Jim Gorman's Brand/Chapter 7

had sympathy in his gaze, though the eyes the boy looked into when he awoke were hard as steel. Jake summoned up his own spirit of bravado to meet them.

“Mornin’, sheriff,” he said with a weak attempt at jauntiness. “You lookin’ for me?”

“Not this mornin’, Jake. Fur as the rumpus we had yestiddy stands we’ll call it square if you’re willin’. You were helpin’ to run a woman an’ her two kids off the place they were livin’ in, whether they happened to own it rightful or not. Moore told you they didn’t. I’m tellin’ you, as sheriff, that it’s her property an’ never was Bradey’s. Aside from all that, if I’d bin tryin’ to run off a helpless woman an’ a couple of kids, with the husband an’ father lyin’ off somewhere with a bullet in him, I’d feel I’d got off easy with one through my lungs, knowin’ I was goin’ to git well, with a doctor waitin’ on me an’ good quarters in the house of the woman whose man ain’t comin’ back to her agen. That’s the way I’d feel erbout it, Jake.”

Jake’s lips twitched, his eyes showed suddenly as if they had been bruised when the sheriff mentioned the father lying off with a bullet in him, never to come back again. Then he closed them.

Gorman took out the gun which he had taken from the table and put back in his pocket. He held it in front of Jake and touched him on the shoulder.

“Got somethin’ to show you,” he said and, as the rider opened his eyes again, he shot the question at him.

“Ever see this gun before? I just showed it to the woman in there—to Sam Jordan’s widder. She recognized it, Jake.”

For a fleeting second there was terror in Jake’s eyes. Then they grew hard and bright, his boyish jaw clamped stubbornly before and after his answer.

“Seen lot’s like it.”

“This ain’t quite the same as other guns, Jake. Sabe the rust spot? Makes it easy to remember. I’ll tell you where I got it. Off of Curly. It ain’t the one Curly was wearin’ the other morning when I shot it out of his hand. He ses that one cuts lead. Mebbe it does. I hit it on the cylinder. Then he got funny with this one an’ I took it away from him. Dave ses he loaned it to him, which was a kindly act—mebbe. Dave was all-fired anxious to git it back. So was Bradey. Came inter town special to git it. Not such a good gun, either. Barrel’s pitted an’ there’s a dent in the sight. But it’s mighty vallyble to some one. I think Dave was loco to pass it on to Curly, though no doubt he thought it was a foxy move.

“It’s Jordan’s gun, Jake. I wonder if he got a chance to use it. He used to share this bed you’re in with his widder. Wudn’t wonder if the two orphan kiddies were born here. If I knew ennything erbout how he come to lose thet gun, Jake, even if I was the one who did the killin’—I’d sure feel like a skunk if I didn’t come through. That is if I was bein’ taken care of by the widder. ‘Why, he’s on’y just a boy,’ she said to me. Lookin’ out for you like you was her son ’stead of bein’ what you are. I wudn’t wonder but what she’s prayed for you to git well.”

The inquisition was almost merciless. It was plain that he had reached through to the very soul of Jake and that he was in torment. But between the wounded cowboy and the woman sobbing out her heart in the next room, while her children played in the sun with Pete, unconscious of the fact that they were orphans—for Gorman had no doubt of Jordan’s murder—the sheriff did not hesitate to put the question.

“There’s some hombres,” went on Gorman, “who figger they’ve never got to give away their pals. But Moore an’ Dave Lorton ain’t pals to enny one but themselves. Dave slipped this gun to Curly an’ when the kid let that fact out, Dave wud have killed him if his eyes had bin knives. You come clean, Jake.”

Jake’s face set. The boyishness vanished.

“I don’t sabe what you’re talkin’ erbout,” he said stubbornly.

“All right, Jake. You got quite a while to stay here. You think it over.”

Jake set his bent arm across his face, his obstinate jaw showing under it. Presently Gorman went out.

“The kid’s got guts,” he told himself. “On’y he’s started wrong. Thinks he’d be yeller to give ’em away. An’ he’s likely not overanxious to tell a sheriff how he’s mixed up in it. But I’m bettin’ he’ll come through.”

Mrs. Jordan raised her tear-stained face as he reëntered the room. She got up, wiping her eyes with her apron.

“You’ll bring him back to me,” she said. “When you find him.”

“Yes marm. There’s a chance or so he ain’t dead, of course.”

“No,” she said stonily. “I’ve known he was dead for days. I’m sure of it But I want what’s left of my man—and I want to see the men that murdered him hung for it.”

Her voice was flat, but there was passion in it, the passion of a woman robbed of her mate, firm for revenge.

Gorman nodded. Without finding the body any case for murder would fall to the ground. Short of the confession of some one who saw the deed it would be hard to discover. The corpse might be buried.

“I’ll do my best,” he said simply. It was a strange and harsh situation, the wounded rider who could not be moved without losing his life, tended by a woman bitter and merciless in the face of her tragedy yet sorry for the lad who had been ranged—at least—with her husband’s killers.

“I don’t blame the kid for not comin’ through so fur,” he reflected as he left the cabin. “He wudn’t tell her. He cudn’t. She’d cut his throat if he did, way she’s feelin’ now. But there ain’t much fear of that an’ he may come clean to Pete. He’s sure feelin’ like a sick coyote right now.

“Hello, kiddies! What you got there?”

“A nelefunt,” said the youngest child, prodding Pete with a stick. Git up, nelefunt.”

“He ain’t a very good specimen,” said Gorman gravely. “Not much pep. Too bad you ain’t got some peanuts to feed him. I wonder” he put his hand in his pocket. “I’ll be hornswoggled,” he cried, “if I ain’t got some with me. And some candy. Ain’t that lucky? Don’t give him too many peanuts. His stummick ain’t very good. An’ don’t give him enny of the candy. Here.”

The children squealed with delight and the candy released Pete from bondage.

“Keep 'em outside till she comes for ’em, Pete,” said Gorman. “I’ve told her. I got hold of her husband’s gun. Dave Lorton had it. I’ve left it in the bedroom. She’ll likely ask for it after a bit, but, if you git a chance, you pick it up when Jake’s awake an’ wonder where it come from. Sabe? I’ve had a chat with him.

“You keep that star of yores in yore pocket. He may come through. If he starts to, you kin warn him, to make it legal. If he makes up his mind to talk that won’t stop him. It never does. Every time she does ennything for him he’ll hate himself worse. He’s goin’ to be one of our best bets, Pete. They don’t dare take him away, but we won’t give ’em a chance. That’s one reason why you’re here, Pete. If they took a notion he was goin’ to spill, they might try to finish him up. I wudn’t put it past ’em. You better git a li’l sleep days an’ none nights, Pete. In a day or so I’ll have somethin’ else for ’em to think erbout.”

“Somethin’ stirrin’?”

“I’ve started somethin’, Pete.”

“An’ me not goin’ to be in it!”

“You’ve got yore job right here, Pete. Now you be a nelefunt an’ git yore peanuts.”

“I’d a sight rather have some chewin’. I’ll be out afore long.”

“I’ll bring you up a plug of Star termorrer or nex’ day. Got to go now.”

It was dark before he reached town and turned in the car. The same evening he showed the doctor the results of his experiment with the steers and told what he had done to bait Bradey. The doctor exclaimed over the showing and Gorman unfolded his plan for a demonstration before the commissioner.

That came off two days later when the land official arrived for his monthly hearing. He went to the dairy under protest of limited time and came away astonished.

“You’re going to take that up with the cattleman’s association, I suppose,” he said. “It should be mighty valuable.”

“After I’m through with it,” said Gorman. “Meantime, I’m keepin’ it dark. I’m hopin’ for a rustlin’ bee to be pulled off most every night an’ I’ve used this idea in connection.”

“I see,” said the commissioner, though he only saw vaguely. “I’m not curious,” though he was, “and I’ll keep this demonstration quiet, of course. But it’s remarkable—and eminently scientific. There should be no doubt as to its being court evidence.”

“That’s what I’m lookin’ for.”

“I understood you had done away with the rustlers hereabouts,” went on the commissioner, “but I suppose it will break out occasionally. They’ve had an epidemic of it the other side of the State line lately. I was talking with their commissioner last week. They suspected the man who ran a ranch quite close to the line. But they couldn’t pin anything on him. The steers were run off in comparatively small lots and either sent out of the State, or, as some of the losers thought, they were rebranded and that so cleverly they couldn’t swear to it. The brands were not blotted, but doctored in such a way that there were no fresh burn scars showing. Cs changed into Os, an L T into a box and so on. Identification is a hard matter—or was. Your plan upsets such tricks.”

“Should, if you kin git ’em to take it up,” said Gorman. “What was the name of the suspected ranch, an’ who run it?”

“A man by the name of Moore. It was a ranch with a registered brand that I have forgotten for the moment—no—I have it—I noted it because of the irony S O S. Moore was a cattle buyer, which would account for his having different brands on the cattle he was handling. A smart scheme, if he was crooked. As I say, they couldn’t pin anything on him, but they made it so uncomfortable for him that he cleared out. Sold or drove out. Matter of fact he was invited to leave. They didn’t like his style.”

“Man name of Moore is foreman for King Bradey right now,” said Gorman dryly, watching the commissioner. “Come quite recent. Brought erlong a few hands. They’re all workin’ fo’ Bradey. Hombre by the name of Dave Lorton with ’em. He’s bin in trubble for fakin’ brands. Bradey’s a cattle buyer, too,” he added as if aimlessly. “But I sure aim to put down all rustlin’ in this county, no matter who’s behind it, commissioner.”

“Quite right, sheriff,” the commissioner said hastily. “You get the goods on the rustlers and then do your duty.”

“I aim to. You see, I’ve got no votes botherin’ me. I ain’t aimin’ for another term an’ the governor’s backin’ me.”

“Yes. Exactly. You’re in a strong position. Very fortunate. I’ve been very interested in what you showed me, Gorman. I must get back to my hearings. I have to leave to-night.”

Demonstrating to the commissioner was a good stroke. He could be used as a witness. He had expressed his opinion in front of the doctor. He was committed. And he would undoubtedly stand from under if he thought Bradey was going to fall.

The information he had unwittingly give [sic] made Gorman see the reason for Moore’s joining forces and the need for a clean-up. The S O S ranch had outlived its usefulness as a receiving and forwarding station. Sooner or later Moore’s presence would be generally known and the suspicion with which he was tainted spread to Bradey, who had carefully operated under cover, so far.

There was the mystery of Jordan to determine, but Gorman let that ride until he heard from Jarrett. Then general action would clear up many matters, he believed. And he was busy with other duties in Vacada.

The next morning the telephone rang in his office at six o’clock. Bud Jarrett’s voice came vibrantly over the line.

“They’ve gone,” he said. “I ain’t started to trail ’em till I told you. What’s the next move?”

“I’ll be out as soon as I kin. Wait till I git there. We’ll git you back yore steers, but they’ll be branded Lazy H, unless we’ve played this all wrong.”