by Max Brand
Notched Gun
The kid rested his elbows upon the edge of the table.
“You wouldn’t object if I was to stretch my arms—so long as I stretched ’em up?” he asked.
“Leave ’em be. Leave ’em still. We know you, Kid. It ain’t where your hands are that counts. It’s the way that you can move ’em. Watch him now!”
“Heck! Ain’t I watchin’ till my eyes ache?” said the other. “Go up and fan him for his armory. I’ll keep him covered.”
Old Dad Trainor had recovered from his stupor and had risen again.
“What’s the meanin’ of this, boys?” he demanded.
“Why,” said the Kid, “it’s just two old friends of mine dropped in for a little call. It’s Sam Deacon and Lefty Morgan. How’s everything, Deacon?”
“Right now,” said Deacon, “it’s pretty good. I reckon I can tell how good things is with you, though.”
“You, Morgan and Deacon,” said Dad Trainor. “What kind of jamboree d’you reckon that this here is, anyway? You ain’t gunna do nothin’ to the Kid, in my house!”
“Ain’t we?” asked Morgan.
He had come well into the dull circle of the light, showing a death’s-head, all bones, scantly covered with a tight-drawn parchment skin. His teeth were so prominent that the pale lips constantly grinned back from them, and they flashed brightly in even that dull illumination.
“Watch that old fool,” said Morgan.
“You handle the Kid, then,” said Deacon.
He had cone up to his partner’s shoulder, a great contrast to the other. He was one of those little, heavy-shouldered men with legs so bowed that they waddled like ducks in walking. He looked like a sailor. There was something free-swinging, frank, and easy about his hearing, and about his face.
“Here, Bud,” said the other, “ain’t you gunna keep the old man in hand?”
“Yeah,” said Bud, rising in turn, “I’m gunna keep him in hand, all right.”
He turned a grim face upon his father.
“You set down and don’t make no fool or yourself, no more,” said he.
Old Dad looked as though be had been struck with a heavy fist.
“You ain’t with ’em, Bud,” said he. “You can’t be with ’em, ain’ the Kid—ain’ any guest right in our own house. There ain’t no Trainor so dog-gone low as all of that! Bud, Bud, look me in the eye and tell me that I got the wrong steer about you, just now!”
“Aw, shut up and set down,” commanded the big son. “Use your eyes. You ain’t a hoss that’s gotta keep neighin’ till you’ve lost your wind—the way the Kid was sayin’!”
“Was it your horse that neighed, Deacon?” asked the Kid.
“What made you guess that?” said the Deacon, curiously.
“The last time I saw you, you were riding a piebald speed-burner, with the nerves of a sick woman and the look of a fool. That’s the sort of a horse that doesn’t know the right time for making a noise. You had to pinch his nose, didn’t you?”
“I about pulled the nose off of him,” agreed Deacon. “He’s a fool, that gelding, but he sure can hump himself along. Fan him, Lefty. And fan him good!”
Lefty, nothing backward in this work, went carefully through the clothes of the Kid, searching his pockets and patting him all over to discover weapons.
Old Dad Trainor, in the meantime, had slumped down into his chair and remained with a leaden, hanging head.
To him, the Kid now addressed himself.
“Why, Dad,” he declared, “these are hard times. You can’t expect a man to turn down a chance to pick up a few thousand as easily as this. How much is your split, Bud?”
“None of your damn business,” answered Bud.
“Oh, Bud, Bud!” said his mother.
Suddenly he shouted, white and crimson: “Leave me be, will ya? The two of ya leave me be! You kep’ me out here all these years takin’ care of you, didn’t you? You never give me no chance to make anything decently, did ya? Now shut your faces and leave me be, while I make some money on my own account. I wanted a start, and I’ve got it.”
His mother, looking like one who sees a ghost, stared straight before her, pressing her folded hands first against her mouth, and then against her breast.
“Take it easy,” urged the Kid. “I’ll be out of this mess, perhaps, before long. And I’ll never come after Bud, if that’s what you worry about. Bud’s human, that’s all, and he’s been hungry for a long time!”
Dad Trainor lifted his head and looked with hollow eyes at the Kid, but he said nothing; and Ma Trainor, also, was mute.
In the meantime, as the weapons were produced from the person of the Kid, various comments were made upon them.
First of all, out came a sleek Colt of the old single-action model from a spring holster beneath his left armpit.
“I never could see no reason for packin’ a gun there,” declared Morgan. “It ain’t gonna fool nobody nor make them think that you ain’t loaded for bear. What’s the good of buryin’ your gat under your coat, that way?”
“Because it’s the fastest place,” said the Kid. “A gun comes up slower than it falls down. I jump an empty hand for that gun, and the weight of the gun itself helps the gun down and out.”
“I don’t see it,” persisted Lefty Morgan.
“All right. I’ll show you. Just hand me the old gat—”
“Easy, sonny, easy!” said Lefty Morgan, continuing the search. “I’m mighty young, and I’m mighty tender, but you can’t see through me that quick. I’ve heard about the way you move, and I’ve seen it too.”
“Look at it,” said Sam Deacon, his voice lowered to a profound admiration. “Will you look at it now? Ain’t it a bird? Them sights slicked off so smooth and polished up. There ain’t no friction about that there Colt, sonny.”
“How long.” demanded Lefty, “did it take you to learn to fan a gat with one hand and hit something?”
“I used to work every Sunday in our back yard,” said the Kid gently. “After I came home from Sunday school, I used to take off my little jacket and turn up the starched cuffs of my shirt, and I used to take a gun in my little hand and amuse myself, boys.”
“Yeah,” said Lefty, “and every week day, too, and twice on Christmas. Say, Kid, what was you? A juggler in a circus, once? Where’d you get them hands of yours?”
The Kid spread the taper fingers upon the edge of the table.
“Every night,” said he, “I used to wash them with violet soap, boys, and then give them a good massaging with a pure cold cream, and then I put on kid gloves when I went to bed. You’ve no idea how that sort of treatment helps them.”
Morgan, now facing the Kid from the far side of the table, with a ready gun balanced on the table’s edge, grinned widely.
“Yeah,” said he. “I reckon that you’ve used cold cream. Well, you don’t have to confess to us. The jury’ll be what will want to hear you talk.”
“Always wanted to make a speech to a jury,” said the Kid.
“Lookit!” broke out Deacon, examining the handles of the weapon they had taken from the Kid. “They’s eleven notches in this gat, boys! Eleven dead men wrote their names here, eh?”
They looked at the Kid almost with terror, and yet with triumph, also. The discovery made their triumph all the sweeter.
“Not notches that I filed,” said the Kid. “No, no, don’t you attribute those marks to me, old fellows. That gun belonged to poor Jig Yates.”
“Hey, you don’t mean that this was the Jigger’s own gun?”
“Yes, his own gun. You’re looking at history, my lads!”
“Jigger Yate’s own gun! How’d you get it from him?”
“He left it to me when he died,” said the Kid sadly. “A great, game chap was Jigger.”
“Game? As a bantam!” exclaimed Lefty Morgan eagerly. “There was a man. And I didn’t know that he died. Who bumped him off? I mean, what crowd bumped him off?”
“Aye,” said De
acon, “no one man was likely to take his checks all in a heap. Who done it?”
“Young chap that had a turn of luck,” said the Kid smoothly. “Yes, the Jigger is dead. He loved that gun, though!”
“Where did he die? What was the young feller’s name?” asked Lefty Morgan, his mouth wide open.
“Away down in Yucatan he came to his last day,” said the Kid sadly. “He had a gun smoking in each hand, too. But that’s a great mistake. If he’d trusted all of his attention to this one gat, he would have been better off. Too many irons in the fire, you might say, and so he slipped and went down.”
“Shot in front?”
“Just between the eyes,” said the Kid, nodding. “Just exactly between the eyes.”
Bud Trainor had been silent. Now he slowly lifted an arm and pointed at the Kid.
“You done it yourself!” said he.
“I?” said the Kid, apparently surprised. “You amaze me, Bud. I don’t hunt the land sharks that swim as fast as Jigger Yates did. Not I!”
But here the three exchanged glances. And they nodded to one another.
“Well,” said Deacon, “I sure hope that you live out the year after you dropped Jig Yates. That’s all that I hope.”
“I’m not likely to,” said the Kid.
“Ain’t you? Why do you say that?”
“I see things in the future,” said the Kid, and yawned a little.
“Whatcha see?” asked Deacon.
“I see Deacon and Morgan riding across the hills with a third man between them, his feet tied into his stirrups, and his hands tied behind his back. His face is dark to me. No, he comes closer. Yes, it’s myself, as I suspected, and the horse is the Hawk.”
“The devil you say,” said Deacon. “Then what happens in this foresight of yours.”
“Why, a thing that makes me very sorry for myself, old boy. A desperate idea comes to that prisoner. He makes a sudden move to escape. His two guards are forced much against their will to shoot him full of holes!”
“Why, they wouldn’t dare!” shouted Davey, in a shrill, and tremulous voice.
“We wouldn’t have to,” said Deacon darkly. “We wouldn’t have to because you wouldn’t be such a fool, and the judge and the jury will take care of you, old son!”
“There’s not a court in the world that has a claim against me—north of the Rio Grande,” said the Kid, gently. “No, not one.”
“You mean to say that you ain’t wanted anywhere in the country?”
“Not in a single place,” declared the Kid. “Oh, there might be one or two old charges of disturbing the peace. But everything is self-defense and sweetness and light, as far as I’m concerned, boys!”
“It’s a lie!” said Deacon, “and we know it’s a lie, and we’re takin’ you because you’re wanted, and we’re gunna get the reward for you. We’re actin’ for the law, not for ourselves!”
“Of course, you’re not acting for yourselves,” answered the Kid. “A pair of big, clean-hearted American boys like you two—you wouldn’t act for yourselves. It’s just to mop up the criminal element and make the country safe for the poor shots. I understand you perfectly. Even if there’s no charge against me.”
“We’ve heard enough of this gabble,” said Morgan. “Let’s get him on the way.”
“Drop me where there are a lot of big stones,” said the Kid lightly. “You’ve no idea how I hate the thought of wolves playing sexton to me!”
“You think that we’re gonna murder you, do you?” asked Deacon.
“Aye, aye, aye!” cried out old Dad Trainor suddenly. “There’s nothin’ but murder in your face, right now. Murder, and my guest, and as good as in my house. Heaven forgive me!”
He wrapped his arms around his old head, tortured by his impotence.
CHAPTER 13
Branding Iron
“We’ll be starting along,” said Deacon. “Are you ready, Kid?”
“Of course I am,” said the Kid, cheerfully.
“Go on with ’em,” exclaimed old Mrs. Trainor suddenly, to her son. “Roll up your blankets, and get along with ’em, and never come back here!”
“Ma, ma!” muttered her husband. “What are you sayin’ to our own boy?”
“I’m sayin’ the truth as I sees it. I never want to see his face ag’in. I’ve throwed him out of my heart and life. I’m throwin’ away the misery and the care and the love that I’ve given him. I’m throwin’ away the one thing that we’ve given to the world, Dad. But we ain’t gonna have him set at our table with blood on him!”
The nerves of the Kid were of the nature of chilled steel, but even he was startled by this unexpected outbreak from the old woman. Her husband gaped at her as a spirit from another world. And both Deacon and Morgan almost forgot to watch their captive as they stared at Ma Trainor.
Bud, turning pale and purple in patches, growled out: “What kinda fool talk is all this? Dad, are you gunny set there and listen to ma talkin’ like this?”
“All my life,” said Dad Trainor, “I’ve done nothin’ but listen to your ma, when it come to a pinch, and I’m pretty old to change my habits. She’s told you to go, and if I was you, I’d git!”
“Here’s mother love for you!” said Bud Trainor, desperate with anger and disgrace.
“I ain’t no mother of yours!” cried the poor old woman. “There ain’t no Trainor blood in you. Even a sneakin’ copper-faced Injun wouldn’t do such a thing. Him that has had his feet under our table, you’ve sold him. Heaven forgive you, for I ain’t never gonna!”
“Aye,” said old Dad Trainor, grimly. “It’ll be you and me, alone, ma, like it was in the beginning. Bud, you roll your blankets, and git along with you.”
“I’ll go the way that I stand,” said Bud Trainor. “I don’t want nothin’ from you. If you throw me over, I throw you—”
He paused, at the end of that sentence, and his wild eye rolled about over the faces in the room.
He saw little Davey, his face utterly white with horror and with loathing. He saw his companions in crime, Deacon and Morgan, watching him with a certain pity, perhaps, but with a more profound contempt and disgust. Finally, he saw the Kid, the betrayed man, regarding him not with hatred, but as if from a height looking down on lesser souls.
And the last words died out of the lips of Bud Trainor. His great shoulders—they were even more massive than those of the Kid—twitched convulsively.
“What was I gonna do?” he said huskily. “What was I gonna do when I was ground down and beat and never had no chance? Is two thousand bucks something that I could afford to throw away like it was a paper of pins? I ask you that. Ma, d’you hear me?”
“If they was two thousand pounds of diamonds, I’d feel the way that I do now. Yo’re gonna be a thing that’ll be talked of for years. You ain’t gonna be called Bud Trainor. You’re gonna be called a sneak and a dog that sold his friends’ lives from under his own roof. And me—”
Here her strength, which had sustained her marvelously for a moment, gave way utterly, and she dropped into a chair and began to sob in a stifled way.
Her husband stepped to her side, and put his arm around her bowed shoulders.
“Like the beginning,” he said, “we got each other, and we’ll get through, somehow, to the end of things!”
It was too much for Deacon and Morgan.
“We’re movin’ out of here,” said Lefty. “Here, boys. Gimme a start. Kid, you hold out your hands behind the small of your back, will you? Hold ’em out and put the wrists close together—”
“Sure,” said the Kid.
Now little Davey, startled out of his horrified stare at Bud Trainor, turned toward the other actors, sweeping his glance across the convulsed face of the traitor.
What Davey saw was the cord, ready in the hands of Morgan to tie the wrists of the captive. An inspiration came to Davey. He was standing with the lamp just before him, and rather close to his side of the table. That table was low, and Davey, leaning
over, blew out the lamp with a single puff.
There were stars outside, burning brightly. And there was even a scattering of reddish streaks of light from the stove itself, where the fire shone through certain gaping cracks. However, the extinguishing of the smoky lamp acted like double darkness in which surprise was the chiefest element.
Two guns instantly spoke like two thunderstrokes on the heels of one another. Pungent scent of burned gun-powder stung the nostrils of all in the cabin.
There was a tumbling of wrestling bodies, curses, and then a wild scream of pain and terror.
Through the doorway, dimly silhouetted against the stars, leaped a man who was throwing out his arms before him, and still yelling as he fled.
Then Davey, who had put out the lamp, lighted it again. It revealed an odd scene.
In the doorway stood the Kid, with a rifle all ready in his capable hands. He was looking after the fugitive, who now departed with a rapid pattering of hoofs, putting his horse at a dead gallop. But the Kid did not open fire. Instead, he lowered the weapon and turned back into the room, as though he cared too little about the matter to shoot down the fleeing rider.
In the room itself, old Ma Trainor was cowering into a corner. Her husband stood in front of her, with a short-handled axe gripped in both hands, and a wild light in his eyes. There was a faint hint of red on the edge of the heavy blade. An explanation, perhaps, of the shriek of terror which had filled the cabin the moment or two before this.
But, most interesting of all, in the corner of the room where two men had been struggling, one of them was now rendered helpless. That was Sam Deacon, and he who had pinned him down was none other than Bud Trainor!
“Thanks, Bud,” said the Kid. “It’s all right, now. Let him get up after you’ve taken his guns away.”
The guns were promptly taken away, and the two got to their feet.
The thin, white face of Deacon was covered with a ghastly smile, his habitual expression, which he deepened now in order to show that he was not at all afraid.
But afraid he was, most ghastly afraid, and this smile of his only accented his terror.
He looked at Bud and snarled from the side of his mouth: “You double-crossin’, sneakin’, dirty, hound!”