Gun Shy. Les Savage Jr

I run out on them . . .”

      “You couldn’t do anything else,” Chaney said. “What good to stay and fight? Getting killed wouldn’t bring them back.”

      Opal came from the kitchen with a bottle of arnica and clean towels. Gordon had ripped his clothes on the bottomland brush and his body was covered with scratches and bruises. Opal began cleaning his wounds and the sting of arnica made him wince. Charlotte had taken a seat on a haircloth settee, as far across the room as she could get. She had a lace handkerchief to her face and was sniffling.

      “Roland . . . my camomile pills—this has brought back my vapors.”

      Her husband didn’t seem to hear her. He was pacing back and forth. The room was littered with fat pillows and he had to keep kicking them out of the way. He wheezed faintly as he moved. Roland Bayard must have been a powerful man once, but luxury had turned him heavy and soft. His handsome head was bowed, a mass of ink-black hair fading into distinguished gray sideburns.

      “We need protection,” Charlotte said, trying again. “Sheriff Simms. Can’t you send for Sheriff Simms?”

      “Charlotte, Charlotte,” Bayard said. He sounded as though he were speaking to a child. “If Simms couldn’t stop them in town he certainly couldn’t do anything now.”

      “I can’t leave them,” Gordon said. “My folks—I got to go back. I got to bury them . . . do something.”

      “Too dangerous,” Chaney said. “The good neighbors of mine—the cattlemen—have had their taste of blood now.” He sounded bitter. “A shooting—one of them killed. Your father was a rustler in their eyes, Gordon. Now he’s a killer . . . and you’re tarred with the same brush. To let one of the big ranchers see you in this basin—it would be worth your life.”

      “We’ll hide him,” Bayard said.

      “No, no,” Charlotte wailed. She half-rose from the settee, her face strained.

      “Charlotte’s right,” Chaney said. “You can’t expose her and Opal to the same thing that happened to Conners. If the cattlemen connect you with Conners, find out you’re shielding a rustler—”

      “That’s absurd,” Bayard said. “Gordon’s got to stay here.”

      “Got to?” Chaney asked.

      Bayard gaped at him. “Well, I— Bob Conners was my friend, I can’t let his son—”

      “You’d be doing his son a favor to get him out of the country,” Chaney said. “I won’t let you put my sister in such danger, Roland.”

      Bayard’s face flushed darkly. Gordon couldn’t tell whether Chaney was staring at the man, or at some point in the distance. It had a disconcerting effect. Bayard finally shook his head. It made a faint quiver run through his jowls.

      “Of course . . . I wasn’t thinking. Why don’t you go down to the barn and saddle a horse for him, Adam? We’ll get some things together here, some decent clothes for him.” Chaney nodded and went out. Bayard turned to Opal. “See what food there is. Anything cold—biscuits, some of that roast. There are saddlebags on the back porch.”

      Opal left immediately and Bayard looked at his wife. “My sack coat and brown pants, upstairs.”

      Charlotte’s stays creaked faintly. “Roland, —

      “Dear,” he said. “Please.”

      She made a helpless little sound and went upstairs, dabbing at her eyes. Bayard frowned thoughtfully. He and Gordon were alone in the room.

      “Gordon,” Bayard said, “did your father give you anything?”

      Gordon looked up numbly. “What?”

      “I mean—there must have been a few minutes—when you saw them coming, when Bob knew what might happen. Did he tell you anything?”

      “He told me to come to you.”

      “I don’t mean that. Wasn’t there something else? Didn’t he give you anything?”

      Gordon remembered the wallet. “He gave me his money.’

      “Money?” Bayard’s voice was sharp. “I didn’t know he had any.”

      “He must’ve had something. Maybe, like you say, he figured what was going to happen—”

      “And nothing else. He gave you nothing else.”

      Gordon shook his head. “Mr. Bayard . . . no—nothing else.”

      Bayard put his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning close to Gordon. He smelled of pomade and tobacco and fine Cordovan leather. His eyes were brilliant and black.

      “Gordon, he must have given you—”

      Opal came into the room, stuffing a package into a pair of saddlebags. “There wasn’t much,” she said anxiously. “It might last him a couple of days, if he’s careful.”

      Bayard straightened sharply. He took the saddlebags from her and said, “Go upstairs and stay with your aunt. She’s been upset enough for one night.”

      “Uncle Roland, I—”

      “Do as I say, Opal. Tell her I’ll come up after the clothes myself.”

      Opal bit her lip. She glanced at Gordon, then turned and started upstairs. She was halfway up when Gordon heard the sound of horses approaching. A moment later Chaney came in.

      “I brought the horse you rode from town,” he told Bayard. “You’d left the saddle on. No time to lose, Roland. A lot of riders coming up the creek road.”

      Charlotte appeared on the landing with the coat and pants. Opal hurried up to take them from her. Bayard studied Gordon, his swarthy cheeks puffed out thoughtfully. Then he slung the saddlebags over Gordon’s shoulder. Chaney unstrapped his gunbelt and held the whole harness out to Gordon. The big single-action Colt in the holster had stag grips and its metalwork was tarnished.

      “No,” Gordon said. “I mean, no, I don’t want to—”

      “Take it,” Chaney urged. “You won’t stand a chance without one. You’ll have to use it to eat on before you’re through.”

      He thrust it into Gordon’s hand and turned away toward the door before Gordon could protest. Numbly, recoiling from the sinister weight of the gun hanging against his hands, he buckled the belt on. Opal had hurried downstairs with the clothes and she crossed the room and gave them to Gordon. Her hand remained on his arm. She moistened her lips, and there was something in her eyes.

      “Gordon—”

      She trailed off. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t feel like he was standing up in front of a school-marm any longer. He wanted to tell her that, but he thought it would just sound jugheaded. If he could only stay around a while, maybe he could explain it to her. He realized this was probably the last time he would ever see her.

      Bayard put a hand on his shoulder. “Gordon, let me know where you are. If you need any more help, money or anything—well, let me know.”

      “Thanks,” Gordon said. “I wish pa knew what good friends you really are.”

      “Gordon,” Chaney called from the door. “Hurry up.”

      He went outside and saw Chaney holding a horse. Bayard kept the best animals in Table Rock. It was a Morgan, with a coat like satin. Gordon dropped the saddlebags behind the cantle and stepped aboard. The poplar grove still shielded him but he could already feel the ground trembling beneath the approaching riders.

      He touched heels to the Morgan and it broke into a nervous canter. The last Gordon saw of Opal she was standing in the open door with the backlight turning her hair to a yellow nimbus.

      Chapter Three

      THE