Gunsmoke Justice (9 page)

Quarles spoke quietly, without emphasis, but the very lack of it sent a cold warning along Brad’s spine. “Not here,” he said. He shifted his weight, the saddle creaking protestingly. “There’s plenty of land down below for both you and the Swede. Take that, and stay out of these mountains.”

“That an order?” Brad asked.

“An order!”

Brad’s voice was still cool. “Like the one Biddle tried to give me this morning?”

“Biddle’s a fool. I’ll make you the same proposition with better terms.” Quarles’ calculating gaze measured Brad, seeking a chink in his armor.

“I never liked to work for a loser,” Brad answered. “I’ll stick with the Split S.”

He could see it hit Quarles, doubling his caution. Quarles would be smart enough to know Brad was not the kind to make an idle boast. He would think Brad had a plan. And that was what he should think.

Quarles stirred again and reined his horse around. “You’re through here, Jordan. Get out while you can.”

“Like Parker did?” Brad asked mockingly.

Quarles raked his spurs hard against his horse and rode off, taking Newt with him. Brad watched until they were out of sight. Quarles had left easily enough, but only because he held the upper hand for the moment. Brad put his gun in the boot. Because Quarles had backed away didn’t mean he was through. Brad knew his kind. Quarles would never be through until he destroyed everyone opposing him — or destroyed himself.

I
N THE WEEKS
that followed Brad grew restless. Olaf took the waiting philosophically, spending the time in improving his homestead. Brad helped him, though he had no genuine liking for that kind of work. But it was something to pass the time, and now that was what seemed to matter.

Finally he rode to the Split S. Quarles was being altogether too quiet to suit him. Even though Quarles was a shrewd, careful man, who walked the tightrope of the law, he was not the kind to take the taunts Brad had flung at him.

Bluntly Brad pointed out to June Grant that the silence coming from the Double Q was unnatural. He was afraid there was more behind it than just caution. “Quarles,” he told her, “might be needing time to help him out. If that’s it, then we ought to hit him before he’s ready.”

“I’ve spoken to Dave,” she said. The frown of worry Brad had noticed before was deeper than ever. “In a thing like this there can’t be more than one boss. He’s hired to do it, and so I’ll go along as he says.”

“And I’ll go along with you as I promised,” Brad said.

“Not if you feel otherwise,” she returned.

He made no answer, though the temptation was great. His promise was as strong as his inner loyalties. If that needed explaining to her, let someone else do it.

“I’m staying,” was all he said.

The relief she felt was plain on her face. He could not see why, when she was so keyed up with waiting and watching her hay shrivel before her eyes, she would be so patient with Arden. But he had agreed to abide by what she said.

“We have to let him make the first move,” she explained. “As Dave says, the Split S must be in the clear when this is over. We’ll have no one say that I started a range war.”

Fine, Brad thought, but maybe there wouldn’t be any Split S to say it about. But all he said was, “Send for me when you’re ready.”

He rode back slowly, refusing her invitation to eat with them. It was growing dusky as he followed the flats toward the far end where a sharp trail led up to Olaf’s meadow and on to his house.

June Grant, he felt, was putting too much trust in Arden’s judgment. And yet what else could she do? A woman alone needed a man to turn to and, outside of Jim Parker, there seemed to be no one but Arden. She had explained to Brad that Parker was in no position to do anything. He was new to this kind of country, unfamiliar with guns and fighting, and there was little chance that he would get anything but a bullet for his pains. He had wanted to help her, she admitted, but her fear of his getting hurt had forced him into a promise of waiting.

As Brad came to the sharp trail rising through the timber, he turned his mind to riding. It was darkening here under the trees, and the palomino needed what help he could get to make the steep, rocky pitches.

Finally Brad came to Olaf’s field and the last of the daylight eased the strain somewhat. He was nearly across it when he heard a sharp, keening cry of anger from the direction of the cabin. He reined in the horse and squinted that way. But the gloom and the trees hid everything from sight. He put the horse in motion, going in at a steady run.

When he was nearly to the end of the field, a bullet whined out of the darkness ahead and nicked the grass near him. He reined the horse to the left, making a zigzagging trail until he hit the edge of the timber on the west side. A second bullet missed, and then he was out of sight in the trees.

Without slowing, reckless of the dark now, he sent the horse along a narrow deer trail. Tree branches reached out, slapping them both, but Brad paid no attention. He could visualize what had happened, and anger welled in him. They had waited until he was gone and then closed in on Olaf.

He reached the clearing around the cabin, the horse moving cautiously now, his hoofs padded by the forest duff. Brad left the saddle, ground-reining the palomino, and slipped forward on foot. He could hear men not far away, and the harsh voice of Newt rose in an order.

“Watch for him! Watch for him!”

Brad slipped up behind the bole of a thick cedar. There in front of the cabin were four horses. Someone spoke from inside the cabin, and Newt answered from the doorway. That meant two men were prowling outside. Brad left the shelter of the tree, and at that instant Newt saw him.

Brad fired, but his angle was bad, and Newt was in the shadow of the building. He heard his bullet thud into wood. Newt’s answering shot buried itself in a tree near him. Brad charged, seeking a clearer aim. He felt a root under his foot and he pitched forward off balance. The movement saved his life as a rifle butt crashed down from behind, aiming for the space where his head had been, and driving with numbing force into his shoulder.

He kept on going, face into the dirt, his gun flying from his hand. When he tried to twist as he fell, the rifle butt came down again, catching him above the ear. The sensation of warm blackness enfolded him. He reached up to push it away, but he had no strength, and he had to stop fighting.

He awakened with a ringing head and the feel of icy water on his face. He was in the cabin, half propped in his own bunk. He saw Olaf across the way, his round, usually good-humored face bleeding from half a dozen bruising blows, and one eye closing rapidly.

By the door the lanky cowboy Clip stood with a gun. One shoulder was still bandaged, but there was no mistaking the way he juggled the gun in his good hand. He was not too shot up to use it. On the other side of the room stood a man with a rifle. He was a wizened, bow-legged man that Brad had never seen before. But he had seen the stamp that was on all his kind, and Brad knew that here there would be no mercy.

Newt and a fourth man stood near Brad. Newt had the water dipper in his hand. In his eyes there was the pale desire of one born to cruelty. “He’s awake,” he said.

Brad put both hands tentatively on the edge of the bunk. The pain went up his right shoulder, but he could stand it. Blinking his eyes to force away the last of the dizziness, he threw himself forward. From the other bunk he caught a blur of movement as Olaf, beaten as he was, tried to throw himself off the bunk. There was a rafter-shaking crash as he fell to the packed earth floor.

Brad thought that his quickness was still in him. But with absurd ease Newt stepped aside, letting him go by. With a low laugh Newt brought the dipper down across the back of Brad’s neck. Brad lit on Olaf’s out-stretched body with one shoulder, rolled, and came groggily to his knees.

Newt’s eyes gleamed again and he dropped the dipper, stepping in. Brad got to his feet and swung. Newt missed stepping aside, and the force of the blow sent him reeling against the man nearby. Brad charged and a foot came out, tripping him and sending him to the floor again. Newt’s laugh had changed to a curse as he drove the toe of his boot against Brad’s ribs.

Brad shook his head and tried to get up again. He made it to his knees when Newt’s foot again caught him. He felt the hardness of heavy leather against his chin — and then the smothering blackness once more.

Again they brought him around, and this time Newt took no chances. Brad was propped against the wall, his arms roped, and Newt went deliberately to work.

“You’re leaving, you hear, you? You and the Swede are leaving.” Newt was laughing again as his fists methodically worked over Brad’s face. From the floor Olaf groaned and struggled almost to his feet before the lanky cowhand walked over and contemptuously kicked him down again.

“You drifters know only one kind of talk,” Newt said savagely. “This!” And his knee drove up brutally. Brad managed to turn, taking it on the hip instead of in the groin. He sucked in a breath and sent blood and spittle into Newt’s face.

Brad kicked forward, putting his back against the wall, and driving his head into Newt’s belly. He had the satisfaction of hearing a grunt of pain. And then Newt was down under him. Brad tried to beat the man with his head, throwing it until he felt as if his neck would snap.

“Get him off!” Newt yelled.

A hand got Brad by the collar and jerked. Newt came up swearing and lashed out with his fist. Brad felt the blow on his mouth, and he spat again. Newt threw a leg, tripping him, and, as he fell, Newt kicked a third time. Brad felt his ribs give, and then all breath, all consciousness, left him.

This time when he came around the rough jolting of a horse beat at his bruised body. The ropes were still on him, with others holding him in the saddle. After a few minutes he found strength enough to look around. Olaf was roped in the same manner on his little bay. On either side of them the Double Q men rode easily. Ahead Brad could see nothing, but when he turned his neck, he caught a glimpse of the town lights behind. The pain of movement was too intense and his head dropped forward.

It was too great an effort to open his eyes, and so he kept them shut, sensing where they were by the coolness of the air and the pitch of the road underneath. He knew when they came to the summit of Knothole Gap, and he knew when they had started down the other side.

A short distance down, Newt’s voice came briefly, “Quirt ’em the rest of the way!”

The palomino jerked forward as rein ends slashed his rump. Brad opened his eyes now to see the pitching darkness ahead blur into his face. The palomino was surefooted and, despite his fright, kept his balance. Brad tried to talk and succeeded only in forcing out a croak. But after a time he got control of his voice, and the horse slowed under the familiar sounds.

Finally he had the animal halted, and he slumped in the saddle, unable to move. He listened for sounds from above, but all he could hear was the scrabble of hoofs below. Olaf, he thought, and wondered how long the rickety bay pony could last.

He urged the palomino on then, using his knees to direct it Indian fashion. Where the gap met the main wagon road, he found Olaf and the bay. The horse was spent, head hanging, unable to travel farther. Olaf sagged in the saddle like a great mound of earth. But when Brad rode up, his voice was clear.

“They beat me, Brad. I got you beat, too.”

“We’re not beat,” Brad said. The pent-up rage of what had happened blurred his voice. “Once we get loose we’re not beat, Olaf.”

He went to work with what strength he could muster, shifting the the ropes, seeking a way of loosening them. But Newt was a clever man with a hitch, he discovered, and the more he worked the tighter they got. Olaf had no better luck. And finally Brad was forced to stop.

“Can that horse go at all?”

“I’ll try,” Olaf said. He sounded as if he were growing weaker.

“Use your knees,” Brad directed. He worked the palomino behind the bay and, finally, the smaller horse started under their combined efforts. Slowly, doggedly, they got it going up the long grade to the top of the gap.

More than once Brad thought the bay was completely done, but from somewhere it mustered strength enough to pull the grades, until at last as dawn cracked the eastern darkness, they stopped in front of Tim Teehan’s place.

Brad shouted, but his voice was drowned in the sound of water running into the basin. He shouted again, and Olaf’s bellow joined him. He kept shouting until his throat seemed scoured raw, and at last there was a light through a window and the door came open.

Tim Teehan came out holding a lantern high. When he saw the two men, angry sounds burst out of him. “Double Q!” he said bitterly.

“Double Q,” Brad managed to answer. He felt Teehan’s hesitation. “If you’re afraid of them, just cut us loose.”

A tall woman in a flowing wrapper came out to stand beside Teehan in the lantern light. Her gasp ran over Brad and Olaf. “The poor boys! And you stand there, Tim Teehan!”

“Double Q did it, Molly.”

“Double Q be damned!” she cried. “Go get a knife, you old fool!”

Brad smiled faintly and slumped forward. He would have pitched from the saddle had not the ropes held him tightly.

B
RAD STRUGGLED BACK
to warm sunlight and a feeling of lassitude fighting against the aches in his body. He opened his eyes and saw Olaf seated in a chair near him, smoking his foul pipe. Olafs face looked like a ripe, bruised peach.

“We made it,” Brad said.

“Yah,” Olaf answered. His smile came as he saw that his friend was awake. “The lady says all right.” The smile left him, and Brad saw something in the round face that had not been there before. Bitterness had come to Olaf and it had hardened him visibly.

The tall woman Brad remembered opened the door and bustled in. She carried a basin of warm water and, when she saw Brad was awake, she set it down and went to him. She was more than tall. She was huge. She would have made three of Tim Teehan with some left to spare. But for all that she moved gracefully, and when she touched his sore body her fingers were gentle.

There was the lilt of Ireland in her voice when she spoke. “And how might you be feeling now?”

“Hungry,” Brad said.

“Your friend got that way yesterday,” she said, “and he’s up and about already.” She bustled out.

“Yesterday!” Brad said to Olaf.

“Yah,” Olaf agreed. “It’s three days now.”

Brad lay back, shutting his eyes. Three days! It was three days more before he found himself a whole man again. But once he had awakened, his strength returned rapidly. Molly Teehan’s food was good and nourishing, and Brad had a constitution as strong as Olaf’s. Once he was up and walking, he made good progress.

From Olaf he learned the details of Newt’s coming. Olaf had been splitting firewood when they had ridden up. The sound of his ax had dulled the noise of their approach, and they had thrown a loop on him before he could move.

“I break the rope,” Olaf explained. “One man hit me with a gun. That broke.” He shrugged and his face clouded in memory. “But they are four. I get beat.”

And so they were run out, Brad thought. Their gear would have been disposed of, and who was to say they had not thought better of things and left the country. Quarles was shrewd and had not chanced a killing on his hands.

Now Brad felt strong enough to travel, and he told Molly Teehan so. “I’d like to pay,” Brad said.

“Pay!” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “‘Tis Double Q you ride against, isn’t it? Pay!”

Tim Teehan put in a cautious appearance. “Faith McFee was up the day before you came. You’re riding for Split S. That’s pay enough.”

Brad thanked them, and he and Olaf went out to their horses. They had been given good care, and even the bay looked fairly fit. Saddling, Brad mounted slowly. His body still pained him, and the wrapping Molly Teehan had put on his ribs made his movements none the easier. But he found pleasure in the feel of a saddle.

The Teehans came to the door. “If you need help,” Molly Teehan cried, “‘tis here.”

Brad saw the withdrawal on Tim Teehan’s face, and so he only waved, and reined toward Sawhorse Valley. From Molly he would find help, he knew. But her husband was like McFee, a man afraid of cutting short the last of his life.

They rode slowly in the morning sun, down the trail to the flats and along to the town. They had no guns, and so there was no reason to stop at the sheriff’s office. Instead, Brad drew up before the mercantile and dismounted stiffly.

There was no more than a handful of people on the street — but as one they stared as Brad and Olaf rode up and stopped. The blacksmith’s boy left the livery at a quick run, darting off to carry the news.

So their going had got around, Brad thought, as he went into the store. He came out, his money belt flatter, but with a pile of goods on the freight dock waiting for him. At the livery, he rented a team and wagon, saying no more than he had to. Jube’s father required a deposit on the horses and wagon.

“Might get hurt in the hills,” he explained.

Brad took it as meant and paid. When the goods were loaded, he and Olaf climbed onto the wagon and started off, the saddle horses tied behind. Faith McFee ran out, calling to them, and Brad stopped.

She came up to the wagon, her face flushed with heat from the cookstove. “I just heard,” she said. “It’s almost dinnertime, and the restaurant is open.”

“Eat,” Olaf said in a pleased voice. Brad turned the team and silently put the wagon alongside the restaurant. He and Olaf followed Faith inside.

Brad did not want to take the time for this. But besides not wanting to antagonize the girl, his common sense told him that it might be a good idea to find out a few things that had happened while he and Olaf were gone.

It was still too early for the regular diners and, for the moment, they had the place to themselves. Faith put soup, thick with beans, in front of them and added generous slices of bread. Olaf dipped in at once. Brad waited, watching the girl.

“I heard you’d left the Sawhorse,” she said. Her eyes lingered on the bruises still mottling Brad’s face. It was too tender yet to run a razor over, but she seemed not to notice his crop of reddish whiskers. “Now I understand.”

“Then the news got around that we’d gone?” Brad asked.

“Dave Arden brought it,” she answered. “He rode to see you four or five days ago and everything was gone.”

“So I thought,” Brad nodded.

Just then the dealer from the Sawhorse Saloon walked in. He stared for a while at Brad and Olaf, and then quietly took a seat. Addressing Faith, he said casually, “Nick Biddle just rode out. He’s been in town an hour.”

“Thanks,” she said, and took his plate to him. When she looked again at Brad he was eating, a faint smile on his face.

“That goes for me, too,” he murmured to her.

“You were foolish to come to town like this,” she said softly. “Biddle and Quarles will have men over there before you get back.”

“So I figured,” he said.

She gave up all pretense. “Must you go back?”

“I have a score to settle,” Brad said quietly. His eyes flickered. “So does Olaf.”

“Is it worth another beating to settle a score?” she cried. She saw the dealer looking at her, and she fought to lower her voice. “Or more?”

“More this time,” Brad agreed gravely. “The news is out. If Quarles does anything to us, he’ll have to break the law openly this time. He’ll order us shot.”

“And you’re willing!”

“To take a chance?” He nodded. “He made a mistake. Or Newt did. It was foolish for them to think we would keep running.” As he lifted his coffee cup, he felt the wrapping over his ribs pull. “Or they thought we were too beat to come back.” He shook his head and the faint, cold smile she had seen the day he roughed Newt was on his lips. “Quarles can’t afford to make mistakes.”

Others came in then, and she turned her attention to serving them. Brad and Olaf seemed to be objects of curiosity but, outside of casual nods, the men carefully refrained from taking open notice of them. It was, Brad knew, the safe way to act. If ever a showdown came, the ones who had displayed friendship would be pointed out by others.

Finally there was a lull. Brad had waited patiently until he could speak to Faith again. Now he said, “How was the news taken?”

“June Grant thought — ”

“I can guess what she thought,” he interrupted. “What about the sheriff?”

“He thought you’d run, too.”

“They all would,” Brad agreed. He reached for his money, but she refused it. Thanking her, he and Olaf went back to the team and wagon. Brad directed the horses onto the road north.

“Get guns out now?” Olaf said, as they passed the town limits.

Brad squinted into the distance. There was no sign of anyone except a few men that he could faintly see working at cutting native grass hay off to the east.

“Good a time as any,” he said.

Olaf delved into the supplies in the wagon bed and came up with two  .44’s and two carbines. Brad put his  .44 in the holster and the carbine on the floor at his feet. He wished for the familiar feel of his old guns back. With a new  .44 or carbine a man never knew how they would shoot, and this was no time to have to learn the eccentricities of a weapon.

Olaf sat with his carbine held loosely across his knees. In his eyes and on his face was the look Brad had first noticed at Teehan’s. Sometimes there was the old pleasure in Olaf’s smile, but more and more of late Brad had seen this grimness creeping up on him so that now he rode with his eyes sharp, squinting into the distance.

“We’ll go home now,” Olaf said.

Brad hesitated a moment. That had been his idea until he had talked to Faith in the restaurant, but now he decided against the move. “Not yet,” he said. Looping the reins over the whipstock, he rolled a cigarette, holding the paper between his legs to cut off the slight wind rippling the air.

“That’s where they’ll expect us,” he said. “It might be a good idea to go to the Split S first.”

Olaf studied that, and Brad realized that for the first time Olaf had an active, understanding concern of things in this valley. “So. Good,” Olaf agreed.

At the turn Brad noticed the hay on either side. It was still uncut though, as he last remembered it, some could have been salvaged by cutting. As it stood now it was a strong yellow and beginning to turn brown at the edges. He looked disgustedly up toward the ranch. If Arden was not willing to make a fight, the least he could do was to save what he could for June Grant.

Brad’s irritation grew as, from the bridge, he could look out and see the great stacks of first cutting Biddle and Quarles had built up. And already there was promise of second cutting showing green on their hayfields.

Going into the yard at the Split S, he left the team by the rear door, and went up to the kitchen. Olaf stayed on the wagon seat, the rifle still lying across his knees.

It was June Grant who let Brad in, and the coolness he saw in her face vanished as she became aware of the marks of the fight still on him.

“So that was it!” she said. She threw the door open. “Come in, both of you.” There was a surge of hope plain in her voice. As if, Brad thought, his coming had renewed her faith in something.

“That was it,” Brad said soberly. He signaled to Olaf. The big man made no move; he was looking across the fields as though he were seeking something.

“Olaf, coffee!” June Grant cried. And reluctantly Olaf climbed from the wagon and came into the house.

She poured it for them, took a cup for herself, and sat with them at the kitchen table. She waited expectantly. “I see,” Brad said to her, “the hay’s gone for good.”

“Dave’s been trying,” she said defensively. “First the old mower needed parts. And then when they came, the frame broke apart. We had to order a new machine.”

Brad scratched at the wiry red beard he had grown. “Some of your neighbors across the valley should be through cutting by now. Coe, for instance. Or isn’t this borrowing country?”

“It used to be,” she said, “when Dad was alive.” There was a faint flush creeping up her cheeks. “You’re just the same, Brad. Do you take a delight in badgering me?”

He noticed her use of his first name, and took it as an acceptance of his presence that had been missing before. “I like to get things done,” he said. “Maybe Arden never thought of it. You might try, though, and at least get that cut and out of the way.”

He shifted the subject, feeling that it was disposed of. “I’d better tell you that my being here might make Quarles move in.”

“I know that,” she said.

“It’d be best if we went then,” he said.

She answered as Faith had. “Must you go back?”

“I’ve got a score to settle,” he told her.

Her answer came in the words he wanted, though he had held small hope of hearing them. “Then settle it here!” Her head lifted defiantly. “After what they must have done — what it looks like they did — ”

“Beat us up and drove us off,” he said shortly.

“There’s no good in waiting longer,” she finished.

“It’s up to Arden, isn’t it?”

He saw the flush again. “When Dave hears, he’ll be willing,” she stated flatly.

“Unless,” Brad said, “he’s afraid of this same thing happening to you. Quarles ran us out because we were close to the water up there. He might figure it’s a good way to get you over and done with. He’s about where he can’t wait much longer.”

“It won’t happen to me,” she said. “And what is a little more grief, anyway, if it means a chance of saving something?”

Something, he thought. She no longer hoped to save it all — just some part of it. He stood up. “In that case,” he said, “I’ll see to the team and wagon.”

Brad and Olaf ran the wagon into the big, unused barn, and made their beds close by it. The team they put in the other barn where there was still a little hay and feed from the winter before. That done, Brad made up two packs such as men could carry behind a saddle and use to camp in the open. The supper call came before he was finished, and when he went to the house, he saw that Arden had come in and was at the table. June Grant stepped to the door.

Brad said, “We ate big in town, and I’ve got more to do. We’ll set in after the rest are done.”

She nodded, and Brad went back to the barn. The hunger of a man still healing was strong in him when he started for the house again. Olaf walked along beside him saying nothing, and with the wary look still about him.