by Max Brand
“I can’t think,” the sheriff said. “Gimme air.”
XI
It was on the second night following this that the sheriff and Pat Langley rode out of Sloan and took the way down the valley. They cut across the fields, and came by a generous detour behind the house and farm buildings of Jerry Peyton. They had the clear mountain, star-like, to guide them, and even by that dull light they made out the dilapidated outbuildings. There were broken gang plows and worn out two-horse rakes standing about, silent tokens of Jerry’s complete failure as a farmer. They dismounted beside a big barn, and, when they passed the open door, they could see the stars through gaps of the roof. The big haymow was empty, and the long row of stalls on either side of the plow contained not a single horse or even a mule. Pat Langley noted this and shrugged his shoulders.
“Makes me feel like the devil,” he muttered to the sheriff. “Hate to see a place go to ruin. I remember when the Peyton place was a comfortable little farm. Old Missus Peyton was a wonderful cook, too . . . and now look at her kitchen.”
That wing of the house presented a roof that sagged far in.
“You got a tenderness for houses that you never used to have,” commented the sheriff. “Maybe that comes out of the coin you’ve made in Saint Hilaire.”
The other made no answer; he was taking stock of the place rapidly.
“I don’t see your point in not giving me a gun with teeth in it,” he said angrily to the sheriff. “Suppose that young devil in there can use either one of his hands . . . he’ll punch me full of lead when I shove this empty bunch of iron junk in his face.”
“He can’t raise an arm, let alone handle a gun,” said the sheriff. “He can’t even feed himself. The neighbors have to come in and take care of him like a baby.”
“Ah, that’s it. Then I’ll have some of these handy neighbors about when I slip in?”
“Not a one. They’d leave him before now.”
The sheriff felt the glance of the horse thief for him through the starlight, discontented with the vague outlines of the face he saw.
“I leave it to you to warn me in case anyone comes,” said Pat Langley.
“The old sign,” said the sheriff. “You can depend upon that.”
“Well, here goes,” and, lifting his hat a little, a curtain of absolute dark rushed over the dim face of Langley.
The sheriff whispered: “Are you nervous, Pat?”
“Nonsense,” answered the other. “Nervous? I’m enjoying every minute of it.”
“And it won’t bother you none to go in there and take that kid’s gun away from him?”
“Why should it?” Langley retorted. His tone had changed since the mask covered his face; in fact, there was a new atmosphere around the two men.
“I mean, him bein’ helpless,” murmured the sheriff. “It won’t make you feel like a skunk to take his gun away when he ain’t got a fightin’ chance, will it?”
The other chuckled almost silently. “Listen to me, old boy. I left my scruples back in Saint Hilaire. This is a party for me. S’long!” And he disappeared around the side of the house.
The sheriff, after a moment, made a few steps in pursuit, but then he came back to the horses and stood at their heads, lest something in the night should make one of them whinny. He began to rub the pinto’s nose nervously, and whisper into the ear of Langley’s horse. Yet there was not a sound from the direction of the house. Once the thought came to the sheriff that Langley might give over the attempt to rob Peyton and go away into the night, but on second thought he knew that the other would not risk an escape on foot. The horses caught the man’s wish for silence and stood without stirring as they listened into the night, and the silence gathered heavily about them. Then something that was not a sound made the sheriff turn; he saw his companion once more at his shoulder.
They swung into the saddles without another word and headed across the fields at a trot. As soon as a comfortable distance lay behind them, they let their horses have their heads and went at a wild gallop. Halfway back to Sloan they stopped of one accord.
“Well?” the sheriff asked.
The other ripped away his mask and tore it into a hundred shreds, then he tossed the balled-up remnants into the dust. “Not so simple as you’d think,” Langley said. He shrugged his shoulders to get rid of some thought. “He’s a bad one, well enough, that young Peyton.”
“Made a try for you?”
“Oh, no. He sat in his chair and couldn’t lift a hand, just as you said, but he got on my nerves. Can you imagine a fellow who sits perfectly still and follows you with his eyes while you run through his stuff?”
“I can,” said the sheriff, and for some reason his voice carried a world of meaning.
“The kid was cool enough,” said the other. “I went through his wallet . . . it was in the table drawer. ‘Help yourself,’ says young Peyton. Cheery smile he has, isn’t it?”
“Yep. He’s a fine-lookin’ gent.”
“I took the coin. Only twenty bucks, at that, but it would have looked queer if I hadn’t taken it. I told him I was sorry to do it, though . . . but being broke . . . he just nodded at me. ‘That’s all right,’ he said.”
“Ah,” sighed the sheriff. “You spoke to him?” He did not seem displeased.
“Of course,” said Langley. “But he changed his tune when I came to his gun rack. I ran through the stuff and found The Voice of La Paloma. Rum name for a gun, eh? I knew it by the make and by the nicks that were filed into the butt. ‘Just a minute,’ said the kid. ‘You don’t really want that gun, I guess?’
“‘Why don’t I?’ I said.
“‘You don’t understand,’ says the kid. ‘That gun used to belong to my father. It means a good deal to me. The gun you want is the new Colt that hangs next to the old pump gun.’
“‘Don’t jolly yourself along,’ I said to him. ‘I know the make of a gun, and this suits me to a T.’
“For a minute I thought I’d have a bit of trouble even with that handless man . . . he leaned forward in his chair. ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ he said. ‘Don’t take that gun.’ From the way he spoke, I had a ghost of an idea that he had twenty men behind his chair ready to grab me. I had to blink at him, and his face wasn’t pretty. ‘If you’re so set on it,’ I said, ‘I’ll leave the money, but I’ve got to have this little cannon.’
“‘Then,’ says friend Jerry, ‘you’re a fool.’
“‘So?’ I said to him.
“‘Because if you take the coin, and anything else you see here, I’ll let it go. But if you take that gun, I’ll follow you.’
“You won’t believe that it gave me a chill to hear him say it? You know me, Ed?”
“I know you well enough,” said the sheriff dryly, “but I believe you got the chill.”
“I did, all right. ‘How’ll you get my trail?’ I asked the kid. ‘You don’t know me. If you live to be a hundred, you’ll never know my name, and you’ll never see my face. Tell me how you’ll follow me, partner.’
“He didn’t bat an eye. If he knew anything, you’d think he’d keep still about it, eh? Not Jeremiah. He came right out with it in a way that didn’t particularly help my nerves. ‘I know your height,’ he said, ‘I know your weight. I know you have black hair with a touch of gray in it and you’re about forty-five years old. You have a heavy mustache . . . the mask bulges out around your mouth . . . and your eyes are black. More than that, I know your voice and I know your hands. Those hands alone would give me a clue. They’ll leave a sign I can follow. So take my advice, partner, and put that gun back in the case. Because, if you take it, I give you my word of honor that I’ll never rest or draw a free breath till I’ve run you down and killed you like a hound.’
“That was a mouthful for a helpless kid to say to me, when I had a bead on him, eh? I don’t ask you to believe it, but just for a minute I had a feeling that I’d like to tell you to go hang, put the gun in the case, and take a chance on running across country
on foot. Of course I didn’t do what I felt like doing. And here’s The Voice of La Paloma.”
He extended the old revolver and the sheriff took it and bent his head over it, then he balanced it in his hand.
“Seems like I still recognize it,” he said. He examined it, made sure that it was loaded, and then turned the muzzle full upon his companion. “Now,” he said, “sit tight and listen to me while I talk.”
The other stared. “Well I’ll be . . .” he murmured.
“Easy, friend,” interrupted the sheriff. “Don’t move that gun out of your holster. Good.”
“What’s got into your crazy head,” said Pat Langley after a moment, “is more than I can make out. If you’re going to double-cross me, go ahead. I’m not fool enough to make a break when you have a bead on me. Want my hands up?”
“No. Do whatever you want with ’em. And use your ears to listen to what I’ve got to say. I didn’t know you then, Pat, but the minute I heard about the way you run a knife into that horse, it turned me ag’in’ you. And after that, I didn’t like the way you tried to bribe me, Pat. Still, I didn’t see how low-down mean you could be till later on.”
Langley sat with his head canted, nodding. “It’s odd,” he said, “that an intelligent man like you, Ed, can live nearly fifty years without increasing his vocabulary. Go ahead.”
“No, I ain’t clever, Pat. But I was clever enough to see that I was in a mess on account of you stealin’ the horse and Peyton gettin’ beat up for the same thing. I saw Peyton make his kill after his wrists got well. I saw him go plumb wild. I saw Sheriff Sturgis go out to get him and get drilled full of lead tryin’ to do it.
“You see, I ain’t clever, Pat, but I seen all that, and I thought I’d see if I couldn’t make a combination and get out of trouble. Here you were in jail. If I got bumped off, I could hear you laugh. There was Peyton, getting well for a scrap later on. I wondered if I couldn’t get rid of both of you. Well, I played stupid. You bein’ a clever gent, I just gave you a lead, and you worked it all out for me. The lead I give you was that cock-and-bull yarn about The Voice of La Paloma. Pat, I thought you were sure fooling me when I saw you swallow that yarn.”
Langley nodded again. “I begin to see light,” he said calmly.
“Still,” went on the sheriff, “I didn’t see my way clear out until you told me yourself that you’d make the dirty bargain. You’d go out and take that gun from a kid that couldn’t help himself. Honest, though, Pat, I hated to think there was such a yellow-hearted skunk in the world as you are. But you done it. You made the plan and then you went right ahead and took the gun. And now, partner, you’re fixed. Far as I’m concerned, you’re free. I got no bolts on you. You can ride as far as you please. And as far as the kid is concerned, I’m rid of him, too. He ain’t goin’ to do no killin’ in my county. No, sir. He’ll hop on a horse as soon as he gets well, and he’ll never think of nothin’ until he finds his dad’s gun ag’in and gets it back.”
“I see,” said Langley coldly. “You’ll point out the way to Saint Hilaire to him?”
“I’d ought to, I guess,” said the sheriff with a sigh. “But I won’t. I like to see a rabbit get a fair start before a hound catches him. Well, Pat, I give you a start off from here to Saint Hilaire. And you better use it. Because water ain’t goin’ to stop young Peyton when he hits the trail. He’ll nose you out, old boy, and he’ll finish you, a long ways off from Sloan.”
“He’s free to follow,” Langley said. “If the young fool is keen enough to trail me to the West Indies from the border, I’ll almost regret that I have to shoot him. But, in conclusion, I have to admit that you’ve improved your method since the old days, Ed. You were always a bit of a coward when it came to facing me, but in those times you hadn’t enough brains to think of sending a substitute after me. So long, old boy.”
“Well,” called the sheriff after him, “I kind of expected you’d get in the last word! Ride hard, Pat!”
XII
Dr. Brown, besides attending to his patient, kept six anxious farmers apprised of his condition through daily bulletins that were followed with painful interest by the farmers and their wives and children. Their relatives, also, came to read the bulletins of Dr. Brown. With groans of distress they noted the day on which the doctor sent word that his patient was for the first time able to use a spoon. And later still that he was able to work with a very sharp knife and put enough pressure on the edge to cut his own meat.
That was gloomy news to the six. Without waiting longer, Pierre la Roche sold his farm, packed his belongings, and huddled wife and family aboard a train headed for parts unknown.
Then came the day when it was known that the bandages had been finally removed from the wrists of the sufferer and it was only a matter of time before he would have complete use of his fingers and arm muscles. These terrible tidings swept Pete Goodwin and Eric Jensen and Gus Saunders out of Sloan and carried them away to parts as unknown as those that had received the family of la Roche. There still remained Rex Houlahan and Jan van Zandt. Rex held out until Dr. Brown advised his clients that the big cowpuncher was exercising every day, and his exercise consisted largely in faithful practice with weapons. Then Rex Houlahan disappeared from the ken of man. The sheriff rubbed his hands together, and that night he slept well for the first time in six weeks. But when the morning came he found that Jan van Zandt still remained. It troubled the sheriff, this incredible stupidity. He went out and told the prospective martyr some home truths about himself, but Jan van Zandt merely stared at the sheriff and grew a little whiter about the mouth; he refused to leave. The other farmers formed what might be called a protective association, but for some reason they failed to invite Jan to join. Indeed, no one wanted to be seen in his company, or pose as his friend. Over Sloan and all the valley lay the fear of Jeremiah.
The creditors, at about this time, hurried affairs along. They foreclosed, and the shuddering population of Sloan was informed that out of the sale young Peyton had secured only enough funds to buy for himself a fine new revolver, a reliable horse, and an outfit of clothes and food suitable for a long and hasty trip on horseback. On the next day, he took a room in the hotel. On the next day the doctor let it be known that his patient was completely restored. On the next day the friends and relatives of Jan van Zandt came to call upon him, pressed his hand, muttered a word of farewell, and left him hurriedly.
And the morning after that, Sloan wakened with astonishment to learn that Peyton was gone from their midst, whither no man knew, and that Jan van Zandt still drew the breath of life.
The sheriff collapsed when he heard the news, and then he set about hunting for clues. All he could learn was that young Peyton had made inquiries about a man in the neighborhood of forty-five years of age, a hundred and seventy pounds in weight, five feet and ten inches in height, black hair, and bright, black eyes, and a heavy mustache. And he had appeared interested in Sid Ruben’s account of a man who answered that description. Sid had passed him in Dogberry Cañon on the way toward Tannerville, apparently. The sheriff ran inadvertently upon this unimportant bit of news; he was observed to go back to his office singing, a little later, and before the day was over Jerry Peyton was forgotten in the routine of Sloan’s busy life.
And the town of Sloan was forgotten by Jeremiah Peyton even more completely. Between his knees he had a mud-colored gelding whose savage eye had pleased him long ago in the corral of Sam Wetherby. In his holster was a gun that had fitted into the palm of his hand like the grip of an old friend. On his feet were shop-made boots, at $40, and on his heels jingled new spurs. Around his neck was a bandanna handkerchief of the finest silk and of a screaming crimson. In his pocket a wallet bulged more or less comfortably. Between his fingers the reins slipped to and fro as he kept the feel of the mustang’s head, and in his heart was the glorious knowledge that he was free. The mud-colored gelding carried all that he owned in the world; there was no weight of possessions to take him back to any place.
He was like a ship with anchors cut away, blowing for a distant port as he galloped down Dogberry Cañon that morning, and he felt as a sailor, long landlocked, feels when a deck heaves under his heels again, and the wind cuts into his face. The stranger with the small, white, agile hands was his goal; there were other ports that he must touch before the voyage ended, Pierre la Roche, Jan van Zandt, and the others, but he pushed these into the background of his mind. He had an oath that would keep his helm steadily toward the man of the mask and carry by all the others until that port was reached.
He had picked up one more important detail, the color of the horse on which the stranger rode when he left Sloan, and with that added fact he had little trouble in picking up another step of the trail at Tannerville. No one remembered the man with the white hands, it seemed, saving Dick Jerkin, the gambler. He had sat in with this man, it appeared. The stranger had given his name as Owen Peyne and he played a stiff game of poker. Dick dropped a couple of hundred in an hour’s play and was about to lose more, according to the luck, when a fortunate call dragged him away from this expert, who seemed to read the cards.
So far the trail was simple, for in the direction of Dogberry Cañon, Tannerville was almost the only stop out of Sloan, but beyond Tannerville the towns multiplied. Jerry cast a circle around Tannerville, and, after three days of hard riding and much talk, he came on the clue again. This time the name of the stranger was Bert Morgan, and Peyton smiled when he heard it. For it proved that the man with the agile hands had remembered the threat that Jeremiah spoke; now he was covering his trail. It was in the town of Benton that Jerry found the trail again, and beyond Benton, of course, lies a wilderness, so Jerry cast a line from Tannerville to Benton, and, projecting the line straight ahead, he struck into the desert and went by compass.
The compass brought him to a jerkwater town a hundred and fifty miles from Benton, and in this town of Lancaster the sign of the stranger completely disappeared. No one had ever heard of either Morgan or Peyne; no one knew of a rather stocky man with gray-streaked hair and a heavy mustache who spent money freely and gambled for high stakes. So Peyton, in despair, vented some pent-up wrath on a restaurant that served him a stale tamale, and, leaving a wreck behind him, he went on across the desert, somewhat soothed.