The Two-Shoot Gun

by Donald Hamilton

  "What's this?" she asked, looking at a little metal trapdoor set into the butt of the shotgun.

  "That's for carrying a small cleaning outfit," he said, "or a couple of spare shells."

  He watched her pry it open. Too late, he remembered, and reached quickly for the gun; but she was already reading aloud the inscription engraved on the smooth inside surface of the little round door.

  " 'To Alex,' " she read, " 'from his loving wife, Leonie.' " She looked up. "So you're married, Mr. Burdick?" "No," he said, taking back the gun. He had himself under strict control; his voice was level. "Not now."

  "Oh," Laura said, "your wife is dead? I'm very sorry; I didn't mean to—"

  He said, with a sudden harshness he could not help: "Miss Nelson, it was my understanding that out here on the frontier people minded their own business; but I must say I've seen few signs of it so far!"

  Her head came up sharply. Not looking at her, he shoved the two shells home and snapped the gun closed, aware of her eyes studying him, with some anger to be sure, but also with a kind of half-fearful speculation ....

  10

  Tom Justice left his horse at the rail before the Palace Saloon on the plaza. The town boasted other saloons and cantinas, not to mention several houses featuring entertainment of a more private nature—as he was well aware —but these were all more discreetly located. The Palace and the hotel were the two places where a man could get a drink in moderately respectable surroundings, and of the two, the Palace had an atmosphere more congenial to customers from Flying V.

  It was not, Tom told himself, that he was afraid of that old biddy, Betterson; but the look on her face whenever she saw him in her place was enough to curdle his whisky like milk; and he was not in a mood to harass her this afternoon. He had other things on his mind.

  In the Palace, he tossed off his drink, and set his hat more firmly on his head, checking in the bar mirror to insure that it was at the proper rakish angle on his red hair. He hitched up his trousers and settled the shortbarreled, ivory-handled pistol in front of his left hip, and strode across the plaza to Flack's store, in front of which the ranch buckboard already stood, awaiting supplies. Old George Flack, his bald head shining in the gloom of his store, was making up the order that had been given to him by Whitey, the Flying V cook. In the corner, Henry Flack, the son, was busily arranging a display of tomato cans, his back to the room.

  "How are you coming, Whitey?" Tom asked.

  "All right, Mr. Tom," said the cook, who was black as midnight. "We'll be ready soon."

  "Well, head on back to the ranch when you get it loaded," Tom said. "I'll stick around town for a while." He had a sudden thought, and turned his head quickly. "Henry," he said loudly, "you can start carrying this stuff out to the wagon."

  There was a slight pause in the movements of the heavyset young man in the corner, but he continued to stack the cans as if unaware that he had been addressed.

  Tom Justice took a step in that direction, letting his hand swing close to his gun. "I'm talking to you!" he said sharply. Then he laughed. "Hey, Whitey, maybe we should take our trade down the street. Looks like they don't pay much attention to their customers here."

  Old Mr. Flack came around the counter hastily, drying his hands needlessly on his apron, as was his habit in times of stress.

  ' 'Henry!" he said sharply. "Henry, you heard Mr. Justice! Come help load this order into the wagon."

  The younger man hesitated, turned reluctantly, and came across the store—a big, soft, lardfaced lout, like a steer ready for market, Tom Justice thought contemptuously. "Henry," he said, as the other passed him.

  Henry Flack stopped, but did not look at him.

  Tom said, "I hear you're getting married, Henry. Congratulations."

  After a moment, Henry Flack turned deliberately to face him. "You leave us alone," he said. "I know all about you. Just leave us alone, you hear?"

  "Henry!" his father called fearfully. "Henry, take these things out to the wagon right away."

  "I'm telling you," Henry Flack said heavily. "Just leave us alone."

  Tom looked at him, laughed, turned on his heel, and walked out of the store. As he crossed 'the plaza toward his horse, he heard the sound of a group of riders coming into town: that would be Mort arriving for his own obscure purposes. Tom had nothing to say to Jack Mort who, old and slow and careful, if not actually afraid, made it quite clear, Tom considered, that he was jealous of a younger man's courage and skill with a gun.

  There was hurt in the thought for Tom Justice. For years he had patterned himself after two men: his father and the Flying V foreman. It had been difficult to reconcile these two ideals—Dan Justice, impulsive, quick to anger, who considered a pistol just another tool like a shovel or an ax; and the deliberate and impassive Jack Mort who had for his snubnosed weapon the strong feeling of a musician for his instrument; it was practically the only emotion he ever betrayed.

  To watch Jack Mort put to flight by a greenhorn with a shotgun had been, for Tom Justice, like watching the moon fall out of the night sky; and the foreman's subsequent words and actions had completed his disillusionment. It was clear enough, Tom thought, why Jack no longer wanted him around: the ageing foreman could not bear to be reminded that the boy he had taught to shoot, grown to man size now, had been a witness to his disgrace.

  Tom Justice shook his head sadly, mounted, and rode off, raising his hand to the Flying V riders as he passed them. Presently he reached the residential part of the town, and came to a halt before a heavy carved door in a thick, six-foot adobe wall fronting on the street. He swung out of the saddle, tied the horse, lifted his hat and set it more firmly on his head, and pulled at the loop of cord dangling beside the door. A bell jangled inside. Presently he heard the footsteps of a girl or woman cross the courtyard. He had time for a feeling of expectation, before the door opened to reveal, disappointingly, the tall figure of Laura Nelson, in whom he had no interest whatsoever.

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  "I could ask the same of you," he retorted.

  "I'm helping Carol with her dress. She doesn't want to see you."

  "I'll take her word for that, but not yours."

  "She's told you once and for all—"

  "Let her tell me again," Tom said, brushing Laura aside and stepping into the courtyard. "Carol," he called.

  He started across the space of flagstones toward the house, but stopped, hearing a girl's voice: "Laura. Laura, if it's Henry, don't let him in. He's not supposed to see—"

  "It's not Henry," Tom said.

  There was a little silence; then, suddenly, she was in the doorway, in her white wedding dress, a small, dark girl with big dark eyes that seemed bigger and darker than he remembered. For a moment, the illusion was complete, and he thought that he had never seen anything so pretty; then she moved in a slightly embarrassed way, and he became aware of the pins and the basting threads and the raw edges where the white satin had not yet been properly hemmed. Carol Wellesley drew herself up and came forward with dignity.

  She spoke to Laura. "It's all right," she said quietly.

  The taller girl looked disapproving, hesitated, and walked quickly into the house. Tom waited until she had gone out of sight before he spoke. "Carol—"

  She said, "It's no use, Tom. You shouldn't have come." He tried to tell himself that she cut a ridiculous figure, standing there in her unfinished wedding gown, like a dressmaker's dummy; but there was a frightening, smarting feeling behind his eyes, and his voice did not sound the way he wanted it to, and the words he spoke were entirely unplanned: "Ah, Carol, will you give a man only one chance?"

  "One chance, Tom?" she said, and her voice was breathless. "Why, you've had years of chances! So many years, while I waited for—"

  "For what?" he demanded when she hesitated. "For me to become like Henry Flack?"

  "Henry's a good man," she said stiffly.

  "He may be good, I won't argue that, but ques
tion whether you can call him a man."

  "He doesn't swagger around with a pistol in his belt to impress people with how big and dangerous he is! He's never killed anybody in a drunken brawl. He doesn't doesn't consort with ..."

  "Consort!" he said angrily. "That's a fine word! bet you got it from your parents. Or from Henry, it's just the kind of word he'd use: consort! Just because I got a little drunk one night and ..." He saw the danger signals in her face, and said quickly, "Carol! It was only the once, and I'd had too much to drink. It won't happen again, if There was an odd lump in his throat that had not been there since he was a small boy. He swallowed hard and forced himself to say humbly, "Carol, I'm asking for your forgiveness."

  There was a little pause. He saw that her eyes were wet, and he had a moment of hope; then she shook her head quickly. "It's too late." Her voice was a whisper. "I can't ... I couldn't ... Henry ... my parents ..." Then she drew herself up again firmly, in the quick and determined way she had when her mind was made up. "It's too late, Tom. It never was right anyway, my dear. It's not a question of forgiveness. Could I respect a husband I had to forgive twice a month? Could you respect a wife who overlooked e" She gave an odd little laugh that was half a sob. "Why, even now you're lying to me, my dear. If A believed you, or even pretended to believe you, you'd, have nothing but contempt for me. It was not just the once, Tom. We both know that."

  He flushed. "I said it won't happen again."

  "But it will," she breathed. "You know it will. Until you grow up and stop trying. to prove something with your guns. and your ... your women, it will keep right on happening—and I can't wait that long, Tom, because the time may never come. I'm marrying Henry next week. Please don't come here again."

  He looked at her for a moment longer; and he heard himself say in a choked voice, "All right. All right! But you'll be sorry!"

  It was the cry of a disappointed and angry little boy; and he could not believe that he had made it. He turned and plunged blindly out of the courtyard, slamming the heavy door behind him. He stumbled to his horse, but there was a woman walking along the far side of the street, and he knew that he had no control over his expression, so he busied himself with the cinch, which needed no adjustment—but the pretense let him press his forehead against the animal's side, hiding his face.

  Presently, he straightened up and blew his nose, and started to mount, but checked himself as the courtyard door-opened and Laura Nelson came out. She turned back to pull the door closed, and paused to tie her bonnet into place. The lift of her arms called his attention to the fact, which he had never noticed before, that she was really not unattractive, if you disregarded her plain clothes and severe manner. Even her face wasn't actually painful to look at. And she was, after all, Carol's friend; and there was in him suddenly the need to strike back somehow for the way he had been hurt....

  As she turned and saw him, he swept off his hat with a flourish. "It's a pleasant day," he said. "May I accompany you a little way?"

  She looked startled; then she said curtly, "The street is free."

  He freed the reins and walked beside her, leading the horse. "I didn't know you counted dressmaking among your accomplishments."

  Laura said, "I don't know what you're after, Tom Justice; but if you want me to intercede for you with Carol; you're wasting your time. She's a great deal better off without you, is my opinion."

  Tom said, "You hate us, don't you, Laura?"

  She glanced at him coldly. "Yes," she said. "I hate you. All of you. I have good reason."

  "I know," he said. "And I'm sorry. I've always regretted . . . I had no part in what happened to your father. You know that. Is it fair to blame a whole family for the actions of one or two members?"

  She stopped in the sunlight to look at him. There was, for a moment, in her eyes, a look he did not understand, that made him feel young, and a little foolish, and even a little frightened: it was as if she were looking deep into him, seeing everything and finding very little to see. Then she laughed quickly, and started walking again, no longer keeping such a large distance between them.

  "Why," she said, "perhaps not. Perhaps I have been a little unfair ..."

  11

  By the middle of the afternoon, Burdick felt that he had the work well under way. The boards were coming off the windows, the roof was being repaired, and the well was being fitted with a new pump. Inside the building, two plump, cheerful, and dusky ladies who spoke no word of English were sweeping and scrubbing; outside, two others were covering the exposed adobe bricks with fresh mud plaster. He had been surprised at this, but one of the workmen had assured him that plastering was a favorite occupation of the women. "They like it," he had been told. "The mud is very good for the hands. Makes soft and fine, si?"

  He had the living quarters cleaned first; then he walked down to Romero's, hitched up the mules, and drove the wagon around in back of the gallery. The men knocked off work for ten minutes to help him unload, putting the photographic equipment in the spare bedroom for the time being, since the operating room was not yet weatherproof. He drove back to the feed barn, left team and wagon in Romero's care, and walked through the brilliant sunshine to the hotel, where he retrieved the rest of his belongings and paid his bill. Carrying his carpetbag and the Purdey shotgun, he strolled back around the plaza, toward the gallery, hearing the church bells announce the hour of three.

  It was, he thought, a pleasant town; and the large Spanish speaking population gave it, as far as an easterner was concerned, a slightly foreign and picturesque air. Except for the heat it was about as different as a place could be from Washington, D. C., where he had previously been in business; and even the heat had a different quality. It lacked the oppressive dampness of the Potomac swamps that led every sensible resident who had the means to desert the nation's capital for Maryland or Virginia, or points even more distant, with the onset of summer.

  As he walked, Burdick found himself recalling his grim, early summers in the city, with few customers and the darkroom almost uninhabitable—the dizzying smell of the ethercollodion mixtures of those wetplate days came back to him clearly. He remembered, also, the miraculous last few years when, suddenly finding himself an established and fashionable photographer, he had been free to spend the hot months in the country. Even in the fall, after their marriage, they would occasionally flee from city and business like guilty children avoiding school, to ride and shoot on the plantations of friends of her family....

  It seemed like another life, lived by someone else. He dismissed it from his mind and, finding himself passing the open doorway of a general store, turned in. A bald man in a white apron saw him enter, and came quickly forward to meet him. A younger man at the rear of the store turned slowly to look at him.

  "I'd like some coffee," Burdick said. "And some bacon—"

  "We don't have any," the older man said flatly.

  Burdick looked at him in surprise, and glanced around the store. "But—"

  "We don't have any," the man repeated. He was a plump and shapeless figure, with. wispy gray mustache and steelrimmed spectacles. His courage seemed to evaporate under Burdick's careful scrutiny. He dried his hands nervously on his apron, and said, "I'm George Flack, Mr. Burdick, and this is my store. I can assure you we have nothing for you here. Why don't you try Montoya, around the corner?" He hesitated. "Flying V is our best customer, Mr. Burdick. You understand a man's got to know on which side his bread is buttered. No offense, sir, I hope."

  It was no longer a surprise to Burdick when someone in this town knew his name. He regarded George Flack for a moment longer. "I see," he said at last. "May I ask if you have orders, or if you're simply reading Mr. Justice's mind from a distance?"

  The bald man shook his head quickly. "Please, Mr. Burdick, I'm a peaceful man and I want no trouble. Please, there's nothing you want in this store, I assure you!"

  Burdick felt a sudden anger; and his hand tightened on the shotgun. He had a strong impulse to force the m
an to serve him. It would be easy enough to do. Yet the fear on George Flack's fat, mustached face was a shameful and indecent thing. Only once before in his life had he brought that kind of fear to a human face. The bald man's expression reminded Burdick of that other time; and he wheeled abruptly and started out of the store.

  "Mr. Burdick."

  He looked back over his shoulder. It was the younger man who had spoken, and who now came forward and placed a bag of coffee on the counter. "You wanted coffee and bacon—"

  The older man said shrilly, "Henry Flack, you get back there."

  "Father, be quiet," the younger man said. "We've spent enough time on our knees, here in Santa Clara.... I'll get your bacon, sir," he said to Burdick. "Was there anything else?"

  The work was still proceeding rapidly when Burdick returned to the gallery. This was contrary to his expectations, since he had come out here with the idea that workmen of LatinAmerican origin would fall asleep the minute he turned his back on them—certainly this was the reputation they bore back east. But, like many of his preconceived notions about this country, it seemed to be quite false. Everyone was hard at work when he walked up. He put away his purchases in the kitchen, and strolled around the building to see what was being accomplished. One of the women addressed him in Spanish and laughed when he did not understand her. Her round, brown face, shining in the strong afternoon sunlight, intrigued him professionally, and he went quickly inside.

  It took him a while, in the disorganized state of his equipment, to prepare a camera and tripod, and find and load a plateholder. Then he hurried outside, only to find that the woman would not allow herself to be photographed. At first he thought her reluctance was due to superstitious fear of the camera and tried to' reassure her; but presently one of the workmen approached diffidently, and explained that if the señior would only permit her to go home and change into suitable garments Josefa would gladly pose before the senor's instrument, but she did not consider it proper to have her image preserved wearing such old clothes.