The Law of the Trigger (6 page)

“Get me out of here,” Cal grated. “I've had enough of this. I've had enough of
her!”

Ike did not once look at the dead man. Now he studied the girl coldly. Cal saw the calculating look in his brother's slitted eyes and said uneasily, “Ike, what are you thinkin'?”

“None of your business.”

“Listen to me, Ike. You were right. I should have let her alone. But damn it, she seemed willin' enough. Everything would have been all right if the old man hadn't-”

“Shut up,” Ike said harshly, still studying the girl. Cal swallowed hard. Now his own panic was almost as obvious as the girl's.

“Ike, for the love of God!”

The girl leaped up like a startled deer. Ike grinned quietly as she fled toward the sheltering trees.

Up on the rise, Dunc relaxed the hard grip on his shotgun and breathed a long sigh of relief. Ike will have to let her go, he thought. Not even
he
would shoot a girl down in cold blood.

And then, even before the thought had become full grown, Ike Brunner fired once from the hip, and again from a studied aim, and the girl tripped, as though she had stumbled over a stone, and fell face down in a spongy bed of pine needles.

Cal Brunner hid his face in his hands. Then he lay back and covered his eyes with his forearm, as though shutting out the sight would shut out reality.

“Ike, you didn't have to kill her!” he said hoarsely.

“That's where you're wrong,” his brother said mildly, and he began to reload. “I told you to stay away from her, but you wouldn't listen.”

“But you didn't have to kill her!”

Ike came erect, suddenly angry. “Stop your whinin'!”

Dunc thought he was going to be sick. He lay face down in the weeds, hugging the shotgun hard in his arms. For one wild instant he had Ike Brunner dead in his sights, his finger hard on the trigger, and then he thought hopelessly, What's the use? Killing him won't bring Mort and the girl back. It will only put my folks in bad with the gang.

Now Ike was speaking again, calmly. “There was no other way to handle it. You let the old fool catch you foolin' with the girl. He'd have set out to put the whole hill country against us if I'd let him go.”

“But the girl! Did you have to kill her too?”

“What do you think she would have done if I hadn't?” Ike asked coldly. “She would have had the word all over the hills that I'd killed the preacher. How do you think that would have been? How many boys do you think would answer the call if they knew I was a preacher killer?”

Cal groaned, more concerned with his own hurt than with what Ike was saying. But Ike went on patiently, as though he were drilling a backward child in a ridiculously simple lesson. “Listen to me, Cal. It's not my fault that you wouldn't listen to me. I did what I had to do. We've got too good a thing here to let it be ruined by a crazy old preacher or a slut of a girl! We're rich, Cal, and we're goin' to get a lot richer. I'm just beginnin' to whip this gang into shape. Before I'm through with it I'll make the Doolin and Dalton raids look like quiltin' bees!”

Suddenly he laughed, and it was as chilling a sound as Dunc Lester had ever heard. “These stupid farmers will do anythin' I say, Cal. They'll make us rich and be happy doin' it. Now get up. We've got to get back to the cave.”

Dunc lay like a sheep wolf in the brush as Ike lifted Cal in his arms and helped his brother across the clearing to the horses. Cal groaned and whined and fat tears of pain flowed down his smooth cheeks as Ike helped him up to the saddle.

“We'll take it easy. It won't take long to get back to the cave.”

“That old bastard! I think the bullet broke my leg.”

“It's just a flesh wound,” Ike said, holding him in the saddle. Ike swung up on his own rugged little paint. “Another thing,” he said thoughtfully. “The boys back at the cave will want to know what happened, and you'll tell them it was an accident.”

Holding to the saddle horn, Cal glanced angrily back at the dead preacher. “You'll have to do somethin' about the bodies.”

“I'll take care of that after I get you to the cave.”

Behind the flimsy fortress of weeds and underbrush, Dunc lay as still as the dead preacher in the clearing. This thing had happened too fast for him. His brain grappled with what he had seen and heard, but the subtler details of Ike Brunner's violence escaped him.

Stupid farmers. What had Ike meant by that? And what had he meant by saying the gang was going to make them rich? They shared and shared alike, didn't they? How could Ike and Cal get richer than anybody else?

For a moment this worried Dunc more than the two bodies in the clearing. He lay there listening to two horses plodding slowly back toward the higher peaks, turning this new thing ponderously in his mind. Stupid farmers. The way Ike had said it angered him. But what had he meant?

At last Dunc could no longer hear the horses. He glanced at the sun and reckoned he had about an hour before Wes Longstreet would come to relieve him on the ridge, and there'd be hell to pay if he wasn't there. Then he turned his attention to the clearing and felt a vague sickness churning inside him. He didn't like anything about this. Killing a preacher was bad enough, but killing a woman-that was about the worst kind of luck there was. Damn it, he thought heavily, I sure do wish Ike hadn't done that!

After a while he got to his feet and walked reluctantly down to the clearing. Gently Dunc rocked Mort's body with the toe of his shoe. The preacher was as limp as a rag doll. Well, Dunc thought stoically, maybe he's better off like this, for all we know.

What he wanted to do was find his horse and get back to the ridge and try to convince himself that none of this had happened.

It didn't pay to get in bad with Ike Brunner. Once you got in the gang there was no getting out of it-unless it was Dove Wakeley's way. Although there was a cool breeze there in the clearing, Dunc felt uncomfortable and sweaty as he turned his gaze toward the trees where the Stringer girl was lying: Damn that Cal, anyway! There were plenty of girls in the hills; why did he have to pick on this one?

Time was running out and he ought to be getting back to the ridge, but Dunc found his reluctant feet moving him toward the edge of the clearing. A kind of morbid curiosity took hold of him and he could not make himself leave until he had made certain that the girl was dead.

When he was close enough to see her clearly, he thought, Well, she's dead, all right. She lay partly on her side, her face pressed to the soft, clean carpet of pine needles. Something within Dunc's conscience cried out in protest as he looked at the fair, regular features of the girl's face, her partly opened lips, her long-lashed lids barely closed over her eyes, as though she were asleep. The curve of hips, the swell of firm, youthful breasts were all too apparent beneath the flimsy material of her shirt dress. Dunc felt himself sweating again, and his thoughts of Ike Brunner were bitter and angry.

At last Dunc dropped his head and fixed his gaze on the pink heels of the girl's bare feet. He had the desperate feeling that something should be said, that some gesture other than violence should be made, but he could think of noticing. His hard young face was bleak and bewildered as he sought for impossible answers and reasons, and at last he spoke harshly, in a voice no louder than a whisper. “Goddamn it, anyway!” Then he turned to walk away.

The girl moaned.

Dunc Lester whirled, staring at the girl with enlarged eyes. The girl moved her arm and tried to draw up one leg. Slowly she opened her eyes and gazed glassily at Dunc. “Help me,” she said. The sound was so weak that it was hardly a sound at all. “Help me,” she said again, this time more strongly. She tried to lift herself on her elbow but fell back coughing.

Dunc knelt beside the girl and stretched her out in order to make her as comfortable as possible. Gently he probed the bloodstained dress below her left breast, and she whimpered weakly.

“Ma'am,” Dunc said in wonder, “I sure had you pegged as a goner. Maybe you're not, though. We'll see.”

He took out his pocketknife and slashed at the dress. The hole, he saw, was neat, although there was plenty of blood. His immediate problem was what to do about that wound, and he pondered this in his mind. At last he took off his leather belt and sawed it between the girl's clenched teeth. “You can bite on this,” he said. “I think I can get this bullet out without much trouble.”

At the entrance of the knife point into the wound the girl fainted, which was just as well. Dunc worked fast, probing with knife and fingers. He found the bullet just under the rib cage and drew it out.

Bright blood flowed from the wound and Dunc worried about how to stop that. He could see her face getting paler and paler. If the shock of getting shot doesn't kill her, he thought, surely she'll bleed to death if I don't do something fast! He cut the sleeve off his shirt, folded it in a square pad, and placed it over the wound. Then he took his belt from the girl's mouth and buckled it around her, holding the pad in place. He wished that he had some whisky or applejack to pour over the wound, but he had nothing.

Well, he thought, with the tools I've got to work with, I guess that's about the best I can do.

He hunkered down on the soft bed of pine needles, watching the girl's still face and wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. The longer he looked at her, the less blame he could place on Cal Brunner for wanting her. She had not the crude square build of so many of the hill girls. This one was lean and light, supple and strong. There was a feeling of grace and soft texture about her, and the longer Dunc watched her, the more he liked the thing he saw.

He found himself reaching out timidly to touch her dark hair, then felt foolish and uncomfortable and wiped his hands again on his trouser legs. What the hell am I goin' to do with her? he wondered.

He glanced once more at the sun, all too sharply aware of the passage of time. He ought to be on the ridge right this minute. What if one of the gang came past and found the outpost deserted?

The girl whimpered, moved restlessly, but did not open her eyes.

Dunc was suddenly impatient and angry. Hell's fire! He thought. I wish I'd never left the ridge in the first place!

But he had left the ridge. He had seen Ike shoot Mort Stringer and the girl. And he had heard some things that still stirred uneasily in his mind. If Ike had killed the girl, things would have been comparatively simple. Dunc could then have returned to his outpost position and pretended to the others that nothing had happened.

Now everything was confused in his mind. The girl was still alive and he had patched her up. And if Ike came back and found him here, there'd be hell to pay till Christmas!

Hell! Dunc thought. I don't know what to do. She'll die for sure if I walk off and leave her. If Ike doesn't come back and kill her first.

He waited there as long as he dared, wondering and pondering and raking his mind for the right thing to do. Ike oughtn't to have shot her, he decided finally. He just oughtn't to have shot a woman that way!

The nearest doctor was in Reunion, nearly forty miles away and most of it straight down. Likely the girl would be dead by the time he could get her there, should he decide to try such a fool stunt. What was even more likely, Ike Brunner would catch them and kill both of them before they'd gone a mile.

But these were only two of many considerations to be worked out in Dunc Lester's mind. Ike wanted this girl dead-and if he went against Ike's wishes, that was going to turn the gang against Dunc's family.

This was an important consideration. There weren't many hill families that didn't have some kind of tie-up with the Brunners, directly or indirectly, through brothers or cousins or uncles who were members of the gang. Turn against the gang, and the Lester family would have all the hills against them.

And of course, there was always the probability that the lowland law would be waiting to grab him the minute he came out of the timber-providing Ike let him get that far.

Dunc considered all these angles and liked none of them. But the longer he waited and the longer he looked at the girl, the more sure he was that he would try to save her.

Perversely, when the decision came, it angered him. I must be crazy as a coot! he thought savagely.

And while he thought it he was hacking at two tough saplings with his pocketknife. He found the work too slow with a knife, so he went to Mort's cabin and found an ax and while he was at it, a blanket, and came back to the edge of the clearing and went to work in earnest.

Owen stepped outside and waved to them, and then the boys veered toward the barn instead of the house. “What's the rush?” Owen asked as they stopped in the barn doorway, blowing like horses.

“We was huntin', Marshal,” Bruce said, fighting for breath.

“For squirrels,” Bud put in. “Up in the woods.”

“That's where we saw them,” the older boy began again. “The woman looks like she's dead to me.”

“Wait a minute,” Owen said calmly. “You were up in the hills hunting and saw somebody. Bruce, you take it from there.”

“Well, Marshal,” Bruce panted, his breath gradually coming back to normal, “we was up by Indian Rock when we first seen them. There was this man on a horse, and there were two long poles lashed to the saddle, dragging in the dirt behind the horse.”

“An Indian travois,” Owen said.

“That's what it was, I guess. Anyway, there was a blanket fixed between these poles and the woman was tied down on the blanket.”

“She was dead,” Bud put in.

Bruce nodded. “She sure looked like it. Course, we didn't get too good a look. We was up on the rock lookin' down when they came past.”

Owen frowned slightly. “Did this man see you?”

“I don't think so, Marshal. We yelled, but he looked like he was asleep in the saddle. By the time we climbed down from the rock he was already at the bottom of the slope.”

“Where was he headed?”

“Toward Reunion, it looked like.” Then the boy thought of something else and said, “The man had a pistol and a shotgun. You think he's one of them hill outlaws, Marshal?”

“That wouldn't seem likely.” Owen smiled. “But if the woman's as sick as you say, maybe I ought to cut him off and see if I can lend a hand.”

The boys stared bug-eyed with excitement as Owen threw a saddle up on one of his big-bellied work horses. “Ain't you goin' to take a gun, Marshal?” Bruce asked. “That man looked pretty mean to me.”

“Me too!” Bud said quickly.

Owen laughed. “I don't think that will be necessary, boys.” He rode across the yard and called, “Elizabeth, the Stanley boys claim to have found a sick woman in the woods. Guess I'd better take a look.”

Elizabeth, holding Giles over her left shoulder, came outside on the back step. “A sick woman, Owen?”

“A man was bringing her down from the hills on a travois. I'd better see if we can give them a hand.”

Elizabeth frowned slightly, knowing that the hill people seldom came down toward Reunion. Then the frown disappeared and she smiled at her husband. “Of course, Owen. We can fix up the boys' room for her if you think it's necessary.”

“Probably it's not as bad as the boys made it out.” Then he waved to her and rode the awkward, iron-gaited mare around their small vegetable garden and toward the north.

He spotted the dusty, brush-scarred little bay through the trees, about a half hour's ride from the house. The saddle was empty. When Owen got closer he saw the man kneeling beside the pole travois. Why, he's not much more than a kid, he thought. And the girl, she can't be more than seventeen.

But when the man looked up, Owen saw the hard young face and dangerous eyes and knew that here was no mere boy. Quickly the man grabbed his shotgun and leveled the big bore at Owen's face.

“Stay where you are, mister!”

“I came to help,” Owen said.

“You a doctor?”

“No and from the looks of the girl I'd say she stands little chance of living till you get her to one.”

“That's my worry, and hers,” the young man said harshly.

Owen shrugged. “All right, if you want her to die. It seems a shame, though, after you've brought her so far.”

The young man scowled, his quick eyes shifting about the woods and hills. He seemed angry and worried, and when he glanced at the girl there was fear in his eyes. At last he lowered the shotgun, but kept it at the ready. “You think you could help her?” he asked.

“I can't say without knowing what's wrong with her.”

“She's been shot.”

Owen felt a little ripple of warning but kept his voice even. “I see,” he said. “How bad is it?”

“The bullet went in under the ribs but I got it out. She's bled a lot and been out of her head. Is there a doctor between here and Reunion?”

“No.”

The hard young face sharpened. “I don't hanker to go to Reunion,” he said, as though he were thinking aloud, “unless I have to.”

“Then I suggest that you turn around and bring the girl to my house. My wife and I will do what we can for her, and then I'll ride for a doctor.”

After a moment of sober thought, the man booted his shotgun and climbed on the stubby little bay. “First,” he said, “we'll make sure that a doctor can help her.” And he nodded for Owen to move out.

Owen kneed his big-footed mount to an awkward trot as they neared the house. Swinging down from the saddle at the back door, he called to his wife.

“Elizabeth, looks like we're going to need that room after all.”

When she appeared in the doorway he saw the look of uneasiness in her eyes. “Owen, is she... hurt badly?”

“Yes/' he said gently, “she is.”

“Oh.” After a moment she said, “I'll get the bed ready.”

Owen helped the young man untie the rough hemp rope that held the girl in her blanket stretcher. She opened her eyes for a moment and stared glassily at Owen. “Cal....”

she said, her mouth working several times before the sound was made. “Cal... don't let him kill me.”

The young man said harshly, “Give me a hand!”

Frowning thoughtfully, Owen helped him lift the girl from the travois, and they carried her between them into the house. Elizabeth had the bed ready in the boys' room and they laid her down as gently as they could.

“If you've got some whisky,” said the hard-faced boy, “maybe you could pour some over the wound.”

“Too late for that,” Owen said, taking off the belt and blood-soaked bandage. “Elizabeth, get some blankets, all we have, and cover her up. She'll be going into chills soon.” He glanced up at the young man. “What's your name?”

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Dunc Lester.”

“When was this girl shot, Dunc?”

He frowned. “About this time yesterday, I guess.”

Owen wiped his forehead on his sleeve, holding his curiosity with a heavy hand. “I see. The wound doesn't look too serious, but she's lost a lot of blood. She'd better have a doctor.”

Dunc thought about this, saying nothing.

“What kind of condition is your horse in?” Owen asked.

“It's an Indian horse; it'll run till it drops dead. That won't be for a while yet.” When Owen turned to leave the room, Dunc said sharply, “Wait a minute, mister. You aimin' to use my horse to get a doctor?”

“I don't have a saddle animal of my own.” Then he added with elaborate casualness, “Of course, you could make the trip to Reunion as well as I could.”

“No!” Anger and confusion showed on his face. “I mean, I guess you know the trail better than me. You sure she has to have a doctor?”

“If you want her to live.”

Dunc swore harshly under his breath, then glanced sharply at Elizabeth and murmured, “Pardon me, ma'am. But I don't know what to do. I just don't know!”

The two Stanley boys, jumping with curiosity, had come through the back door and were now looking in through the parlor doorway. “Marshal,” Bruce blurted, “my pa's got a saddle horse you could use.”

Dunc Lester wheeled as though he had been struck from behind, glaring at the two boys. Owen did not miss this animal-like reaction, but he merely said, “Thank you, Bruce, but I think we can do with Mr. Lester's animal. Now you boys better go.”

Dunc wheeled back on Owen, his eyes dangerously narrow. “That kid called you 'Marshal'!”

“I used to work for the government,” Owen said easily. “That was five years ago.”

He left the boy standing there and went to the other bedroom, where his wife was taking bright patchwork quilts from a cedar chest. Elizabeth looked up, frankly worried. “Owen,
must
you go after the doctor?”

He nodded.

“But why can't
he go?”
Suddenly she flung her arms around her husband and held him hard against her. “Owen, I don't want to be left alone here with him, just me and the children!”

He held her to him, speaking softly and gently, as he often spoke to Lonnie when the boy was frightened. “You and the children will be safe. I wouldn't leave you here if I wasn't sure of that.”

“But he's so hard!” Elizabeth protested. “Owen, is he an outlaw? Is he one of the Brunner gang?”

Owen wanted desperately to comfort her, but he could not lie to her. “I'm not sure,” he said at last. “Perhaps he is an outlaw-I don't know. But I do know how he feels about that girl in the other room. He won't hurt you or the children because he knows we're doing our best to help the girl.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I am sure.” He smiled faintly and released her slowly from the strong circle of his arms. “Don't worry. I'll be back sometime tonight.”

Dunc came outside as Owen was tightening the cinch on the bay. “Just one thing, Marshal,” he said. “Don't come back with anybody but the doctor.”

Owen looked at him. “All right.”

“And don't say anything to anybody.” Owen nodded.

“In case you decide to bring back some law, you'd better think a long time about your wife and children.”

Owen felt the heat of unreasonable anger in his throat. He wheeled on Dunc Lester, grabbed him by the front of his filthy shirt, and slammed him back against the house before he could make a move for his pistol. “You listen to me!” he said in a hoarse, savage whisper. “If you even think of hurting my wife or children I'll hunt you to the end of the earth and kill you by inches! As for bringing back the law-do you think I'd need any help bringing a barking young pup like you to heel?”

With a savage twist, Owen let the boy go. Dunc stumbled two steps and fell to his knees in amazement.

“So don't you ever threaten me again!” Owen said tightly. “I didn't ask you where you came from, because I don't give a damn. I didn't ask if you were a member of the Brunner gang for the same reason. I took you and the girl into my house and now I'm going after the doctor simply because it's, the decent thing for a man to do. Can you get that through your head?”

Dunc rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. He nodded. It would have been an easy thing to draw his pistol and kill this ex-marshal on the spot, but this thought did not occur to him.

“All right,” Owen said roughly. “Get up. My wife will fix you something to eat while I'm gone.”

Still amazed, Dunc Lester watched Owen ride off to the west. He shook his head, filled with sudden respect for this gentle, soft-spoken man with the hidden strength and violence of a timber cat. There goes no dude sheriff or lowland deputy, Dunc thought. When the time comes to be afraid, there goes the man to be afraid of.

It was a wiser, quieter young man who turned slowly and went back into the house.

Shortly after midnight Owen returned from Reunion with Doc Linnwood. Elizabeth was asleep on the parlor couch, and Owen smiled faintly as he sat beside her and smoothed a strand of fine silken hair back from her forehead.

“Owen?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You were right,” she said, still partly asleep. “That young man was quiet... almost nice. He put away his guns and made no trouble at all.”

“That's good.” Owen smiled. “Now why don't you get to bed? There's nothing you can do now; Doc Linnwood's with the girl.”

Owen himself was exhausted. I'm getting too old for this kind of work, he thought. But he stayed on the couch and smoked a pipe and did not follow his wife to their bedroom until Doc Linnwood had finished his inspection.

At last the doctor came out, wiping his clean hands on one of Elizabeth's best linen towels. He was a young, strong man, big in the shoulders and small in the hips, like a bull buffalo. Without looking at Owen, the doctor went straight to the kitchen and poured himself some black coffee from an iron pot, then returned to the parlor and dropped into a bulky hair-padded chair.

“How was she shot?” he asked bluntly.

Owen shrugged and smiled. “Accident, I suppose.”

“I suppose so,” Linnwood said dryly. “Anyway, I'll have to make a report to the sheriff's office when I get back, but I guess that can wait.”

“How is she?” Owen asked.

“We'll know better tomorrow. If she gets through the next twelve hours she'll be all right. You'd better get some sleep; that's what I'm going to do.”

Owen got necessary bedding from the other room and made a sleeping place for the doctor on the couch.

“Who's the young man?” Linnwood asked, pulling off his heavy shoes.