A younger girl appeared in the gunsmith's doorway—a small, snubnosed, freckled girl, slightly built, wearing a corduroy riding skirt and a white silk shirt. There were gauntlets on her hands, and a quirt swung from her wrist. A widebrimmed hat, , supported by a cord around her neck, hung down her back. Her hair Was a bright and Carroty red. There was a big man behind her and she spoke to him. "'Dad would like it back as soon as possible."
The man said, "Tell Mr. Justice it will be ready early next week."
"It's his favorite rifle. Can't you make it sooner?"
The man chuckled. "Run along, Miss Sally. Your dad, he knows Deckerhoff will take the time necessary for a good job, and no more."
It was clear to Burdick, even at the distance, that the little redhaired girl did not like being told to run along like a child. She said, with dignity, "Very well, Mr. Deckerhoff. I will inform my father. . . . All right, all right, Janet, I'm coming!"
She turned quickly and started for the wagon; then she saw Burdick standing at the corner of the building next door, and came to an abrupt halt. There was no doubt whatever that he had been described to her someone: her glance took in his eastern clothing and flat, wide hat, and came to rest, for a moment, on the handsome shotgun over his arm. Her first impulse, Burdick saw, was anger; her hand found the loosely swinging quirt and started to raise it, Then another thought came into her mind, and the quirt sagged. Her eyes searched Burdick's face intently. She seemed about to ask a question; instead, she whirled, ran to the wagon, and swung herself lightly up to the seat.
The older girl had turned briefly to see what had caught her companion's attention. Burdick had a glimpse of a startlingly beautiful profile, like a cameo against the evening sky: it was one of those momentary visions that left a man wondering whether he had actually seen what he thought he had seen. A moment later, the smaller girl had seized the reins in her gauntleted hands; she gave a shrill and quavering cry that put Burdick in mind of an Indian war-whoop, although he had never heard one.
The team seemed to explode at the sound; and the buckboard shot away down the street. Burdick had a last glimpse of the older girl, one hand maintaining her hat upon her head, placing the other on the younger girl's arm in protest against this wild progress, but she was laughing as she did it. Then they were gone, leaving a gradually dispersing dustcloud along the street.
Burdick stood there a moment longer. The thought went through his mind: I must photograph that girl. He looked up to find the gunsmith, Deckerhoff, standing in the doorway watching him—a mountainous man with a round face and the clear blue eyes of a child. Burdick went up to him.
' 'Yes, sir," the big man said. "What would you have?"
"I'd like some twelve-gauge shotgun shells loaded with buckshot," Burdick said, "and a little information about this." He opened his coat, took the revolver from his waistband, and held it out. The gunsmith accepted it, and said, "Come inside." Burdick followed him into the shop, and waited while the big man examined the pistol by the light of a window. He looked up. "What did you want to know?" he asked. "This pistol have repaired once. It belonged then to a man named Hankey, working for the Flying V ranch. There is two dollars yet to be paid. He has sold it to you?" His voice was innocent; yet there was little doubt in Burdick's mind that the gunsmith knew perfectly well how he came to be carrying another man's weapon.
Burdick said, "It was more in the nature of a loan, I think. Is the gun any good?"
"Good? How good can a pistol be? Twenty-five, thirty, fifty yards at the most? That is shooting?" The gunsmith shrugged his massive shoulders. "For such a toy, it is all right."
Burdick hesitated. "Well, I suppose I'd be justified in keeping it, but I'd probably wind up shooting myself with it. Next time somebody from the ranch drops by, tell them to give it back to the owner.... How many children has Mr. Justice got, anyway?" He hoped the question sounded sufficiently casual.
"There is one boy, Tom," Deckerhoff said without hesitation. "Two girls, Miss Sally and Miss Janet, whom you just saw." He paused, and went on deliberately, "Miss Janet would make a fine shot if she would take the trouble to practice. She is an intelligent and careful young lady. Miss Sally loves guns more, but she is impatient; if the first bullet does not hit, she throws the weapon at the target. The boy, he is nothing. One of those pistol-crazy boys. Speed, speed, speed. One must get the piece out fast, fast, fast. He has already killed one man in a fight about nothing, and he thinks this proves him dangerous. He will learn better, if he jives. A man is dangerous in his head, I try to tell him, and in his heart, not in his hand and triggerfinger. But he is young and will not listen." Deckerhoff frowned at the pistol he was holding and laid' it aside. "l will send this back for you," he said. "Here are your shotgun shells."
Burdick made no move to take them. "Do you know Mr. Justice well?" he asked.
"He comes here," the big man said neutrally. "He has some fine weapons. He takes good care of them." Without a change of expression, he went on, "He does not leave a beautiful gun with fouling in the bore."
Burdick glanced down guiltily. "I haven't had a chance to clean it yet."
"So they all say, when they bring me their pitted barrels. 'I didn't have a chance to clean it, can you fix it, Deckerhoff?' Who can put back metal that is corroded away? Give it to me, Mr. Burdick. I will clean it."
"You know my name?"
The gunsmith smiled. The expression had neither warmth nor malice. "There are few in this town tonight who do not know you, Mr. Burdick. You are the crazy easterner who faced down Jack Mort and sent Pete Hankey back to Flying V with birdshot in his britches. A brave man, some say. A fool and a dead man, say others. Give me the gun, Mr. Burdick. I take no part in these things. A man is a big target and easy to kill; and I have done my fighting. But I cannot. see a beautiful piece abused. Wait here, this will only take a minute."
He carried the shotgun to the rear of the shop. Burdick walked idly around the place, examining the rifles in the nearby rack and the pistols in the small case beyond. He paused before a doublebarreled shotgun lying across two pegs driven into the mudbrick wall. It was a tremendous piece, muzzleloading, with each bore better than an inch in diameter.
"That is my meatgun," Deckerhoff's voice said behind him. "It weighs fourteen pounds. I load it with eight drams of powder and three ounces of shot. In the fall, early in the morning when the river is covered with ducks, I go down there before I come to work. One shot while they are on the water and the second as they are rising gives me my dinner with plenty left over to sell to the hotel." He held out Burdick's shotgun and ammunition. "Mr. Burdick ..."
"Yes?"
Deckerhoff hesitated. "Never mind," he said. "It is none of my business. I take no sides in these matters. I only repair guns, Don't forget to clean and lubricate those beautiful locks. We have so much dust out here; it is very hard on fine machinery."
Coming out of the shop, Burdick found the sun almost down. The sky to the west was a blaze of golden color; and the small wind that moved along the street was suddenly quite cool. He walked across the plaza to the hotel. There was plump, grayhaired woman behind the desk. "Oh, yes," she said. "Mr. Burdick. I'm Mrs. Betterson; this is my hotel.... I set your bag back there so it would be safe. And if you don't mind, I'd like to put you in another room. Number twenty-three. I think you'll find it nicer than seventeen."
"Nicer?" Burdick said. "In what way?"
"Why, it's a larger room, on the second floor," the woman said. "And it faces to the rear. You get the morning sun. And ... well, there are no buildings overlooking your windows. I thought you would like that, under the circumstances."
It took him a moment to understand her meaning; and then he could not make himself believe that she was serious. But her face was grave, and he said with equal gravity, "Yes, I see. Thank you very much, Mrs. Betterson."
"We're serving supper now," she said. "If you care for something to drink, you'll find it through those doors over there. And here is s
omething..." She dropped her voice and looked around. Then she pushed a small revolver quickly across the desk. "Take it, please. You can't carry that shotgun with you everywhere, and you simply can't afford to be unarmed for a single second, Mr. Burdick. Please. It was my husband's, God rest his soul. I know he would want you to have it."
It seemed to Alexander Burdick that this country to which he had come was, to say the least, a little peculiar. Well, he reflected, you could hardly call his own recent behavior quite normal either, by any reasonably civilized standards.
"Thank you very much," he said, pushing the weapon back across the desk. "Thank you very much, but I wouldn't know how to use it."
"Oh," she said. "Well, please be careful, Mr. Burdick. We are praying for you. You have given us all new hope."
6
Several times during the long ride home, Janet Justice regretted having allowed her sister to drive; but it late now for her to change her mind. The younger girl was deliberately trying to frighten her and, Janet admitted wryly to herself, succeeding fairly well; to take back the reins now would be to admit defeat. Besides, in her good town clothes, she was not dressed for wrestling with a pair of wild mustangs. Of course, she was not dressed for being dumped on her head in an arroyo, either.
However, it was not the danger that troubled her most as she clung to the swaying buckboard seat in the dark and listened to the hammering hoofs and the clattering wheels and her sister's occasional shrill and exuberant cowboy yell, punctuated by the sound of the whip. Nor was it the fact that she was getting dusty and windblown, and that the small girl beside her was obviously taking a malicious pleasure in the fact. The thing that really hurt was the knowledge that the younger girl resented and perhaps even hated her nowadays—for being older, for having a certain amount of authority, but mostly just for being prettier.
It was a perfectly normal and sisterly kind of hatred, of course, probably entertained by all skinny and awkward younger sisters toward more mature and attractive older sisters; but it made Janet Justice feel very lonely. Long ago she had lost whatever companionship Tom had to offer; although younger by three years, the boy had moved into a man's world early. Now Sally was lost to her, too; and of the girls in town she had known at all well, many would no longer speak to anyone named Justice, and most were getting married, anyway. . .
She Saw the lights of Flying V ahead of them. Sally took them through the gate without slackening speed, brought them up short in front of the house, and started to get down from the wagon.
"Just a minute, miss!" Janet said, rather sharply. "Dad's taught you better than that! If you have to run the poor beasts the whole way, the least you can do is make sure they are cooled down properly. . . . And have one of the men take my things to my room, please."
She was aware of her sister's rebellious stare as she climbed to the ground.• She was tired and a little shaky from the wild ride; it was why she had spoken as she had, when it would have been wiser to keep quiet—somebody would undoubtedly have taken care of the lathered horses, anyway. She had merely been asserting her authority as the older sister, in revenge for the way she had been scared. She turned and walked quickly into the house, with a sense of wanting to cry: they had been very close once, despite the five-year difference in their ages.
She was making some hasty repairs to her appearance before the pierglass to the left of the front door, when she became aware of her mother standing beside her. As always it was a little shock, the silent appearance of this gray woman who still preserved on her face the haggard and ghostly remnants of former beauty—except for the eyes, that might have been brilliant and candid once, but were downcast and secretive now.
"Is ... anything wrong?" Mrs. Justice asked.
"No," Janet said. "No, Mother, everything is all right."
"Your pretty dress . . . You should have changed in town. It's so far, so hard on pretty clothes. I remember when I first came out here, it was spring and I was wearing my sprigged muslin. . . Did you have a good time with the Wellesleys?"
"Yes, fine."
"Are you sure . . . are you sure you're still welcome there; Janet?"
Janet glanced at her mother. "I think so. Anyway, Carol's getting married shortly; I don't suppose I'll be visiting them much after that."
"Even if it wasn't for Tom He behaved very badly toward Carol, I think. There are so many bad influences on a boy. And they hate us so, in this Valley. Your father . You're sure there's nothing wrong? I thought, when you came driving up so fast, something must be wrong. Any time somebody comes up to the house like that, I get cold all over."
"I let Sally drive," Janet said.
"When they come like that, it usually means . . . I remember the first time. The man came riding like that, and your father buckled on his pistol and rode away. When he came back, there was a body tied to a horse, and your father had blood on his So many dead men." There was a little pause; then Mrs. Justice said, "You should speak to Sally. It's very hard on the horses, running them like that; and she might hurt herself. I don't know what's got into her lately."
"It's hard to grow up," Janet said.
"I'm afraid .... First Tom and now Sally. This terrible country—"
"Where's Dad?" Janet asked.
"In his office. Tom and Mr. Mort are with him. There's something wrong, I know it; I could hear from their voices .... Janet, did you speak to Tom? About the gun? He should not wear a gun in the house! If he had any consideration . . Anywhere else, if he must, but not in the house! Please speak to him."
"All right, Mother."
"Well, I'm glad you had a good time in town. I think I'll go to bed now; I'm a little tired. Please tell Sally not to drive up like that again; I always think it means another . . . Good night, dear."
"Good night, Mother."
Janet watched the thin, gray figure glide silently out of the room, and wondered if she was an unnatural child— but it was hard to feel a strong bond of love with someone who never looked at you directly. Sympathy, yes, but not "love, particularly when that person had, since you could remember, left you with all the decisions and responsibilities... Speak to Tom, dear, she thought wryly. Speak to Sally, dear. She shook her head quickly, and walked across the big room, knocked on a door, and went inside. Her father was there, behind his desk.
"Birdshot," he was saying. "Birdshot!"
Then he looked around and saw her in the doorway, and got up and walked over quickly, and kissed her dutifully on the forehead. It always surprised her to discover anew what a small man he actually was. Even in his highheeled boots, he was no more than half a head taller than she. Every time she was away from the ranch for a few days, and heard the fear and respect with which other people referred to him, she came back vaguely expecting to find a giant figure awaiting her—something like one of those great equestrian statues that towns like to erect in the public square. Instead, there was always the same, sparse, wiry little man with the odd greenish eyes that she had not inherited, although Sally and Tom had. She could remember when her father's hair, like theirs, had been red, but the whitening of it had not diminished the impression he gave of furious and unbounded energy.
He turned, placing his arm about her shoulders possessively, and faced the others. "Birdshot!" he cried. "I send a crew to do a job, and they come crawling home with their tails between their legs. I ask them, did they meet a regiment of cavalry or the Texas Rangers? No, it was a tenderfoot—one tenderfoot! A photographer, by God; a little, old, itinerant camera artist with a fancy twoshoot gun loaded, by God, with birdshot!" He drew a harsh breath. "Jack, I thought this Hankey was supposed to be a tough lad."
"He is, Mr. Justice," Jack Mort said dryly, "when it's Hankey doing the supposing."
"So he's lying on his face in the bunkhouse this minute with the cook picking little pieces of lead out of his rump! And what happened to you, anyway?" He looked at the two men standing before him like sheepish schoolboys. "Both of you!"
It was his
son who answered angrily, "It wasn't my fault, Dad! I was all ready to take him, but Jack—"
"I wasn't talking to you," his father said sharply, and, Janet thought, a little unfairly. "Jack was in charge. I'm asking him."
Jack Mort's face was a narrow, dark mask. Janet could never help a sense of dread when she looked at that face, although the man had never been anything but respectful toward her, even kind and helpful at times. Yet she knew that he had earned a bloody reputation before coming here; and it always seemed a little like keeping a carnivorous beast in the house for protection—you could never be quite sure that it would not turn and rend the wrong person.
"I wasn't sure the man we wanted was still in the wagon," Mort said. "The tracks weren't easy to read. It was a gamble and I didn't like either the odds or the payoff."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"For the time being," Mort said, "yes."
"What does that mean?"
"With your permission, Mr. Justice," Mort said, "I'd like to ride back to town in the morning."
"What good will that do? Even if you meet up with young Grace, you can't touch him now. It's not like you'd caught him redhanded making away with Flying V beef, or even tracked him from the spot. The trail is cold. All you've got now is some old marks in the dust and a dead horse with an unknown brand. "
Tom Justice said quickly, "Well, if you hadn't hanged that Mex rider we caught, we'd have had a witness!"
Janet turned to look at her father, aghast. "Dad! You hanged a man!"
Dan Justice made an awkward gesture with his free hand. "Ah, hell, Princess, it was one of Martinez's comic opera rustlers; and, goddam it, I'm sick and tired of being a meal ticket for every hungry greaser within a hundred miles—no, I take that back. Martinez can swagger around on horseback in his Silvermounted saddle playing Robin Hood from now until hell freezes over, as long as he sticks to taking beef strictly for eating purposes, for people who belong here in the valley. But when he starts getting ambitious, when he starts importing riders, when he starts rustling for his pocketbook as well as his belly, then, by God, I'll knock it out of him and his outfit in short order, if I have to hang them six to a tree like bunches of grapes."
The Two-Shoot Gun Page 3