Peyton

by Max Brand

  The stranger had not been in Lancaster. Therefore either Lancaster was peopled wholly by fools who could not remember or else the stranger, also striving to leave a difficult trail, had skipped this link in his journey. So it seemed to Jerry, and, traveling still by compass, he went for three more days across the desert until he reached a town that consisted of a crossroads store and three shacks. There they knew neither Morgan nor Peyne, but they were very much acquainted with a gentleman named Harry Wister, who had left one staggering wreck of a horse, bought another regardless of price, and then shot off into the desert again. All this was six weeks before and Peyton thrilled through every long, hard muscle when he thought of the speed of the stranger. For a hold-up man he was a most unusual criminal; he squandered money like a drunken millionaire, and he rode like a demon.

  In Sandy Waters he found news of the third change of horses and a white-handed gentleman named Peters—six weeks ago he had gone through, with a two-hour stop. By this time Jerry had heard the face of the man described so often that he almost knew the well-fed cheeks and the bright eyes, and the white teeth that showed when he smiled. Then, five hundred miles from Tannerville, he reached the western and northern limit of the trail. It went out as completely as if the stranger had ridden into running water.

  To say that Peyton was discouraged would be to put it far too mildly, but when a man has worked for thirty days at one affair, he will not give it up too lightly. Peyton took out his spite in a street fight. These affairs with fists were something he rarely indulged in, but bumping up against a bunch of half-drunken, savage Scandinavians gave him his chance. It was from every angle a glorious affair. For half an hour the ears of Jerry were filled with a roar of strong language volleyed at him from five mouths. They were all strong men. Even when they fell, they would catch at him and almost drag him down, and Jerry had fought like a wolf among dogs, leaping and striking and leaping clear. So at length, with one eye closed, Jerry shook himself to make sure that he was still holding together, cast one glance at the five disfigured Danes, and then staggered into the little hotel, content.

  He slept for twenty-four hours after that. The deputy sheriff, who came to make inquiries about the fight, looked at Jerry as he lay asleep, went through his belongings, and then left, declaring that a man who could sleep more than twelve hours had a clear conscience. The Danes, though beaten, were not altogether discouraged. They mustered their forces, and, as soon as Jerry was out of sight of the town, they gave him a flying start on his journey back to the south and east. But Jerry was feeling too happy to be vindictive. He shot horses instead of men, and, when the informal posse had melted away, he went blithely on his course.

  He had before him ten days of riding in circles from town to town, and then, at last, he came upon no less a hero of the green-topped table than Snowy Garrison. Snowy had come across Jeremiah years before, when Jerry was hardly more than a boy, except to those who knew him, and after a slight falling out they had shaken hands and departed one from another, sworn friends. On this second meeting Snowy was bulging with prosperity. He had a suite of rooms in the hotel—for this was Chambers City—and a little Negro to call him in the morning and put him to bed at night. Also he had a roll of money that choked his valise. And to Jerry he imparted the tale of a stranger who had come to Chambers City with a bright smile and agile fingers, and of how the stranger had gathered three stable citizens together and taken their money with oiled ease, extracting the savings of years painlessly. Then he, Snowy Garrison, proposing a game, was struck dumb to find a man who knew neither his name nor his widespread repute. His nerves were so shaken by thus discovering the meagerness of mortal fame that he straightway lost $3,000 in three gloomy minutes. The play of the stranger finally recalled him to his better self, and, at 12:00 sharp, the stranger declared that his cash was gone and wished to know if a check would be acceptable. Snowy then peered at the well-fed cheeks of the stranger and declared that a check would be a very acceptable tribute. So they continued to play until dawn. The next day Snowy found himself in possession of a series of little yellow slips of paper, each with James P. Langley, St. Hilaire, W.I., written across the back. And every check was drawn upon a New York bank.

  “And when I put ’em in for collection,” added Snowy Garrison, “darned if they didn’t get cashed in . . . all of ’em.”

  “Some millionaire out for an airing, maybe,” said Jerry. “Well, if I had the kale that some of those gents have, I’d get as close to Nature as I want in Central Park.”

  “You’re talking for us both,” declared Snowy with emotion.

  “But what did he look like, this fellow?” said Jerry, who had fallen into the habit of asking about the personal appearance of everyone since he took this empty trail.

  “Middle aged, middle height, medium weight,” said Snowy, “but what I noticed first was his hands. They was so small and white, you see?”

  Long, lean fingers closed over the wrist of Snowy and burned the flesh against the bones with their grip.

  “Spit it out,” said Jerry. “Was his hair black?”

  XIII

  Information was not all that Jerry obtained through Snowy Garrison; he also sat in at an honest game of blackjack, with Jerry’s .45 in view on a nearby chair to discourage any tricks from Snowy. And the honest game replenished Jerry’s pocketbook, so that, the following morning, he found himself aboard a train with two tickets to New Orleans, an entire compartment for himself, and a bottle of yellow Old Crow. His first impulse was to open his wallet, and in it he discovered more money than he had ever seen there before. Accordingly, hearing voices outside the compartment—for Jerry had never ridden in a Pullman before—he summoned the speakers by beating upon the metal door with the butt of his gun. The voices outside stopped, and then a Negro popped in his head to see how matters stood.

  From him Jerry ascertained a few details to help the blank of his memory. He learned that he had appeared in the train with a companion, both hatless and without luggage. He discovered that his companion, obviously Garrison, had wept feelingly over him, placed $20 in the hand of the porter, and assured him that he must put his dear brother, Mr. Jerry Peyton, off the train, head for St. Hilaire in the West Indies. It was from this porter, also, that Jerry learned many other important facts that influenced his future. He heard that in St. Hilaire people would probably be wearing mostly white at this time of the year, and that spurs, in that island, would be an unnecessary part of his outfit. So when the train reached New Orleans, Jerry outfitted himself in whites and bought his first pair of canvas low-cut shoes, a straw hat so flexible that it could be rolled up and put inside a little cane tube, and a ticket for St. Hilaire. In due time, having passed through a season of white-hot sea and then a sea whipped by a hurricane, Jerry found himself seated on the verandah of the American consul’s house at St. Hilaire, growing acquainted with a pungent gin disguised in little glasses of milk and getting the feel of a new air.

  The consul’s house sat on the brow of a little hill with its face toward the sea, “and it’s back on Saint Hilaire, thank heaven,” as the consul said shortly after Jerry had presented the bottle of Old Crow to him.

  At this Jerry stood up, and, looking down the length of the side verandah, he could see all of the town of St. Hilaire. Five big hills, like five stubby fingers, went up beyond the town, shutting out the view of the rest of the island, and St. Hilaire lay in the palm of the hand. At first glance it appeared to be merely a smear of green—a bright, shining green such as Jerry had never seen before—but presently he discovered under the trees a number of little houses that followed the course of streets. They were not streets laid down with any plan. They must have been constructed by engineers who worked on the system of cattle making a path, and, weaving heedlessly from side to side, following always the low ground. If Jerry had taken a coil of rope, shaken it loose, and flung it sprawling in the dust, the pattern it left would have been a fair representation of the plan of St. Hilaire. L
ooking more closely, Jerry could see some of the houses quite distinctly, particularly a few on the edge of the town nearest him, and he saw that the slant light of the sun shone quite through them. They were more like lean-tos thrown up for the night than lifelong habitations.

  “Still,” said Jerry, “I kind of like the color of that green stuff, and, speaking personal, if I were to own this house of yours, I don’t think I’d sit out facing the sea.”

  He apparently struck a vital spark in the consul with this last remark. “Color?” said the consul. He started to stand up in turn, but, changing his mind, he merely sat forward in his chair and waved generously along the shoreline of the bay.

  It was a graceful little harbor, an almost perfect horseshoe, with one spot of white in the center where the waves smashed into foam on a bit of coral reef. The points of the horseshoe were low sandy bars, thrusting out into the sea. The sand was very white, and the consul called Jerry’s attention to it. “It’s the sort of white,” he declared, “that can’t be painted. It’s the sort of white that . . . that a painter uses for the brow of a woman.”

  At this the cowpuncher gaped, but the consul turned to him with a broad grin. “Have another drink,” he said, pushing the bottle across the table.

  The astonishment passed from Jerry’s face as the consul kicked an inverted dishpan by way of a gong and bellowed to an agile little Negro for ice.

  “Have another drink,” said the consul, putting some of the ice into Jerry’s glass, and spinning it expertly with a spoon held between two fingers, “and don’t mind me.”

  Jerry accepted the drink and, after he had had it, modified the strength of the remark he had intended making. “Maybe that white is all right,” he said, “but still it’s too close to the sea to suit me.”

  The consul leaned back in his chair, and, looking first at Jerry and then at the sea, Jerry was sure that surprising words were about to issue from the consul’s lips. He was correct.

  “Too close to the sea?” echoed the consul, speaking solemnly. “Why, sir, the sea was placed there by God for the express purpose of bringing out the color of that sand spit. And the white sand spit was placed there by God to bring out the profound blue of the ocean.”

  He sipped his gin and milk and appeared to contemplate either the picture before him, the gin, or his own remark. He was not more than two years older than Jerry, the latter thought, but his hair was already so gray that it would be silver before long. His face would have been noble had the flesh not puffed a little too much about the eyes; also the eyes, though large, were smeared with mist, and only now and then the vital spark showed through. Jerry was so busy watching that face that he forgot to reply to the last remark of the consul.

  “It is, in fact, a composition,” the other continued. “It’s a planned bit of work. The sea, the white sand, the sky . . . you observe . . .”

  “Wait,” Jerry interrupted. “I agree with what you say about the sand and the sky, well enough, Mister Rimshaw, but why the dickens can’t you leave out the sea?”

  “You object to the sea?” asked the consul sadly.

  Jerry scratched his big head and considered. “The sea,” he finally decided, “is like a bucking horse that never hits the ground.” Unconsciously he laid a hand upon his stomach. “The sea . . .” he began again, but could say no more.

  “The sea,” said the consul, in such haste that he drank only half of his glass, “is the only part of Nature where the mind of man is free to expand limitlessly. The sea . . .” He paused in the midst of his exordium, so absent-mindedly that Jerry was barely in time to reach across the table and direct the stream of gin that the consul poured into his glass instead of upon the floor.

  “Say,” said Jerry, “maybe you’re a painter yourself, in your off hours? Sort of work at it on the side?”

  “Sir,” the young man said soulfully, “I am an author.”

  “The devil you are!” cried Jerry, amazed.

  “The devil I’m not,” replied the other, with some force. “If I’m not an author, what would you call the writer of six plays, three novels, and countless essays, short stories, and verses?”

  “I’m not arguing,” Jerry said calmly, “I’m just wondering. If you’re an author, what are you doing down here?”

  “Studying human nature in the raw,” replied the consul readily.

  “Have another drink,” Jerry said, pouring out one. “I sure like to hear you talk. In the raw, eh?”

  “And waiting to find an intelligent editor,” continued the author. “You’d be surprised, sir, if you knew how cramped the foreheads of our leading editors are. To me, it is shocking.”

  “Too bad,” Jerry said consolingly.

  “You can’t understand,” the author went on, “until you’ve learned by experience that costs so many pangs of the heart, and so much hard cash spent on paper and postage,” he added. “Since I was nine, sir, I have been pouring my heart out on paper. And after a life of labor, the editorial brain of the English-speaking world condemns me to a hole like Saint Hilaire. I ask you, sir, what would you do in a case like mine?”

  “Cut out the booze,” replied the cowpuncher instantly, “and get into training.”

  He was astonished to see the author turn sharply in his chair with a broad grin. “That’s sound advice,” Mr. Rimshaw commented. “After you were in training, what would you do?”

  “Sir,” said Jerry suddenly, stiffening, “I sort of gather that you’re smiling.”

  “Do you?” said the consul.

  “Are you smiling with me or at me?” Jerry asked coldly.

  There is a certain tone of voice that brings men up standing with as much surety as the rattle of a snake or the snarl of an angry dog.

  The consul blinked. “With you, of course,” he said soberly.

  “I sort of had my doubts, that’s all,” Jerry replied, and, leaning back in his chair, he regarded the author with a hungry eye.

  “You were about to give me some advice,” the author said.

  “Oh, yes. Well, if I were in your boots, I’d grab a horse . . . I mean a boat . . . and I’d buy a through ticket to the dug-outs where these editors sit around.”

  “Ah?” said the author.

  “Then,” the cowpuncher continued firmly, “I’d go in, with a story under one arm and a gat under the other, and find out what he meant by wastin’ my money on postage.”

  “Do you know what would happen?” questioned the author.

  “I got an idea,” said Jerry blandly. “What d’you figure?”

  “You’d never be able to get in to see the editor.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” said Jerry. “Well, well . . .” And he grinned openly at the consul.

  “And if you did,” said the author, “and started any fancy talk, the editor would have you thrown out.”

  “Which?” asked Jerry, his eyes widening.

  “Thrown out.”

  “With what?” Jerry queried.

  “With their hands,” said the consul, frowning at such stupidity, “and they’d speed you on your way with the ends of their boots.”

  “My, my,” said Jerry gently. “They must be rough men.”

  The consul turned squarely about for the first time. The mist gradually stirred from across his vision and two keen eyes looked squarely into the face of Jerry.

  “Well,” said the author, “what the devil are you doing down here?”

  “I’m just touring about, studying human nature in the raw.” Jerry grinned. He added: “I’d an idea that you’d come here to live.”

  “Well,” said the consul, “the population of Saint Hilaire is about twenty thousand and two, and you’ll find about two people that are worthwhile in the place. One of them is yourself . . . modesty prevents me from naming the other one.”

  XIV

  “Simple,” said Jerry, “direct, and to the point. But then I’d like to get the gent in Chambers City who hoisted a flag over Saint Hilaire and said it was the best
island for its weight that ever stepped into the Atlantic.”

  “Who was the bird?” said the author.

  “Name was . . . what the devil? I forget. Middle-aged chap with gray hair and glasses.

  “Respectable?” asked the consul.

  “Sure, I won some money from him.”

  “And he steered you for Saint Hilaire? Well, I’ll tell you. If you have the price of a ticket home, grab the next boat.”

  “H-m-m,” said Jerry, stirring the ice about in his glass. “So far Saint Hilaire isn’t so bad. Don’t see much wrong with it except the long drive to the gate.”

  “What did he say about it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Said it was full of trees and people and money.”

  “What kind of trees?” asked the consul quickly.

  “Poker trees,” said Jerry, with innocent eyes.

  “Ah!” The author grinned. “I see. Well, there are plenty of poker trees. I have one myself that’s not so bad. But taking them, all in all, the poker trees that you can climb don’t produce fruit that’s worth picking, and the ones that are worthwhile are all fenced in.”

  “I’m some fence climber,” Jerry assured him.

  “Social fences,” the consul and author continued. “Kind of people who give you a cold smile and tea once a year. Oh, this is a devil of a fine place, this Saint Hilaire. But speaking of poker, I . . .”

  “How high do you run?” asked Jerry coldly.

  “H-m-m,” the consul uttered thoughtfully.

  “Business is business,” said Jerry.

  “Oh,” the consul replied, “I see. Well, I guess you don’t want to talk to me. But I’ll give you the layout of the joint. Personally I’d like to see somebody break down a few boards and get through the fence . . . maybe some of the rest of us could get through the hole.”