Law of the Gun. Martin H. Greenberg
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out on two wagons. The only thing left on the old campsite was a ruined cistern, surrounded by a little fence to keep stock from falling in. Papa had always intended to come over and fill it up, when he had time.
Now, he thought, there won’t be any need to fill it up. It’ll be Hubbard’s again.
He saw smoke curling upwards from the tin chimney, and he knew Farrington was at home. “Farrington,” Papa called, “it’s me, Henry Barclay. I’ve come to talk to you.”
Farrington was slow about showing himself, and he came out wearing his gun. Distrust showed all over him. His hand was close to the gun butt, and it went even closer when Papa’s horse turned so that Farrington saw the saddle gun.
“It’s past talkin’ now, Barclay. There was a time we could’ve worked this out. But not anymore.”
“We still could,” Papa said. “What if we give you what Hubbard wants? What if we sell our land to him and clear out?”
Farrington frowned. “Why should I care what Hubbard wants?”
“We don’t have to play games, Farrington. I know what you came for, and you know I know it. So now you’ve won. Leave my brother alone.”
“You’re speakin’ for yourself. But your brother may not see it your way.”
“He will, even if I have to tie him up and haul him clear to California in a wagon.”
Farrington considered a while. “You make sense, up to a point. Pity you couldn’t have done this a long while back, before I had spent so much time here. Now you might say I got an investment made. What suits Port Hubbard might not be enough to suit me any more.”
“You want money? All right, I’ll split with you. Half of what Hubbard gives for the land. Only, I don’t want Jeff hurt.”
“Half of what Hubbard’ll give now ain’t very much.”
“All of it, then. We didn’t have anything when we came here. I reckon we could start with nothin’ again.”
A dry and awful smile broke across Farrington’s face. “No deal, Barclay. I just wanted to see how far you’d crawl. Now I know.”
“You’re really goin’ to kill him?”
“Like I’d kill a beef! And then I’ll come and put you off, Barclay. It won’t cost Hubbard a cent. You’ll sign those papers and drag out of here with nothin’ but the clothes on your back!”
That was it, then. Papa turned his horse and made like he was going to ride off. But he knew he couldn’t leave it this way. Uncle Jeff was as good as dead. For that matter, so was Papa, for he had no intention of leaving his land if Uncle Jeff died.
Seventy feet from the house, Papa leaned forward as if he was going to put spurs to the horse. Instead, he took hold of the saddle gun and yanked it up out of the scabbard.
Farrington saw what was coming. He drew his pistol and fired just as the saddle gun came clear. But Papa was pulling his horse around. The bullet went shy.
Papa dropped to the ground, flat on his belly. He had lessened the odds by getting distance between him and Farrington. This was a long shot for a pistol. It was just right for Papa’s short rifle. Farrington knew it, too. He came running, firing as he moved, trying to keep Papa’s head down till he could get close enough for a really good shot.
Papa didn’t let him get that close. He sighted quick and squeezed the trigger.
Papa had shot a lot of lobo wolves in his day, and some of them on the run. Farrington rolled like one of those wolves. His body twitched a few times, then he was dead.
Papa had never killed a man before, and he never killed one again. He knew it was something he had had to do to save Uncle Jeff. But still he was sick to his stomach. All that coffee he had drunk came up. Later, when he had settled a little, he began wondering how he was going to tell this. Uncle Jeff probably never would forgive him, for he had wanted Farrington for himself. Papa would never be able to convince him Farrington would have killed him. Hubbard would scream murder, and it might be hard to convince a jury that it hadn’t been just that. Men had been known to murder for much less than a brother’s life.
Then it came to him: why tell anybody at all? Nobody had seen it. For all anyone needed to know, Farrington had just saddled up and ridden away. Gunfighters did that sometimes. Many a noted outlaw had simply disappeared, never to be heard of again. A new country, a new name, a new start…
Farrington’s horse was in the corral. Actually, it was a Rocking H sorrel. Papa put Farrington’s bridle and saddle on him, then hoisted Farrington’s body up over the saddle. The horse danced around, smelling blood, and it was a hard job, but Papa got the body lashed down. He went into the house. He took a skillet, a coffeepot, some food—the things Farrington would logically have carried away with him. He rolled these up in Farrington’s blanket and took them with him.
He worried some over the tracks, and he paused to kick dirt over the patch of blood where Farrington had fallen. But in the north, clouds were building. Maybe it would rain and wash out the tracks. If it didn’t rain, at least it would blow. In this country, wind could reduce tracks about as well as a rain.
Papa led the sorrel horse with its load out across the Farrington claim and prayed he wouldn’t run into any Rocking H cowboys. He stayed clear of the road. When he reached his own land, he cut across to the one-time Hubbard line camp. There he dragged Farrington’s body to the edge of the old cistern and dropped him in. He dropped saddle, blankets and everything else in after him. Then he led the sorrel horse back and turned him loose in Hubbard’s big pasture.
Papa was not normally a drinking man, but that afternoon he took a bottle out of the kitchen cabinet and sat on the porch and got drunk.
Late that night, Uncle Jeff came home. He had been drinking too, but for a different reason. He had a couple of friends with him, helping him celebrate.
“Howdy do, big brother,” he shouted all the way from the front gate. “It’s me, little old Jeff, the livest little old Jeff you ever did see!” He swayed up onto the porch and saw Papa sitting there. “Bet you thought they’d be bringin’ me home in a box. You just been sittin’ here a-drinkin’ by yourself and dreadin’ seein’ them come. But I’m here, and I’m still a-kickin’. I won. Farrington never showed up.”
Papa couldn’t make much of a display. “You don’t say!”
“I do say! The whole town was waitin’. He never came. He was scared of me. Tobe Farrington was scared of me!”
Papa said, “I’m glad, Jeff. I’m real glad.” He pushed himself to his feet and staggered off to bed.
Next day there must have been thirty people by at one time or another to congratulate Jeff Barclay. They didn’t see Papa, though. He had gone off to fill up that old cistern before a cow fell in it.
It was told all over West Texas how Jeff Barclay, a greasy-sack rancher, had scared Tobe Farrington into backing down on a challenge. Folks decided Farrington was reputation and nothing else. They always wondered where he went, because nobody ever heard of him after that. Talk was that he had gone into Mexico and had changed his name, ashamed to face up to people after backing down to Jeff Barclay.
Papa was more than glad to let them believe that. Like I said, he kept the secret till just before he died. But it must have troubled him, and when finally he knew his time was coming, he told me. He kept telling me it was something he had to do to save Uncle Jeff.
The irony was that it didn’t really save Uncle Jeff. If anything, it killed him. Being the way he was, Uncle Jeff let the notoriety go to his head. Got so he was always looking for another Tobe Farrington. He turned cocky and quarrelsome. Gradually he alienated his friends. He even lost Delia Larrabee. The only person he didn’t lose was Papa.
Papa wasn’t there to help the day Uncle Jeff finally met a man who was like Tobe Farrington. Uncle Jeff was still clawing