a minute, McFee,” Abe protested. “This ain’t no regular case. This man’s a stranger and — ” He broke off, swallowing back his words under the sheriff’s withering glance.

  King around here, Brad thought and, still grinning, he let the sheriff march him and Olaf out to the street and into the small jail building. As he left the saloon he saw three men carrying Jim Parker somewhere to the rear. Once more he had mixed into another man’s business, Brad thought, and once more he had got into trouble for it. Yet he knew he would do it again when the time came. It was too deeply ingrained in him to expect a change.

  “Our horses are in that hot sun, sheriff,” he said.

  “You got money to pay board?”

  “I’ve got money,” Brad said, and realized it was a mistake.

  “They’ll get took care of,” McFee said, and herded them both in front of his desk. He took a seat behind it and laid both guns close to his hand. The room was small, with barely enough ceiling room for Olaf to stand upright. Besides the desk, two chairs and a hat rack made from deerhorns completed the furnishings.

  With complete seriousness McFee banged a homemade gavel on the desk top. “Prisoners charged with wearing guns in defiance of the law. Prisoners guilty. Thirty dollars or fifteen days in jail.”

  Brad’s jaw slacked. “What’s this foolishness?” he demanded sharply. “Thirty dollars!” The humor was leaving him. This was in no way amusing.

  The gavel banged again. “One prisoner charged with shooting a gun inside the town limits. Fifty dollars or thirty days.”

  Brad measured the distance between himself and the guns. But the sheriff’s sharp eyes were watching him and he shifted a hand closer to Brad’s weapon. “I can’t pay that kind of fine,” Brad said.

  “I know he can’t,” McFee said, jerking his head toward Olaf. He got up and motioned toward the rear door of the room. It opened on a hall that gave onto three cells. Both men were put into cell No. 1, and the door clanged behind them. Brad passed a gold half-eagle between t
he bars.

  “Give our horses better treatment,” he said, and turned away.

  The cell was small with two iron cots, one on either side of the room, and a barred window, breast height to Brad, across from the door. Brad chose his bunk and sat down to roll a cigarette. Olaf took the other and began to stuff his foul-smelling pipe.

  The warm silence of late afternoon descended over everything. Brad tried the view from the window. He could see a little to the north, and while he watched, the sheriff led the two horses across the alley back of the jail and into a barn a short distance away. He came out and disappeared. Brad heard a door slam; he judged it to be behind the restaurant. Otherwise there was nothing to look at. A few scattered houses set in groves of balsam poplars and then sage and sand running toward the eastern mountains, blue with misty haze at this time of day.

  He swatted lazily at a fly and turned toward Olaf. He had fallen asleep. Brad went to him and took the pipe out of his mouth, setting it on the floor. Then he crawled into his own cot and shut his eyes.

  It was hard for him to realize the sheriff had not been joking. But when he opened his eyes the sight of the bars was all too real. Brad was glad Olaf’s farm included no stock; he doubted if the sheriff was concerned about anything beyond the scope of his own short-sighted law.

  Brad was brought to his feet by a rattling sound. The door was opening and a loaded tray of food moved into the room. A girl was carrying it. Brad blinked. It was the same girl he had seen that first day in the gap. Olaf awoke at once at the smell of strong coffee.

  There was no more pleasure on the girl’s full mouth or in her gray eyes than there had been before. She set the tray on Brad’s bunk, shut the door, and stood just inside the room, waiting in silence.

  Olaf crossed the room and began to eat heartily. Brad looked steadily at the girl. “In trouble again,” he remarked to her. He added, “Brad Jordan’s the name. It looks like we’ll get acquainted this time.”

  “I’m Faith McFee,” she answered. “The sheriff is my uncle.”

  “Then,” Brad told her, “I won’t say what I intended.” The humor was coming up in him again, stimulated by her obvious disapproval. “Except that now there are two McFees that have no use for me.”

  “I’m not concerned enough to — ” She stopped, and began again hotly, “If you think I approve of this, you’re wrong. I heard what you did, and I tried to talk to my uncle.”

  “Thank you,” Brad said sincerely.

  A flush crept up her cheeks. “Because of Jim Parker,” she said pointedly.

  Brad nodded and turned to his food. He was embarrassed by her standing there, but he ate until he was satisfied, rolled a cigarette, and lifted his coffee. He studied her now and wondered at the seriousness in her. A girl that age, not much over twenty-one he judged her, should have a smile on her face and laughter inside. Especially one so pretty.

  He said, “What’s Quarles got against Parker? Same thing he tried to run Olaf out for?”

  “I don’t know why he tried to run Olaf out,” she said. “But he’s afraid of Jim Parker.”

  “A man that size, with a crew of gunslicks like he has?”

  “Some men have more than strength or guns,” she said. “He’s afraid of Jim Parker’s brains.”

  “He was about to lose those brains,” Brad said. “And I didn’t see anyone interested enough to help.” He was not trying to annoy her. He was looking for information.

  Her lips closed tight again. “I know,” she said. “I said I was sorry you had to go to jail for it.” She unlocked the door and Brad rose, taking the tray to her. She went into the hall, relocked the door, and carried the tray out of sight.

  “She’s sorry,” Brad said dryly. “It’s too bad her uncle hasn’t half her sense.”

  Olaf stood up, stretching. “You want out, Brad?” He walked to the window and put his hands on the bars. Brad could see his huge muscles pulling against his shirt, though he was scarcely using his left arm. Bits of dust and splinters of wood stirred where the bars were set into the heavy sill.

  Brad said hurriedly, “Not now, Olaf. But it’s a good thing to know.”

  Olaf nodded and went back to his bunk, satisfied. Brad rolled another cigarette and lay back, wondering at the outcome of this. He was a thoughtful, dogged man, despite the carefree exterior he tried to display to the world. His desires were strong and stubborn, and ever since he could remember, the greatest was for land and a home of his own. His dreams centered around the sight of his own graze fattening his own stock. To him this meant the security he had never known as a boy or man. Land and a house and a woman to share the good things with him.

  It was dark outside when footsteps came down the corridor again. McFee appeared, carrying a small oil lamp. He passed it through the bars to Brad.

  “What’d you come here for?” he demanded suddenly.

  This, Brad decided, was no place to find the answer to his question. “It’s a nice country,” he said. “A good place for a man to settle.”

  McFee grunted and strode away. Brad shrugged and lay down again. After a few minutes he could hear voices coming from the office, and one sounded like a woman’s. He wondered if Faith McFee were arguing again with her uncle. The voices ceased after a while and the sheriff walked back to the cell door again.

  “You want work?”

  “I’m a top-hand,” Brad said without conceit. “But how does a man with a jail record get hired?”

  “Half the men in this valley’s been inside here. It took some a while to get used to the law.” McFee’s voice became clipped. “I’ll have none of their shooting. They can keep their wars out of town.”

  “Ah,” Brad said, and the old familiar pattern formed for him again, “range fights?”

  The sheriff held out a hand and slowly squeezed the fingers together. “About done now,” he said, and let his hand fall open loosely.

  Brad said shrewdly, “This Quarles looks like a man who wants everything.”

  “He wants the valley.”

  “And the town?”

  “He keeps his peace in my town!”

  “Like today,” Brad said.

  McFee glared coldly at him, turned and tramped away. Brad shrugged. “I must have ruffled him up,” he said to Olaf.

  “You talk good,” Olaf said admiringly.

  “Not good enough,” Brad answered. Rising, he blew out the lamp and returned to the bunk.

  The air was beginning to cool off, and outside he could hear the night sounds. Crickets chirped awhile and then retired. A few raucous shouts from the direction of the Sawhorse Saloon rose and ceased abruptly. Somewhere at the edge of Brad’s view a house lamp was lighted. Hoofbeats made an insistent sound on the road and then stopped. Before he fell asleep, he could see the first rays of a nearly full moon spreading out over the tops of the mountains.

  It was fairly high when he came awake again, the full light of it coming through the window and falling across his cot. At first he thought it was the moon that had wakened him. Then he realized that someone was outside the window. As the person shifted position slightly, moonlight glinted on the barrel of a gun that was thrust through the bars.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS THE sound of metal striking metal that awoke him. The man outside was tapping the gun barrel gently against the bars.

  “In there. You in there, Jordan.”

  So his name had got about already, Brad thought. Through McFee, he supposed. He answered cautiously, “Go on talking.”

  The voice was one that Brad did not recognize. It was thick, as if the owner were trying to disguise it. “I like the way you shoot,” the man outside said.

  “And what I shoot at?” Brad countered. He lay still, unable to move without attracting attention, and knowing that he was an excellent target from the window. Besides, he wanted to see where the other was taking this talk.

  There was a brief, hard laugh. “I come to talk business. You want a job?”

 
Brad’s mind worked swiftly. There was something wrong here. Although he did not remember Jim Parker’s voice well, he felt sure this was not Parker. If it had been, he would have given his name, and certainly he wouldn’t have to slip up here in the night On the other hand, a man with the capacity for hatred Ike Quarles had shown was not the kind to turn benevolent and send a man to him with an offer for work. He decided to carry this on awhile longer to see what he could learn.

  “I might be,” Brad answered.

  The man’s voice dropped even lower. “There’s gunhand wages for a good man. Hundred and found.”

  This again was the old story to Brad. He had taken a gunhand job once in Colorado. And though he had sympathized with the man who hired him, it had not given him any liking for the work. Killing was a hard thing to stomach, though at times he knew there was no other way. A certain kind of snake understood but one law — a bullet in the brisket.

  “I wasn’t thinking of that kind of work,” he said carefully.

  There was a moment’s pause. Then: “A man that makes as fine a target as you do right now ain’t got much choice, Jordan.”

  On the other side of the room Olaf had stopped snoring. Brad could hear the soft sounds of his feet touching the floor. Olaf was in complete darkness and, to cover the noises he made, Brad spoke louder.

  “That’s blunt enough for any man,” he admitted. “And it don’t leave much choice.” His voice stopped as he made out Olaf’s bulk beneath the window. He said suddenly, “But if you tried to shoot me, it — ”

  A surprised howl of pain rose and Brad broke off talking. Olaf made a grunting sound. Moonlight fell on his hand, showing it wrapped around the gunman’s wrist. Olaf gave a hard jerk and dragged an arm through the bars until a shoulder stopped it. The gun clattered to the floor of the cell. Outside saddle leather creaked as the man shifted weight in agony.

  Brad laughed softly. “Now let’s talk business.” He got off the cot and came nearer the window. The sill was only breast-high to him and he could see out quite easily. Olaf now had both hands on the man’s arm and was applying a steady pressure that threatened to break a bone over the edge of the sill.