Jim Gorman's Brand. J. Allan Dunn
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“I’ve offen thought law books was writ an’ printed for the feller who’s in trubbel, rather than t’other end to.”
“I’ve kinder thought the same way myself, Pete. Speshully what they call the civil code. So long.”
He went out to the back where his horses were stabled. Motor cars he ignored save in case of necessity.
“Car’s all right for speed on fair-to-good roads,” he declared. “Go across lots with ’em an’ you’re liable to git inter trubble. I kin go on a hawss where a car ’ud be stalled or turnin’ summersets, an’ I kin think while I’m ridin’, ’thout botherin’ with holdin’ a guidin’ wheel an’ shiftin’ gears.”
He saddled his black mare, who whinnied at him and thrust her velvety nose against him. She was not only his chum but his confidant. Her nervous ears had heard many secrets that the wind blew away and the mare never disclosed. It was the old habit of the range rider and his mount, the discounting of loneliness and solitude, still clinging to Gorman, utilized by him when he was riding free to assemble and concentrate thoughts and plans.
He loped out of town at an easy gait, nodding to many men, doffing his sombrero so frequently to women until at last he rode bareheaded until he reached the outskirts of Vacada. He passed by fenced lands where the water in the irrigation ditches matched the Arizona sky, looking like wide strips of turquoise between the green of alfalfa or the chocolate brown of cultivated loam where orchards were coming lustily along. There were neat houses here, windmills, shade trees, little gardens. A pleasant, prosperous country, yet Gorman sighed his relief when they left the last of it behind and reached the wilder region of sage, greasewood and mesquite that rolled in a great plain toward foothill and mesa.
The mare quickened her pace, seeming to greet the tang of spicy herbage brought on the unchecked wind as eagerly as did her master. They left the road and started across the open to where the Calista range rose, leisurely at first, in great mounds that halted at a steep escarpment, the cliffs cut deeply here and there by ravines, some of which were box cañons while others led to the true slopes of the range, timbered with piñon and juniper, like a mantle that had slipped down from the barren crests. Here and there a creek came lunging down. Now and then it was only the dry bed of one, an arroyo.
Gorman rode steadily toward a known objective, making the best speed for the distance and the type of terrain. Surely, as the sun mounted toward noon, they approached the southern border of the B-in-a-Box property. To the west lay the smaller holding of Bud Jarrett of the Two-Bar.
He had eaten a hearty breakfast early that morning, and, true to old-time range custom, he did not expect to touch food again until nightfall. But there was grain for the mare in a bag inside the slicker tied back of his saddle.
When at last they began definitely to climb, his face, that had been stern and a trifle grim with his thoughts, relaxed.
“I reckon, lady,” he said to the mare, “that some of the old-time sayin’s is crosscuts to the law. Possession is nine points in this proposition, to my mind. If this dark-complected hombre, name of Moore, actin’ for King Bradey, runs off these folks an’ destroys their property, which he appears aimin’ to do, ’cordin’ to this letter, they’ll have to enter a civil suit to recover damages. The way King Bradey sits pritty with the gents who apply the law, they’ll be gray-haired an’ toothless afore they git a decision, which may be agen ’em. If they don’t die of starvation an’ hard luck in the meantime, havin’ lost all they own.
“I reckon we’ll have to try an’ show Moore the foolishness of his ways. Mebbe King Bradey. He ain’t actin’ modern. He’s usin’ old-time methods an’ he ain’t choosin’ the best kind. But they’re the kind we sabe. I wonder if her man’s showed up agen?”
In a little while they reached a spring that was fenced in. Gorman’s eyes grew cold.
“I wouldn’t wonder but this was some of King Bradey’s doin’, lady,” he said. “He’s runnin’ with a high hand lately. Playin’ the dooces wild. This is open range an’ we need a drink. Also others. We’re goin’ to git it.”
He tied the end of the rope he still carried—though not for the old usage—fastening it about the wire close to a middle staple of the three-wire fence, taking dallies about the saddle horn. A word to the mare, a swift series of jumps and the staple came out. In a little while he had a section of the fence flat, save for the posts. He led the mare to the clear water and, when she had drunk daintily and wisely, gave her her oats and lit a cigarette, sitting under the shade of some willows.
He took a letter from his pocket and read it over. It was the note brought by Bud Jarrett, addressed to him as sheriff.
Dear Sir: Eight or ten days ago King Bradey’s foreman rode up and gave us notice to leave. Sam told him he wouldn’t, that it was open land that we had taken up and that they had no right to fence in the spring in the meadow. He had two men with him and he said if we didn’t get off by ten days he’d drive us off. The place is all we’ve got and we’ve put our money into it, what we have.
Sam left two days after and said he would see you, but he hasn’t been back and I’m afraid something has gone wrong. I want to tell you the truth—that Sam used to drink sometimes and stay away a spell, but I don’t think he would do this time because one of the children is sick which is why I have had to stay, though I would have been afraid to leave the place the way things are.
I am sending this by Mr. Jarrett. He wants to help me, but there are reasons why I don’t want him to get in wrong with Mr. Bradey, as he surely would, so I am asking you to do something to protect our rights. Maybe Sam will be home by to-morrow, but I don’t suppose they will come alone. Faithfully yours,
Elizabeth Jordan.
P.S.—The foreman said he’d burn down the house. He said we stole the logs.
“That,” said Gorman aloud, as he folded up the note and put it away, “is what I’d call a mighty sensible letter for a woman in her fix. I’m sure hopin’ Sam got home, for he don’t appear to have bin in Vacada. An’ this habit of fencin’ in public springs is a foolish one.”
He had finished his cigarette at the start of the letter. The mare was cleaning up her oats when he saw her ears prick forward at something concealed from her view, and from Gorman’s, behind the willows. She did not move, but stood motionless as a dog on point. Gorman got to his knees with the litheness of a wild cat rising from a crouch, gently parting the boughs. The lightly balanced leaves were shifting in the breeze and gave him a better chance.
Two cowboys were riding in toward the spring. It was plain that they had seen the broken strands. They had reined up, discussing it. One of them drew a gun, broke it, inspecting the cylinder, snapped it back again and they both rode on. They stopped again, looking about them, their figures clearly mirrored in the water that showed them, from the saddles up, in reversed image. One of them caught sight of the glossy flank of the mare and pointed just as Gorman stepped through the willows.
“You ridin’ for the B-in-a-Box?” he asked pleasantly.
“What the hell’s that to you?” retorted 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