The Hair-Trigger Kid by Max Brand (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

days when he

had an idea that he was gunna be a cattle king. He started with more

tools than cattle. He drawed the plans for his ranch house before he

staked out his claim, and he wanted to start buildin’ a mill before he

put up a cabin!”

 

“A mill for what?” asked the Kid.

 

“For what? Why, to grind all of the wheat into flour.”

 

“What wheat, Bud?”

 

“Why, ain’t you rode up through the fields of it. Thousands of acres,

over in yonder. Irrigated, too, from the dam up there in the middle of

the ravine. And the mill runnin’ with the overflow water. You must of

seen all of them things! Or maybe they’re just an idea that the old man

had. Forewitted is what the old man is, and was. Me, personal, I’d rather

have the cows and the wheat than the wits. I’d do my thinkin’ behindhapd,

if I had something to think about. C’mon in, Kid, and rest yourself.”

 

“No,” said the Kid, “I’m making a long march. Here’s Davey with the

shoes.”

 

The dozen or so shoes were cast down in the dust in the circle of the

lantern light, and from the lot, the Kid instantly picked out two. At his

word, the mare lifted her foot, the moccasin was removed, and the old,

rusty shoes were measured against it. One of them came near fitting.

 

“There you are,” said Bud. “That shoe’s made for her.”

 

“That’s a rough cast for her,” answered the Kid. “She’s a tailor-made

lady, the Hawk. She won’t have any of these quick-fits, old son. Where’s

that forge?”

 

There were chickens roosting on the forge, but they were scattered,

squawking loudly, the dust was puffed from the old, tattered bellows, and

the charcoal raked together, while they lighted the shavings above the

draft.

 

The family came out to see the famous wanderer at work as a blacksmith.

Old Mr. Trainor stood by, offering advice. Young Davey worked the

bellows. Bud held the lantern in the right place, and his mother came out

with dough on her hands and flour on her nose to give the Kid a withered

smile and the promise of a hearty meal.

 

Old Mr. Trainor could not keep his hands away from the work. As he saw

the fire glow and heard the light cracking of it at work, with the upward

curling of the fumes, he began to spit on his hands and shake his head.

And as he did so, he picked up an eight-pound hammer. He looked like a

sheep, a shaggy, long-haired, tangled, unclean sheep of the west coast of

Scotland. For he was bearded almost to the forehead, and from the tangle,

as through a mist, his eyes looked out with an uncanny brightness.

 

“I’ll hold and strike. You can tap if you will, man,” said he.

 

He took charge of the business completely, while his big son snarled at

him viciously: “Leave it be, will ya? The Kid knows his own mind about

the makin’ of that shoe!”

 

“A fitted shoe is a right good shoe,” said the old man, enthusiastically.

“I’ll fit that shoe to the breadth of a hair.”

 

“And you’ll be all the night about it,” declared the son.

 

“Better a late start than a never ending,” said the father.

 

“There he goes with his blamed proverbs,” said the other. “There’ll be no

stoppin’ him now, Kid, unless you take the hammer out of his hand!”

 

The Kid, however, said nothing at all, but looked at the old man with a

singular fascination, as though he saw a story in his bushy face.

 

In the meantime, old Trainor fell to shaping the shoe. He worked fairly

slowly, to be sure, but with the utmost nicety. And even-when the

critical Kid declared that all was well and that the shoe would do

perfectly, still the old fellow labored, with sweat running brightly down

his nose and his eyes agleam.

 

“A thing half done is a game not won,” said he. “If there’s only one

window in the house unlocked the devil may fly through it as easy as if

the whole place was open.”

 

“Hark at him,” said the son. “Now he’s well started, and there’ll be no

stopping of him, as I told you before. That’s why we’ve gone to pot out

here. He never could finish the first thing to his own content, and so he

never got through to the end of anything.”

 

The old man, shaping the shoe with many light, delicate blows, and

drawing out a small nose calk in the front of the bend, on either side,

regarded his work with a most judicious eye. Now and then, holding the

shoe on a cold chisel, he stooped above the foot of the mare and she,

nervously aware of every movement, would raise her leg to show the hoof.

Over it, making the shoe hover closely, he strained his eyes.

 

“Oh,” said old Trainor, “I’ll tell you what, Kid, it takes a wise man to

learn from a fool, and that’s what my son would never do. I been a

failure and a great failure. I’ve kept his ma and him cooped up in a shed

all their lives. Well, I ain’t proud of it. I’m ashamed. But I’ve ate

honest bread, and—”

 

“Shut up, will you?” shouted the son, savagely, so that Davey winced with

fear at the bellows, where he watched all with great eyes.

 

The Kid waved his hand, for he saw that this last interpolation was to

save his own feelings.

 

“It’s all right,” said he. “The whole world knows that I’ve been a thief.

You don’t hurt my feelings, Dad.”

 

At this, old Trainor stepped from the anvil a short pace and dropped a

hand upon the shoulder of the other.

 

“Good lad!” said he. “As if I would ever harm you, even with talk. But

then, there’s a thing that’s harder to watch than a sword or

nitroglycerin. It cuts and it tears—a tongue does!”

 

He struck himself lightly across the mouth with the back of his hand, and

then shook his head as he turned back to the fitting of the shoe.

 

“Polite, you are,” said Trainor to his father. “Always thinkin’ about the

right thing to make folks comfortable.”

 

“I’ve spoke of the wrong that I’ve done him,” said the other patiently.

“What more can I do, son?”

 

“Keep your face shut, is what you can do!” thundered the other.

 

At this, the Kid lifted his brows, and suddenly looked down again, as

though he saw that the business of his were done.

 

And old Trainor, bending over the hoof of the mare for the last time,

began to trim it to a smooth, fiat surface, using the knife gingerly, as

though he were afraid that blood would follow the least touch that went

too deep.

 

“Aye,” said he. “Shut my mouth and be still. Listen to them that have

made money, that ride fine hosses and wear fine clothes. Listen to them

that have a big purse and something in it. They can talk, but old Trainor

is not a long step ahead of a beggar. And therefore, he has no right. Let

him talk to the prairie dogs and the squirrels, and the hens in the yard,

but not man talk to men—not man talk to men!”

 

His mutterings did not force him to neglect his work, however, and

finally he nailed on the shoe, cutting and clinching the nails with as

much care as he had shown through all the rest of the work.

 

“A good handy blacksmith would of shod a boss all around in the time

you’ve took to fix one foot,” said the son, growling as usual.

 

Then the Kid interrupted.

 

“He wouldn’t have done a job to suit me,” said he. “Not if he’d gone a

bit faster. She’s worthy of good shoes to stand in, is the Hawk. I’m

thanking you, Dad.”

 

Dad Trainor smiled suddenly on him, like a light shining through a fog.

 

“Aye,” said he, “for them that has diamonds won’t set them in brass. You

understand, son! It ain’t every hand that can move as fast as the eye can

jump, and faster. But patience climbs the highest hill and—”

 

“And finds it bare at the top!” broke in the angry son. “I’m tired of

hearin’ such rot!”

 

He left the shed suddenly and strode off into the night in the direction

of the house.