by Max Brand
He regarded her sadly, without anger, and then turned slowly away.
“I’m not through. I have something more to say!” exclaimed Kitty Bowen.
He went back to her, grim of face.
“He’s a quick worker,” said Shawn bitterly. “It took him one evening and a morning to show you that I’m not worth bothering over. I’ve got to hand it to him. He’s slick.”
“Oh!” said Kitty, trembling with wrath. “Terence Shawn, there’s not a speck of shame in you.”
“He’d be glad to hear us talk like this,” said Terry Shawn. “Well, I’ll tell you, Kitty. When he comes back from the woods, don’t you let him go around here with any wrong ideas about me. You tell him out and out what I think about him, will you?”
“Jim Berry is a gentleman!” defended the girl hotly. “I never met a kinder, better, straighter, gentler . . .”
“Rat,” said Terry Shawn. “You might tell him that’s what I said he was. A rat. A low-down, sneaking yellow rat. When you’re telling him the other things, you just speak up and tell him that I called him that. And when I come back here, I aim to expect that he’ll know what I said.”
This last speech Shawn delivered very slowly, haltingly, as though he were hunting for the proper words and was satisfied with those that he found. It reduced Kitty Bowen to a frozen silence that held her while Shawn turned on his heel and sauntered down the meadow to the place where the shining chestnut was standing.
She seemed about to start after him, but at this point Jim Berry came out of the woods, heavily laden with pine boughs. He came up to the shack with his burden. Dropping the boughs, Berry looked keenly at the girl, her white face turned toward the distant and retreating form of Terry Shawn. The faintest of smiles appeared upon the lips of Jim Berry, but he banished it at once, and said quietly: “Is there anything wrong, Kitty? You look sort of upset.”
“Anything wrong?” cried the girl, clasping her hands excitedly. “Everything’s wrong, and something terrible is going to happen!”
“I hope not,” murmured Jim Berry solicitously.
“He’s going to fight,” said Kitty Bowen. “I could see it in his face. He’ll . . . Jim, saddle your horse and ride away as fast as you can, because if he comes back here and finds you, he’ll make trouble.”
Jim Berry lost a great deal of color on the instant. He stared at the girl, and he stared at the far-off form of the gunfighter. Instinctively he reached for a gun and froze his grip on the handle of it in readiness for instant action. “What’s happened?” he asked hoarsely.
“It’s me,” said Kitty ungrammatically. “He thinks that you’ve been paying too much attention to me, and he’s furious . . . he won’t listen to reason. Go quickly, Jim, or something terrible will happen. I know!”
Berry moistened his white lips. He was rather glad that the girl, instead of glancing at him, kept her frightened eyes still fixed on Terence Shawn, down in the lower meadow.
“I run away from no man,” he said bravely.
At that, she turned sharply and suddenly on him. “You don’t mean that you’d stand up to Terry Shawn?” she asked incredulously.
“I mean that I won’t be bullied,” said Jim Berry. “Who’s Shawn? I’ve met harder men than him. He can bully cowards, and he can bully women,” added Jim Berry, laying his hand on her arm gently, “but he can’t bully me.”
“Good heavens,” moaned Kitty Bowen. “If you stay . . .” She did not finish her sentence; it needed no finishing, as a matter of fact, and she turned back to stare apprehensively toward Shawn in the distance.
Jim Berry, having made his proud boast, slipped around the corner of the house and into the horse shed.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The courage of Jim Berry was, of course, undoubted, but it was of a peculiarly quiet type. It appeared only when he wanted to use it, and it might safely be said that his discretion was at least as great as his valor. He had been known to stand up to three armed men, but he knew the three men against whom he stood. On this occasion, he knew the man against whom he had to stand, and, although he was certain that few men in all the world were more accurate than Jim Berry with a revolver or a rifle, he was sure that the young outlaw was among those few. Not for an instant did he intend to make his boast good, but when he reached the horse shed, he jerked his saddle from its hook and tossed it on the back of his horse.
Even as he saddled and bridled the mare, he was listening with alert ears to all sounds outside of the shed, and, when a step approached the door, he whirled about and waited with a drawn revolver and set jaw. There might be some difference between his marksmanship and that of young Terence Shawn, but if Shawn came through a door at him, Berry would certainly wipe that difference out.
It was not Shawn. Instead, the broad-shouldered Hack Thomas came through the door. With desperate haste, Jim Berry strove to put his revolver out of sight, but he was much too late. Hack had seen; he leaned one hand against the wall and smiled benevolently upon his old friend.
“Cuttin’ and runnin’, Jimmy?” he wanted to know.
“Why should I cut and run?” asked Jimmy.
The answer came with disheartening certainty: “Shawn.”
“And why should I have any trouble with that Shawn, will you tell me?”
“Sure I’ll tell you. You’ve been spending too much time with Terry’s girl,” Hack told him.
“Confound Terry, an’ his girl, too!” replied the other savagely. “I wish that I’d never laid eyes on the pair of them!”
“Maybe so,” answered Hack Thomas. “Only, kid, I’d like you to take notice of this . . . chuck Shawn and we chuck the biggest and the surest job that we ever tackled. There’s enough coin in it to retire on, I’d say.”
“Is he the only fightin’ man in the world?” asked Berry with heat and scorn.
“No, he ain’t the best,” said Hack Thomas. “He’s only the best that I ever met up with, or ever had anything to do with. He’s twice as straight a shot and twice as quick, as anybody I ever saw pull a gun. And we need him, kid.”
“You’ve got him,” answered Berry. “Well, take him along. If you can’t replace him, you can replace me. Stand aside, Hack. I’m on my way.”
“Sonny, you’re actin’ rash,” replied the older of the two. “Throw your reins, and climb down, and talk common sense. How long have we been workin’ together, old son?”
“I dunno. What’s that got to do with it?” growled Jim.
“We’ve teamed for near six years, ain’t we?”
“About that. Hack, clear out of the doorway and let me through.”
“Oh, back up!” exclaimed the other. “Kid, in those six years have we ever been in jail?”
“I don’t suppose we have,” admitted Jim Berry.
“Can we ride through nearly any part of the range and pass as good, ordinary, honest cowpunchers?” continued Hack.
“I suppose that we can.”
“Now, do you think that I’m going to chuck six years of luck, even for the sake of a gent like young Shawn?”
“I like what you say fine,” answered Jim Berry. “Only there’s this to say . . . am I to stay around here and get my head blown off by Shawn?”
“That’s straight and that’s frank,” replied the other. “The fact is, he would kill you, Jimmy . . . you know it, and I know it. But here’s another fact . . . he’s not going to get the chance.”
“What’ll stop him?” asked Berry. “He’s hot as fire, already. He wants my scalp, and, if he has a chance at me, he’ll fill me full of lead.”
“You could back up a little, Jim, knowing the stake that we’re playing for.”
“Back up?” asked Berry, flushing dark. “I back up and let the girl see me do it? No matter how I may feel, I’ve never backed up yet, and I’ll never start taking it for any gunfighter that ever stepped on two legs. You write that down in red, Hack. What sort of a man do you think I am?”
“I understand,” said Hack
Thomas. He paused and considered.
“I’ll be on my way, then,” repeated Berry.
“Hold still!” commanded his older companion. “I’m going to see my way through this, and I’m going to keep you and keep the kid, too. I want him, and I’ve got to have you. Now, old son, you know that I can manage things pretty well. Only tell me, first, if you really want to cut and go?”
“No! I never hated anything worse. Aside from leaving you, I’ve thrown a bluff with the girl, and, if I go off now, she’ll write me down as a yellow dog. Only it’s better for me to quit now, than it is for me to back up under the gun of the kid.”
“I tell you what,” said Hack suddenly. “I’m going to handle the kid, and you’ll have no trouble out of him.”
“And if you fail, then I’m simply a dead man. Is that right?” asked Jim.
“Not so certain. No gunfight ever is certain. You’d have one chance in four, even on an even break,” Hack assured him.
“Thanks,” said Berry. “That’s not the kind of odds that I play.”
“Well,” answered Thomas, “tell me this, then . . . could he beat the pair of us?”
“The pair of us?” repeated Jim.
“Kid,” cried Hack Thomas, “don’t you understand? The minute that the pinch comes and he starts an actual gunfight with you, I’ll be at him. He won’t be expecting me. I’ll shoot Terry Shawn down before he has a chance to get his guns out. Will you trust me?”
Jim Berry listened with unbelieving eyes. “Do you mean that?” he asked huskily.
“I mean that, son.”
“It’d save my face before the girl,” commented Berry. “Give me your hand, Hack. You always had a head for everything.”
“Leave it all to me,” said Hack with the air of a commander addressing his officers before action. “All you’ve got to do is to pipe down small and not kill yourself bein’ nice to the girl. I guess you’ve had a little lesson out of this, Jim?”
Jim Berry mopped his forehead; no other rejoinder was needed.
“You’ll be keeping out of the way of the other fellows’ girls, after this,” went on Hack Thomas with more sternness than before, “and, if you do that, you’ll be keeping out of trouble. Now, kid, listen to me. Shawn ain’t a bully. He won’t press too far, and, if he just sees that you aren’t bothering the girl any more, he’ll be contented. I can have a few words with him, and smooth things over fine. But if anything should go wrong, I’ll fill him full of lead before he can aim at you.”
“Good old man.” Barry sighed, and moisture appeared in his eyes as though he were overwhelmed by the goodness of his companion.
So they arranged the thing, and Jim Berry, left alone in the shed, slowly stripped saddle and bridle from his horse. He made many pauses, for he was still far from sure that he was following the wisest course.
At last, however, his mind was fully made up, and he stepped from the shed into the open. He walked slowly; gravity was in his face; gravity was in his heart, and he felt that the entire world had changed. Certainly the atmosphere in the valley had altered, for now the bright sunlight was gone, and in its place there was again the creeping, chilling mist of gray, growing momentarily thicker. It seemed to breathe forth from the very trees that were hidden by it. The lower meadow, too, was clouding over, so that Terence Shawn and the chestnut were well-nigh lost to Berry’s view, although big Hack Thomas, as he strode toward them, could be made out plainly. At the edge of the shack, Jim Berry glanced earnestly after his partner.
Kitty Bowen, on her knees stirring up the fire in the oven, said to him: “You’ve sent Hack out to make peace, Jim?”
“What makes you think that?” he asked sullenly.
“You don’t need to be ashamed,” said the girl gravely. “To turn an ordinary fellow against Terry is like turning a wolf against a tiger. Well, I hope that Hack has luck, but I’ll tell you what . . .” She hesitated.
“Go on,” urged Berry.
“If I were you, I’d back up . . . I’d saddle my horse . . . and I’d slide out of the valley.”
He looked calmly on her. His courage was returning; he could even smile. “I never back up, Kitty,” he said. “You ought to know that. And I’m too old to start learning.”
“Ah,” cried Kitty, coming to her feet, “maybe it’ll turn out all right, after all!”
“What makes you think that?”
“Look. Now that he’s done that, he won’t care for anything, he’ll be so happy.” She pointed, and, out of the mist, Berry saw Shawn coming toward them, leading Sky Pilot easily along, his hand on the chestnut’s neck.
Chapter Thirty-Six
In fact, all thought of danger was forgotten by Jim Berry in the bewilderment he felt as he stared toward the outlaw and the horse that walked beside him. Just as an eagle, formerly restrained by clipped wings, is altered when its strong wing feathers have grown, so it seemed, to those who watched, that Shawn, as he walked by the side of the half-tamed horse, had been given wings that made him mightier and somewhat more than human.
Hack Thomas, striding at the side of the youngster, had more on his mind than the subduing of a wild horse. Nevertheless, he was filled with admiration. He knew the appalling record of Sky Pilot, yet here was that same horse, literally in the hand of a human enemy.
The chestnut walked jauntily at the side of the outlaw, not in the fashion of one who has to obey, but rather as of his own free will, content in the knowledge that he could go whenever he chose. Now and again he paused a little, and sometimes he would turn his lordly head and stare into the distance toward the white crags of the upper mountain, and sometimes he would turn and nose the man who walked beside him. It was as though he were torn between a love of the wilderness on the one hand, and love of man on the other.
“How’d you do it, kid?” asked big Hack Thomas, coming up to him.
“Keep still and leave him alone, will you?” said Shawn nervously. “Don’t you see him tremble when you speak? I haven’t got him, yet . . . I’ve only got a fingertip on him. He only endures me while it pleases him.”
Yet, unquestionably, the divide between enmity and friendship had been passed, and the chestnut trusted Shawn, or had at least begun to trust him. Shawn paused, and Sky Pilot walked on, but he walked in a circle and soon came back to this new human acquaintance. Terry Shawn, much moved, rubbed the horse’s nose and stroked his neck.
“It’s as if I’d opened a door and stepped inside the house,” said Shawn, half to the horse and half to Thomas. “I’ve hung my saddle and bridle on the peg, and I’m getting hospitality. Hack, what’s the good of whips and spurs, when a little time and conversation will give you a horse like this? You hear me talk? I’ll never again break a horse with floggings and the spurs. I’ll break ’em with an open hand.”
“It’ll cost you valuable time,” said Hack Thomas.
“It’s worth every extra hour it takes,” answered the youth.
“Well, tell me how you figure that,” said Hack.
“What’s the difference between a friend and a hired man?” asked Shawn, by way of reply.
Thomas was silent. At last he said: “They’re not all like the stallion there, though.”
“A poor friend is better than the best of hired men,” said Terry Shawn with an infinite conviction. “Run along with you, Sky Pilot,” he added, turning upon the horse. He clapped his hands and waved them, and the horse whirled away, tossing his heels in the air and snorting.
“You’ve lost him, you idiot!” cried Hack Thomas.
“You watch and see,” admonished Shawn. “Do you think that he doesn’t know the difference between that and the crack of a whip? He knows, well enough. Watch that.”
The chestnut had circled the meadow like a flash of red lightning, and now he drew up well ahead of Shawn, head high, feet planted wide, eyes flashing, for all the world like a playful child ready for a game.
“Get out, you scoundrel!” yelled Shawn, and leaped forward with menac
ing fist.
Sky Pilot reared, smashed at the turf with his descending hoofs, and backed away. Shawn made another lunge; the horse squealed in answer, and, flinging himself into the air, bucked and cavorted in such a way that not the most cunning of jockeys could have kept a seat on him for ten seconds.
“He’s gone amuck again!” shouted Hack Thomas. “Look at him! Oh, Terry, you blockhead, you’ve broken the charm!”
Terence Shawn merely laughed and, stepping forward with outstretched hand, in another moment his arm was around the neck of the horse, leading him along passively enough. “I’ve got him by more than a fingerhold,” said Terence Shawn, exulting. “I’ve got him by a lot more than that, and, heaven willing, Hack, I’ll make him mine forever.”
“What’ll José say to that?”
“He had him,” said Shawn grimly, “and he chucked him away. He had him and couldn’t manage him. He’s lost his chance.”
“And what about old man Shannon, then? He didn’t chuck his opportunity?” For answer, Terry Shawn scowled savagely and spoke not a word. Thomas shrugged his shoulders and smiled a little. It was plain that he had touched on Shawn’s weakness. Nor did Thomas wonder at it; he himself would have paid much good coin of the realm to gain the love of the chestnut as Shawn had. Thomas spoke after a moment: “You can take the horse, I suppose, and get away with it. All the same, there may be trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” asked Shawn sourly.
“I mean,” answered Thomas, “that the best man most usually wins, in any sort of a game.”
“And Shannon is the strongest man in this here valley?” challenged Terry Shawn.
“He’s the strongest man here . . . we’re in the hollow of his old hands . . . I’ve felt it ever since I first laid eyes on him,” said Hack. “Hey, what’s going on up yonder?” He pointed.
The lofty head of Mount Shannon had lain naked and crystal white but a moment before, yet now it was abruptly changed, for, with a wind rushing out of the north, the familiar mantle of clouds was being flung around the shoulders of the giant. It looked as though a vast explosion had occurred, as though the center of the mountain were being rent, and the smoke and fury of the convulsion were escaping through the cleft ribs of the monster and ascending toward the sky. Wide-flung on either side, the mantling clouds streamed upward, and, in another moment, the summit of Shannon was in the midst of a gigantic confusion. Long arms of shadow were seen reaching down into the ravines, and then the clouds began to fling out faster and faster from the summit, breaking off from the main cloud masses, sailing in frantic haste across the southern sky.