The Two-Shoot Gun

by Donald Hamilton

  Burdick moved past her and started across the operating room, but checked himself and went back for the shot gun. There should be no danger from señioritas, if he had caught the word correctly, but in this country it seemed best to take nothing for granted. When he entered the ante room, Janet Justice was standing near the front door, still in riding costume. Beside her was a small, dark girl Burdick did not know. This girl held a traveling bag in her hand.

  Burdick closed the door behind him and looked at Janet Justice. Her expression was not easy to read, but he could not persuade himself that she was looking on him with any great favor, which made her presence difficult to under stand. A hint of bulk under her left sleeve showed the lo cation of the bandaged wound. Apparently it was not serious enough to require that she carry her arm in a sling.

  "What can I do for you, Miss Justice?" he asked politely.

  She said calmly, "I was under the impression that this was a photographic gallery, although"—her glance touched the shotgun—"it looks more like a shooting gallery at the moment."

  Burdick leaned the weapon against the wall near by. He made no other response, waiting for her to go on.

  She said, "My friend is to be married shortly. She wants to be photographed in her wedding dress... , Carol, this is Mr. Burdick, the photographer. Mr. Burdick, Miss Wellesley."

  Burdick bowed to the smaller girl. "It's a pleasure, Miss Wellesley, but I'm afraid my place is not quite ready for business. If you'd give me a couple of days ..."

  Janet Justice said, "There isn't time for that. Come, Mr.' Burdick; are you really a photographer, as you claim, or is it just a disguise, as some people believe? Surely you can make some arrangement. Carol's father is the local bank er—"

  "I've met Mr. Wellesley."

  "Then if you're any kind of businessman you'll realize that this is a fine opportunity for you to demonstrate the quality of your work to the best families of Santa Clara. Why, it could be the making of your gallery, Mr. Bur— He looked at her until her glance dropped and a little color came into her cheeks; then he grinned and said dryly, "I certainly appreciate your concern... Very well. Miss Wellesley, if you'll come this way, please. I'll set up the apparatus and load some holders while you're changing your clothes."

  Half an hour later, he saw them to the front door. Janet Justice hesitated, and said, "Why don't you go on home, Carol? If Dad comes by, tell him I'll be along in a min The small girl looked at her quickly, and glanced toward Burdick. "But, Janet—"

  Janet said, a little sharply, "I'll be all right, Carol, Please!"

  Carol Wellesley hesitated; then she turned quickly and went out, carrying her little bag. Janet Justice pulled the door closed; and turned to look at Burdick. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler than it had been.

  "Well, Mr. Burdick, what are you thinking?"

  "That you'd better sit down," Burdick said. "That arm is paining you a bit, isn't it?"

  "Yes," she said, "a little, though it was only a graze. Poor Hankey, he tried to act so tough..." She checked herself, and walked to the sofa and seated herself in the exact center of it, a little warily. "I'm interested in seeing the pictures," she said. "When will they be ready?"

  "Tomorrow," Burdick said.

  "So soon?"

  "I have no other work to occupy my time yet, except for overseeing the repairs to the place. Of course," he said, "I may not be here tomorrow, if your father holds to his ultimatum."

  She did not respond to this, but said, "I know what you were thinking just, now, with that odd expression on your face. You were thinking of a time I came here before, seven years ago, when Laura Nelson's father had this place."

  He said, "The thought did cross my mind."

  "You wondered, perhaps, if I was considering playing some trick on you... Well, I'm not, Mr. Burdick. And as for what, happened here, please remember that you've heard only one side of the story. Laura told you all about it, I suppose."

  "Yes."

  "Did she mention that she wasn't actually here on the day in question, so that it's possible she doesn't know all the details?"

  "Yes," Burdick said. "She made that clear."

  "I made a terrible mistake, Mr. Burdick," the girl said. "I was very young and I lost my head, when ... Please believe that Dad didn't act as capriciously and tyrannically as is commonly thought. He had what he considered ample cause... The fault was largely mine. I don't want you to hold it against my family. Dad isn't a cruel monster thirsting for blood, in spite of what you may have heard. He's a ... a hot-tempered man who has built something great and fine in this valley and sees it in danger of being broken by small, lying, jealous individuals ... Ah I'm showing my prejudice, aren't I, and undermining my own argument?" She rose abruptly to face him. "I came here to find out something about you, Mr. Burdick. But you guessed that, I suppose."

  "Yes."

  "The suggestion has been made that you're a hired gun man masquerading as a photographer."

  "I've heard the theory," Burdick admitted.

  "It's not true," she said. "I know that now, even with out seeing your pictures of Carol. She was a very uncooperative subject, wasn't she?" Janet smiled. "You see, she's in love with my brother Tom, and you beat him up."

  Burdick said, "I wondered. But she's marrying young Flack, I've been told."

  "Carol thinks she's being sensible. She thinks Tom would make her miserable, and she's probably right. Personally, I'd rather marry a man who made me miserable, whom I loved, than a dull ..." She checked herself, flushing, and went on quickly, in a different tone: "In spite of her antagonism, you managed her beautifully, Mr. Bur dick. It's clear to me that you've posed uncooperative women before, as well as handled a camera. I've no doubt that you're a photographer, perhaps quite accidentally mixed up in our affairs. That's why I'm telling you that you shouldn't judge my father by what you think happened here seven years ago. Please don't add to his troubles by joining his enemies."

  Burdick said, "He doesn't leave me much choice, Miss Justice."

  She said, "He spoke in anger. I can't make him retract his ultimatum; as I' say, he's a hot-tempered man and a stubborn one, If I ask him to retract his words, I'll only force him to take action instead. But I think I can keep him from moving against you—he has many other thing on his mind—and in time perhaps I can make him see that he's made a mistake. Is that enough for you, Mr. Burdick, or are you the kind who must have a public apology?"

  Burdick shook his head. "I'm satisfied just to be left alone here. But I won't promise to turn the other cheek if your dad comes looking for trouble—and that goes for your brother, too. It's a habit of which I've broken myself, I hope permanently."

  "I know " she said, looking at him steadily. "You're a man who was one thing and who's trying to make himself into something else, aren't you, Mr. Burdick?"

  "Yes," he said.

  She asked, "What were you, that you no longer want to be?"

  "A fool," he said.

  "Perhaps," she said. "'I'm not so sure. And what made you change?" He did not speak, and she said? "It was a woman, wasn't it?"

  Burdick smiled briefly. "It usually is, isn't it? At least so women like to think."

  "Your wife?" she asked. He looked at her sharply, and she said, "Yesterday you mentioned a father-in-law. If you had a father-in-law, you presumably had a wife."

  "Yes," he said, "I had one."

  "What did she do to you?"

  He shrugged. "It's a fairly common and sordid little story, Miss Justice. I was out hunting, and one of the dogs cut its foot, so I had to come home early—not home, but the place we were staying in the country with some of her friends, people she had known "before we were married. She knew a great many people. There was one man in particular ..." Burdick shrugged his shoulders. "I took care of the pup, and went into the house, still carrying the gun, and found them together...

  Janet's face was pale. She glanced at the shotgun leaning against the wall. "I see," she whispered. "So y
ou shot them."

  "No," he said. "I did not shoot. That was my mistake. I won't make it again."

  19

  Burdick turned sharply and walked to the window that looked out upon the glaring, dusty street beyond which he could catch glimpses of a landscape very far removed, both visually and geographically, from the green Virginia countryside through which he had hunted on that bright fall morning not so long ago. The drab adobe houses in his field of vision bore little relationship to the white frame mansion, still impressive although a little shabby in those postwar days, into which he had come striding happily, gun in hand, with a trust and innocence that still made him cringe when he thought of it.

  "If I'd had time to think," he said, "I would have fired. But I'd had no warning, no suspicions. And I'd been brought up never to point a gun at a human being; when I found myself standing there aiming the piece directly at .... Instinct and training made me swing it aside; and then it was too late."

  The girl's voice reached him softly. "You regret that? I should think you'd thank God—" She did not complete the sentence.

  He wheeled to look at her, and spoke in a bleak voice, "'I said, 'I beg your pardon,' and walked out, leaving them there together. I heard her begin to laugh as I went down the stairs."

  "Oh."

  "Later, I had an interview with her father. He's a very influential man, as I have mentioned. He took for granted that I'd cooperate in any way they wanted me to. The marriage had been a mistake, of course, he said; fortunately there were no children, and he thought that, by pulling various strings, he could have the whole transaction legally obliterated, annulled, as if it had never happened. He did not conceal the fact that he was quite relieved to be getting rid of me. He'd never been comfortable having an artist, and a mere camera artist at that, in the family. He approved of the other man's background, if not of his behavior. Leone married the fellow shortly afterward, I understand. The Senator laid papers on the desk and pointed out the places for me to sign. It never occurred to him that I might refuse, and of course, I didn't. I was cooperative and helpful. I had made the original mistake, and there was nothing to do but go through with it. But I swore to myself that the next time I had a trigger to pull, I would pull it."

  The girl studied him gravely. "Like a wounded bear," she murmured, "smashing the first living thing to come within reach?"

  "Which," Burdick retorted, "is most likely to be the hunter who caused the injury, It may do no good, but I'm sure it makes the bear feel a great deal better." He grinned wryly. "Don't try to be logical with me, Miss Justice. What I did was very logical, Very civilized. No blood was shed. My former wife is happy, I presume, with the man of her choice—if she can be happy with any one man for long. I have no deaths on my conscience. Yet the fact is that there are some things one cannot allow to be done to, oneself, civilization or no civilization, without resistance or retaliation of some kind—not without losing part of one's man hood; not without feeling ashamed and incomplete for the rest of one's life."

  He wondered a little at himself, speaking like this to a girl he barely knew, Yet it had to come out; he had lived 'with it long enough—and it was the sort of thing one, could only confide to a sympathetic stranger. If he had known her better, he would not have spoken.

  She said, "Things happen to people. They can't always strike back."

  "That's just the point," he said. "I could have, and I didn't." He hesitated. "My apologies, Miss Justice. I as sure you I don't make a habit of inflicting my private affairs on my customers."

  She laughed and held out her hand. "It's been a plea sure talking with you under...under more peaceful circumstances, Mr. Burdick. You're much nicer when you don't have that shotgun in your hands."

  He walked with her to the door, and closed it behind her; and stood for a moment in thought, frowning. In some way, by her visit, the girl had complicated what had seemed like a fairly simple situation: she had put some doubts into his mind, which had obviously been her intention...

  He shook his head, and started for the operating-room door, but stopped short as he caught a glimpse of the window and the street outside from the corner of his eyes. He turned slowly to look. Framed in the window, the narrow shape of Jack Mort was coming along the street outside with an easy and deliberate stride. Then the hatchet faced man walked out of Burdick's field of vision. Burdick drew a longbreath, and reached for the shotgun leaning against the wall. He waited for a knock at the gallery's front door, but it did not come. He squared his shoulders and walked to the door. If there was something between them that Mort felt had to be settled, it might as well be settled now, He opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine.

  The street was empty, too empty. Not only was there no sign of Mort, there were no children, women, or casual riders in sight. The only living figure was Deckerhoff, the gunsmith, leaning in the doorway of his shop. Burdick walked over to the big man.

  Deckerhoff said softly, "Yes, he looks for you, Mr. Bur dick. When he speaks your name, shoot. He is an old gun fighter, and therefore a little mad. You cannot talk to him. If you try it, you will die."

  Burdick nodded. His mouth was dry as he stepped into the street and walked in the direction he had seen Mort take. He walked slowly, placing his feet carefully, looking at nothing directly, the way a man walks when he expects to flush birds without knowing where the covey will rise. He was aware that his boots were striking up little spurts of dust as he walked, and that the sun, directly overhead, was hot on his head and shoulders. The doublebarreled shotgun felt light and perfectly familiar in his grasp—the two-shoot gun as Lou Grace had called it. He had not heard the picturesque term before...

  "Burdick!"

  The voice came from behind him; and he knew instinctively what had happened. Mort, having walked up the street to draw his attention, had slipped through an alley and circled back, not too proud, apparently, to give him self the advantage of surprise. Burdick completed his step, as if he had not heard the voice: The turn was the important thing now; and no man could shoot straight with one foot in the air.... Even as he thought this, his right foot found solid ground, and he was swinging to the left, pivoting on the balls of both feet. It was a shot that he had made many times on flying game, but he made the decision not to throw the gun to his shoulder for the first bar rel. It would take a fraction of a second longer, and he probably did not have that much time.

  He pivoted with the shotgun held firmly at waist height, and fired as the lean figure of Jack Mort came into fired, and knew that he had lost his gamble, The snap shot was off by a significant amount. He should have taken the extra time to shoot from the shoulder. Mort's pistol was rising. . . . Burdick found himself waiting for the bullet. But the hatchet-faced man did not shoot, He seemed to be having trouble gripping his weapon properly. He tossed the piece into the air with a curious juggling motion, and caught it lefthanded, even as Burdick threw the shotgun into proper firing position and touched off the second bar rel.

  The crash of the shot was very loud. He felt the sharp recoil against cheek and shoulder. He made no move to reload. There was either no time for it at all, or all the time in the world. He stood braced, with the Purdey still at his shoulder, looking down the empty weapon, through the drifting Smoke, at the narrow figure some thirty yards away.

  Jack Mort Was trying to lift his still unfired revolver, lefthanded. It was almost level, but he could not seem to bring it up the additional few degrees. Presently he dropped the weapon in the dust, and went to his knees be side it. Then he fell face down in the street.

  Burdick lowered the shotgun and reloaded mechanically, without taking his eyes from the figure on the ground. He walked forward slowly until he could kick the pistol beyond the fallen man's reach. He knelt beside Mort, and turned him on his back. "Why?" he asked.

  Mort's shirt was drenched with blood. He seemed to have taken most of the load of buckshot through the chest. He opened his eyes.

  "Man likes to know," he whis
pered.

  "Know what?" "If another man is ... good enough. I'd have tried you before, but the boy was always there . . . my job to keep him safe." Mort's breathing was slow and harsh. "I'm sorry for you, my friend. What you’re looking for, you'll never find. Dead men have no answers..."

  The harsh breathing stopped. Mort's eyes continued to look up at Burdick, without vision. Burdick glanced aside, as the big shape of Deckerhoff bent down and lifted the dead man's right hand. A single, stray pellet of buckshot from Burdick's first wild shot had entered the soft flesh be tween thumb and forefinger and smashed through into the bones of the wrist. It was this, forcing Mort to shift the gun to his left hand, that had given Burdick his chance.

  "Luck," said the gunsmith, "is something one cannot build into a gun, or a man. But it helps, Mr. Burdick, it helps."

  20

  Janet Justice said, "l just wanted to find out what he was like, Carol. Everybody's been making a great mystery of the man, and I don't like mysteries. Besides, we've got more enemies than we need; I thought if I could talk to him... Where's Sally?"

  "She went over to Romero's corral to look at a horse," Carol Wellesley said. "Isn't it about time the child stopped looking at horses and guns and started looking at boys? And your dad's not back from the bank yet; he'll probably come home with Father and stay for lunch. Come in a tell me about your tame tenderfoot while you wait."

  "Heavens," Janet said, following the smaller girl into the cool and shadowy house, "don't give him to me! I have troubles enough without being presented with a grim easterner with a chip on his shoulder. . . Although I must say he seemed like a more reasonable human being than I expected. And he's certainly a better photographer than poor old Mr. Nelson, if the samples on the wall are any indication."