The Two-Shoot Gun

by Donald Hamilton

  Burdick was silent. A couple of men came into the room and found places at a table. A Mexican girl came out of the kitchen to wait on them.

  "Mrs. Betterson took me in," Laura said. "Her husband had a ranch northwest of Flying V, up near the Grace outfit. After he was killed, she moved to town and built this hotel. That was three or four years before my father was . . . When it happened, she brought me here to live. I could never bring myself to do anything with the gallery. I kept hoping ... hoping he'd come back. Yesterday afternoon, when you asked about buying the place, I was going to refuse."

  "And now?" he asked.

  "I'm not a very nice person," she said. "Hate 'doesn't make you gentle and kind, Mr. Burdick. If I were a kindly person, I would refuse to sell you the gallery. I'd advise you to hitch your mules to your wagon and get out of town just as fast as possible. Since . . . since there's very little kindness in me, I'll sell you the place at any figure you name, because of what you did yesterday. It will probably get you killed, Mr. Burdick. I just hope you do a lot of damage before you die!"

  8

  Laura Nelson walked quickly into the hotel kitchen, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. For a brief moment, she was not aware of the familiar warmth and odor of the place. Her eyes were tightly shut and her hands were clenched into fists, while seven years of rage and hatred surged through her.

  "Take it easy," a voice said, "take it easy, Laurie. Getting mad don't help much."

  She opened her eyes and saw the tall, blond figure of Lou Grace standing before her. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "Romero sent word you'd got out of town."

  "I did," he said. "but I had to come back."

  "Had to?"

  He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her face for a moment, smiling; then he kissed her. "For that," he said.

  A protective instinct that always came into play when this man was near prevented her from letting him see how deeply the kiss had stirred her, She freed herself, and touched her hair into place. "A long ride," she said coolly, "for small pay."

  "I had to get the taste of something out of my mouth."

  "Oh," she said. "You were up to Flying V. You saw that child again."

  "Yes. It's a dirty damn business, Laurie."

  "She's a Justice!" Laura heard and hated the suddenly hard and ugly sound of her own voice. "All I regret is that it's not the older sister. It would be a fitting punishment for what she did to Dad!" She hesitated. "Did the girl have anything to tell you?"

  "A little. She'd done some listening. Her dad's still stubbornly set on taking care of me legally, which means I'm safe on the street until he finds new evidence. Mort's learned I've been talking to Price and Stuart and Primrose. And they're all stirred up about this Burdick man out at Flying V; they suspect him of being a hired gunman in disguise, which is kind of a joke under the circumstances, eh, Laurie?"

  "Don't talk so loud," Laura said. "He's out in the dining room."

  "I know; I heard you talking."

  "If they think that, maybe we can take advantage of it." Grace frowned. "What do you think of him?"

  "Well, he has a careless and lighthearted way about him most of the time, but . No, I can't tell you what kind of a man he is, not yet, Lou."

  Grace was still frowning. "I don't like it. He saved my life yesterday. It's poor payment—"

  "We can't afford to throw away help that drops right into our laps," Laura said. "Anyway, he's already in trouble no matter what we do or say, through no fault of ours. Put a man or two to keep an eye on him and give him help if he needs it, and we'll be doing him a favor instead of otherwise."

  "Yes," Grace said slowly, "I reckon so. Well, I brought a couple of men in town just in case there might be something for them to do." He paused and gave her a brief sideways glance. "One of them is a fellow named Bascom, Cal Bascom. You might keep the name in mind. I've been keeping him under wraps up at the ranch. He's supposed to be pretty good although he don't look like much. With him on the job, Flying V won't swallow up friend Burdick without getting a bad case of indigestion.... Well, I'd best be going."

  Without warning, he seized her and kissed her, this time without restraint or gentleness, forcing her head back, his lips hungry and demanding. The sudden onslaught caught her by surprise, and she felt all her careful defenses go down in utter ruin... When he released her at last, she turned quickly away from him and busied herself smoothing her dress and hair. She heard him laugh softly. "That's better," he murmured. "That's much better, honey."

  "Don't call me honey," she 'said without looking around. "It makes me feel like a dancehall girl."

  "Keep remembering that you're a woman," he said, "not just an angel of vengeance."

  "Lou."

  "Yes?"

  She could not look at him, and she did not want to ask the question, but she could not help herself. "That girl. How . . . What payment does she exact for her information?"

  She could feel his laughter die abruptly. "That's a hell of a thing to ask, Laurie," he said. "It was your idea in the first place, not mine."

  She heard him go away from her, and did not move until the alley door had closed behind him.

  9

  Burdick was finishing his breakfast when Laura Nelson came back to his table. He saw that she had removed her apron. There was a little more color in her face than he remembered, and he wondered idly what had put it there—the heat of the kitchen stove, perhaps.

  "No, don't get up," she said. "Finish your coffee, Mr. Burdick. I'm going to my room to get something to put on my head and the key to the gallery—if you're still interested, that is."

  He laughed. "You aren't a very persuasive saleswoman, Miss Nelson, but I'm still interested."

  "I'll meet you by the desk in ten minutes."

  He watched her go through the doors, tall and square shouldered in the faded blue gingham dress. When he came out of the dining room, Mrs. Betterson was at the desk. She looked up as he approached.

  "I hope you found your room comfortable, Mr. Burdick."

  "It was fine," he said, "and nobody shot me in my bed." The levity caused her expression to change slightly, her eyes reproaching him, as had Laura Nelson's earlier.

  "You don't know what we're up against here," she said. "You don't know what you're up against •if you stay, as we hope you will. But I don't want you to underestimate the danger. Coming from the east, you can have no conception... I did not believe it myself, when we first settled here, Mr. Burdick. That Indians could be completely without pity or conscience or human feeling, that I was prepared to accept; but I could not conceive that there would be white men more ruthless than any painted savage.... Did Laura tell you how my husband died?"

  "She said he was killed. She gave no details."

  "He went hunting with a friend, Mr. Burdick. The friend brought his young son along. The boy wounded a deer, and they tracked it onto what Mr. Justice considered his range. There were no fences in this country then, you understand—there are few now—and game had always been considered free for the taking anywhere. But it seems that, having lost a few cattle, Mr. Justice had decided to close Flying V to all trespassers. I think he had posted a notice to this effect in town, but we didn't get to town very often in those days; and I'll admit that even if he'd known of the royal edict, Hank—my husband—would probably have disregarded it, trailing a wounded buck. After all, Dan Justice claimed to be his friend; they had fought in the war together!"

  She looked down, and riffled the pages of the guest register aimlessly. Her voice went on: "They found the deer dead and were dressing it out. The boy was over the ridge, bringing up the horses. He heard shots, and rode over the top to see ... to see Dan Justice and half a dozen men standing over the bodies of his dad and and my husband. The murderers opened fire on the boy, but he rode for his life and managed to get away. You've met him, young Louis Grace. He's grown into a fine young man, but I always think of him as a towheaded boy. Louis and
Laura have been a great comfort to me, almost as if they were my own children, I hope I've been able to help them a little, in return, ... Good morning, Howard."

  A man had paused by the desk. Burdick glanced at him. He was well and soberly dressed, and while his dark hair had receded at the temples and was quite scanty on top of his head, he had compensated for this with an elaborate system of mustachios, whiskers, and sideburns, glossy and curling and luxuriant. A heavy gold watch and chain made a gleaming arc across his ample vest.

  "Mr. Burdick," Mrs. Betterson said, "this is Mr.' Wellesley. You've undoubtedly noticed his bank, down at the corner. If you need money, Mr. Wellesley is the man to see."

  The banker laughed, and shook Burdick's hand. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Burdick. If you should decide to establish yourself here, be assured that our institution is at your service."

  Mrs. Betterson said, "I suppose your household's in a turmoil these days, Howard."

  "It is indeed," Wellesley said. "Why do you think I'm here? The house is being cleaned for the great occasion. It's a fine state of things when a man can't have breakfast in his own home!"

  He laughed, and went on into the dining room. Mrs. Betterson said, "His daughter's getting married next week, a lovely girl.... Here's Laura now."

  Burdick turned to see Laura Nelson coming toward him, swinging a blue sunbonnet by its ribbons. She put it on as they went outside together. They walked across the green, shaded plaza, at first without speaking. Then the girl said abruptly, "I'm sorry I made such a scene in there; I hope I didn't spoil your breakfast." Burdick laughed and shook his head. She went on with sudden fierceness: "I know you think we're exaggerating, but you'll see, you'll see!" She laughed quickly. "There I go again!" Her laughter faded. "Did you ever hate anybody, Mr. Burdick?"

  "Yes," he said.

  She glanced at him swiftly, started to ask a question, but checked herself, searching his face with her eyes. "Of course," she said. "l should have known. That's why— She did not complete the sentence. Presently she said quietly, "Then you know. You know what it's like."

  "Yes," he said. "l know."

  The sun hit them hard as they left the shade of the trees. In the street, the dust was soft, powdery, and almost ankle deep. Laura picked up her skirts.

  "In July and August," she said, "it rains for days sometimes, and we wade around in mud up to our knees. . . . Well, here we are. I don't want you to expect too much, Mr. Burdick. It was ... it was a nice place when my father was here. We'd worked hard to make it so. But that was seven years ago, and I haven't 'had either the time or the money to keep it in repair." She was struggling with the rusty padlock. "If you decide to take it, we can get you all the workmen you need to fix it up. Everybody in town has worked for Mrs. Betterson at one time or another. And if you want a native woman to cook and clean for you ... Well, I thought we were going to have to shoot it off!" She laughed, unhooking the recalcitrant padlock, open at last. "As you can see, I haven't been in here for some time."

  She waited for him to push the door open, and preceded him inside, removing her bonnet. The roof had leaked here; and mice had been at the furniture. Burdick walked forward to look at a framed sample on the wall, blowing the dust from the glass. This would be Nelson's best work, he reflected, placed here to impress customers. He moved on to the next photograph, and started to shake his head, but checked himself, remembering that the girl would be watching for his reaction.

  Nelson had apparently been an unimaginative man with barely adequate technique—perhaps Janet Justice had had good reason for rejecting her pictures, Burdick found himself thinking wryly. Somehow the story he had heard from Laura had not corresponded at all with the impression he had received from his brief glimpse of Dan Justice's older daughter, the evening before. The younger one, yes; she might well have a wicked temper to go with that carroty hair, but there had been an air of gentleness about the older girl ...

  Burdick dismissed the thought irritably. Of all people, he told himself, he should know the folly of judging a woman by her looks. In any case, the incident was seven years old; Janet Justice would have been little more than a child at the time, with perhaps, a child's impulsive and selfish nature ... The fact remained that Laura's father had obviously been no great shakes as a photographer. True, seven years ago he would still have been working under the handicaps of the old, slow, collodion wetplate process; but this process had produced magnificent results in the hands of good operators—results that, for richness and detail, had not yet been equaled on the new, faster, and much more convenient dry plates.

  No, for a man's showpieces, the cream of his work, these samples were embarrassingly poor. The landscapes were flat and dull, the male portraits were stiff and staring, and even the female portraits which, judging by their preponderance, Nelson seemed to have considered something of a specialty, were awkwardly posed and harshly lighted. The poor man would have been much better off doing tintypes, Burdick reflected, quick, cheap, and profitable.

  As if to echo his thought, Laura said, "My father started out as a traveling tintype artist. A dollar a picture when times were good, I remember; less when they weren't.

  Usually they weren't. We'd stay in each town a week or two until the customers stopped coming in. During the war, he did very well around the army camps. I was quite young then, of course, but I remember the uniforms. All the boys wanted their likenesses to send home. That was how he got enough money.... My mother had just died, and he felt that the life we led was responsible. He told me so, when I 'was old enough to understand. He wanted something better for me, he'd say. So we came here to stay... The operating room is through that door."

  Burdick opened the door she indicated. Here, light streamed through the great, damaged skylight, A moldering camera stood among the broken glass that had fallen from above, facing a rusty headclamp on its heavy iron stand, and a fluted white column of wood and plaster, badly cracked, in back of which was set up a canvas background with flaking paint, representing a scene of classical ruins. It was easy to visualize, even after seven years, the pose the photographer must have had in mind: there had been a time when no gallery photograph was complete without a pillar and a few stylized ruins.

  To one side were the ingredients of a conventional chair and table arrangement for posing a seated figure, with a vase of withered flowers still on the ornate table, the veneer of which was peeling. One corner of the room held an assortment of properties: backgrounds representing woodland scenes and ancient castles, Grecian urns large and small, and additional headclamps for holding the sitter immobile during the long wetplate exposures....

  "I didn't realize. . . " Laura said. "There isn't much here that you can use, is there?"

  "It's a good big room," Burdick said, "and the light is excellent."

  "The darkcloset is over there," she said, pointing.

  "There are three rooms in back; two small bedrooms and a kitchen. Do you want to look at them?"

  He nodded, and they went through the living quarters and returned, at last, to the anteroom. Burdick strolled around the room idly, trying to imagine how it would look cleaned up, with adequate furniture and no boards on the windows. "

  "There's a good well in back," Laura said, watching him. "We never lacked for water, even in the driest years. That's important in this country."

  Burdick said, "I think the place would suit me very well. What price were you thinking of?"

  She shook her head. "I told you. Whatever you feel like paying."

  He said, smiling, "That's a poor way to do business."

  "If it was just a matter of business," she said, "l wouldn't sell. I ... feel a little guilty about letting you have it at any price. If you should be killed, I'd blame myself."

  "In that case," he said, "I'll have to do my best not to let it happen."

  She said, "You're a funny sort of person. You say things like that, dry and humorous, and you smile and laugh, but—"

  "But
what?"

  "But your eyes never laugh, Mr. Burdick. What brought you out here, anyway?" Her voice had become a little sharp and insistent. "Oh, I know you're too good for a small-town gallery like this; I saw the way you looked at Dad's pictures! Well, he was a kind man, Mr. Burdick, and he did as well as he could, even if you don't think much ..." Her voice trailed away. "I'm sorry," she breathed after a moment.

  They faced each other in silence; then Burdick said, "I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to seem critical.... I'll talk to Mr. Wellesley at the bank. He'll tell me what local property is worth.... The gun is loaded," he said quickly. She had absently picked up the shotgun he had set aside. He took it from her, withdrew the shells, and gave it back, since she seemed to want to look at it further. "It's a beautiful piece," she said.

  He watched her turn toward the open doorway to examine the engraving. The strong light from the street threw her features into sharp relief, and brought out the fine shape of her head, revealed by the severely drawn back hair. Burdick thought that he would have to photograph her some time, if She was willing.