Jim Gorman's Brand/Chapter 9

rode south. She neither gained nor lost. She tried to be brave, but fear was in her heart. Not so much for herself, though she sensed something fiendishly implacable in Moore’s pursuit, but for her lover. Presently she heard a distant mutter of shots. If the Two-Bar was deserted she would have to go on until darkness that seemed so long in coming though she could see the sunset flaming over the western hills. There was no other place near except Jordan’s cabin. On they rode and Moore seemed to be creeping up. She urged her pony to better speed and he responded, then stumbled, a foot in a gopher hole. He got it out and seemed to go as well as ever, but presently commenced to go lame.

She began to have to hang on to her nerve. Back in the growing dusk Moore was getting closer. On and on with diminishing speed as the pinto was forced to favor the wrenched tendon. They came out of a pass on to the plateau where she could see the light burning in the Jordan house. She crouched forward on the withers of the pinto, riding like a jockey, coaxing, urging. Now she could hear the thud of Moore’s horse coming up fast behind.

She raised the quirt she always carried but never used, save as an ornament, for it was beaded by Indian work, and cut the pinto over the flanks. The gallant pony, stung and surprised, roused himself to a short burst of speed. She was close to the door when it opened and a man came out. Dread that it was one of her uncle’s riders swept over her and then she saw that this was not any one from the ranch, but a man once pointed out to her as Gorman’s deputy. The same informant had told her that the man had been a great fighter in earlier days. He was old now.

He did not seem much of a rescuer, but the pinto’s overtaxed tendon bowed and he fell to his knees. She slid off safely.

“What’s wrong, miss?” asked Pete, peering at the oncoming rider.

“It’s Moore,” she gasped. “He’s after me.”

“You go inter the house,” said Pete. “I’ll tend to him.”

She had a swift vision of the deputy standing bent forward at the hips, his pose tense. Then he flattened himself by the logs as Moore’s gun flashed and roared. An answer stabbed out of the logs as she rushed in. Mrs. Jordan closed the door and the two women stood breathless while four—five shots rang out—then silence.

Then came a knock. Pete’s voice.

“It’s O. K.,” he said.

They opened and he came in with blood running down from under his coat sleeve.

“’Tain’t but a scratch,” he said with a grin. “He got in the first shot, but he’s shootin’ left-handed and he ain’t good at it. It’s saved the State the price of a rope—an’ a trial.”

“You killed him?”

“I sure did,” said Pete nonchalantly. “Deader’n a squashed snake. You git me some hot water an’ I’ll wash myself a bit. Then I’ll go in an’ tell Jake. He might be glad to know, at that.”

He came out of the bedroom half an hour later, his lined face earnest.

“The kid’s come through,” he said. “Marm, I ain’t actin’ as counsel for him, but I believe what he told me. It seems the kid was with Moore an’ Dave Lorton when they killed yore husband. The kid had no idea they was goin’ to do it till yore man told ’em they cud go to hell, when Moore warned him he on’y had a few days. Then Dave shot him. Dave took his gun. Later he passed it on to Curly, which is where he made a bad move. They made the kid in there help bury him.”

“God!” The woman sat staring toward the door of the bedroom. Mary White put a hand on her arm.

“That shut the kid’s mouth,” said Pete. “Made him an accessory. But you was good to him an’ Jim Gorman he had a talk with him. So did I. When he heard Moore was dead he came through. He’s feelin’ pritty bad.”

“I hope I can forgive him,” said Mrs. Jordan in a hard voice. “He can tell us where my Sam is buried.” She choked a little. “I am sorry you shot Moore,” she went on. But there’s one left. I’ll see him hang.”

“I wudn’t wonder,” said Pete. “The chief is likely in touch with him by now. They’ve stopped firin’ back in the hills.” He looked at Mary, shook his head and went out into the night. He dragged the dead body of Moore, with two bullets through his heart, round the corner of the house, bit off a chew of tobacco and stood listening. After a while there was another spatter of gunfire. Then the silence of night as the bright stars came out.

The steers were well through the draw when the riders from the Lazy H attacked. Just before they appeared a single rifle shot sounded in the hills. The deerslayer had got his man. Fifteen riders of Bradey’s came pouring over a hill and down the slope, firing as they came into range.

Gorman gave Hayes orders to push on with the steers and the rest of them wheeled to return the fire. The rifles emptied three of the saddles while the bullets from the revolvers still went wild. Then the shots began to tell. The rider next to Gorman went down and he shot the man who had fired, through the head. There was a rapid exchange until Gorman shouted an order and they charged the Bradey forces. Five of them were left behind when the others vanished over the hill. Three of these would never ride again. The two wounded were given in the charge of three of the posse who had been hurt and despatched after the steers. Then the sheriff led his horse men up the hill.

The routed riders were spurring toward others coming from the B-in-a-box.

“Get after ’em,” called Gorman. “Carry it to ’em. There ain’t much light left for good shootin’. You men with the rifles git up there to the right an’ open on ’em. Don’t believe they’re goin’ to stand, but there’s two of ’em I want. Moore an’ Dave Lorton. Bradey won’t likely be erlong, he ain’t much of a rider.”

Moore was not destined to meet with Gorman that night. But Dave Lorton was there with his hatchet face sharpened, his eyes shining like a wolf, a born killer, fighting against possible custody. It looked to him as if this posse that the newcomers said was made up of the best men roundabout were out for something more than mere rustling. He fancied himself the prime quarry.

Gorman sensed something of this in a general way when he said he thought they would not stand. The posse represented the law as typified by himself and it stood for something more, the arousing of public spirit that cannot be downed. The riders of the B-in-a-box had Dave for their only leader in the absence of Moore and of Bradey. That absence did not bolster their courage in the face of the feeling that they were in a losing game—outlawed. The sentiment that had made the two riders go north to the I X L was not entirely lacking from the rest And when they saw the posse divide and come galloping in, bringing the fight to them, they wavered.

Rifle bullets began to sing among them, and found a mark or two. Then from the other side approached Gorman on the black, his guns ready, riding with his knees, ready to fire with deadly aim. Back of him almost a score of men who had order and law and justice backing them.

“Hands up!” shouted Gorman as they closed in. The riflemen had remounted and were attacking on the other side. Unless they ran, escaping, scattering in the gathering darkness, or surrendered, they would have to fight it out. Even if they won in this mêlée prices would be on their heads for any man to gather by capture or betrayal.

They answered the fire half heartedly, some of them, while others rode aside and held their arms high, reined up in a little group that the rest, surrounded, wounded and wounding like treed beasts, cursed at as they began to fall.

A man rode desperately out of the ruck and fired at Gorman. The sheriff swerved the mare as he saw the other’s arm begin to rise and fired. He struck Curly in the shoulder with his bullet, mercifully.

“That kid sure has persistence,” he said to himself as he galloped after another he had marked. Dave Lorton.

The B-in-a-box men were breaking up, those who still held their saddles or who had not given up the fight. The light was failing. In the dusk Dave Lorton fired to kill and missed though the bullet ran a tiny groove above the sheriff’s ear. He pulled trigger again, wondering why Gorman did not shoot. The black mare was riding him off as he wheeled and rode with spurs sunk in his horse’s flanks, reloading.

“Put ’em up, Dave!” cried the sheriff. For answer Lorton, three shells in his gun, twisted in his saddle. He was sure that Gorman’s guns must be empty, both of them. Then he saw them spitting flame, left and right, left and right. His horse staggered and fell in its tracks, a bullet in its brain, its spine smashed. Dave Lorton fell headlong, looking up to see Gorman standing above him, covering hint. Lorton had lost his gun. He was helpless.

“I sure hate to kill a good hawss, Dave,” said Gorman grimly, “but I was bound to take you alive. I want to see you erbout that gun you gave Curly. Jake’s come through,” he added, using the old trick, not knowing that he prophesied confession.

The snarl on Dave’s face convinced him that he had found Jordan’s murderer.

“We won’t bother erbout the brand-fakin’ charge this time, Dave,” he said. “I’ve bin packin’ a pair of handcuffs for you quite a while. We’ll put ’em on.”

They found Bradey in a lighted room, smoking an oily cigar. The reek of whisky was in the air, the fingers of his hands closed and unclosed as he faced Gorman, one cheek red with the blood from his scalp wound, backed by stern-faced neighbors who had once looked up to the man they now came to take away with them to jail and judgment.

But Bradey fronted them.

“This sheriff of yours has led you into a nice mess, gentlemen,” he said. “Why have you raided my cattle, marked with my brand, on a cock-and-bull story from Gorman? There’ll be heavy damages to pay.”

Jarrett pressed forward.

“Where’s your niece?” he said. “And where’s Moore?”

“Find one and you may find the other,” Bradey barked. “I’ll trim you yet, Jarrett. I’ll break you.”

“That’s enough,” said Gorman. “You’ll have enough to tend to with yore own trubbles, Bradey. We’ve got the goods on you. You’d better tell us what you know erbout Moore an’ the gal.”

“I’ll tell you nothing,” said Bradey, and his jaw was set like a bulldog’s. “You’ll all pay for this. I’ll break the crowd of you. But I’m through talking.”

Jarrett saw Pedro’s face peering through the slide of the kitchen. He leaped through the door and caught the cook by the throat. When Pedro stammered the little he knew Jarrett flung him into a corner and rushed out. They heard the fast drumming of hoofs as he urged his tired horse. It was not till morning that he reached the Two-Bar looking for a fresh mount, his face lined and old, but stamped with indomitable resolution. And, as he rode out, passing the Jordan cabin, hardly seeing it, hardly knowing where he rode, a girl’s voice called to him.

Bradey was not charged by Gorman with complicity in Jordan’s murder. He was convinced that Bradey only wanted the gun to protect Dave, now beyond protection. But Bradey was confident of acquittal on the charge of stealing cattle. Moore was dead. There were no proofs. And he faced the trial, coming in from bail liberty to it, surrounded by attorneys, believing that he held the favor of the court. His chief counsel was affable, calculating on shattering the witnesses who might try to swear to the identity of the steers.

As for the sheriff, Bradey sneered at him for a quixotic fool. He had lost his niece. He might have to render an accounting of her money, but he had plenty. And his lawyers would crash the evidence of the fool she had married when he attempted to identify the steers.

At last Gorman was called to the stand. There were many present who believed that he had meant well, but overshot the mark. That Bradey might be guilty, but that proof of guilt was another matter. One steer was too like another. There were others who awaited his testimony with the quiet confidence of those who know a result beforehand. Among these the men of the posse, who had had their demonstration at the Two-Bar the day after the fight, the doctor and the commissioner, the last a trifle uneasy, feeling that he had been tricked into appearance, but glad to be on the windy side of the law.

“Sheriff,” asked the district attorney, “what was the important discovery with which you became acquainted shortly before the alleged theft of these steers?”

“I object,” said the pompous counsel for Bradey. “Irrelevant.”

“I shall place this testimony—or corroboration of it in the shape of certain copies of the Rural New Yorker, in evidence,” said the district attorney, “if your honor please, after the jury has inspected them.”

“‘You may proceed,” said the judge. “I reserve ruling.”

“I found,” said Gorman, “an article in a farm paper. It had illustrations with the text. It stated that a cow’s muzzle was marked with wrinkles and that no two cows were alike. It showed prints that had bin taken, the same as finger prints are taken and it stated that positive identification could be so made.”

“Is this a copy of the paper?”

“It is.”

“I have several copies here which I wish to submit as evidence, if your honor please.”

They rustled among the jury. The eminent counsel crossed to the district attorney.

“Lemme see one,” he said brusquely.

“With pleasure.” The lawyer shared it with Bradey and his face lost its jauntiness.

“What next, sheriff?”

“I submitted it to Doctor Mason for his scientific approval. Then I took prints of twenty steers belongin’ to Mr. Jarrett. We set ’em out in a likely place, believin’ that they might be taken a fancy to by King Bradey.”

“Why did you think King Bradey might take them?”

“’Count of a grudge he had agen Bud Jarrett for interferin’ with his men when they tried to drive Mrs. Jordan off her place.”

“I object.” The eminent counsel was on his feet, protesting indignantly.

“Sustained.”

“How did you get these prints?”

“Same as we finger-print criminals. We roped an’ threw the steers, tied ’em an’ then I ran a printin’ ink roller over ’em an’ took impressions.”

“Are these the impressions?”

“They are.”

“In evidence, if you please, Mr. Clerk.”

“They are all different?”

“They are.”

“And this second set corresponds with them?”

“They do.”

“When did you make these?”

“Day after we got the steers back.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Erbout twenty.”

"Ever make any other experiments?”

“Several of them. The first was at the Peerless Dairy, in Vacada. Doctor Mason was with me an’ the land commissioner.”

“That will do for the present, sheriff. I have here many records from ranches and dairies where the process has been repeatedly proven. It is scientifically accurate, as infallible as finger printing. Take the witness.”

The eminent counsel did not care to take the witness. But he endeavored to discredit the new method. The jury did not accept his arguments.

“Gorman,” said Doctor Mason when the prisoner was remanded into the custody of the sheriff, pending transport to the State penitentiary, “what are you going to do now? How about a holiday?”

“After I’ve handed Bradey over, I don’t mind if I do. First, I aim to retire.”

“If you try to you’ll make the most popular man in the county the most unpopular. The governor won’t accept it. Man, you’re famous! You’re headlining the press of the country.”

“Shucks! What are you drivin’ at, doc?”

“Can’t Pete run your office for a few days?”

“He might. I dunno. Pete’s mind ain’t strictly on bisness. He’s got an idea he can persuade Mrs. Jordan to let him play elephant for her kids after a bit, as a permanent job. But he might. Why?”

“Because I know where we can get some Eastern brook trout. Creek’s been stocked for four years and I don’t believe it’s fished once a year.”

“Doc, you’re on! Soon as I get back, let’s go a-fishin’.”