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.”