Gunsmoke Justice

by Louis Trimble

  “We need him,” Biddle said. “That Parker made more trouble than you figured.”

  “I’ll see to Parker, too.” Quarles heard the clang of the bell as the cook put in the call to chow. He started for the dining room, then turned to look back at Biddle.

  “Next time you run against Jordan, make sure you finish what you start.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DOC STEBBINS was a brusque little man, the general size and shape of a flour barrel. He walked into Sheriff McFee’s house while it was yet too dark to see clearly outside. Yawning cavernously, he regarded the three men in silence.

  Brad pointed to Olaf. “Got sliced with a knife.”

  The Doc set his black bag on the round center table, moved the lamp into position, and laid Olaf’s huge arm carefully near it. Unwrapping the bloodstained bandanna, he dropped it to the floor. He peered at the wound, made a wheezing sound, and reached for his bag.

  “Is it bad, Doctor?” Olaf asked.

  Doc Stebbins spoke, his voice a rusty rumble. “Hurt?”

  “Little bit.”

  “It’s more than a cut,” the Doc observed. “Looks like it was hauled apart at the edges.”

  Sheriff McFee said dryly, “He used it when he jerked the bars out of my cell window.”

  The Doc looked more closely at Olaf, ran trained fingers over his bulging upper arm and across the straining muscles in his hand. “I can believe it,” he announced. He looked around, his eyes as sharp as a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts.

  “Where’s the hot water?”

  From a doorway at the end of the room, Faith McFee said, “I have it about ready, Doc.”

  Brad turned. He had not heard her before; he had assumed she was still asleep. But she stood in the doorway, lamplight framing her. She wore a long dress of a soft green shade that he liked, and over it a plain checkered apron. Her hair had not yet been put up, but hung in two long braids over her shoulders. She smiled at him in a surprisingly friendly fashion.

  “Coffee, too,” the Doc said. “We got a sick man here that needs coffee.”

  “Not sick,” Olaf objected.

  Doc Stebbins glared at him. “You want coffee, don’t you?”

  The word struck a responsive chord in Olaf. “Yah!”

  “Then say you’re sick.” He looked at the girl. “Bring the water, Faith.”

  She did so, setting a scoured dishpan and a steaming kettle on the table beside him. He poured some of the water into the pan, tested it with a knuckle, and added the rest of the water. Lifting Olaf’s hand, he plunged it in so the wound was covered. Carefully, he washed the cut, removed something from the bag that that made Olaf growl when it was applied to his wrist, and made a neat wrapping over everything.

  Faith brought the coffee. Olaf retired shyly from the light, but stayed near enough to admire his bandage. The Doc sucked noisily at his cup.

  “You,” he said to Brad. “I hear you tangled with Ike Quarles.”

  “I reckon,” Brad admitted.

  “In my saloon,” the Doc persisted.

  “He owns the One-Shot,” Faith McFee explained, laughing a little at the surprised look on Brad’s face.

  “A man has to make a living,” the Doc said defensively.

  “Hope I didn’t bust up your saloon,” Brad apologized.

  The Doc snorted. “It earned you a free beer.” Setting down his empty cup, he started toward the door. “Next time hit him, and I’ll give you a whisky. Maybe two.” He jerked open the door and slammed it behind him.

  Brad didn’t know whether to laugh or not. But he noticed that neither Faith nor her uncle seemed at all amused. The door opened and Doc Stebbins put his head back in. “Come see me later, Jordan.” He disappeared again.

  Finishing his coffee, Brad set down the cup and reached for his tobacco. “I’ll be obliged if you’ll let me out of your jail long enough to work and pay my fine.”

  “Fine!” Faith cried. “After — after — ”

  “All right,” McFee said wearily. “Between you and June Grant, you’ve beat me. Go make some breakfast, Faith. It’s nigh daylight anyway.”

  To Brad, he said, “I’ll suspend the sentence. Now, you still want a job?”

  “Still,” Brad said.

  McFee took a chair and stretched his bare legs out. “Miss Grant wants you to work for her. She came in last night, saying that any man who stood up to Ike Quarles was worth hiring.” He paused and regarded Brad frowningly. “She can’t pay much, Jordan. She ain’t got much any more.”

  “Punching?”

  McFee watched Brad roll and light a cigarette. He sighed tiredly, resignedly. “She’s got more hands than she can afford now. I’d say it was for the same thing Biddle wanted — a gunhand.”

  “I’d like to know more about it,” Brad said cautiously.

  “Let her tell you,” was the answer. “But you saw Quarles. And you had a run-in with the kind of men he hires. Including Biddle.”

  “I saw a range hog,” Brad said. “A shrewd one. I was lucky twice, and he figured I was safer to have on his side than against him.” His smile came out thinly. “Safer and easier to get rid of, maybe.”

  “That’s what it’ll be from now on,” McFee warned him. “Getting rid of you. You hit the sore spot when you mentioned water to Biddle.” He nodded vigorously. “Water’s in back of it. I — But I’ll let June Grant tell you. It’s her business.”

  He turned the subject abruptly. “You mentioned looking for a place to settle. You figure it will be here?”

  “I came here for that reason,” Brad said.

  He could understand the sheriff’s curiosity, even if he didn’t like it. A man who let another man out of jail to work for someone had a right to know a few things.

  Brad said, “I came for that. I haven’t done anything about it yet because of Olaf. Now, from what you say, I won’t be able to do anything because of this Double Q. I want to settle down in peace.”

  “But you’re willing to start by fighting,” McFee pointed out.

  Brad glanced toward the door. Faith McFee stood there. He saw her thoughts clearly on her features. It was as if she were saying again, “Brutal!”

  “A man has to fight sometimes,” he said.

  “Sometimes,” she echoed. “Some men fight all the time — with no reasons.”

  This was between them once more. Brad could feel it like a wall that was too high to climb. Faith turned away, going into the kitchen. Without showing any expression, Brad looked once more at the sheriff.

  “Where do I find Miss Grant?” he asked.

  “First road west, going north put of town,” McFee said. He stood up and took a turn around the room. Coming back, he stopped in front of Brad, measuring him with a penetrating gaze.

  “One thing, Jordan. June Grant’s a friend of mine — of a lot of people. She’s got trouble. Her back’s against the canyon wall now, and it don’t look good for her. She needs help, but it’s got to be help she can count on. You work for her Split S, you do it right or don’t do it at all.

  “She can’t afford a man who makes a month’s wages and then drifts. She can’t afford a man who has his own fight and who puts that first. Work for her first and yourself afterward.”

  Brad studied the truculent little man in front of him. He felt his first genuine respect for the sheriff. There was a real loyalty here for this girl he spoke of.

  “I earn my pay when I work,” he said. “And if I take the job, it’ll be the way you said.”

  McFee watched him intently for a moment longer. “Then come set to breakfast,” he said finally.

  Faith McFee was quiet during the meal, speaking only to ask one of the men if they wanted more to eat. Brad ate with appetite and, rising, he rolled a cigarette and carried his plate and cup from the restaurant where they had eaten to the kitchen. Returning, he nodded to Olaf. “Thanks for the meal, ma’am.” The twinkle momentarily lighted his eyes. “It was as good as I figured.”

  “Yo
u’re welcome,” Faith McFee said, and looked away.

  McFee made a show of pushing back his chair and getting up. “I’ll bring your horses,” he said. He went to dress.

  They followed him out. Brad saddled the palomino, helped Olaf with his bay, and led both mounts from the barn. Getting aboard, he looked down at the sheriff. “I’ll oblige you for my gun.”

  McFee went to the jail and returned with their guns and Brad’s belt. Checking his gun, Brad settled it in his holster. “When I come back,” he said, “I give it to you?”

  “That’s the law,” McFee stated.

  Brad took a final pull at his cigarette and rubbed it out between his fingers. He watched the tobacco flakes drift to the dusty road, and then lifted his eyes to look at the sheriff. “And what if Quarles’ crew decide not to obey your law?”

  Before stubbornness froze McFee’s expression, Brad saw a fine line of worry. Here might be the man’s true weakness; he had never been forced to test himself. He did not know how he would stand up in a fight.

  “Ever had much trouble here, sheriff?”

  “No,” McFee said shortly.

  “As I thought,” Brad said. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

  The sheriff watched Brad follow the alley northward, with Olaf riding rigidly behind him.

  “No trouble yet,” McFee muttered. “But there will be. He’s the kind that draws it — or goes out after it.”

  He turned toward the house and was reminded of Faith. Inside, he went to her. His glance was enough for her to know how he felt. Their affection for each other was deep, and she let him see it in a smile.

  “He’s a rough man,” McFee commented. “If Quarles wants a fight, Jordan will give it to him.”

  “Fighting,” she said bitterly.

  “Your Dave Arden is supposed to be fighting Quarles,” McFee pointed out.

  “Dave is careful,” she answered defensively. “Quarles has too many men, too much strength.” The sheriff didn’t answer, and she broke out, “You don’t like Dave, do you?”

  “No,” he told her, “I never have.” He scratched behind his ear, frowning, hunting the words. “But it’s your life, Faith. You’re a grown woman, a thinking woman, and you do with it what you believe best.”

  She smoothed her apron over the green dress. Her smile was faint. “I think it best to see Dave and tell him the kind of man June has hired.” She paused, adding, “Dave and Jordan won’t get along. Dave is thoughtful and careful. Jordan is rash and brutal. He’ll try to rush things.”

  “It’s about time, maybe, things was rushed,” McFee mumbled. “But like I said, it’s your life. Ride to Dave if you want.”

  “No woman can put her skirts around a man to keep him safe,” Faith said.

  “The kind that would let her ain’t worth having,” the sheriff said. Going to the stove, he poured himself a cup of coffee and took it to the table. He sat down and filled his pipe, smoking in somber silence.

  “Jordan’s a troubled man, Faith, for all of his talk.” He shook his head slowly. “A troubled man is a troublesome man. I’ve seen his kind before. Land-hungry, but always drifting. Never finding just what they’re looking for. Because what they’re looking for is always in their heads like a dream. The world’s not made out of dreams. And when a man like Jordan finds that out, he’s disappointed, and rides on.”

  Faith sighed. “Jordan is a fighter,” she said slowly. “If what you said is right, June needs fighters. Maybe that’s why Dave hasn’t done much before: he hasn’t enough fighters. Now he will have.”

  Her uncle regarded her quietly, feeling the bitterness in her voice, hearing the hopelessness of a woman who hated fighting and yet was coming to realize that in some cases it might be the only way.

  She sounded as if she were talking to herself, putting her thoughts into words. “But Dave is no fighter. That’s not his way.”

  McFee nodded. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. It’s like you said; Jordan and Arden won’t get along at all. Jordan will ride in there full of ideas, but Arden will be his boss.

  “How is it going to help June if her foreman and her hired gunhand are fighting each other instead of the Double Q?” He took a deep puff on his pipe. “Maybe I was wrong in sending him to her place.”

  Faith said quietly, “Yes, I think you were wrong,” and went back into the kitchen.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS A FINE MORNING and Brad rode with his head to the breeze, getting the most of it. The air had that rare freshness of the open just before sunrise, and the dew underfoot made the grass sweet. The more Brad studied this country the more it got into him.

  Some distance out of town the green hayfields began on the west. The river ran through a deep gully cut in the gentle slope that went from the valley floor up to the westerly hills. On the banks of the river Brad noticed crude rigs that were horse-drawn pumps. But those he could see were standing idle, though the hay running down from the river was yellowing from lack of water.

  His was no practiced eye in irrigation. He had only seen it in Colorado and the Nebraska country, but drought alone was no newcomer to him, and it was obvious that this hay was withering from it.

  At the first road, they turned west going up the easy grade until they reached a plank bridge thrown across the river. Here Brad looked down. There was no more than the trickle of water that he had seen below at the gap. Certainly not water enough to wet an acre of hay, let alone the great fields stretching to the north and south.

  He glanced at Olaf now. “You got your own place to farm,” Brad said. “There’s no call for you to get in this fight.”

  “You fight, I fight,” Olaf said slowly. His face twisted as he sought for the exact expression. “Partners.”

  “Ah,” Brad said, “you still want it that way.” He offered no further argument, realizing the uselessness of it. And despite Olaf’s rawness to this type of life, Brad was glad to have him as a side-kick. They rode on.

  The Grant house was set where a small creek came down from the mountains and rattled off to join the river. The road followed the creek in its straight line fall from the hill through the bunch grass pasture above the bed of the Sawhorse. Halfway along, Brad noticed that the water began to sink into sand until there was not even a trickle at the mouth by the bridge. But up on the knoll, where a group of resin-scented balsam poplars clustered around the house and outbuildings, there was water enough for general use. The Split S was a neat layout, but Brad’s practiced eye saw signs of decay that no cowman could miss.

  The bunkhouse was set not far from the kitchen door, with the big corral and barns just beyond it. One of the barns showed signs of use, but the other and a number of smaller outbuildings stood with doors gaping. It was easy to tell that this had been a big spread once, but the dry rot of bad times had struck it until it was whittled to less than a small rancher would have in New Mexico.

  The house still stood fine and pretentious, and Brad could visualize the labor that had gone into its building. He got a picture of Grant coming here to homestead, making his first stake, and paying back his wife for the hardships of her life with a fine house of milled clapboards, jigsaw decorations, and many glass windows. It stood a story and a half, with a veranda running around three sides.

  The yard was trampled from many years of pounding, from both horses and men, and only a little dust flared up as Brad and Olaf rode in and got down by the front door. He was no hand here yet, Brad reasoned, and so he tied the horses by the front and went up the steps to knock as a stranger would.

  He glimpsed two men near the bunkhouse door as he left his horse, and another man, dusty as if he had been riding already this morning, crossing the rear yard toward the house. They were all too far away to be seen clearly. When his polite knock was answered, it was a woman who greeted him.

  “You’re Mr. Jordan?” she said.

  She was pretty and younger than he had pictured her. Her dark eyes bright in her heart-shaped face, she sto
od in the doorway inviting him in. She wore her hair shorter than most women, and fixed as if she crammed a work hat on it. Her riding skirt was divided; her shirt a man’s heavy one. The hand holding the door open was small but strong and calloused. She nodded to Olaf.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brad said, and removed his hat. Olaf did the same and Brad led the way inside.

  The parlor of the house was big and cool, and a fire in the rock fireplace was burning off the morning chill. A fat iron stove in the center of the room was cold, but it sat under its pipe with a capable look about it.

  She would be capable too, Brad thought. And when she spoke, his opinion was confirmed. For all of her smallness, June Grant had a way of authority about her.

  “I asked Angus to let you out to work for me, if you would. Does your coming mean that you will?”

  “Depends,” Brad said. He was not at ease in here; the room was too large and too cold. She seemed to sense it, for she led them to a smaller room off the kitchen and seated them at a table. She brought them coffee.

  “Smoke if you wish,” she said. “Depends on what?”

  “On what I’m to do and why,” Brad said bluntly. He told her of his brush with Biddle. “That kind of work I don’t like,” he explained.

  She had begun to frown as he talked, and now the frown deepened. “I can’t meet those wages, Mr. Jordan.”

  “No common hand expects to work for that money, either,” he said.

  She picked at the edge of her shirt sleeve and rubbed it between her fingers. “I don’t need common hands,” she said. Her head lifted, and he saw the determination glowing in her eyes. “I dislike killing as much as the next woman, but I’ve waited long enough. Ike Quarles has asked for a fight, and I’ll give it to him.”

  She met Brad’s steady gaze unflinchingly. “If I lose, I’m done quickly. If I don’t fight, I’ll hang on for a year or two at the most.” She dropped her sleeve and put her hands together, squeezing them so that her knuckles stood out white with the pressure. “My father came here and built this place. He homesteaded the valley. When others wanted in, he let them come. He asked only for his share and no more. But he did want that, and he would fight for what he considered his.”