by Max Brand
By now its waters were fallen still farther, and, instead of the loud and solemn thunder with which it had gone down through the trees before, it had dropped to a quiet and melancholy singing. Now, as the sound grew more gentle and mournful, Terry Shawn listened with a swelling heart and a gloomy soul. It was as though this song had been made especially for him—he whose spirit had soared in the sky a moment before, simply because he saw a distant hope of riding a wild and stolen horse; he whose ladylove had been swept away mysteriously; he whose existence was a shadowy thing of but small, elusive pleasures, and an abundance of sorrow.
Berry and Hack Thomas strolled down the bank toward him. He turned resolutely upon them.
“Jim and Hack,” he said.
“He’s talkin’ like a soldier,” said Hack, nodding. “Got his little hands right by his sides, and got his little chin tucked in, and his little stomach, too. What do you want, honey?”
“Oh, cut it out.” The outlaw sighed.
“He’s pickin’ up a little,” Hack Thomas said, nodding. “What’s ridin’ you, kid?”
“I never should have dragged you two up here with me. I thought I’d take a little fling at the horse, and then call it quits. Well, boys, I find that the horse means a lot more to me than I had thought.” He waited.
Jim Berry exclaimed: “Well, dog-gone if I ever heard of a . . .”
“Oh, never mind,” said Hack Thomas gently. “You do what you want to do, kid. It’s your right. Stay right here till you get snowed in. If it’s too deep for you to move, it’s goin’ to be sort of hard for the sheriff to get at you, too. You’ll have a snug winter, and you’ll get to know the horse fine by the time the spring thaws come around. Maybe you’ll work up a sort of sign language with old Shannon, too.”
The irony of these remarks did not escape Terry Shawn, but he let the arrows fly without heeding them.
Before another remark could be made, Jim Berry exclaimed: “There he is! There he goes through the trees! On foot!” And he snatched out a revolver and tried a pot shot. They heard the bullet go crackling through the branches, and a thin fall of leaves followed its course.
“There’s who?” asked Shawn.
“The kid . . . the one that chased us up the ravine. I saw him there just now. He’s tracked us on foot all this way. That kid wants blood!” He pointed into the trees in the direction in which he had seen the stranger.
They were excited enough. Guns in hand, they scanned the trees and made their plans.
Big Hack Thomas and Berry decided to go down the creek and cut into the woods in the course of a hundred or so yards, trying to pick up the trail. Terry Shawn should move up the creek and enter softly, trying to cut off the advance of the enemy if he went in that direction.
He saw his two confederates slip down the creek while he crossed to the farther bank and turned up in the opposite direction. He entered the trees where there was a narrow opening through a dense thicket. Behind this he came to a more open bit, through which he could look to a considerable distance. And here he took his place to watch and wait, for he felt reasonably sure that the youngster would skirmish up through the woods, avoiding the thicket because of the noise that must be made in pressing through it. This was the place to wait.
Now, lying prone between a pine and a birch, where he was sheltered by a tall, spare growth of grass, he scanned the trees before him steadily, and all his senses grew gradually more and more alert.
He heard the whisper of the wind in the branches, a flutter of wings as a bird made off from a lofty perch, and then the singing of the creek in the near distance. Finally there was the indubitable sound of a gun exploding, farther down the valley; it brought him to his knees, but he sank back again after a moment.
One shot could hardly have begun and ended the battle. There would be a fusillade before the two men brought down that elusive and dangerous youngster with his accurate rifle, and certainly with one shot the latter could not have dropped the pair of them.
So he settled himself to his vigil again and had barely made himself alert and comfortable when a low voice said behind him: “Hands up, Shawn!”
He jerked his head around, and there stood the youth. There was a bright gleam of hair beneath the brim of the ridiculously large hat, but the brim descended so low that all the face was in shadow, only the rounded lines of an absurdly youthful chin could be seen.
“Lie quiet,” said the same low voice, “and take your hands away from that Colt.”
He removed his hands from his gun, but turned and rose to his knees in spite of the leveled rifle, stood up, made a hesitant step forward, and then drew a great breath of astonishment.
“Kitty!” cried Terry Shawn. “Kitty! What are you doing here?”
Chapter Thirty-One
“I don’t know whether it’s me or my ghost,” said Kitty with a twisted smile.
Meanwhile, Shawn took the rifle from her hand and the hat from her head, so that her hair slipped out of the loose knot in which it was done and cascaded down across her shoulders. It was so bright and rich that it seemed to cast a light upon the face of Kitty, and, with her glowing eyes and the crimson of her lips, she seemed to the outlaw a radiant and precious vision. He touched her reverently, hardly daring to kiss her.
“You’ve been riding along after me,” said Terry Shawn in awed and wondering tones. “So you were that crazy kid we tried to turn back.”
“Me? Crazy?” cried Kitty Shawn. “If I were a man,” she added, “I’d never turn loose a gun on a man who’d had no warning.”
“Those were placed shots, Kitty, to turn you back. Do you see?”
“And then to shoot me when I wouldn’t turn back?” asked Kitty with a bitter smile.
“No. They were aimed for the horse, just to stop you.”
“Look!” She pointed to a rent across the right knee of her trousers. “That’s where the bullet went on the way to the heart of poor old Mopsy. Oh, Terry, how could you kill her?”
“Was she a pet, Kitty?”
“I loved her! She used to come when I whistled,” said Kitty. “She loved me, too.”
“I’m going to hunt the whole world over and find a mare that you will like as well,” vowed Terry Shawn.
“That’s just like a man,” said Kitty.
“What more can I do?”
“You could never have touched her.”
Shawn began to be irritated. Also, he was a little afraid of those shining eyes. “I didn’t. It was another!” he protested.
“Who?” asked Kitty.
“I can’t tell you that, of course.”
“I don’t see why.”
“It wouldn’t be honorable,” said Shawn firmly.
“Honor! Honor!” cried Kitty, and stamped her foot furiously.
Shawn never had seen her in such a rage. He was amazed and mute.
“I tell you, you have to tell me!” she stormed. “I want to know who killed her!”
“We wanted to stop you . . . wasn’t it better to shoot at the horse than at the rider?” asked Terry gently.
“I wonder you didn’t, Terry Shawn. I just wonder that you didn’t shoot at a poor helpless girl that was riding after you with a heart full of love.”
“How could I know it was you, dear?” asked Terry.
“You didn’t much care.”
“Care? Kitty, you aren’t very reasonable.”
“You could have guessed. You’d heard that I’d left home,” Kitty charged.
“I had,” admitted Shawn, “but I couldn’t have dreamed that you’d come after me.”
“Do you think I’d go after some other man?” demanded Kitty.
“Kitty, you’re just talking like a child.”
“Is that so?” said Kitty. She swept up her shining hair and knotted it swiftly again. She snatched the hat from his hand and jerked it on her head. “I won’t stand to be insulted,” said Kitty.
“Kitty!” cried Terry Shawn in despair.
She
turned her back on him and hurried away, so that he had to run to place himself in front of her.
“Listen to me!” he begged.
“Don’t you dare to touch me!”
“I’m not going to, dear. But where are you going to go?”
“Home!”
“Will you only let me get you a horse and ride along with you?”
“I wish I’d never met you,” she said.
“Most likely you do,” he said sadly. “I never had a right to so much as look at you. I’ll take you home.”
“I’ll go alone,” said Kitty coldly.
“I can’t let you. Look how the snows are beginning. It’ll be a lucky chance to get through the passes before they’re blocked.”
“I don’t care.”
“Kitty, don’t you care anything about me, any more?” he asked piteously.
“No!” Kitty snapped, and she struck the butt of her rifle on the ground to emphasize the point.
He stared silently at her, lost in woe, tight-lipped with grief. Then: “I don’t believe you,” he declared.
“I don’t care what you believe,” she answered.
Suddenly he stepped closer.
“Don’t you dare touch me, Terry Shawn. I won’t let you touch me!”
“You can’t help yourself,” he said.
“I . . . I have a gun in my hand.”
He brushed hand and rifle aside. It fell unregarded to the ground while he picked her up lightly in his arms, and carried her, struggling, to a seat on the crumbling top of a fallen log. Then he sat down beside her.
“You coward!” cried Kitty Bowen in tears.
“I’m mortal scared of you,” said Terry Shawn, “but I know that you’ve got to care for me. You aren’t the kind of a girl that changes so quick . . . you’re only mad at me. But do try to look at things reasonably, dear.”
“Let me go,” said Kitty.
“I will, when you stop crying,” he declared.
“I’m not crying. I just hate you,” she sobbed.
“Sure you do. I’m not going to bother you. You just go ahead and cry,” soothed Terry. He began to cradle her softly in his arms.
“D-don’t you dare to treat me like a b-baby,” she said between sobs.
“I’m not. I’m just loving you and caring for you,” said Shawn gently.
“You killed poor Mopsy!” she accused.
He waited, saying nothing, and, because the tears and the sobs came faster and faster, she fell forward against his shoulder, trembling with grief and excitement.
“You didn’t want me!” cried Kitty through her tears. “You just tried to head me away from you.”
“Steady up. Steady up,” he said. “There’s nothing to shy at . . . it’s all straight road. There’s no trouble ahead . . . and we’re pointed home.”
“You needn’t talk to me as if I were a horse, Terry Shawn.”
He was silent. The sobbing grew fainter; the body was less shaken by grief.
Then: “Oh, Terry!”
He waited, still cradling her, his heart aching with grief at her unhappiness, yet glad at the same time, too, because of her presence. He would take her back to her home, he decided, and say to her father and mother: Forgive me. I thought she was grown up . . . I didn’t know she was only a baby, like this.
“I’m mortal tired,” she sighed, as the weeping ended.
“You’re going to rest, now.”
An arm passed around his neck, and she drew herself closer.
“I thought you were trying to drive me away, with your guns,” she whispered. “It was a terrible time.”
“You made us run, honey,” he assured her. “You scared us, worse than we scared you.”
“I wasn’t afraid. But my heart was broken. I just came on because there was no other place for me to go. I couldn’t really go home, to face them and all their questions.”
“They love you, honey. There’d be no questions . . . just love for you an’ gladness to have you back.”
She stiffened suddenly and sat up. “Terry,” she said. “You wouldn’t send me back to them?”
“Me?” he echoed vaguely.
She caught the lapels of his coat, and her eyes were wild. “I’d go and kill myself, first!” she cried. “I couldn’t stand it. Terry, you’re going to keep me always with you. You must promise me that!”
“I want to do what’s best,” he said. He took one of her hands and kissed it, then he spread it across his own brown palm, and, brooding over its wonderful delicacy and slenderness, he felt again that sick rush of shame and grief and tenderness. He had taken a child.
Somehow the man’s clothes accented her youth, and reminded him of her wild-hearted folly, and the more mightily he loved her, the more certainly he saw that he must protect her.
“Terry,” she whispered.
“Yes, honey?”
“Do you love me, really?”
He made no answer, nor even glanced down at her, merely drawing her a little closer, and, as he did so, she stared up at him and fell quiet, as a child falls quiet when it sees the far-off trouble in a parent’s eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Jim Berry and Hack Thomas slipped cautiously out from the woods, having found no trail, they were amazed to observe their quarry walking boldly ahead of them, rifle in hand, with Terry Shawn. They approached with speed and silence. Nevertheless, that sensitive ear of Terry Shawn detected them, and, turning, he called: “I’ve got him, boys!”
The slender form turned, also “Yes, he got me, boys!”
Hack Thomas stopped as one suddenly struck in the face, but Jim Berry hurried forward. “It’s Kitty!” he cried.
And she, equally excited, ran to meet him, took both his hands, and laughed joyously up into his face. “Jim! Where have you been?” she asked.
Their answers crossed each other. They walked aimlessly up the meadow, side-by-side, stopping now and again with bursts of cheerful laughter. And Terry Shawn remained behind, stroking his chin.
Hack Thomas came up to him. “There you are,” said Hack. “That’s the weak side of Jim. Now, you take a young gent like him, with a punch like a mule and a sure shot, ready to fight ten wildcats and eat ’em up . . . but still he’s got to have a weak side. I say it’s too bad.”
“Weak?” echoed Shawn. “Why, it kind of appears to me like he’s acting strong, here.”
“The girls can’t help lovin’ Jim,” admitted Hack. “It’s his handsome face and the bigness of him, you see.”
Shawn glanced down at himself, not even by standing on tiptoe could he give himself the size of Jim Berry.
“I recollect down in Tucson,” went on Hack, “where we were teaming with Doc Gray. We ran a faro layout on the quiet, and the boys patronized us, because they knew that our deal was square. We were all making good money . . . getting rich . . . no trouble with anybody until Jim busted it up. Doc had a girl, you see, and she was a corker. There were other girls in that town, and, when Jim walked down the street in a long-tailed coat and a pale hat, he could have had any of them. But you take a high-flyer like him, nothing but the best will do for him. He began to pay attention to Benita, and Benita paid attention back. Doc noticed and began to lose weight.”
“Why do you have to tell me all about this?” cut in Shawn coldly.
“Aren’t you interested?” asked the guileless Hack.
“Well, go on,” said Shawn grudgingly.
“I got Jim to one side,” went on Hack.
“‘Jim,’ says I, ‘you ornery rhinoceros, you bow-legged, blink-eyed buckstang, you’re goin’ to spoil the whole layout. Doc Gray is dyin’ of jealousy.’
“‘It ain’t possible,’ says Jim, real flippant.
“‘Aren’t there any other girls in the town?’ I asks him.
“‘Yes. But I’ve picked out the best,’ says he.
“‘Gray’ll kill you,’ says I.
“‘I’d rather be right than be President,’ says Jim.
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br /> “What could I do? Nothin’ but sit back and feel sick. Three days later the bust came. It was Doc that started the shooting, and Jim that finished it . . . and then he had to hoof it out of town for murder, as they called it for a while. The faro and I went bust. Everything was spoiled. And that’s what women always do to a man and his business. You keep shut of them, and you keep shut of trouble.”
To this speech, Shawn made no reply, but he looked earnestly at the retreating forms of Berry and the girl. And Hack Thomas began to observe aloud, although he might have known that what is left unsaid is at least left without a poisoned point.
“Look at ’em now,” said Hack. “Look at the way he’s holding her by the arm. Why, you’d think that she could hardly walk . . . she that has rode a wild mustang up the valleys, and scared us all to death, and trailed us right to here. You’d think that Jim thought that she needed help. But he doesn’t really think that . . . it’s only his way. To see him around a girl, you’d think that she was faintin’, or about to faint, and he’s got to take care of her. It’s always too hot, or too cold, or too drafty for a girl, according to Jim Berry, and he’s got to make things right for her.
“And that’s one way that he makes his hit with them. You and me, and ordinary ’punchers like us, we’ve got an idea that the women are about as strong as the men, and we act according. If you take a girl to a dance where she’s goin’ to spin and whirl and run and chatter and act up from nine p.m. to five-thirty the next morning, what’s the use of half carryin’ her up the stairs to the dance hall? When there’s a hundred chairs along the wall, each like every other one, what’s the use in askin’ her if that chair will do? When she knows everybody in the county, what’s the use of askin’ her what folks she wants to dance with and can he bring anybody around? When it gets warm, will she have a glass of punch? When it gets chilly, will she have a wrap? No, of course she won’t . . . but she’s tickled to hear him talk that way. You take some ornery freckle-faced girl that’s milked twenty cows twice a day since she was ten, and taken a hand in the haying, and ridden a horse farther than an automobile can run in a lifetime . . . a long-legged, spindle-shanked, square-jawed girl that can tie a buckin’ mustang into a figure eight . . . and when she hears talk like old Jim slings, she begins to blink. It’s like fine champagne to her. It goes to her head . . . and pretty soon she’s rollin’ calf’s eyes at Jim.”