His brother's keeper · OmniClassics

HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER by W. C. Tuttle Author of “Letters from a Home-Made Cowboy” “The Wages of Greed,” etc. WHEN THE SHERIFF OF CALOR STARTED OUT INTO THE BAD LANDS AFTER RED COWAN, MEN WOULD HAVE BET THAT HE WOULD GET HIS MAN. BUT THE DESERT GODS SAW STRANGE JUSTICE BEFORE THE LAW WAS SATISFIED It was always hot in the Bitter Water Valley, and the hills were like rumpled yellow and gray blankets, shimmering in the summer sun. Folks didn’t tan there--they simply charred. The winds were hot, even in the shade--when there was any wind. The old dirt road, inches deep in dust, wound in and out among the old lava beds, like a long, yellow worm, with its head in the town of Calor, its few tails ending at the scattered ranches. The valley was not a summer resort, and those who were financially able went into the far mountains, to escape the heat. Along this winding, yellow road came a team and wagon, almost hidden in a cloud of dust, which drifted up from wheel and hoof like the smoke from a foundry stack. On the seat were a man and a woman, and in the back of the wagon was a single trunk, already dust covered. The woman had a scarf twisted about her mouth and nose, while the man’s face to his eyes was covered with a bandana handkerchief; two masked figures, their dusty eyes blinking, red-rimmed. Their conversation was limited; had been limited for several weary miles, but now they struck a slight raise, where the dust was less deep. “I had to do it, Joe,” said the woman, as though picking up the conversation of an hour gone. “I just had to.” “I know it, Mrs. Deming,” said the man nodding slowly. “I seen it comin’.” He spat dryly, still nodding. “I told Jim. I told him he was a fool. But,” resignedly, “yuh can’t tell him nothin’. Bull-headed as hell, Jim is. He read me the riot act. Said fer me to mind my own business.” “And he’ll fire you, Joe.” The man turned slowly and looked at the woman. She had removed the scarf now. Mrs. Jim Deming, wife of Jim Deming, sheriff of Calor, had been a pretty girl in her youth. She was still pretty, except that her hair was gray and her once smooth face was creased with deep lines. Her gray eyes were clouded with sadness, as she looked at Joe Mills, her husband’s deputy. * * * * * Joe was tall, thin, harsh-faced, burned to the color of a dark Indian. Joe Mills was as hard as the lava beds, but he had found a man harder than he. Jim Deming, known as “Duty” Deming, was so hard that he rather appalled even Joe Mills. “Yeah, he’ll fire me,” agreed Joe slowly. “But that’s fine, ma’am. I’m kinda sour on this county, anyway. Seems to me that I’d kinda like to go somewhere else, where there’s green grass and lakes. I’ve allus lived here, yuh see. Don’t you worry about me, ma’am; you’ve got a-plenty to worry about for yourself.” “Thank you, Joe. I’m glad you don’t blame me. It had to come. He--he wasn’t so bad until they elected him sheriff. We got along, yuh know. Goin’ onto three years now. I--I hoped they’d defeat him last election.” “Shore. Prob’ly been better if they had. But they say he’s the best sheriff they ever had--I dunno.” “Because he sent my son to prison,” she said painfully. “Yeah. It was his son, too.” “Joe, you know Harry wasn’t a thief, don’t yuh?” “I don’t reckon he was. The JB outfit started out to git Harry--and they got him.” “His own father got him, you mean!” exclaimed Mrs. Deming. “Jim was alone when he found that evidence at Harry’s place. It was nothing but a JB hide. Jim could have buried it and warned Harry. That hide was planted there by the JB. But Jim took the evidence and arrested Harry. Ten years! It was Jim’s evidence that sent my boy to the penitentiary.” “Yes, ma’am.” “And he sent Al Seymour up for stealing a horse, which he didn’t steal. Al was drunk that night and got the wrong one. It was wrong for him to get drunk, I know; but he didn’t intend to take the wrong horse. Jim knew it. Oh, yes, he did. But he went straight out and arrested Al, instead of bringing the horse back. He could have explained it all. Al was no thief.” “He was going to marry Jane, wasn’t he, Mrs. Deming?” “Yes. It broke her heart, Joe. I’m going to her now. Oh, I’ve pleaded with Jim; talked and pleaded until my throat was raw. But what’s the use? He defends himself by saying that he swore to uphold the law, and both Harry and Al broke the law. His duty to the law! He sits in judgment on this whole desert; brags about his iron hand. Oh, it’s iron, all right. It smashed his home; it will smash him, too.” “I dunno; he’s pretty hard, ma’am. I never knowed a man as hard as Jim, and I’ve knowed a lot of hard ones. His job is a religion with him.” “And some day it will raise up and kill him.” “His star is his god,” said the deputy slowly. “And don’t the Bible say something about thou shalt have no other gods before me?” “Mebbe. I dunno much about the Bible. I don’t reckon that God operates much around here--it’s too hot.” “I’ve wondered about it,” she said, wearily. “I’ve prayed a lot, Joe; but nothing came of it.” “Too hot, Mrs. Deming. I don’t reckon a fried prayer ever got any further than a fried aig. Mebbe not as far, because yuh can eat the aig. Well, there’s the town. Yuh’ve got plenty time, ’cause the train ain’t never on time. Lotsa folks would miss the train if it ever came on time.” * * * * * The train was of the mixed variety, half passenger, half freight; a branch line train, using something like seven hours to complete the sixty mile run from Santa Leone to Levering, which was twenty miles south of Calor. Calor was the usual desert type of town. Perhaps a little larger, due to the fact that it was a county seat, but the buildings were unpainted, scourged by wind and sand, until they blended nicely with the gray of the desert. Two huge water tanks, thrusting their ungainly bulk upward on their scaffolding, like huge, rotund giants, with spindling legs, supplied the town with water, which was always warm. The depot had once been painted a bright red, but time had dimmed its luster until it was a sickly pink, where any color yet remained. The team came up to the depot platform, guided in close to the high platform. The deputy helped the woman down, and unloaded the trunk. He tied both horses securely to the platform, because they were unused to trains, and then began twisting the trunk around to the front, the woman following him. The telegraph wires hummed in the hot wind, and there was a strong odor of pitch frying up from the planks of the platform. A man stood near the doorway to the waiting room; a tall, lean figure of a man, harsh of feature, his gray eyes deep set under beetling brows, and separated with a high-arched nose. His mouth was wide and thin lipped. In raiment he was practically the same as ninety-nine per cent of the desert men; well-worn sombrero, colorless shirt, stringy vest, overalls, from which the color had long since fled, tucked in the tops of high-heeled boots. Around his lean waist hung a belt and holstered gun, and on the lapel of his vest gleamed the insignia of office. Such was Duty Deming, sheriff of Calor. He shot one sharp glance at his deputy, who handled the trunk awkwardly as he rolled it out near the edge of the platform. The woman stopped short and studied the face of her husband. “You didn’t think I’d come, did you?” she asked. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be up here,” he said slowly. The deputy walked from the trunk to the waiting room. He had Mrs. Deming’s ticket, and was going to check the trunk. The sheriff’s eyes followed him. “You don’t need to blame Joe,” she said. His eyes shifted from the doorway and came back to her. “You’re not sorry?” she asked. “What for? I’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” “After thirty years, Jim?” “No. You said you’d go away. I’ve provided for yuh all these years, and----” “And sent my son to prison; drove my daughter away.” His jaw set grimly for a moment. “Well?” “I guess that’s all, Jim.” They were silent now. Came the soft humming of the rails, as the train came creeping through the desert. The telegraph instrument in the office clanked spasmodically. “They call you Duty,” she said bitterly. “And you’re proud of it. You think more of that than you do of your family. Your evidence ruined the happiness of your daughter; your evidence ruined my happiness.” “I swore to do my duty,” he said slowly. “I raised my right hand and swore to uphold the law. It doesn’t mean that an officer can be lenient to _anybody_. I’ve been the best sheriff this county ever had, and I’ll keep on bein’ the best sheriff. The voters put their trust----” “I’ve heard all that, Jim. I’m going away now; going to be gone forever. I’ll never come back to the desert--to you. You’ve made a god of your job, Jim. Maybe they’ll put up a monument to you some day.” * * * * * The train whistled shrilly, as it came into view. The deputy came out and gave Mrs. Deming her ticket and her trunk check. “Thank you, Joe,” she said, holding out her hand. They shook hands, and she turned her back on her husband, watching the train come in. There were only a few people at the station. The engine clanked past and the train ground to a stop. The sheriff’s eyes were looking down the train, and without a word he walked away from his wife and strode down the platform. She looked curiously after him, but he did not look back. So this was his good-by. Stifling a sob she climbed up the steps of the coach and went inside, while the agent’s helper threw her trunk in the baggage car. Duty Deming walked down to a box-car and hunched on his heels, speaking to a man who clung to the rods beneath the car. “Come out of that,” he ordered gruffly. The man slowly edged off the rods and almost fell headlong. His legs were cramped from the uncomfortable position, and he was black with dirt and sand; his clothes driven full of it. “Stealin’ a ride, eh?” grunted the sheriff. The hobo straightened up, looked around through bloodshot eyes, which finally came back to the sheriff. The train was moving again. “What’s the big idea?” asked the hobo hoarsely. “What right have you to drag me off here? You’re just a hick sheriff and this is a little town. I was just travelin’.” “Stealin’ a ride,” said the sheriff grimly. He did not look up as the coaches passed him. “You know it’s agin the law, young man.” “That’s up to the railroad company. Or do you own this particular branch?” “No, I don’t own the railroad,” replied the sheriff harshly, “but I do represent the law around here.” “Represent it, eh?” * * * * * The hobo sighed deeply and looked at the passing coaches. The sheriff did not look at them. “Hot ridin’ under there,” said the hobo. “I was just heading out of this country. Tough riding, I’ll tell you; but they had all them box-cars sealed. Still, I could have made it to Levering.” “Well, yuh didn’t!” snapped the sheriff. “That’s true. Still, you haven’t any rock pile. All you can do is to put me in jail and feed me. That’s not a profitable thing. Better let me sit here in the shade, until the next train comes along.” “And let you steal another ride, eh?” “What do you care, as long as you don’t own the railroad?” “I’m paid to uphold the law,” said the sheriff stiffly. The hobo sighed wearily, as he scraped his heel against the cinders. “Do you always uphold the law?” “Always--that’s what I’m here for.”