Gun For Hire

by Jory Sherman

  "It's something, Pops."

  "You'll be working at your job tomorrow, Brand," Garrison told him. "And later next month, the first big load of dust goes down. The time's a secret, of course, but you'll know the ropes by then. Today, I just want you to get the lay of the land, see what kind of an operation we've got here."

  "Are you and Wilson partners?" Clay asked.

  A look came over Morfit's face that Clay couldn't read. It was as if a curtain had been drawn somewhere back of the freight owner's eyes.

  "I haul his ore for him, Brand," said Morfit tightly.

  Two women rode up in a sulky. Wilson walked over to them and spoke for a few minutes. Garrison followed. They helped the women down. From their looks, Clay guessed they were mother and daughter. A moment later he found he had guessed right.

  "Clay Brand, meet my wife, Clare, and my daughter, Laura," Wilson said.

  Brand bowed slightly and tipped his hat. "Pleased to meet you," he said.

  "So this is the new man you told us about last night," Clare Wilson said. "I must say he doesn't look like a—like a. . . ."

  "Like a killer, Mother," interrupted Laura. "He's wearing a gun."

  Clay looked at the girl. She was about twenty-one, he figured, dark like her father, sharp-featured, her dress barely hiding her figure which was ample enough. Her mother, a bonnet over her hair, was short, lighter of hair, and more delicate than Wilson himself.

  Maybe they both had consumption. The daughter's eyes flashed a challenge to him and he ignored it. No use getting into an argument that couldn't be won. He turned away.

  "Oh, Mr. Brand," said Clare, "we'd be pleased to have you at supper tonight. You too, Garrison. Bring him along, won't you?"

  Clay wanted to protest. He had hoped to see Andy and Kathleen again this night. Garrison blustered his acceptance for him.

  "I'll bring him there, Clare, although I can't stay. A previous engagement." He winked and Mrs. Wilson's eyes widened.

  "A certain young lady, I imagine," she said. "The one we've heard about a time or two?"

  "An appointment," Morfit said.

  "Say eight or so, Mr. Brand?" Clare Wilson said, trying to be coy and genteel in rough surroundings.

  "If you like," said Clay.

  Laura Wilson gave him a haughty look that said she'd have more to say to him later, on her own territory. Clay tipped his hat once again to the two women and went off to talk to Pops. The Wilsons and Garrison continued talking. Occasional laughter drifted to where Clay and Pops were talking.

  "A sight of work up here, Clay," Pops was saying. "I haul tomorrow down to Barstow, two sleeps goin', two comin' back."

  "I'll ride with you, I imagine."

  "Reckon so. Button gang and some others around wouldn't mind knocking us down. Three wagons of ore tomorrow, sold outright, by men who can't wait for the money. Bound for Selby."

  "Might as well earn my pay, Pops."

  The two women waved at him as they got back in their sulky and drove off. Wilson went back up to his mill and Morfit came over to talk to Clay.

  "Come on, Brand, let me go over things with you. You ride with Pops and two other wagons tomorrow, past Stoddard's Wells, then back up, pronto. Got to make hay while the sun shines, eh?"

  Pops ambled back to his wagon, waiting his turn to unload. He'd heard it all before.

  "We've got a false spring here, Brand. No telling when a snow will turn all this hard ground to mush, freeze hell out of things. Here's a map," he added, drawing it from his pocket. Clay noticed he wasn't dressed in his dude outfit today, which made him look more his years. He took him to be in his mid-thirties. In Barstow he would have taken Morfit to be closer to forty.

  "See this here road, Clay? You bypass Belleville. When you take a load out, we don't like to have you go through town. Too many people notice what's going down. We'll get our business from deliveries, not from a big show."

  Clay studied the map. "You go in between Union Flats and Gold Fever Trail, come out farther down. Rest of the way, over to Baldwin is not too populated. Keep the map. One time over it, and you'll know it perfect."

  "I understand."

  "Now, you go on back into town, see to your horse. I'll pick you up at seven and take you over to the Wilsons. Sorry I can't stay. Clare sets a mighty fine table. Good of her to ask you over."

  "I'm obliged, but I had other plans too."

  Garrison gave him a look. "Part of your work, Clay, keeping the clients happy. Henry Wilson's a client—a very important client."

  Clay wanted to say something, but decided against it. Garrison Morfit hadn't said anything about the social aspects of the job. All he had hired was his gun. Well, that was his business. He'd give the man one night of his time, out of politeness to the womenfolk, but he wasn't about to socialize with people just to keep his job. There were other things to do.

  "I'll see you tonight, Morfit."

  Garrison laughed heartily, his whole attitude changed like a chameleon's colors. "Good. Good. You'll enjoy yourself at the Wilsons. Fine people, Clay, fine people."

  Garrison watched Clay ride away, then pulled a cigar from his pocket. He bit the end of it angrily as he kept his eyes on Brand's back. He fumbled for a match.

  "Hey, Pops, got a match?" he called out as he turned away from watching Clay ride off.

  "Now, you know I don't smoke, Garrison."

  "Never mind, I found one," he said, producing a match. "I wanted to talk to you about Brand anyway."

  "Shore, Garrison."

  Morfit hesitated as though searching for the right words. "Is—is Brand completely trustworthy?"

  Pops let fly a wad of tobacco and juice to clear his mouth somewhat. "Clay Brand trustworthy? Why, he's the honestest man I know. Why'd you ask sech a durn fool question as that?"

  Morfit looked at Spinard as one would an ignorant child.

  "Oh, just something he said just now. Wanting to be a big man without sweating like the rest of us."

  Pops tipped back his hat. "Clay said that? You must've got it twisted. He don't go for fancy stuff."

  Morfit blew a generous tube of smoke from his lips. "No, I didn't get it twisted, Pops. Maybe he changed his mind when he saw how rich Holcomb Valley was. He was very sure of what he said. In fact, he's having dinner with the Wilson family tonight."

  Pops spat and scratched his balding head before bringing his hat back over to keep his scalp out of the sun.

  "Well, I'll be doggoned. Don't sound like the Clay I knowed. Why, that man's more settled a-sleepin' out under the stars. Never did take to town ways. He's half wild, he is, ever since his Pappy got kilt. Lived with the Sioux, I heerd and was up in Oregon goin' where no white man ever walked. Clay Brand ain't a settlin' man, 'less . . ."

  "Unless what, Pops?"

  "I dunno. Might be a woman's behind sech talk. But, I wouldn't pay no 'tention to that. Clay's a man to ride the river with, all right."

  "A woman, huh? That could explain it. I hope you're right, Pops. Your life is in his hands, you know."

  Garrison moved away then, and Pops looked at him, the hackles rising on his neck. Could it be that Clay had changed his spots? Could be. That O'Keefe filly. A man could get all tangled up with a woman and forget a lot of things. He'd seen men, honest men, rob and kill over a woman. But Clay wasn't like that. He had too much savvy. Still, Morfit's words were disturbing. It was odd, come to think of it, them two together, Morfit and Brand. An unlikely combination if he'd ever seen one. Maybe he'd just keep quiet and see how Clay acted, what he did. If it didn't come to nothing, why then no harm done. If he acted like he was burning with gold fever like the rest of these crazy galoots, then that was a different story. It was getting so a man didn't know who to trust.

  Pops spit hard into the dirt, then moved his wagon up a few feet. It was time to unload and he felt powerful dry. Maybe he'd have time to scout up a beer to quench his thirst. Damn! Sometimes it was sure enough a confusing world to live in—a body never knew which way
the wind might blow.

  * * *

  Clay headed down Van Dusen Canyon after a lunch of beans and beef. He was told that Starvation Flats was in another valley. He had checked his pistol and rifle, carried a horn of powder and plenty of ball. Miners worked all along the way, on both sides of a stream and up in the bordering hills.

  Starvation Flats wasn't much. The shacks were all temporary. Some had been crushed by the flood or washed away. The ground was still soggy. He found a man who dealt in trade goods, Fred Normann, and asked him about Jingo and Nat.

  "Lots of men ride through here, few stay," he said.

  "Have you seen those two the last couple of days? One's a Californio, Spanish blood and Indian mixed, the other's wearing a sling most probably. I'd make it worth your while if you could remember." He patted his poke.

  Normann eyed the tall stranger. Not many sales this spring and he might have to move his trade wagon closer to the Devil's Elbow or toward Warren's Wells where a lot of miners had gone in search of color. "Two fellows like that might have been here. Yesterday, day before. They come and they go."

  Clay flipped him a five-dollar gold piece. "Give me that red bandana there," he said.

  Normann gave him the bandana and pocketed the gold piece. "They lit out over toward Polique Canyon. Maybe heading for Clapboard Town. This morning, I think."

  "Anybody with them?"

  "Nope, not today anyway. Last night, I seen them talking to a feller."

  "Can you describe him?"

  "Nope, too dark. Say, how much you want for your five dollars?"

  Clay got the directions to Polique Canyon then, and rode off across the wide meadow, part of what they were calling "Bear Valley". Warm springs bubbled up and he had to skirt places where his horse's hooves might sink into the soft earth.

  It was late afternoon when he rode through Clapboard Town and found out that Nat Leffler and Jingo Perez had done the same thing two hours earlier. As near as he could tell, from the terse comments he garnered in conversations with the miners and store people there, the two were headed for Belleville. But why the long way around? Did they know he was still alive? Were they going there again to make sure this time? It seemed likely they knew he was in Belleville. The man they had talked to last night might have told them that. Clay rode carefully up the canyon, listening to every sound, keeping the trees along the road whenever he could. There were high places where a man could sit and pick off a rider with ease. The next ambush might not find him getting out so lucky.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Wilson cabin glowed with warmth as the door opened to let Clay and Garrison inside. Laura Wilson greeted the two men.

  "I'm not staying, I regret," said Garrison. "But I delivered your guest. Enjoy yourself, Clay. You'll meet me at the mill first thing in the morning?"

  "I will, Garrison."

  Laura ushered Clay into the area that served as the living room after Garrison rode off. Clay's clothes were new and pressed, but he felt like a tramp next to Garrison's finery. He was glad the man wasn't staying for dinner.

  Laura was wearing a long gingham dress and a velvet choker. Her hair was tied back in long bunches of curls. She looked very lovely, he thought. "Mother, Father," she called. "Mr. Brand is here." She seated him on a comfortable sofa. "May I pour you some sherry or some bourbon?"

  "Bourbon's fine," he said. Henry Wilson came in from another room then, straightening a string tie. Clay guessed it was from the bedroom.

  "Clare will be along," he said. "Glad you could come, Clay. Bourbon for both of us, Laura."

  The water glasses were over half full. The men drank while Laura disappeared behind a partition into the kitchen. A table was set in the far corner of the room near the partition. Clay could smell aromas that made his hunger more acute. The long ride back to Belleville had been uneventful. He had hoped to have time to ride out to Andy's, but he barely had enough left of the day to buy some clothes at outrageous prices, get a shave, and have his hair trimmed before Garrison picked him up at the hotel.

  The men chatted until Clare Wilson joined them, dressed much like her daughter. Clay thought they were a little too dressed up, in fact, but guessed women liked any excuse, even in mining country, to show off their fancies.

  "It's so nice of you to supper with us, Mr. Brand," said Mrs. Wilson. "It's not often we have the chance to entertain up here. Henry's promised us a home in San Bernardino, but, in the meantime, we welcome you to our humble abode."

  "Why, this is just fine, Mrs. Wilson. And you can call me Clay. Please."

  Clare laughed graciously. "And you must call me Clare," she said, but he doubted if she really meant it. There was a haughtiness, almost an arrogance about the woman that had not been apparent that morning. Now, in her own home, she assumed a regal air. Clay took her for a social climber or a transplant from back East who hadn't taken to this land out here and was trying to change it instead of adapting herself to its ways. He'd seen this happen a lot, especially with women who expected their standing in life to remain the same after leaving Illinois or Ohio and coming out West. He guessed the real force behind the stamp mill was probably Clare Wilson. Her husband probably just followed orders. But maybe he was judging them too quickly and too harshly.

  The two men drank and talked while the women completed setting the table and serving the food. The fare was simple, yet delicious. The women were good cooks. Beefsteaks and turnips, gravy and biscuits made up the meal. The conversation bore out Clay's hunches about Clare and Henry. She was from Illinois, Henry from New York. She was from a good family and he had worked for her father while heading West, persuading her to accompany him. Her father had financed the stamp mill. Wilson seemed to squirm under the pressure of her family and wanted nothing better than to make it on his own. He felt the stamp mill put him a cut above the mining community and Clare encouraged this attitude.

  "We'll be in our new home before winter," she told Clay. "Henry's doing so well with the mill. He was always good with machinery, weren't you, Henry?"

  Before Henry could reply, Laura spoke up after being strangely silent during the meal, her eyes watching Clay the entire time.

  "And, what are you good at, Mr. Brand? The gun?"

  "I'll get the coffee," Clare said. "Henry, you help."

  Clare and Henry rose from the table, as if by prearrangement, and cleared the dishes. Clay stared at Laura wondering how to answer. She had evidently been prepared for this part of the evening and he had not.

  "I've done a lot of things," he said.

  "So we heard from Garrison. Oh, don't worry, he didn't say you were a bad man, or an outlaw. He just said you had hired out as an armed guard to him. He said you were experienced. Is that right?"

  "You've had trouble up here with guns," Clay said matter of factly. "Last summer the Button gang from Utah ran off your milk cows and the beef off the pasture east of Cajon, attacked an express carrier, robbed a lot of the miners. When you have pilgrims, you have wolves. Some of us try to protect those who don't have guns or don't know how to use them so well."

  Laura leaned over the table, like a cat ready to pounce. "He who lives by the gun, dies by the gun, Clay. So the Bible says. Is that all you do, protect people with your gun?" She wasn't sarcastic and Clay knew she was genuinely interested.

  "No, I've run cattle, broke horses. I think ranching would be my goal. I've been good with my gun, which is, after all, only a tool, like a plow or a shovel, and I've gotten paid for using it. I've never shot a man without provocation and I've never drawn my gun for selfish reasons."

  "It's not civilized," she said, as her parents brought the coffee out.

  "This is a hard land, Laura," he said. "It takes time for civilization to catch up with people. Until it does catch up, the gun is the only way a man has to protect himself and his property. If he doesn't protect what he owns, someone with a gun will take it away."

  "He's right, Laura," said Henry. "Garrison and I don't want to lose any of t
he gold this year, not when we're both establishing reputations. A man like Brand can help us. With his gun."

  "Let's not talk any more of violence," put in Clare. "Would you like some sweets, Clay?"

  "No, thanks," he replied.

  Laura shot him a look. "Well, I think civilization is impeded by the gun," she said, taking one last shot.

  "Laura, that's enough," said her mother.

  Clay drank his coffee and wished he were somewhere else. Wilson had dreams of empire with himself a part of it; his wife wanted the social position and elegant mansion that went with supreme accomplishment, and Laura, well, he couldn't figure her out. She was the strongest of the three and the most independent. She didn't understand some things, but she was willing to learn, despite her preconceived notions. There was hope for her, though, he'd give her that. He liked her spirit.

  * * *

  Several miles away, Garrison Morfit was talking to Kathleen O'Keefe. "It's odd that Clay didn't tell you he was working for me," he said.

  "Perhaps he considers it only temporary and didn't think it important. I know Clay was hired to guard your wagons and he will do a good job. I also know that he wants to start a cattle and horse ranch. He will, too."

  "Kathleen," Garrison said patiently, "a man like that always talks about what he's going to do. He's a drifter, a wanderer, if you please. He'll never settle down."

  Kathleen's eyes flashed sparks in the dark. The two sat on the stumps out front of the cabin, put there by Andy for chairs last spring. Andy was inside, weighing dust, figuring his weekly take from the creek. He could barely hear the conversation outside. He knew that Garrison Morfit was persistent, that Kathleen had showed him the ring and told him that it was best he not call anymore. That should have been enough for any man, Andy thought. Besides, his Kathleen had never led Garrison on. They had seen each other only a few times, in town. Garrison had been smitten and probably assumed that she must feel the same way about him. Andy knew where her heart was. That morning, when she had shown him the ring, he knew he would soon have a son of his own. It made a man feel full, it did.