She said shortly, "Never mind Grace. Tell us what happened."
Hankey said, "Well, I wouldn't have given a nickel for your brother's life, Miss Justice. He wasn't going to crawl, that was certain; and the tenderfoot was all set to pull the trigger—you could see it in his face—when suddenly he changes his mind, tosses the gun to Grace, and goes for Tom with his bare hands. It was brutal, ma'am. Greenhorn or no, that's a big and powerful man; and the lad never had a chance; and all the time Grace was holding a gun on us. Anyway, Mort had given us the peace sign, don't ask me why."
"You didn't try to stop it?"
"I'm not a man to disobey orders from the riding boss, Miss Justice; but I can tell you it went against the grain to sit there and watch this big fellow beat young Tom within an inch of his life." Hankey hesitated. "If you ask me, Mort's making a bad mistake, letting this Burdick get away with it. He's giving folks in the valley all kinds of independent notions. Stuart and Primrose were standing right alongside him at the end, bold as brass, along with Grace and a couple of the saddlebums he uses for riders. It wasn't so long ago we had those little ranchers trained so they wouldn't even dare look at us crosswise. If you ask —me"
Dan Justice said quietly, "All right, Pete."
"Sure, Mr. Justice, sure. But the way Mort's handling this—"
Dan Justice said, "Never mind. You have somebody put your saddle on a fresh horse while you grab yourself a bite to eat. Then I want you to ride on up to the Meadows. Leave two good men to watch the herd, and bring the rest here."
"Okay, Mr. Justice."
"That's all, Pete. Get going."
"Yes, sir."
Dan Justice watched the man hurry toward the barn; then he turned quickly to face his wife who had come out of the house.
"Everything is ready," she said. "Daniel?"
"Yes?"
"If ... if my boy is badly hurt, it's the fault of what you've taught him. Don't expect me to forgive you."
Dan Justice's voice was level: "I have long since given up expecting that, in any case, madam."
Janet, standing near by, wished herself far away where she could not hear the cold, controlled voices of these two people to whom she owed her existence. It was impossible to leave without making her disapproval obvious to them, so she stepped forward and touched her mother's arm. "Tom can't be too badly hurt if they're bringing him home on horseback," she said. "Anyway, it's not as if he'd been in a gunfight—"
Her mother gave no sign of hearing what she was saying; and Janet took her hand away and was silent. Suddenly Sally took two steps to the edge of the porch and peered into the darkness—the child had always had eyes like a cat, Janet reflected wryly. She could see nothing, but her sister cried, "Here they come!"
A few minutes later, the little troop was in plain sight; then it was coming through the gate and pulling up in front of the house. They heard Tom's voice: "Leave me alone, damn it! I don't need any help; I'm all right, I tell you!"
His shadowy figure struggled out of the saddle unassisted, and paused to throw a borrowed coat up to one of the still-mounted men. He came into the light, walking stiffly and with obvious effort. His left arm was in a sling of white cloth that looked painfully immaculate in contrast to the rest of him. Some effort had been made to clean him up, but he was still dirty, bloody, and in rags.
Janet heard her mother's audible gasp. Sally's reaction was different; the younger girl tried to control herself, but could not repress a choked giggle. Her brother stopped and glared at her.
Sally said, "Looks like you got tough with the wrong man for a change, brother dear!"
Her mother cried, "Sally!"
The girl said impatiently, "Oh, Mother! Here we're all standing around waiting to minister to his broken body; and all that's happened, obviously, is that for once in his life Mr. Fast Draw Justice has gone and got himself a good thrashing. It isn't as if he hadn't been asking for it for years."
Mrs. Justice cried, "Sally, I forbid—"
Dan Justice said, "That's enough out of you, young lady. Tom what's the matter with that arm?"
Sally, irrepressible, said, "Why, the photographer-man pulled it off to beat him with, of course!"
Tom said angrily, "I've had about all I—"
"Stop it, both of you!" Dan Justice said sharply. "Tom, I asked you a question."
"My shoulder was dislocated," the boy said. "Doc Pardee snapped it back into place." He grimaced. "I hate to admit it, sir, but Sally's about right: the fellow practically did pull my arm off. I didn't mean ... My God, it was like being mauled by a wounded grizzly! He'd have killed me if the Nelson girl hadn't—"
His voice trailed off suddenly. His mother ran to him as he brushed a hand across his forehead, no longer steady on his feet. She cried accusingly, "Are you going to keep him standing here talking? Janet, help me get him inside."
"I can walk," Tom said stiffly, and did so; but once in the house, out of sight of the crew, he accepted their help and subsided on the sofa in a docile manner. "Janet," he whispered, as Mrs. Justice turned away to get a pan of water.
"Yes, Tom," she said. "What is it?"
"Janet, he was going to shoot me down in cold blood! If I'd known what he was like, I'd never ... That's a terrible man when he gets mad!" He closed his eyes. "Did I tell you Laura Nelson saved my life? What do you think of her saving someone named Justice after the way she's always ... I wonder ..."
When Janet came outside, Sally was waiting by the door. "How is he?" the younger girl whispered. "Is he going to be all right?"
"Yes," Janet said.
"I'm sorry, I said ... I don't know what makes me . . . But it was funny, after all the swaggering he's done. Wasn't it?"
Janet did not answer, but walked forward to report Tom's condition to her father, but he was talking to Jack Mort, and the conversation was not of a peaceful nature.
Mort was speaking: "I repeat, I will have no part in it, Mr. Justice. With all due respect, it's a damnfool idea." Dan Justice's eyes widened, "Why, Tom has it right. You're afraid of this man! You watch him beat up my son without moving a finger—"
"I'm not afraid of any man," Mort said calmly. "l am afraid of trying to talk to this one, or of threatening him or handing him an ultimatum of any kind. I have seen enough of him now to know that my first impression was correct. I know now what he made me think of. I saw Doc Holliday once before he went to Tombstone, Mr. Justice. Oh, this is not Holliday in disguise, but it's the same type of man. Holliday was a dentist, remember? That sounds harmless enough, does it not? This man's a photographer. It means nothing. Something has turned him into a walking shotgun, looking for a target. Leave him alone!"
Janet turned away, walked slowly to the end of the veranda, and stood there waiting for them to finish. She found herself thinking of what Mort had said, and of the big man with the beautiful shotgun she had seen for a moment on the street in Santa Clara, who had not looked a bit like a bloodthirsty killer. . .. Presently, she saw Mort stride away to his horse and ride to the bunkhouse. A little later, he appeared with a bedroll, which he tied to the rear of his saddle. Then he mounted and rode away into the darkness.
Strangely, she discovered a feeling of regret as she watched him go. He was a cold and ruthless man, no doubt; yet she found, now that he was leaving the ranch in anger, that she'd had complete confidence in his loyalty and, also, in his good sense. He had made a solid, sober counterweight to her brother's recklessness and her father's temper. Now he was gone. She sighed, and moved forward to speak to Dan Justice who was already telling the men to be ready to ride as soon as the rest of the crew arrived from the meadows.
14
It was quite dark when Burdick came out of the gallery, and there was a gusty wind blowing under a cloudless sky full of stars that looked too bright to be real. He locked the door behind him and, with the shotgun over his arm, walked away in the direction of the plaza. Crossing this, he entered the lobby of the Territorial Hotel which, shabby by day, lo
oked more hospitable and cheerful by lamplight.
Laura Nelson was behind the desk, in one of her crisp gingham dresses; and the soft light lent a gentleness to her features and a golden luster to her hair. She smiled at him as he came up, with new approval and respect in her eyes. "You are a surprising man, Mr. Burdick," she said. "I did not think you . . ." She hesitated, flushing slightly. "You have such a civilized look. I did not think there was so much of the savage in you." When he did not speak, she said, "I should not have interfered."
"I'm glad you did," Burdick said. "I'm afraid I rather lost control of Actually, I suppose he's just a boy; trying to compete with grown men a little too soon."
"He's old enough to wear a gun and use it," Laura said. "We call that a man, out here. He's old enough to drink and swear and carry on with women. He has killed one man; he's old enough to be killed, if he asks for it!" Her voice was suddenly harsh.
Burdick asked, "If you feel like that, why did you stop me?"
She looked down, and was silent for a measurable length of time. When she let him see her eyes again, they were not quite candid. "I don't know," she said almost inaudibly. "I don't really know. It was just .... an impulse." She looked up quickly. "It's a little late for supper, but if you want something to eat, I'll run out into the kitchen and tell the cook." She laughed. "He's back, thank heaven, minus half an ear that somebody carved off in a friendly fight."
Burdick said, "Well, I didn't get around to cooking for myself this evening, so I'd appreciate it, if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all. I'll have him bring it into the bar— room for you. There are some men in there who'd like to meet you. I promised I'd send you in to see them, if you came. They're at the corner table." There was a little pause. "Alex."
"Yes?"
"You're safe here. When you leave, be careful."
She seemed about to say more, but checked herself, slipped from behind the desk, and walked quickly away. He watched her go, holding herself vary straight as was her habit—a rather attractive girl, in a restrained way, but also, he could not help thinking, a rather enigmatic one. It occurred to him that he would not like to have Laura Nelson hating him.
Entering the barroom through the doors at the end of the lobby, he saw first the young man, Henry Flack, who had served him in the general store down the street. Young Flack was leaning against the bar, clearly somewhat drunk. At the round table in the corner, three men were sitting. Burdick had seen them all before. One wag the solid, grayhaired rancher, Jack Price, who had come up to introduce himself that morning. Burdick did not know the names of Price's two companions, but both had been among the little group of men who, under Lou Grace's orders, had closed in about him protectively after the fight.
He started in that direction, but Henry Flack swung about as he went past, and spoke in a rather slurred and uncertain voice: "Mr. Burdick, you probably don't remember me—"
"But I do, Mr. Flack," Burdick said, coming to a halt. "How are you this evening?"
"I am drunk this evening," Flack said with dignity, "as should be obvious to anybody. And I want to buy you a drink, Mr. Burdick, and offer you my sinsh . . . sincerest congratulations. And then I'd like to punch you in the nose—but I won't."
"I'm glad to hear that," Burdick said gravely.
"I'd like to punch you in the nose for showing us all up for fools, all of us fine brave citizens of Santa Clara. Here we've been walking softly every time that young redhaired bullyboy was in town—yes, Mr. Justice; certainly, Mr. Tom; excuse me, Mr. Justice—and then you come along and take his pretty gun away and throw him out of the Palace like a baby! I am not a drinking man, sir, as you can see from my condition after only three ... Well, never mind the exact number. Maybe it was four. Tonight I have to drown my shame, Mr. Burdick. Why? Because, don't you see, it could have been me going into that bar after him! It should have been me! I have a perfectly good twelve-gauge Greener at home. I'm a big man, almost as big as you. And still I wait for a stranger to do what I ... Ah, have a drink! Manuel, give my friend, Mr. Burdick, a drink. I'll have one with him."
The bartender said, "You should take it easy, Señior Flack. Your father will be looking for you."
"Not in here," Henry Flack said. "He'll never look in here. I never touch liquor and he knows it. I'm a good boy and a dutiful son; and I'll make a wonderful hush ... husband for a sweet and beautiful girl . . . . You should have killed him, Mr. Burdick! He's no good, no good at all. What is it that attracts good women to men who are absolutely no ... What do they see in ...?"
His voice trailed away. A startled expression came to his face, which changed color abruptly. He turned away without apology and stumbled toward the alley door. The bartender hurried around to guide him clear of the premises. The door closed behind them.
After a little, Burdick picked up the drink that had been set before him, and tasted it casually. In the mirror, he saw Jack Price rise from the corner table and come across the room. The rancher glanced toward the alley door, and grinned.
"I would not want to have his head tomorrow. morning. It is the first time, to my knowledge that whisky has crossed his lips. His father, who's a pompous fool, mentions the fact often, with considerable pride. Well, I'm glad to see the boy show a little independence, even though his stomach isn't quite up to the task."
"What set him off?" Burdick asked.
Price shrugged. "He's to marry Howard Wellesley's daughter next week. There have been rumors that she was looking favorably upon young Justice—the engagement came as a surprise to everyone. A pleasant surprise to the parents, I would say, although Howard tries to maintain a neutral attitude, as befits his position at the bank." He jerked his head toward the corner. "Would you care to join us, Mr. Burdick? Some friends of mine would like to meet you."
Burdick nodded, and followed the rancher between the tables. The two men in the corner rose as he approached. "This is Lem Stuart," Price said, indicating the taller of the two, a thin beanpole of a man. "And Aaron Primrose. We've all three got ranches to the south, which gives us problems in common, as you no doubt already know."
Primrose was a chunky man of medium height, with a full, grizzled beard. He shook hands with Burdick and seated himself, gesturing toward a chair. "I reckon there's no harm in us meeting like this, now," he said, grinning. "Dan Justice must have a pretty clear idea where you stand by this time, haha."
Stuart said, in an irritable voice, "Well, I still don't understand the purpose of all this playacting. It's just a waste of time and money, as I see it."
Burdick sat down slowly, saying nothing. The conversation was not making much sense, but there was always the hope that it would improve in intelligibility as it went along. He drank from his glass and felt the warmth of the liquor go through him, relaxing him and reminding him that he was hungry. As if in answer to his thought, a dark and piratical looking individual with a bandaged head came marching up to the table and thrust a plate and a cup of coffee before him. "For the señiorita I do this," the man said. "Only for the señiorita! Next time you eat when I cook, no?"
He strode off. Stuart was speaking again, in the complaining voice that seemed to be his characteristic tone• "Yes, it's all •very gratifying, no doubt, and it was a pleasure to see the cub pulled off his high horse and handed the licking his pa should have given him ten years ago, but I don't pay out good money for pleasure, gentlemen."
Burdick began to eat. Jack Price looked at him and said, a little apologetically, "I'm sure Mr. Burdick knows what he's about. We did not ask him over to criticize his methods, merely to let him know that we all plan to be in town tonight, and for the next day or two, if he should need us."
Burdick nodded, and continued to eat. These men seemed to be acting certain assumptions of which he was ignorant; they seemed to be crediting him with information he did not have. Under the circumstances, it was clearly best to say as little as possible.
Primrose asked, "Where's Grace tonight? That
young man's getting a little too independent for my tastes." "Give him credit," Price said. "He's been conducting this fight since he was thirteen years old, With little help from us. He can hardly be blamed for taking a proprietary interest in it now."
Stuart said sourly, "Perhaps if he'd been less stubbornly set on his vengeance we would not be under the necessity of fighting now. It galls me to have to look to the likes of Martinez and his outlaws for help to save my own range."
Price shook his head and sighed. "Once I thought this valley was big enough for us all, Betterson and Johnny Grace included. Even after Dan Justice made his with the Salazars, buying up the old, forgotten grant that gave him the heart of the valley, I thought there still would be room for everybody. I didn't believe he was serious when he started accusing us, his friends, some of whom had fought with him in the war, of stealing—"
"He was never my friend," Stuart said, "and I don't believe he ever made the accusation in good faith. It was always a sly excuse to drive us back under the guise of protecting his own herds. He hasn't got the nerve to kill us openly, as he did Betterson and Grace, so he'd like to push us all south into the desert. Well, I've retreated as far as I'm going to."
"We're all agreed on that," Price said. He turned toward Burdick who was finishing his coffee. "I'd like you to understand, Mr. Burdick, that we're all men who are in the habit of taking care of our own troubles. Speaking for myself, I've never before hired a man to do a dirty chore for me that I wouldn't do myself. However, I know my limitations; and fellows like Jack Mort are out of my class, But I'll do what I can, and so will these men. If you need us, we'll be around."
Burdick nodded, as if in understanding, and rose. "Very well, gentlemen," he said, and turned, and left the room.
He stood for a moment in the lobby, letting the barroom doors swing closed behind him, and scratched his head thoughtfully. If he' had got the drift of the conversation correctly, the three men in the barroom considered him a hired gunman in their pay. It would have been easy enough to disillusion them, but before he rejected their proffered help it might be well to find out just how many other people in the region had somehow got hold of the same idea. . . . He looked around. Laura Nelson was not in sight. He debated whether to make an effort to find her. He needed information and advice from somebody.
The Two-Shoot Gun Page 8