Jim Gorman's Brand/Chapter 4

room had suddenly hushed. They knew the sheriff and they watched him. Gorman stood with his back to the bar, alert, his eyes steely. Crude whisky might spur Curly to foolishness. Gorman held a glass, half filled with mineral water, in his right hand and this he gave a gentle circular motion that made the liquid swirl. Involuntarily the rider’s eyes watched it. The sheriff might try to throw it in his face. He had heard of those tricks. Friendship challenged had sobered him a trifle, but his brain had little control.

“Son,” said Gorman, “yore pal had one of mine covered. I did what I reckoned the right thing. I sure admire yore attitude. Yore pal ain’t goin’ west. An’ he ain’t under arrest.”

“That’s a damned lie!” cried Curly. Gorman’s other hand was on the bar, the fingers idly drumming. In a flood of passion he forgot the sheriff’s reputation, his double-handedness. He figured to fire point blank at Gorman’s stomach from his hip. He could beat the splash of the water. It could not distract his aim at such close quarters. But he could not quite keep his glance from the jiggling water. He did not know the trick, oldest of any sleight-of-hand diversions.

Murder-mad, he shot down his hand to jerk his holster forward and fire through its open end. The silent watchers tensed.

Faster than they could watch, before the youngster’s hand reached the butt, there came a gleam and the muzzle of Gorman’s left hand gun pressed into his stomach—hard—with an insistence that flashed a message to his brain—a message of death.

“Stick ’em up, you young fool,” said Gorman in a low voice, hard and cold as ice, his eyes boring through Curly’s, reaching the life instinct of preservation. “Stick ’em up!”

The boy obeyed, his face gray now, sweat on his forehead that came in a revulsion of relief. He was not to die and the fear of it had been sudden and sickening.

Gorman set down his glass and took away Curly’s gun.

“You ain’t fit to pack one,” he said. “That’s twice to-day you’ve been toein’ grave dirt. I’m keepin’ this. Don’t git another one. Dave, take this maverick home an’ educate him.”

Lorton got up and moved over to the humiliated Curly. The players resumed their games. The incident was over. Gorman shoved the Colt into his waist band.

“Better let me have the gun, sheriff,” said Lorton. “I’ll see he don’t git hold of it. I’ll buy it off him.”

“The gun yours?” demanded Gorman sharply.

“He loaned it to me,” said Curly sullenly.

Gorman saw Dave’s look of fury directed toward the other from the corners of his eyes, dulled instantly.

“Why?”

"Mine’s no good. Cuts lead.”

“You’ll bring it in to me just the same.”

“You ain’t got no right to stop a man wearin’ a gun at his belt,” said Lorton. He was trying to keep his voice level, but he failed quite to succeed.

“Want I should arrest him for tryin’ to disarrange my supper?” asked Gorman. His face had cleared and he spoke with easy good humor. “There’s a local law agen packin’ guns in town limits, but I ain’t enforcin’ it, so long as a man knows how to use one. I’m keepin’ this, Dave. That ends it. You stick to wire cutters for a spell, Curly, an’ limit yore hooch. I’ll tell you agen that yore chum ain’t under arrest.”

His eyes were friendly as he spoke. Curly felt their influence. He knew he had made a fool of himself.

“All right,” he mumbled. “Let’s go, Dave.”

The two left and Gorman went with them, watching them mount and ride off. He sensed the hostility with which Dave Lorton regarded him, the menace of a snake caught in the open. It was not part of the sentiment the brand-doctor had exhibited at the spring. It was a recent growth. And he pondered over it as he walked to his quarters over the jail and office.

One thing he had learned. That the riders of the B-in-a-box were acquainted with Pete’s presence at the Jordan cabin. They were keeping watch on the place. He was glad he had sent the deputy.

He looked at the gun he had taken from Curly. He was not satisfied with the idea that Dave wanted to save the cowboy the price of the weapon. Lorton’s interests were the kind to be self-centered. It was a Colt of thirty-eight caliber, long-barreled, a good enough weapon, but it had been misued [sic] in its time and was not new. There was a speck of rust on the barrel that had corroded into the steel so that it could not be removed, it had a slight dent in the sight and the rifling of the barrel was pitted. There was nothing about it that would make a man especially covet it for its shooting value.

Moreover Dave packed a gun of the same type as Moore and that of Gorman himself, probably of long ownership. He would not be likely to change it after long acquaintance with its weight and balance. More than likely Dave’s trigger springs were filed. It was possible that he was a fanner, using his thumb on the easy-tripping hammer.

Gorman put it away at the back of his desk drawer and locked it up. But he did not forget it.

He was in his office at eleven when Bradey’s big car rolled up. Bradey was driving and there was nobody in the tonneau. The cattle dealer came in with a genial smile, lighting a large and oily looking cigar. Gorman refused another, indicating his sack of tobacco. Cigars with him were for hours of special relaxation and this was not one of them. He asked Bradey to sit down and the visitor took a chair, filling it with his bulk. He was burly, inclined to a paunch, but his body was solid, showing strength. His square face was set for good humor, but the quality of it could not mask the meanness of his mouth or the hard, cold quality of his eyes, pale blue and closely placed. Gorman rolled and lit his cigarette, waiting for the other to speak.

“They tell me the jail’s empty, the town orderly and the county quiet, sheriff,” he said. “Does you credit. Sorry the peace was broken yesterday. You’ve spoiled the table manners of my foreman, and I hear Jake Davis is breathin’ through his chest. You sure mussed up my outfit.”

His tone and manner were forcedly jocular. Gorman was on his guard. He had expected blustering, this approach was more subtle, perhaps dangerous.

“There was another man got clipped,” he said.

The quick glare in his visitor’s eyes showed a temper close to the surface.

“That wasn’t your work,” he said. “That’s quite another matter, sheriff.”

I don’t agree with you,” said Gorman quietly but definitely. He was not in the mood to assume friendliness toward this man who must bear him ill will. “The man who did that was protecting the rights of a defenceless woman. I helped.”

King Bradey opened his mouth as if to speak and closed it with a snap.

“I don’t look at it in that way,” he said. “You believed you were carrying out your duty. This other interfering meddler acted without license.”

“Duty of every citizen to aid defense of property agen illegal entry an’ threatened force. Your men had no right there under enny circumstances, Bradey. This woman’s husband bein’ away might have made it look easier to the three you sent up, one to each kid an’ Moore for the woman, I suppose; but it don’t make it look enny better.

“I’ve had a wire from the land commissioner this mornin’. That land ain’t yours. That spring ain’t yours. Enny more than the one on the flat you fenced in. Wire’s down an’ it’s got to stay down. That woman’s wire has got to stay up and her cattle have got to be put back.”

The veins swelled in Bradey’s neck and forehead, but he gulped down his rising choler.

“My foreman may have misunderstood my boundaries,” he said. “I’ve always used that water on the flat—fifteen years. Fenced it to keep the cattle from miring.”

“Then you shu’d complete yore public spirit by puttin’ in a gate.”

“I’m not going to make any fuss over this matter, sheriff,” said Bradey, his voice a rough purr and his eyes cold as ice. “I might.”

“You might.”

For a few breaths they eyed each other. Bradey’s splay fingers worked slightly. The sheriff’s sinewy hand, on top of the desk, might have been made of bronze. The gaze held until Bradey rose.

“If you’re not inclined to be friendly,” he said.

“As sheriff I ain’t got enny friends. As a private citizen I pick ’em for myself.” Again the veins thickened on Bradey’s face and neck.

“You might have enemies,” he said.

“On’y way an enemy cud injure me is bodily an’ I’ve managed to take tol’able care of myse’f, so fur.”

“I hope you’ll always be as successful. I understand you took a gun away from one of my men last night?”

“A kid. He ain’t quite man-size. I’m bettin’ he’s a minor, or so close to it he oughtn’t to be allowed a weapon.”

“A rider carries a gun as a tool, sheriff. You ought to know that.”

“I’ve known murder committed with a pocketknife—a wrench—and a chisel.”

“I’m asking you to return that man’s property. You have no legal right to it.”

Gorman wheeled in his chair and took down a volume from the shelf.

“There’s the civil code,” he said. I’ve bin studyin’ it some. If you want to git that gun away from me, you go to it through the courts. Meantime, I’m keepin’ it. Possession, they say, is nine points of the law. I didn’t steal it. I may have misunderstood my rights, like yore men did the line of the B-in-a-box. I’m open to conviction—in court. As sheriff I impound guns when I see fit. Enny special reason you want this partickler gun?”

“I want it because you have no right to try and run things in this fashion.” Bradey’s face was getting puffy and mottled, his eyes flecked with red. “There is no value to the gun other than that the rider will have to buy another. Out of his own money. I look out for their interests.”

“He’s got another,” said Gorman. “I told him to bring it in.”

His coolness got beneath the other’s reserve.

“Because you are a pet of the governor you need not think your position unassailable,” Bradey stormed suddenly. Gorman got up in his turn.

“I’m closin’ this interview, Bradey,” he said. “You’re right in one thing. It don’t do for a man to overrate himself.”

“Why, damn you, what do you mean?”

“One thing I mean”—the sheriff’s voice changed—“and that is not to be cussed by enny man. You want to git that. You know where you stand about yore lines now. Better stick a blue print up in yore office at the ranch. But cussin’ ain’t permitted in here, Bradey.”

The cattle dealer glared, picked up his hat, and went out. Gorman watched him through the window, starting his car and slipping in the gears.

“I’ll have to arrest him for speedin’ if he ain’t careful,” he said to himself. “Now, I wonder what he came in for? To size me up? To play friendly an’ pull the wool over my eyes—or to get that gun?”

Presently he took down the telephone hook and called the Two-Bar ranch on the chance of finding Jarrett at hand. A Chinese voice answered.

“Misseh Jallett? He not come in jus’ now. If you like I give him message. Misseh Jallett he busy build gate in collal jus’ now.”

“No message,” said Gorman. He had wanted to warn Jarrett. He could do it later. It was clear that Bradey meant, in one way or another, to even matters with the owner of the Two-Bar for his interference and his shooting of Bradey’s rider. He had made no application for an arrest as Gorman had fancied for a moment he intended to.

Probably he did not court refusal. For his own reasons Bradey had wanted to smooth down the friction. The sheriff was inclined to think the effort one to erect a screen against any close interest at what might be going on at the B-in-a-box. He felt sure that Bradey would give orders not to trouble Mrs. Jordan. Equally certain that he meditated evil against the Two-Bar.