Jim Gorman's Brand. J. Allan Dunn

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СКАЧАТЬ the one who had drawn his gun, his hand falling to the butt of his weapon. He was a young chap whose burned face had not seen much of a razor as yet, for lack of necessity. The other was much older, lean like Gorman, with a hatchet face and a look of habitual repression, of a certain craftiness.

      His hand fell on the gun arm of the younger, who shook it off angrily as he spoke again.

      “You pull down this wire?” he demanded.

      Gorman started to roll a cigarette, using both hands, performing the trick deftly and instinctively, his eyes off the job, centered on the boy.

      “I sure did,” said the sheriff. “You put it up?”

      “I’ll show you what I put up,” said the lad. “Stick up yore——”

      He whipped the gun from his holster and then stared foolishly, with fallen chops, at a strained wrist and trigger finger and the widening ripples where his weapon had plunged into the spring. Gorman’s bullet had struck it fairly on the cylinder. Now the sheriff stood imperturbable, his finished cigarette in his mouth, feeling for a match. The movement of his hands had been too fast for look to register. The elder man spoke angrily to his companion.

      “You damned young fool, don’t you know who that is? Sheriff Gorman!”

      “I—I didn’t see no star,” stammered the nonplused cowboy.

      “You c’ud see he was packin’ two guns, cudn’t you? Ain’t many men doin’ that round here, outside of Two-Gun Gorman.”

      “All right, Dave, that’ll do,” said Gorman. He fancied that the man was overzealous and anxious in his enlightenment of the other. “I asked you a question,” he went on. “You ain’t answered it. You put up this wire?”

      “Nope, we didn’t.” Gorman noted a certain furtive anxiety in the eyes of Dave and thought he knew the reason for it. He resolved to probe it later.

      “I see you’re ridin’ wire this mornin’,” he continued, “and the kid’s hawss has got Bradey’s brand—one of ’em. Lazy-H. So I reckon you came this way to see was the fence up. It ain’t. More’n that, it’s comin’ down.”

      “Bradey claims this land,” said the boy, recovering a little of his poise.

      “I’ll do the talkin’. Curly,” said Dave.

      “I’ll do it,” said Gorman. “This ain’t Bradey’s land, never has bin, an’ he knows it. Outside of that, it ain’t fenced. If King Bradey figgers he don’t have to prove or put up fence to use land you tell him from me he’s mistaken. I’ve bin busy in Vacada lately, cleanin’ up. I aim to handle the county the same way. You tell Bradey he’s holdin’ his reins too high for safe ridin’.

      “This is public land. I’m lookin’ out for public rights an’ privilege. Also I take this personal. I may want to water here agen. I don’t aim to pull wire every time my hawss needs a drink. You two git busy.”

      “At what?”

      “I ain’t got much time to waste this mornin’, Dave Lorton. You sabe what I mean. You two nip that wire clear—pronto. You can notify yore foreman to come git his posts later.”

      “I ain’t yore deputy,” grumbled Dave. It was clear he hesitated between Gorman and the wrath of Bradey when he knew his wire was down.

      “You ain’t likely to be, Dave. You an’ me might have some other connection a’most as close.”

      The long shot told. Gorman knew of Dave Lorton and his reputation as a brand-doctor, a fakir of other people’s bands with a skilfully applied iron. He had vanished from the county five years before under a cloud. Now, it seemed, he had come back in Bradey’s employ. The sheriff noted that he carried no running iron. Just now he was riding fence for repairs. He had some slight notoriety as a gunman, but it was plain that he had no desire to try his skill against Gorman. And it was almost equally certain to the sheriff that Lorton was again under a cloud and feared Gorman’s knowledge of it.

      “How long you bin workin’ for King Bradey, Dave?” snapped Gorman, his tone official.

      “Three months,” answered Lorton with a measure of defiance.

      That probably meant he had arrived with Moore. Gorman nodded.

      “Light,” he ordered briefly. “Cut that wire. You, Curly, you kin git yore gun after the fence is down.”

      They both glowered, but the sheriff’s face was stony. His cigarette was still between his lips, but his hands had dropped to his gun butts, signal for prompt action. He watched them as they sulkily dismounted and set to work. Once he looked at the sun and bade them hurry. Both men had wire cutters and the job did not take long, despite one lame wrist. Gorman waited while Curly fished his gun out of the water and started to dry it off.

      “Fix that later,” he said. “You’re apt to be too quick with that Colt, youngster. You keep it for coyotes an’ sick cows after this. I’m goin’ to post this spring open, officially. Now you two hombres vamos.”

      They rode off at a lope toward a draw that led to the B-in-a-Box fence.

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