The Law of the Trigger

Owen Toller and the two Stanley boys were chopping cotton in the bottomland below the Toller house when the first silver notes of the triangle came to them. Owen frowned, resting on his hoe. Now, why would Elizabeth be ringing the triangle this time of day?

He shouldered the hoe as though it were a rifle and walked up the gentle slope until he could see the house. A tall, big-boned man, he did not walk like a sodbuster. His was the toe-and-heel, almost mincing, stride of a horseman. Working the land had not yet rounded his big shoulders, and he walked erect, head back, with the unconscious pride of a soldier.

And yet there was something of the land about him, in the way he smiled at the green young cotton plants, as though they were children. A few years back, when he first moved to the farm, he had felt out of place at times, and not very comfortable. But that was in the past. His cotton was good. The corn was thriving. He had never been happier or more comfortable in his life.

Now, on reaching the crest of the slope, he could see the house and his wife waving to him from the back yard. Owen smiled and waved the hoe over his head. Then he frowned slightly, noticing the glistening black buggy drawn up beside the barn and recognizing the rig as Ben McKeever's.

What, he wondered, would bring a banker here all the way from Reunion?

“Bruce,” he called to the older Stanley boy, “looks like you and Bud will have to work on your own for a while. My wife wants me at the house.”

“Sure, Marshal,” the boy called. “Me and Bud can clean up here before sundown.”

A good many people still called him “Marshal,” although he had quit the job almost five years ago.

Five years... Strangely, he could remember very little beyond that time. A man in his early forties, he sometimes felt that his life had actually begun just five years ago, when he had stopped being a lawman and started being a husband and a father.

Elizabeth had gone into the house to see about their guest, but she came out again as Owen approached the barn. He left his hoe in the tool shed, methodical as always, grinning a bit at his wife's impatience. Elizabeth had been a schoolteacher in Reunion-the prettiest they'd ever had, to Owen's mind-and the miracle of their marriage was bright in his chest whenever he thought of it, which was often.

“Owen, it's Ben McKeever. He wants to see you.”

“I recognized the rig,” Owen said, kissing her lightly, marveling at the softness of her yellow hair, continually amazed that this frail, girllike woman could be the mother of his children. “What brought him all the way from Reunion?”

“He hasn't said.” Her eyes were anxious and faintly worried. “Owen, we're not in trouble at the bank, are we?”

“No more than any other farmer. We owe Ben money, but he knows he'll get it at harvest time.”

Lonnie Toller, age three, grabbed his father's legs the moment Owen stepped into the kitchen. From the day the boy first learned to crawl, this had been a ritual in the Toller house; Lonnie would cling laughing to his father's leg while Owen rode him about the kitchen on his instep. Elizabeth usually enjoyed this game as much as they did, but today was different, with Ben McKeever waiting impatiently in the parlor, listening.

“Owen,” she said anxiously, “you're keeping Mr. McKeever waiting.”

Owen speculated that most people wouldn't take a man from his work just to talk; they'd go down to the field. But not a banker, he guessed. They were used to having people come to them.

Nevertheless, Owen Toller was not a man to be hurried, even by his wife. He continued the game through to the very end, then lifted his son into the air with a sudden swing of his foot and caught him in his arms. Lonnie screamed with laughter.

“Owen!” Elizabeth said indignantly. “Mr. McKeever will think you're frivolous, carrying on this way!”

Owen grinned. “Maybe I am frivolous.” But he swung the boy to the floor, gave him a whack on the behind, and sent him scurrying. “How's the baby?” he asked.

“Asleep,” his wife said pointedly. “Though it's a wonder how he can sleep through the racket you and Lonnie make.”

Owen laughed and took her in one strong arm and hugged her quickly. “All right, honey, I'll go in and see what Ben wants. And I'll try to remember to act respectful, just in case we might want to borrow from him again.”

“Well, you'd better, Owen Toller!” But she was smiling as her husband left the kitchen.

In the small, neat parlor, Ben McKeever sat fat, breathless, and impatient on one of the horsehair chairs.

“Hello, Ben. What brings a Reunion banker out toward Lazy Creek?”

McKeever stood up with a great effort and shook Owen's big hand. “Had a little land out this way I wanted to look at,” the fat man wheezed. “Just thought I'd drop by.” He sank heavily into the groaning chair. “Nice place you got here,” he said. “You aimin' to clean up that place on the other side of the creek? Likely place for corn, if I'm any judge.”

Owen hid what little curiosity he felt and played it McKeever's way, although he was sure that the banker had not come all the way to Lazy Creek to talk about corn. “Figured I'd clear that space next year, if I can get the Stanley boys to give me a hand,” he said. “Providing, of course, that my credit's still good at the bank.”

“A Toller don't have to worry about credit in Reunion,” McKeever said expansively. “And your own boys will be big enough to help you before too many years.” Owen laughed. “I guess you're right.” He left it hanging there. McKeever would pick it up when he was ready.

The banker fumbled a cigar out of his vest pocket and glanced about the small room. “Looks like you'll be needin' a bigger house here, Owen, the way your family's started to grow.

“I might, at that,” Owen agreed.

And now McKeever was ready to come out with it. He held a match to his cigar, sat back, and fixed Owen with his expressionless eyes. “Owen,” he asked, “how would you like to make a thousand dollars?”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “that all depends on what I'd be called on to do.”

“But you could use the thousand, couldn't you?”

“Sure,” he said carefully.

“Well, Owen, that's the amount the reward comes to. For the capture of the Brunner boys.”

A door slammed in Owen's mind. Ben had made a long trip for nothing. “I'm sorry, Ben. I can't help you.”

“Dead or alive.”

Owen shook his head, and there was coolness in his eyes. “It's been five years since I've strapped on a gun, Ben. All that's behind me. Even if I wanted to do it, I couldn't I've got my family to think about.”

He saw that McKeever was merely waiting for him to finish in order to continue with his own argument. Owen knew that he would have to state his feelings as strongly as possible and leave no room for doubt. He said, “I'm a farmer, Ben, not a lawman. The people of this county decided that for me five years ago. If you want the Brunner boys captured, why don't you go to Will Cushman? He's the sheriff of the county.”

McKeever showed no embarrassment for what he guessed was in Owen's mind. “Now, Owen,” he said mildly, “I wouldn't have pegged you as one to hold a grudge because I supported Cushman when he ran against you for sheriff.”

“I hold no grudge, Ben. I merely pointed out that Will is the sheriff, not me.”

“And I don't need to point out,” the banker said bluntly, “that the Brunners have made a fool of Will Cushman. He's the laughingstock of the hills. They say our sheriff couldn't find his nose with both hands, and they're right.”

Owen started shaking his head again, but McKeever broke in before he could speak. “Cushman hasn't got the guts for the job. I know,” he said, holding up a hand, “I should have thought of that before supporting him. But it's too late for that now. Owen, Oklahoma's a new state; it's just learning to walk. Back East there are capitalists itchin' to throw millions of dollars into our state, but they don't dare risk it as long as there are men like the Brunners to threaten their investments. Now, I have confidential information that a railroad has plans to lay track to Reunion. But the James brothers are fresh in their minds. And the Doolins. Now it's the Brunners, and there's talk that the railroad has changed its plans and the track is going somewhere else. Owen, don't you see what this means?”

“I don't see what it has to do with me,” Owen said. “The Brunners are none of my business.”

McKeever's naturally florid face became red. “They will be your business,” he said angrily, “if they keep the railroad out of Reunion. Don't you realize what a railroad would mean to you farmers? It would multiply your present market a hundred-a thousand times!”

Owen refused to be ruffled. He said quietly, “The James boys couldn't stop the railroad. I doubt that the Brunners can do it either.”

McKeever lurched forward in his chair. “I happen to know they can! The railroad plans ain't settled. They're surveying a spur-line route to Reunion, but they've also laid out a western route that could join up with the Santa Fe. It's a ticklish proposition; the least thing could throw them away from one plan and make them settle on the other.”

Owen sat quietly, saying nothing.

“I tell you,” McKeever went on, “if we don't get this railroad, eastern Oklahoma will lag twenty years behind the rest of the state. That's how important it is. The people of this county have got to make the decision, and we don't have much time. Eastern capital pouring in here can mean the difference between prosperity and poverty for the settlers, the difference between good roads and wagon tracks. Schools, industry. Oklahoma is just beginning to come alive. We can't let outlaws like the Brunners strangle it before it gets big enough to fight for itself!”

“I know,” Owen said calmly.

McKeever smiled, thinking that he had made his point.

“I know,” Owen said again. “That's the reason the people elected Will Cushman sheriff.”

The banker's smile bent like hot wax, but he was skilled in diplomacy and held his temper. “We need you, Owen,” he said tightly. “All the people of the county need you.”

“I'm sorry, Ben.”

There was storm in Ben McKeever's pale eyes. “You mean you won't do it?”

“I mean I can't do it. I told you, Ben, I'm a family man now, and a farmer. Not a lawman.”

The banker was making a great effort, but he was slowly losing the grip on his temper. Laboriously he pushed himself out of the chair. “Owen Toller,” he said. “Once people mentioned the name in the same breath with Earp and Masterson. I didn't think a man like you would ever back down from toughs like the Brunners.”

Owen felt the blood draining from his face. In his time many had hated him, but no man had ever suggested that Owen Toller lacked courage. “Ben,” he said softly, his gray eyes glinting, “I've got work to do in the field. If you'll excuse me...”

Ben realized that he had made a bad mistake. Another time, a few years back, a blunder like this might have been fatal. He swallowed uneasily.

“I guess I talked out of turn,” he managed to say.

“We'll forget it,” Owen said flatly. “Now, if you'll excuse me...”

As McKeever backed clumsily toward the front door, he said, “Owen, will you think it over?”

“It's out of the question, Ben.”

“The thousand dollars, Owen. Think of that!”

“If I got myself killed, how long would a thousand dollars take care of Elizabeth and the kids?”

The banker stood fast in the doorway, breathless and sweating. “Owen,” he said, “I am not without influence in this state. If I wanted, I could make it tough on a man.”

“Ben,” Toller asked coldly, “are you threatening me?”

A chill seemed to shake Ben McKeever. “I just want you to think it over,” he said quickly, then lumbered hurriedly out of the house.

The banker was sticky with sweat when he reached his buggy. He wiped his face thoroughly with a red handkerchief before taking the reins and heading back for Reunion. Toller had proved tougher than he had anticipated. But he would come around. And soon. All men came around when Ben McKeever set his mind to it.

Slowly, the lush green smell of the hills soothed him, and McKeever allowed his huge bulk to spread comfortably over the leather-upholstered seat. He speculated with quiet pleasure on the untapped richness of the land. Here the dirt was dark and bursting with growing things. Farther into the hills there were huge fortunes in timber ready for the cutting.

McKeever's land, much of it. McKeever's timber. He was a man who dealt in futures, and he was one of the few who could see the great wealth that would someday come down out of those hills. Someday this land that he had bought for pennies could not be purchased at any price. That was McKeever's vision.

But first, before the vision could be realized, there must be a means of transporting this great wealth to market. The railroad was the answer. Not the Katy, for it was too far away. The spur line was the answer, and the banker had worked hard and long to get it. He cringed when he thought of the money he had spent, of the subtle bribes that he had passed out so lavishly to surveyors and minor officials in order that good reports of this country might reach the powerful financiers in the East. And then the Brunners had come.

The very thought of those brothers, Ike and Cal Brunner, could send McKeever into a rage. They had caused havoc, raiding into Arkansas and Missouri, as well as in Oklahoma, disrupting the fragile line of communication and commerce, robbing banks, wagon trains, peddlers.