# Jim Gorman's Brand/Chapter 1
### CHAPTER I.

JIM GORMAN closed the thick volume and exhaled a long breath of relief after the concentration with which he had been studying it. At the same time he scratched the back of his head, sure sign that he was still busy on a problem, and placed the book on a pile of others similarly bound in sheepskin, law books all, part of the equipment of the sheriff’s office.
For a few minutes he looked out of the window to the busy street of Vacada, seeing through its present bustle the cow town he had first known.
Then the thoroughfare had been only a dusty trail between a scattering collection of shacks—mostly saloons, with a general store and two blacksmithies.
Now there were stores of pressed-brick and plate-glass frontage, the trail was a macadam highway, the sidewalks cement. There were schoolhouses and churches, a fire department and various lodge rooms. Banks and restaurants and hotels, garages, a steam laundry. Most marked change of all, as many women as men on the streets.
The old Vacada had nearly passed. Downtown, where the land sloped to the creek, where the cement sidewalks changed to wooden sections, stilted to the level, with steps leading up and down, there was the huddling remnant of the cow days which some thought had been the heydays of the place.
Here were the false fronts of the saloons, now titled cafés, displaying soda water and dispensing stronger liquors in back rooms where gambling tables still attracted and dance halls extended their mock gayety. Such things—since the State had elected to leave the enforcement of the Volstead Act to the federal authorities—Gorman, as sheriff, merely regulated.
Sooner or later they would die with the growth of the town. But there were still cattle ranches beyond the suburban irrigation farms that had so swiftly increased Vacada’s population and prosperity, and none knew better than Gorman how a rider, confined on ranch or range for weeks with scant outlet for his red-blooded, healthy vitality, is bound to cut loose when he comes to town with his pay check and finds nothing more exciting than an ice cream soda or a censored moving picture.
Gorman had lived too long on the range himself not to be tolerant of such reckless spirits. He wanted to let the inevitable changes and constrictions come about gradually with the shifting generations, not to be abruptly strangled.
He knew the sterling qualities that had lived beneath the rough displays, the chivalry toward women, the sense of squareness and fair play, the admiration, of true womanhood and manhood and the hatred of anything yellow and underhanded. Sometimes—as this morning—he doubted whether such virtues existed as strongly now. Assuredly vices still flourished that were not all born of the saloon and the card-table.
He rose slowly to his lean height and called to his deputy, busy in the rear, cleaning up the vacant tier of cells. Under the new sheriff, the jail was far from being overcrowded.
“Put them law books on the shelf, Pete,” he said as the deputy appeared, an ancient whose bowed legs proclaimed the rider as well as his leather skin and the sun-puckers about his faded but still keen eyes. “I’ll be away till middle of the afternoon, likely.”
“Might as well take a real vacation an’ go fishin’. Feller cu’d be deef, dumb, blind, lame an’ ha’f witted an’ hold down this job, way you’ve got the town. Dull an’ dead as ditchwater.”
“Find frawgs in ditchwater, Pete, an’ you never kin tell which way a frawg’ll jump or how fur.”
Hope gleamed in the faded eyes of Pete as he watched his chief buckling on his cartridge belt and adjusting the long, blue sixes that had earned him long ago the title of Two-Gun Gorman.
“You goin’ frawg huntin?”
“Frawg or toad. Pete, what d’you know about this new foreman out to the B-in-a-box?”
“Not much. Name’s Moore. So he ses. Some ses he’s a dago. Dark complected as a greaser. Come from where he don’t tell, three months back. Bulls around down in the dumps by the bridge when he comes to town. They say he’s mighty pally with King Bradey out to the ranch. Cook shack ain’t good enough for him. Eats his meals in the ranch house, ’long with King an’ his niece. I’m bettin’ he ain’t popular with her. She’s runnin’ with Bud Jarrett over to Two-Bar. He’s some different from Moore. Same feller brought in the note for you this mornin’ when you was out to breakfast. Me, I’d figger Moore a toad. You after him?”
“He ain’t the biggest toad in thet ditch, Pete.”
“Meanin’ King Bradey?” Pete whistled. “He’s some toad.”
Gorman nodded. The deputy regarded him wistfully as he buckled on his spurs and donned his Stetson. He wished that the sheriff would tell him what was in the letter brought by Bud Jarrett and if it had anything to do with the present excursion. But he knew his own one fault—garrulity—and he said nothing. More than once this habit of gossip, creeping upon him with age, had almost upset the sheriff’s plans.
Gorman knew exactly what Pete was thinking. He had given him something big to chew on and to keep him quiet. The deputy was not going to risk idle talk about King Bradey.
Bradey was a very big toad in not so small a puddle. More cattle buyer than raiser, he controlled large tracts of land and big herds, constantly changing. More than that, he practically controlled county politics so far as they had any thing to do with his own advancement or that of his friends—also the discomfiture of those who were brave enough, or foolish enough, to oppose him. Rich and powerful, big of body and suave of manner was Bradey, whose first name was often used as his only one and in the manner of a title. He had come into the county twenty years before to take up an ordinary holding. Somewhat suddenly he showed evidences of a healthy bank account and began to buy three things, land, cattle and men. He was still acquiring the last two.
If Gorman was out after the King, the deputy told himself, and a gleam came into his eyes, there would be something doing. King Bradey lived a good deal like a feudal baron. He had ten big ranches rolled into one and a hundred riders in the slackest of seasons, besides ordinary ranch hands to carry out his royal bidding.
“You find anything in them books?” Pete asked as he placed the volumes of law on the shelf.
“Not much, Pete. I’ve got a fair idea of justice, it seems, but a man can easy wade too deep in that sort of liberry.”
“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 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.