Valley of Outlaws

by Max Brand

  “Yes,” said the hermit, nodding, “but in this world, what no longer fears us already has begun to love us or despise us, and not even Sky Pilot could despise you, my friend.”

  With this explanation Shawn had to rest content; indeed, he had little chance even to think, during the next few moments, for Sky Pilot, if not viciously determined to dismount his new rider, was nevertheless so filled with high spirits that he could not and would not keep still. Up on his hind legs he reared suddenly and beat at the air with his armed hoofs, then wheeled and plunged away, frolicking and lashing out with his heels. Twice he skidded on snow-covered rocks on which his shoes rang loudly. Back and forth across the ravine he raced and cavorted like a lamb in spring. Then, as suddenly as he had begun this nonsense, he dropped it, and went calmly along beside the others.

  “It’s like sitting on the back of a bird,” said Shawn, in a voice trembling with excitement.

  “Or a thunderbolt,” suggested the girl. “Didn’t he nearly put you down a dozen times?”

  “Never once. He looked wild, didn’t he? But once I lost a stirrup, and he was dog-trotting in a minute. I tell you, he’s human, he’s better than human . . . I never knew a man that was worthy of brushing his coat.”

  “It is true,” said Shannon. “He has learned how to hate and he has learned how to love, while he is still young. My young friend, he should go on to great things with you to ride him.”

  “I’ll only keep him,” said Shawn sincerely, “so long as I have to ride hard to break away from this section of the range where I’m known, but, when I settle down to a straight life with Kitty, I’ll send him back to you.”

  “Is he meant,” asked the hermit with a smile, “to carry an old man through a solitary forest, or to give pleasure to the eyes of ten thousand people?” Shawn would have protested, but the hermit continued: “If you have a beautiful daughter someday, will you want to send her away to the woods, or keep her in the world where everyone may enjoy her beauty? Ah, lad, the setting is as important as the jewel, even if it doesn’t cost as much. Take Sky Pilot, and may heaven bring you luck with him. When I came back and saw that you’d mastered him, I knew that he should belong to you. Now say no more about it. Here’s where the road forks. We can take either of the two ravines. That on the left would be dangerous going, but there are not apt to be any observers along the way. This on the right is easier and quicker, but you may meet other riders there.”

  “We’ll chance it,” answered Shawn. “You think that the sheriff rides in all weathers . . . well, he does, but he can’t get posses to follow through such a storm.”

  “The storm has fallen away,” said Shannon, “and that sheriff will always do more than you expect. Ride on, however. We’ll take the right-hand ravine. Keep a little behind me . . . I’ll go on first.”

  So he broke trail for them, and the two drew together behind him. They spoke very little, but looked often and wonderingly on one another. And once Shawn saw that Kitty was crying silently and asked her what troubled her.

  “It’s just that I can hardly stand it, Terry, to think that everything is going to turn out right for us, after all the bitterness and trouble.”

  “Not yet. We’re a long way from that, Kitty, though I’d like to promise you nothing but success.”

  “He said so, and he can’t be wrong . . . he can’t be wrong,” said Kitty firmly, nodding toward Shannon.

  Shawn himself secretly felt the same conviction that the hermit spoke as an inspired man, and contentment and surety filled him as they jogged ever onward down the trail.

  And now, rapidly, they passed into a new climate. The storm, which had been dying down every moment during the past hour, had now fallen to the dimensions of an ordinary snowfall, and even this, as they dropped lower and lower down the ravine, began to thin out.

  Still they could look back and observe Mount Shannon wrapped, as it were, in thunder, but the southern sky momentarily grew brighter. They had come down to a warmer level, and their heavy wraps were almost too hot. Careless joy was rising in the hearts of the lovers, for before them rode a guide and guard who was, they felt, invincible, while behind them lay not only Mount Shannon but all the dangers and the follies and the mistakes of Shawn’s past life. Like a region of shadows it appeared to him now.

  They saw Shannon stop, suddenly throw out an arm, and then whirl his horse about. He came rapidly back to them.

  “Here,” said Shannon. “We’ll ride straight down that cañon. They’re coming straight up to us. I was right . . . the sheriff and twenty men, I think, are on the trail, and everyone of them is mounted on a fresh horse. Ride fast. And pray for one more touch of snow to cover our tracks.”

  That prayer was instantly answered by the passing of a whirlpool of wind, heavily laden with snow, and, as the whirlwind dispersed, the floor of the ravine was loaded with fresh inches of snow.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Swiftly the trio went down the little cañon that opened off the course of the main ravine, and, doubling to the right, they came upon a second valley, broader, and leading well on in the direction that they were following.

  “It is all the better,” said Shannon, whose cheerfulness was growing with every moment; “we have better going here and . . .”

  “On the right!” snapped Shawn warningly. “They’re coming. Ride, Kitty! Shannon, ride for it!”

  They swung their horses about and got them into a gallop, just before a mass of riders burst out of the low woods ahead of them. How it had happened so quickly, they could not imagine, unless it were that the sheriff, catching a glimpse of his enemy in the first ravine, and seeing them disappear, had guessed that they would try this second passage. At any rate, there was the familiar gawky figure of the sheriff, riding with all his customary skill and boldness, and behind him came the pick of the country and the range.

  With the very first volley that they poured upon the fugitives from long range, the hat was knocked from the head of Shannon, and the girl’s horse was slashed across the hip—not a serious wound but one that made the animal begin to pitch wildly, so that Kitty was almost thrown to the ground.

  Shawn turned in the saddle and began to drop shots around the pursuers. His bullets sang close to the ears of the sheriff. They kicked up the snow in white puffs before the feet of the horses, but not a man faltered, and not a man fell out of the race. They were riding today to make a kill, and that was apparent.

  Shawn took stock of the horses on which the three of them were mounted. Kitty was a featherweight, and her nag would hold up. Sky Pilot, of course, could laugh at the whole world. That left Shannon. There was the weak point. He was no light burden in the saddle, and his horse could not stretch out, carrying such a weight. Cutting down their speed to keep with him, they were letting the posse climb up on their tracks slowly and surely. A worried glance from Kitty showed that she understood perfectly, but still Shannon was smiling and calm.

  He shouted to Shawn: “Keep a strong heart, my lad! I have an assurance that all will be well!”

  No sooner had he spoken than a violent blow in the side made Shawn sway in the saddle, and he felt a bitter pain over his ribs. There was no concealing the fact that he was badly wounded. Even the men in the rear had seen the swaying of the rider, for there was a yell of exultation from them. There was no concealing that wound from Kitty, least of all.

  She pulled her horse over beside Shawn, and watched him with a white face. “We’ll have to surrender, Terry,” she said.

  “Never,” he answered grimly.

  “Terry, we’re lost, we’re lost. Only trust to the sheriff . . .”

  Shawn made a gesture, as though to signify that he would not waste his strength in argument, and then, turning a little in the saddle, he looked back with a sort of leonine fierceness upon his pursuers.

  “This way . . . to the right!” called Shannon suddenly.

  They swerved into the mouth of a shallow valley, and, riding at full speed, they gai
ned enough to place a full bend of the ravine between them and the pursuit. Here Shannon reined close to Shawn and looked into the narrowing eyes of the youth, and the gray, set face.

  “Pull into those trees!” he commanded. “Dress that wound . . . and stay there till I come back. I’m going to play a game with this posse.”

  “We’ll stay togetherr . . .” began Shawn but the other cut him short with an imperious gesture.

  “Do as I say,” Shannon commanded. “Into that cover, both of you!”

  Like children they obeyed, and swung aside into the thicket. Shannon went straight ahead, and even to the two behind him, so did the echo multiply the sound of his running horse, that it seemed surely as if several riders must be pressing up the valley.

  They were not well in shelter before the posse came by them, the men leaning forward to the pace, their horses shining with sweat, their ears laid back to their work and their snaky heads stretched forth. First came the tall sheriff. Behind him was the main body, and, a few hundred yards to the rear, a little clump of stragglers.

  They saw this, then Shawn tore off coat and shirt, and the girl saw a long raw furrow on his side, scraping across the ribs. There was no danger from it. It was merely painful but would not be fatal, except through the loss of blood. Between them they had skill enough to take care of a worse hurt than this. If only Shannon could keep the posse employed—if only he could draw them sufficiently away.

  * * * * *

  The hermit had gone straight on down the valley until it began to dwindle and the floor rose sharply. Mercilessly he drove his horse, and yet, for all his driving, he could not gain ground on the head of the pursuit, for there rode the sheriff and the best of his fighting men on chosen horses. They felt that their quarry was before them at last, and they were sparing neither whip nor spur.

  The ground rose, now, to a low divide—a narrow pass littered with boulders, and here Shannon dismounted. Before him there was the beginning of another ravine, rapidly deepening as it progressed—a little valley with a rocky floor where the tracks even of galloping horses hardly would appear. There he might have ridden and striven to hide himself in some nook of the broken walls. Instead, he chose to dismount, and, letting his horse gallop away, took his place behind a great rock. When the sheriff came in sight, with the utmost care Shannon placed a bullet mere inches from the cheek of Lank Heney. Another ball, placed nearer than he had expected, clipped a horse on the shoulder.

  The whole posse split, then, like rain on a roof. Some went to one side and some to another. Many dismounted. Shannon heard a clamoring of voices, and presently he had glimpses of men struggling up through the boulders to take him on the flanks.

  He was not fighting. He was only pretending to fight, but all the skill that he had learned in hunting on the broad sides of Mount Shannon was brought into play, now. Whenever an enemy fairly showed himself, a bullet was sure to sing past close to his head, and the posse began to advance more slowly, more cautiously, although the voice of the sheriff could clearly be heard urging them on.

  Down the farther ravine, the clattering hoofs of the riderless horse roused the echoes, and the sheriff was crying: “There’s only one of them here holding us back! Press on, boys! We’re losing miles and miles . . . we’re losing the whole game, and we had ’em in our hands.”

  Twice he himself showed head and shoulders as he climbed recklessly to the front, and twice he ducked, as bullets whistled past him. And so, shifting restlessly from rock to rock, his rifle growing hot in his hands, old Shannon kept the posse at bay for around twenty minutes of precious time. His own horse was long out of sight, and he felt that his work had been accomplished.

  His position had grown mortally dangerous, meantime. On the right the sheriff had pushed up into a flanking position, and on the left two others were able to rake him. Twice, leaden slugs splashed on the face of a rock nearby, then a hammer blow struck Shannon on the side of the head, and he rolled helplessly over upon his back.

  There Lank Heney found him, eyes rapidly glazing, arms thrown wide. He leaned over the fallen man, then he kneeled by his side.

  “It’s Shannon!” he exclaimed. “Man, man, how’d you happen to get mixed up in this game?”

  But the hermit had fallen back into his familiar role. He only raised himself a little on one elbow and pointed down the shallow valley before them with a smile of triumph, as though to indicate that he was satisfied with the work that he had done in placing his two companions beyond the reach of the law. Then he fell back, one struggle convulsed him, his eyes closed.

  “Ride on down the far valley!” shouted the sheriff to his men. “We’ve still got a ghost of a show!”

  But he kept at the side of the fallen man, waiting for the last moment, full of awe and wonder such as comes on the sternest, when a man lays down his life for a friend.

  The closed eyes opened. A flash of life appeared in them, but they were looking far off beyond the face of Lank Heney.

  “Death is not the worst evil, my dear,” said Shannon, and with that his eyes opened still wider, grew fixed, and the final tremor passed through his body.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sheriff Lank Heney, a man who never forgot, wrote down all that episode in red in his heart of hearts, more so since the mystery never was explained. The mysterious Shannon died, died with words upon his lips, but thereafter nothing whatever was learned about his past. The dashing young outlaw, Shawn, never was heard of again, and many felt that he must have lost his footing, in going along one of the narrow, snow-covered mountain trails and fallen to his death on the rocky floor of some cañon, half a mile below. Neither did the girl return, and for her Mr. Bowen made a brief but fervent appeal to all his fellow citizens of the range. However, at the end of a few days, he sent out word that he was convinced that further search was useless, that this matter was in wiser hands than his and that it would be folly for him to attempt to alter the ways of divinity.

  What brought the whole matter again into the mind of the good sheriff was that, when hunting a slippery cattle thief through those same highlands at the knees of Mount Shannon, he came to the spot where Shannon had died and where they had given him burial among the boulders. He found the spot, but the heap of stones was vastly greater than the one that he and his men had made, and a big block of gray granite had been hewn roughly and with great, deeply bitten letters. The sheriff read the legend with attention:

  Here lies Shannon, the bravest, the gentlest,

  and the best of all partners. God give him the

  happiness that he gave to his friends!

  Now when the sheriff read this notice, he bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, for a sudden thought smote him like a pain and haunted him long after.

  However, it was several years after this that he was riding far north and came to a little-frequented corner of the range, for the vast mountains and the broken trails made the district difficult of access. And when he twisted his way through this region of cliffs and rough valleys, he came suddenly on a little paradise in the midst of the wilderness—a four-mile ravine, a quarter as wide as it was long, the floor covered with the richest of river detritus, and all that sweep of land skillfully put to use.

  He saw it from above and marked the order of the place with an approving eye, then, having passed down the trail, he rode through sweet-smelling orchards, and fields of springing grain, and wide, rich pastures where blood horses walked, and fine cattle wandered. All that man could wish for was being raised on that ground, as it appeared to the sheriff. He took smiling heed of it, and so he came to the house.

  It was not overly large, but vastly comfortable. It stood near the bank of the creek, surrounded by a vast tangle of garden that was allowed to run half wild. Farther up the stream was the mill and the mill dam, and around the mill there appeared to be a tiny village. At least there were the signs of the carpenter, miller, blacksmith, storekeeper, and a crossroads seemed to indicate that people came down from s
ome distance in the mountains to make their trading headquarters here.

  The sheriff viewed these scenes with the greatest pleasure, for it is always a delightful thing to see prosperity, particularly on what seemed to him such a princely scale. And then he took note of three handsome youngsters tumbling in the garden, and beyond the garden a bit of fine pasture with a beautiful chestnut horse standing in it. It was the sight of the horse that gave him his clue, after all. He rode closer. He stared with hungry eyes. There was no doubt about it—that chestnut was Sky Pilot.

  Then he turned sharply and regarded the children. At last he called to the oldest, a sweet-faced girl of seven, and, when she came running, he lifted her up beside him in the saddle.

  “Now, honey,” he said, “I want you to tell me something. You’ve got a fine mother and daddy, I take it.”

  She nodded; she was not attracted by the manner of Lank Heney.

  “You remember this. Say it to your mother and your daddy the first minute that you can find ’em . . . ‘Sheriff Heney has been here, and he wishes them well.’ Do you hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Repeat it now.”

  She obeyed.

  “Aye,” said Lank Heney, “you’ve got the very look of her. And before you’re full grown, honey, you’ll be at work breakin’ hearts.”

  With that, he rode slowly down the trail beside the creek, and the little girl scampered into the house. Presently a man ran out, saddle and bridle in hand. He called the chestnut, and Sky Pilot came to him a blast of storm wind, vaulting the fence in his haste. However, with the horse beside him, the man hesitated, and, looking long and earnestly after Heney as he disappeared down the road, at last seemed to feel that it was best to let the other go unhailed.

  He turned thoughtfully back into the house, the door closed softly behind him, and all was as it had been before. But not quite. For a great shadow had been lifted from that happy valley on this day, never to return.