Jim Gorman's Brand/Chapter 3

that afternoon, riding back to the county seat, Gorman stopped again to water the mare at the spring where he had encountered Dave and Curly. The fence was still down. Arrived at Vacada, he wired to the commissioner of the general land office at the State capital an inquiry concerning certain descriptions of the southeastern corner of the B-in-a-box holdings. This filed, he returned to the jail and found his deputy yawning in the office over the local newspaper.

“Ennythin’ stirrin’?” Pete asked his chief eagerly. “The town’s fit to be buried. Plumb peacable. Nothin’ in the paper.”

"I’ve got a job for you, Pete. I want you to go up to the Jordan cabin, next to the Two-Bar. There’s a woman there Bradey’s foreman tried to run off this noon. Bud Jarrett and me happened erlong. There's a dead hawss up there you’ll have to bury an’ you may have to help nurse a young buckaroo by the name of Jake. He’s got a weak lung.”

Pete’s eyes sparkled but he affected disgust.

“You git all the fun an’ I wipe the dishes,” he said. “Well, I guess I kin handle a few chores an’ amuse the cuss. Do I get that buckskin of yores?”

“Yep.”

“When do I start?”

“You’ve started.”

“Wait till I ile my gun. What is she—widder woman?”

“Her husband ain’t bin seen since a week or more. I’m goin’ to try an’ git some trace of him down town. I want you should see she ain’t annoyed, Pete. I’ve got a hunch her husband ain’t goin’ to be back in a hurry.”

Pete nodded. There was no fear of his gossip on that detail. And he was exactly fitted for it. Not too old to be spry—too old to sleep heavily, Gorman was assured that no one would interfere with the cabin, night or day, with out danger of flying lead and Pete was a dead shot, if not quite so quick on the draw as he once had been. Gorman added a few instructions about the spring and the fences.

“You might find out what stock they’ve got, Pete—or what they used to have. I reckon they were driven off when the wire was cut.”

“Then they’re likely gone,” said Pete wisely.

“Mebbe. You git a good description of them. An’, if she asks you ennything erbout some groceries, you kin say you understand her old man ordered ’em sent up from the store two or three days ago an’ this was the first chance they had to make delivery. No sense in her worryin’ too much, one way or another. She’s got a sick kid, too.”

“What do you think I am—the Red Cross?” grinned Pete as he buckled on his gun. Is this visit of mine offishul?”

“You go as deputy sheriff.”

Pete took his star from his pants pocket, burnished it with breath and the sleeve of his shirt and pinned it prominently on his suspenders.

“I’m off,” he announced. “Forgot to tell you King Bradey run in erbout an hour ago. I put it on the pad. Said he’d like to see you in the mornin’. He was comin’ in erbout eleven o’clock.”

“Soon as all that?” said Gorman to himself as Pete passed out to the rear. Ten minutes later the old rider went up the street on Gorman’s second string horse, born to the saddle, years younger than when on his feet.

Gorman sat down at his desk and arranged a few papers. Presently he picked up one infolded in a wrapper. It was a farm paper, famous in the East for its wide circulation and conservative statements. It had the annual habit of including an extra subscription for every one renewed, to be sent to some friend of the regular reader. An acquaintance of the sheriff, remembering a trip West and certain courtesies, had extended the yearly privilege to Gorman.

He invariably found some interesting articles, though the general run of farming information had little to do with Western methods. He was about to close the office and go to supper when some illustrations caught his eye. He read the text attached to them with increasing interest—once—then twice again. His eyes narrowed and kindled behind the half closed lids. His whole face lit up, lips tight closed, little muscles showing in the jaw, the nostrils dilated. There was something about it of the hawk about to swoop, ready to leave its eyrie and take wing, or of some predatory animal to whom the scent of worth While quarry comes faintly down the wind.

“If that’s so—and it’s easy tested out—if that’s so,” he said aloud, “and there's enny crooked work for’ard, I’ll set a trap for them they’ll never git clear from till they’re behind bars.

“Funny no one ever thought of it before. An’ it took an Easterner to discover it. A man who keeps a dairy an’ peddles milk. I don’t know how practical it ’ud be on a big scale, but it’s sure got tremendous possibilities. As for what I’d use it for, I’ll eat horn-toad stew if ennything cu’d be better.

“Don’t suppose there’s another copy of this paper comes inter the county. That’s plumb lucky, too.”

In his enthusiasm he read the article through once more before he locked the paper up in the safe and went out to supper. He passed the doctor’s flivver and the physician hailed him and parked at the curb.

“Everything O. K., doc?” he asked.

“I guess so. The child will be all right in a day or two. The chap you perforated ought to pull through. He hasn’t lived long enough to entirely poison his system with rotten liquor. He’ll be telling all his secrets before long. Really ought to have a nurse. Man, if possible.”

“I’ve sent Pete.”

“Good. I lied about those groceries, knowing you. Said the grocer asked me to bring ’em along and that was all I knew about it. Jim, you look as if you’d discovered a new trout stream.”

Gorman grinned. He and the doctor had fishing as one of their mutual interests. Each liked to steal away when there was a chance and creel a limit of rainbows. The physician always had a steel rod in his machine.

“I’ve just discovered a new bait, doc. Read erbout it, rather.”

“Keeping it to yourself, eh?”

“It wudn’t interest you, doc. It ain’t fish bait. Sort of cow bait, you might call it.”

The doctor drew down his shaggy brows.

“Keep it, then, you pirate. I caught an Eastern brook this afternoon on my way back. In Dogleg Creek. Two pounds and three quarters. I was going to get the chef to broil it for supper at the hotel and I was looking for you to eat half of it, but if you’re going to be so blamed stingy”

“I’ll be there, doc. And I’ll let you in. I’d like a little professional advice on this thing ennyway.”

“I’m not a vet.”

“Know ennything about dermatology?”

“I should.”

“That’s what I want, then. How soon do I arrive?”

“Thirty minutes.”

The flivver rolled on and Gorman went back to the office to retrieve the paper.

“I might need an expert witness or two if this pans out,” he reflected. It’s a bit new, but it’s sure convincin’.”

The telephone rang as he closed the safe for the second time and he answered it. It was a girl’s voice, clear, fresh, but incisive, though the speaker seemed hurried.

“This is Sheriff Gorman?” it inquired.

“Yes’m.”

“This is Mary White.” The sheriff’s eyes widened a little. “I’ve just talked with Mr. Jarrett.”

“Yes’m?”

“I am coming into town to-morrow with my uncle, King Bradey. Can I arrange to see you?”

Gorman whistled softly.

“I’ve got a date with yore uncle at eleven,” he said.

“Oh!” There was silence for a second or two.

“I must see you. Afterward. Where?”

“Ladies’ parlor, Maverick Hotel, noon sharp, or name yore own time. I’ll see we ain’t interrupted.”

“I can arrange that. I shall have lunch with a friend and—I’ve got to ring off.”

The last sentence was whispered hastily. Gorman could imagine the girl hanging up the phone quietly and stealing swiftly from the instrument.

“Moore snoopin’ round, I reckon,” he reflected. “Well, he’ll eat with a fork for a while. Maybe it was her uncle. If she’s seen Jarrett recent they’ve bin meetin’ somewhere close to Bradey’s ranch house. I wonder what’s in the wind? It’s a cinch King ain’t entirely got her confidence, enny more than he has mine.”

He put the farm paper in his pocket and started for his supper with the doctor. The trout and sundry trimmings demolished, they went to the doctor’s living quarters behind his office, a big room with a fireplace, shabby but preeminently comfortable furniture, some sporting pictures of fish and game and many books, shelved to the ceiling.

The doctor produced cigars, a water pitcher, glasses and a bottle.

“Nothing contraband about this, Jim,” he said. “You can drink it legally. It ain’t prescription rye, either. Bottled in the bond—a present from a grateful patient out of his own cellar.”

“Said patient having once run a hotel with bar privilege? I used to be better acquainted with this brand once, doc.”

“You’ve got a half interest in it, while it lasts. Here’s to your cow bait.”

Gorman laughed, knowing the doctor’s avid curiosity where he thought sporting lures were concerned.

“That was a snap name, doc. But I want yore opinion. Read this. Is it practical?”

The other adjusted his glasses and read the article through carefully. He put down the paper.

“Thought you were out of ranching for good, Jim?”

“I’m still interested in cattle, especially when they git in mixed herds.”

“Of course; stupid of me. This is practical enough. Better make tests in sufficient quantity to back up a presentation though. I’ll help you. It’s a darned interesting scheme. New application.”

“That’s all I want to know. Thanks for helpin'. I’ll tell you what I’m after. It’s just a hunch, but she’s sure growin’ like a yearlin’ ca’f on spring grass.”

He talked for the best part of an hour, the doctor listening closely, occasionally passing the bottle and the cigars. It was not the first time the sheriff had consulted the physician, friend of twenty years, whenever his problems approached medical jurisprudence. Moreover, the doctor was also the invariable physician to the county coroner. There was no doubt as to his discretion or his wisdom. He liked to consider such cases as if they were chess problems, helping the sheriff to anticipate possible moves. Long before Gorman took office they had discussed famous trials and cases in the making.

“I wouldn’t wonder but what you’re right, Jim,” he said thoughtfully, when Gorman stopped talking. “It’s more than a hunch, putting two and two together. But you’re after a whale of a fish and it won’t be easy to land him. But that idea of yours isn’t bait, it’s a landing net, providing he’s feeding.”

“I’ve got an idea about the bait,” said Gorman, “but it’s a bit hazy. I’ve a notion it’ll develop a bit ter-morrer. Now I’ve got to go downtown an’ see if I kin pick up somethin’ erbout Sam Jordan.”

“Expecting to?”

Gorman shook his head.

“Not much. I don’t believe he ever reached town. But I will—sooner or later—one way or another.”

“Alive or dead?”

“Yep.”

“Go to it, Jim. If you’re right about Bradey? And there’s any way I can help you?”

“Thanks again, doc. I’m glad there are no strings on me. He sure can pull a few himself. But, if I get a line on him, I’ll land him.”

“I believe you, Jim. How would you describe him, Jim. Kingfish?”

“Nope. There’s a trout out in California hits him better. Cutthroat variety.”

“H’m! A trout’s a game fish, Jim. Bradey’s the river hog variety, if only for what he tried to do to the Jordan woman to-day.”

Gorman said good night and made a round of the saloons, dropping in as casually as his official character permitted. By midnight he was certain that Jordan had not been in that end of Vacada, for over a month. He had a good many reliable sources of information, and he exhausted them.

In the Last Chance he encountered Dave Lorton, in company with the rider called Curly. The youngster flushed at sight of him. Both had been drinking, but Dave showed few signs of it.

They were playing stud poker in the back room. Curly said something in an undertone and threw down his cards, shoving his chips over to Dave Lorton. The latter tried to keep him in his chair and then shrugged his shoulders. The boy came up to Gorman, his eyes flaming.

“You shot a pal of mine to-day,” he said thickly. “You got one of yore damned deputies herdin’ him right now. He won’t be long. Sabe? An’ if Jake goes west I’ll git you, if you packed four guns! You’ll see me through smoke!”