The Cure of Silver Cañon

by Max Brand

  Gerald was new to mining camps. What he knew of the West was the West of the cow country, the boundless cattle ranges. But, with knowing one bit of the West, all the rest lies beyond an open door at the most. He who has burned the back of his neck in the sun and roped his cow and ridden out his blizzard, can claim knowledge of the open sesame that unlocks a thousand mysteries. So Gerald looked down upon the new scene with the feeling that he almost knew the men who he would find strolling through the long, crooked street of Culver City.

  And know them he did, though not out of his knowledge of the West. He had seen all their faces before. He had seen them gather around the standard of that delightful revolution that had budded south of Panama and almost made him a famous man. He had seen them in politer garb around the gaming tables of the full forty nations. He had seen them hither and yon gathering like bees around honey wherever danger and hope went hand in hand.

  But of course he had never seen one of them before. He was as safe under his true name in this little town as though he wore the most complicated alias and barbered disguise in Paris. And, ah, what a joy it was to be able to ride with eyes straightforward and no fear of who might come beside him or who from behind. Here in his own country, his home country, he was safe at last. He watched the yellow lights begin to burn out from the hollow as the evening thickened. And not a face on which those lights were now shining knew any ill of him.

  He began to breathe more freely. He began to raise his head. Why not start life all anew? Hither and yon and here and there he had felt that life had pursued him through the world, and he had had no chance to settle down to labor and honesty. Now, however, he was quite free from controlling circumstance. He could carve his own destiny.

  What if his capital were only honest resolution plus just a trifle more of capital than $50? Should he not spend one night at the gaming tables before he entered the sphere of the law-abiding, the law-reverent?

  Sorrow had been going smoothly down the slope all this while. None like Sorrow to pick a way among the boulders, none like Sorrow to come through the rough going with never a shock and never a jar for her rider. And that day the mare had traveled farther into the land of knowledge than her rider had traveled into the mountains. She had learned that a human voice may be pleasantly low and steady. She had learned that a bit may be a helpful guide and not a torture instrument to tear her mouth. She had learned, for the mind of a man comes down the firm rein and telegraphs its thought into the brain of a horse. It was all very wonderful and all very strange.

  A door slammed nearby. In the morning Sorrow would have leaped to the side first and turned to look afterward. But now she merely pricked her short, sharp ears. It was a girl singing in the door of a cabin, with the soft, yellow light of a lantern curving over arms that were bare to the elbow and glowing in her hair. Sorrow stopped short. In the old days of colthood and pasture and carelessness before she began the long battle against man, there had been even such a girl who would come to the pasture bars with a whistle that meant apples were waiting.

  As for Gerald, he came on the view of the girl at that very moment when his thought was turning back toward the gaming tables and the necessary capital with which one might launch forth on a career of honesty.

  “Good evening!” he called.

  “Hello,” said the girl. “Tommy dear, is that you?”

  Gerald frowned. Who was “Tommy dear”? At any rate, though at that moment she moved so that the light struck clearly along her profile, he decided that he did not wish to linger.

  “No,” he said dryly, “this is not Tommy.”

  A touch on the reins, and Sorrow fled swiftly down the valley toward the place where the lights thickened, and from which the noise was drifting up. So he came into Culver City at a gallop, with a singular anger filling him, a singular desire to find Tommy and discover what manner of man he might be.

  In the meantime, he must have a room. He went to that strange and staggering building known as the hotel. In the barn behind it he put up Sorrow in a commodious stall and saw that she was well fed. Then he entered the hotel itself.

  He had quite forgotten that his garb was not the ordinary costume for Culver City and its mines. The minute he stepped into the flare of the lanterns that lit the lobby of the hotel, he was greeted with a murmur and then a half-stifled guffaw that warned him that he was an outlander to these fellows. And Gerald paused and looked about him.

  Ordinarily he would have passed on as though he were deaf. But now his mind was filled with the memory of those rounded arms of the girl at the cabin door, and how the lights had glimmered softly about her lips and chin, and how she had smiled as she called to him. Who was “Tommy dear”?

  It made Gerald very angry. So he stopped just inside the door of the hotel and looked about him, letting his glance rest on every face, one by one. And every face was nothing to him but a blur, so great was his anger and so sharply was he still seeing the girl at the cabin door. He drew out a cigarette case. It was the solidest gold. A jeweler in Vienna had done the chasing that covered it. A millionaire had bought it for a huge sum. And the millionaire had given the case to Gerald for the sake of a little story that Gerald told on an evening—a little story hardly ten words long. From that gleaming case he extracted his monogrammed cigarette. He lit his smoke. And then he shut the case and bestowed it in his coat pocket once more, while the laughter that had been spreading from a murmur to a chuckle suddenly burst out in a roar from one man’s throat.

  It was Red Charlie. He stood in the center of the room. Above his head was the circular platform around which the four lanterns hung—a platform some three or four feet wide and suspended by a single wire from the ceiling above. But Red Charlie laughed almost alone. The others preferred to swallow the major portion of their mirth for there was that about the dapper stranger that discouraged insult. The slow and methodical way in which he had looked from face to face, for instance, had been a point worth noting.

  But Charlie could afford laughter. He had made his strike a week before, had sold his mine three days later, and he was now in the fourth stage of growing mellow. The more he laughed, the more heavy was the silence that spread through the room. And suddenly the laughter of Charlie went out, for there is a physical force in silence. It presses in upon the mind. And Charlie pulled himself together. The fumes of liquor were swept from his brain. He became cold sober in a trice, facing the slender figure of Gerald.

  “I love a good joke,” said the quiet voice of Gerald. “Won’t someone tell me the point?”

  There was no reply.

  “I love a good joke,” repeated Gerald. “And you, my friend, were laughing very loudly.”

  It was too pointed for escape. Red Charlie swelled himself to anger. “There’s only one point in sight,” he said. “And you’re it, stranger.”

  “Really?” Gerald said. “Then I’m sorry to say that, much as I enjoy a good jest, I detest being laughed at. But of course you are sorry for the slip?”

  “Sorry?” said Red Charlie. He blinked at the stranger and then grasped the butt of a gun. Had a life of labor been spent in vain? Had he not built a sufficient reputation? Was he to be challenged by every chance tenderfoot? “Why, damn your eyes!” Charlie exploded, and whipped out his weapon.

  Be it said for Charlie that he intended only to splinter the floor with his bullets so that he and his friends might enjoy the exquisite pleasure of seeing the stranger hop about for safety that existed only outside the door. In all his battles it could never be said that Charlie had turned a gun upon an unarmed man.

  But now a weapon was conjured into the hand of the stranger. It winked out into view. It exploded. At the same instant the taut wire that held the platform and the lanterns snapped with a twanging sound. Down rushed platform and all and crashed upon the head of Red Charlie. Down went Charlie in a terrible mass of wreckage.

  And Gerald wa
lked on to write his name in the register. His back was turned when the platform was raised and Charlie was lifted to his feet. But as for Charlie, all thought of battle had left him. Mild and chastened of spirit, he stole softly through the door.

  III

  Two things were pointed out afterward—first, that the oddly attired stranger who wrote the name of Gerald Kern on the register had not lingered to enjoy the comments of the bystanders, and, second, it was noted that the wire that he had cut with his bullet was no more than a glimmering ray of light, though he had severed it with a snap shot from the hip.

  The second observation carried with it many corollaries. For instance, it was made plain that this dexterous gunfighter would maintain his personal dignity at all costs, but it was equally apparent that he did not wish to shed human blood. Otherwise, he would have made no scruple of shooting through the head a man who had already drawn a weapon. Furthermore, he had quelled a bully and done it in a fashion that would furnish Culver City with an undying jest, and Culver City appreciated a joke.

  And when Gerald came downstairs that evening, he found that the town was ready to receive him with open arms. Which developed this difficulty, that Gerald was by no means ready to be embraced. He kept the honest citizens of Culver City at arm’s length. And so he came eventually to the gaming hall of Canton Douglas. A long residence in the Orient and an ability to chatter with the Chinese coolies accounted for the nickname. It might also have been held to account for the gaming passion in Douglas.

  But he was famous for the honesty of his policy even more than for his love of chance. Gerald, the moment he stepped inside the doors of the place, recognized that he was in the domain of a gamester of the first magnitude. And he looked about him with a hungry eye.

  Here was all that he could wish for. One glance assured him that the place was square. A second glance told him that the stakes were running mountain high, for these gamblers had dug their gold raw out of the ground, and they were willing to throw it away as though it were so much dirt. Gerald saw $1,000 won on the turn of a card, and then turned his back resolutely on the place and faced the open door through which new patrons were streaming. The good resolve was still strong as iron in him. The clean life and the free life still beckoned him on. And, with a heart that rose high with the sense of his virtue, he had almost reached the door when he heard someone calling from the side.

  “Hello, Tommy!” said the voice. “Here’s your place. Better luck tonight!”

  Gerald turned to see what this Tommy might be, and he found a fellow in his late twenties, tall, strong, handsome, a veritable ideal of all that a man should be in outward appearance. But there was a promise of something more than mere good looks in him. There was a steadiness in his blue eyes that Gerald liked, and he had the frank and ready smile of one who has nothing to conceal from the world.

  He knew in a thrice that this was the “Tommy dear” of the girl. And Gerald paused—paused to take out his cigarette case and begin another smoke. In reality, he was lingering to watch the other man more closely. And how could he linger so near without being invited?

  “We need five to make up a good game,” the dealer for Canton Douglas was saying. “Where’s a fifth? You, Alex? Sit in, Hamilton? Then what about you, stranger?”

  Four faces turned suddenly upon Gerald.

  After all, he said to himself, he would make a point of not winning. He would make a point of rising from the table with exactly the same amount with which he sat down.

  “I’ll be very happy to sit in,” said Gerald. He paused behind his chair. “My name is Kern, gentlemen,” he said.

  They blundered to their feet, gave their names, shook hands with him. As he touched each hand he knew by the awe in their eyes that they had heard the tale of the breaking of the wire in the hotel. Nay, they had heard even more, for the news of the riding of Sorrow and the encounter with Harkey had followed him as the wake follows the ship. After all, Harkey was a known man for the weight of his fists, and scientific boxing seems always miraculous to the uninitiated.

  So Gerald sat down facing Tommy Vance, and the game began. As for the cards and the game itself, Gerald gave them only a tithe of his attention. They were younglings, these fellows. Not in years to be sure, but their experience compared with his was as that of the newborn babe to the seer of three score and ten. Even Canton Douglas’ dealer was a child. In the course of three hands, Gerald knew them all. In the course of six hands, he could begin to tell within a shade of the truth what each man held, and automatically he regulated his betting in accordance. In spite of himself, he was winning, and twice he had to throw money away on worthless hands to keep his stack of chips down to modest proportions.

  In the meantime, he was studying Tommy Vance. And what barbed every glance and every thought he gave to Tommy was the picture of the girl in the cabin door. It was odd how closely she lingered in his mind. The ring of her voice seemed always just around the corner in his memory. Through the shadow on her face, he still looked back to her smile. And why under heaven, he asked himself, did he dwell so much on her? There had been other women in the past ten years. There had been a score of them, and not one had really mattered. But when he had paused on that dark hillside, it seemed that the door of his soul had been open and the girl had stepped inside.

  So he watched every move of Tommy Vance, for every move of a man at a poker game means something. What better test of a man’s generosity or steady nerve or careless good nature or venomous malice or envy or wild courage? And the more he saw of Tommy the more good there was in him, and the more dread grew like the falling of a shadow in Gerald.

  Men who have seen much evil, and stained their hands with it, are still more sensitive to all that is good. They scent it afar. And all that Gerald saw of big Tom Vance was truest steel. He gambled like a boy playing tag, wholeheartedly, carelessly. When the strong cards were in his hand, how could he keep the mischievous light out of his blue eyes? And yet when his hand was strongest and one of the five had been driven to the wall, Gerald saw him push up the betting and then lay down his cards.

  It was a small thing, but it meant much in the eyes of Gerald. He prided himself on his manner and his courtesy, but here was a gentleman by the grace of heaven, and by contrast Gerald felt small and low indeed.

  Then Tommy Vance pushed back his chair.

  “I’ve dropped enough to make it square for me to draw out, fellows?” he asked.

  “You’re not leaving, Tommy?” asked the dealer earnestly. “If you go, the snap is out of the game.”

  “There’s another game for Tommy,” and a hard-handed miner chuckled on Gerald’s right. “She’s waiting for you now, I guess. Is that right, Tommy?”

  And Tommy flushed to the eyes, then laughed with a frankness and a happiness that sent a pang of pain through the heart of Gerald.

  “She’s waiting, Lord bless her,” he said.

  “Then hurry,” said the dealer, “before another fellow steps in and takes up her time.”

  “Her time?” said Tommy, throwing up his head. “Her time? Boys, there ain’t another like her. She’s truer than steel and better than gold. She’s …” He checked himself as though realizing that this was no place for pouring forth encomiums on the lady of his heart.

  “This breaks up the game, and I’m leaving,” Gerald said, rising in turn.

  “Are you going up the hill?” Tommy Vance asked eagerly.

  “I’ll walk a step or two with you,” said Gerald.

  They walked out together into the night, and as they passed down the hall, Gerald felt many eyes drawn after him. Yes, it was very plain that all Culver City had heard of his adventures. But now they were out under the stars. Not even the stars that burn low over the wide horizon of the Sahara seemed as bright to Gerald as this heaven above his home mountains.

  “Now that we’re out here alone,” said Vance, “I do
n’t mind telling you what everybody else in Culver City is thinking … that was pretty neat the way you handled Red Charlie. That hound has been barking up every tree that held a fight in it. The town will be a pile quieter now that he’s gone. Only, how in the name of the devil did you have the nerve to take a chance with that wire?”

  “How in the same name,” answered Gerald quietly, “were you induced to lay down that hand of yours that must have been a full house at least … that hand you bet on up to fifty dollars and then laid down to the fellow on my right?”

  “Ah?” laughed Tommy Vance. “You knew that? Well, you must be able to look through the backs of the cards. It was a full house, right enough. Three queens on a pair of nines. It looked like money in the bank. But I saw that I’d break poor old Hampton. And that would have spoiled his fun for the evening.”

  “You’re rich in happiness, then,” said Gerald. “A good time for everyone when you’re so happy yourself, eh?”

  “Yes,” Tom Vance said, and nodded. “I feel as though my hands were full of gold … a treasure that can’t be exhausted. And … well, I won’t tire you out talking about a girl you’ve never seen. But Jack Parker brought her into the talk, you know,” he apologized.

  “I like to hear you,” said Gerald. “It’s an old story, perhaps. But what interests me is that every fellow always feels that he is writing chapter one of a new book. I remember hearing a man who was about to marry for the third time. By the Lord, he was as enthusiastic as you. It’s the eternal illusion, I suppose. A man cannot help thinking, when he’s in love, that a woman will be true and faithful … pure as the snow, true as steel. That’s the way of it.” And he chuckled softly.