by Max Brand
“I tried whiskey. I don’t know what you’ll do.” He said more thoughtfully than ever: “I feel the same way. I’ll tell you something. I thought that when I saw you again, I’d be a lot better right away. But I’m worse.”
“I thought it was this beach,” said Patricia. “I’m so used to seeing the sunrise here.”
“But it isn’t?”
“It isn’t,” said Patricia.
They stood close, looking miserably at each other.
“I’m never to see you again,” said Patricia.
“That’s your dad’s work.”
“He’ll send me away from Saint Hilaire if he ever finds out that I saw you again.”
“Doesn’t like me, does he?”
She said slowly: “I think he’s afraid of you. He was never afraid of any other man I ever heard of.”
“Well, if you leave, I’ll leave, too.”
“Would you follow me?”
“Of course.”
“It wouldn’t do any good. If you followed me, Dad would do you harm.”
“Does he tell you why he hates me?”
“He says I couldn’t understand.”
There was another silence. A gull screamed far away, and the wind blew the sound lazily down to them.
“Will you come out here once in a while?” said Jerry.
“If I can. Suppose Dad has seen me here.”
“But you’ll come?”
“Yes.”
“Shake on that.” He took her gloved hand. At the touch, something leaped from his heart to his brain and cast a mist across his eyes. Vaguely he saw that her eyes were wide and that her lips were parted.
“It’s a bargain now,” said Jerry.
“Of course.”
“You have to come, you see.”
“I’ll come. The sun is coming up, Jerry.”
“Good bye.” He helped her into the saddle. “Wait a minute,” said Jerry.
“Why?”
“Keep on looking out to sea. I’ll tell you later.”
She smiled faintly, and looked out to sea.
“All right,” said Jerry. “You can go now.”
“What was it? Why did you make me do that?”
“I saw the sunrise hit your face. It made you look pretty fine.”
“Oh, Jerry!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Good bye.”
He stood back, dazed, and saw her whip the cream-colored horse. He switched his tail in protest, and then sprang away down the beach.
Jerry watched her out of sight, and then went up the hillside more moodily than ever.
“Well?” asked the Spaniard, on the hilltop.
“Were you here all the time?”
“Of course, my son.”
“Listen to me, pardner. In your religion you go to a priest once in a while and get a lot of things off your chest, don’t you?”
“Of course, there is the confession.”
“H-m-m,” said Jerry. “And you don’t particularly encourage other gents to hang around at that time?”
“There must be no third man there, of course.”
“Well, keep away from this beach ’round about sunrise, Don Manuel, will you?”
“Ah,” said Señor Guzman.
XXII
A messenger came to the house of Don Manuel that day before noon and brought a little envelope addressed in a feminine small hand to Mr. Jeremiah Peyton. Jerry opened it and read as follows:
My Dear Mr. Peyton:
You will be delighted to learn that I have at last come to agree with your viewpoint, and, if you will, I shall meet you on the beach, below the point which bounds the beach of Don Manuel, this evening after moonrise. There is a full moon, and the light should be pleasant, since we have no reading to do.
James P. Langley
All the letters were formed with a very fine line, and drawn out with the most exquisite precision. One felt a certain mechanical perfection, looking at this letter. It was rather like a printed form. Jerry held it close to his eyes, and still he could not see a waver or a scratch.
“A steady hand,” said Jerry, and went to his room.
He remained there all day. He felt that he must bring his gun to the point of absolute perfection, and therefore he took it completely apart, oiled and cleaned it, and oiled it again with so delicate a film that it left the tip of the finger clean when one touched the mechanism. The trigger had grown stiff, and he lightened the pull. Then he went through his regular routine of exercise—it had been three days since he had performed, and he found himself stale and rusty. It was not until the nerves along his arm would jump like a twist of lightning that he was content.
All the time Don Manuel was walking up and down upon the hilltop, outside the window, a gaunt and ominous form.
Later on, Jerry went out and joined him. They did not speak a word for an hour, but each read the mind of the other. Jerry had a very small dinner, for, as Hank Peyton used to say: “A full stomach makes a slow hand.” And when there was a pale semicircle of light over the eastern sea, Jerry said good bye to his host and went down from the hill to the beach.
He was in time, on rounding the point of the beach, to see a stream of silver come from the east across the ocean, which was very still. That light, at the same instant, picked a figure out of the gloom in front of Jerry, made the beach all white, and set the shadow of the figure walking over the white sand; a solitary gull wavered low down against the sky.
“You are in perfect accord with me,” said the dispassionate voice of Langley.
“Thanks,” said Jerry.
The other paused at a distance of some ten paces. “Am I too close?”
“Makes no difference to me,” said Jerry cheerfully. “Close or far off.”
“Before we begin,” Langley said courteously, “I wish to compliment you on your scheme. It worked beautifully, as you see.” Jerry saw the gleam of the white teeth beneath the shadow of the mustache. “The girl is under twenty and she has less sense than I thought.”
“Are you done talking about her?” asked Jerry coldly.
“Certainly.”
“Begin.”
“Suppose,” said Langley, “that in order to get a perfectly even start . . .”
“By all means,” Jerry replied.
“We stand with our arms folded, then. We wait, say, for the next scream of the gull, and then both go for our guns. Is that satisfactory?”
“Excellent.”
They stood rigid, their arms crossed, their shadows lying long and stiff on the white beach. Once a bird called from the inland, but neither of them stirred. Then came the cry of the gull. The bird had changed its course, and, shooting straight over toward the land, it uttered a clear cry, hoarse as a sea wind. And the shadows on the beach leaped into action.
The arm of Langley shot straight out, for his gun had been worn under his coat, and in folding his arms he had simply settled his fingers about the butt. He flung his arm out, and the revolver exploded, but in the surety of the first shot, or because his arm swung too wide with its impetus, the bullet missed—it merely shaved through the coat of Jerry beneath the armpit as his right arm darted down and came up again, with a flash of metal. Before the finger of Langley could press his trigger the second time, the gun spoke in the hand of Jerry. There was a loud clang as it struck metal, then a brief arch of light as the revolver was torn from the hand of the older man and flung away. He leaped after it with a moan of anxiety, but, when he scooped it up, he saw Jerry standing with his own weapon hanging at his side.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you the first time,” Jerry said calmly. “I can’t shoot again.”
Langley came to him, walking like a cat, so soft and so light.
“I ought to blow your head off while you stand there like a fool,” he said. “But I’ll give you another chance. The next call of the gull is the signal.”
“The gull’s gone,” said Jerry. “Besides, this is the en
d of it.”
“Are you yellow?” Langley asked with a curse.
“It’s out of our hands,” Jerry replied solemnly. “Don’t you see, Langley? You miss me. You play a dirty trick, getting your gun in your hand before the signal comes . . . even then you miss me, and I gather it’s about the first time in your life that you’ve done such poor work. I sent my slug right down the alley and . . . it hits your gun. It knocks it out of your hand without even breaking the skin. Can you understand that?”
“I understand that you’re backing down,” the other replied.
Jerry could see the heavy mustache bristling. “You aren’t cut out to be my meat,” he said calmly. “You aren’t my size, pardner.”
Langley stood without answer. His anger was making him pant.
“You’re fat in the arm and fat in the head,” went on Jerry, “and you can’t stand up to me. Look me in the eye, Langley, and admit it.”
“We stay here,” said the other, “till one of us is drilled.”
“Go home, Langley. I can’t pull a gun on you again.”
The older man began to work at his throat. He seemed to be stifling. “I don’t know why I don’t shoot you without argument,” he said.
“You’re a good deal of a dog,” Jerry remarked calmly, “but you can’t quite do that. Worse luck for you, Langley.”
“By heaven,” said Langley, “you refuse to fight, then?”
“I was set for the draw,” said Jerry. “I’d have smiled if I drilled you the first shot, partner . . . if I pulled my gun again, I’d be shooting her father. Is that straight in your head? I’d be murdering her father because I know you haven’t a chance.”
“Is it possible?” cried Langley. “My heavens, am I listening to this and doing nothing.”
“I can’t fight you,” said Jerry, “so you’ve got a right over me. I’ll give you my word not to see Patricia again.”
“Your word?” said Langley eagerly. “Jerry, there’s a touch of sound, clean sense in you.”
“Keep away,” said Jerry. “Stand off from me. I’ll not see her until I’ve gotten rid of your objections. Good night.”
“Nothing but a bullet will get rid of them!” called Langley.
Don Manuel saw him come in, and, when Jerry went by, the Spaniard shrugged his shoulders and sat down again, as one prepared for a long wait. But Jerry went to his room and wrote to Sheriff Edward Sturgis, at Sloan.
Dear Ed:
I’m here at the other end of the world, pretty near, and I suppose you’re glad to have me here. I don’t know how long I’ll stick here. I’m at the end of a trail, you see, but a new one may begin most any day.
I’m writing this to ask a favor of you. You know most of the old boys who used to make Sloan the center for their celebrating.
In those times did you ever hear of a fellow named J.P. Langley, middle-sized, with black hair and eyes? He talks like the East, but he walks like a Westerner, and he handles a gun like an old-timer. I’ve an idea that, if you look back into your mind, you might unearth a pretty sizable record for him, and, if you do, I could use it.
The point is, he’s grown proud lately, and somebody ought to remind him of his past. And I can tell by his eye that he has one.
He’s fixed well down here. He has millions, they say, and his dug-out looks like it. Also, he has a daughter.
Well, good bye, Ed. Here’s wishing you better luck than you ever wished me.
And say, Ed, don’t you owe me a favor because I lifted myself and a lot of trouble out of your county?
Yours,
Jeremiah Peyton
XXIII
The thing that bothered Jerry more than anything else during the next ten days, or so, was really the conduct of Don Manuel. He knew without a word being spoken about it, that Jerry had met Langley; he also knew that neither of them had been killed in that meeting, and yet Señor Guzman remained perfectly equable. He protested with something close to tears when Jerry declared his intention of leaving the house and going to the hotel in St. Hilaire, so Jerry stayed on. He was left almost entirely to his own devices. In the silent household of Don Manuel he came and went when he pleased, and the servants obeyed him with as much eagerness as they obeyed their master. And Jerry noted this singular fact: that no servant in the Guzman household accepted gifts. He used to think of this, and then remember the quarters he had tossed to the men at Langley’s place. Indeed, if he had been a nervous wreck seeking absolute retirement, Don Manuel would have been giving him a perfect vacation and rest cure, but Jerry represented some hundred and eighty or ninety pounds of iron hard muscle without a nerve in it, and the inactivity ate into him day by day.
For seven mornings he had risen and gone to the hilltop from which he could look down, before sunrise, on the beach. And for four mornings she came regularly before sunrise and stayed there until the day was well begun. But Jerry never went down to her. By the very fact that she was allowed to come out in the morning he knew, with a melancholy pleasure, that her father was trusting in his own promise not to see the girl. But on the fifth, sixth, and seventh mornings she did not come at all, and finally Jerry gave up his trips.
It was ten days after the letter that Sheriff Edward Sturgis arrived. He came in as much of a hurry as if he had ridden barely five miles and must turn back as soon as his horse was breathed. He, at least, had made no change in costume to suit the change in climate. He had his ancient felt hat, his shapeless trousers, his remarkable sack of a coat, always unbuttoned, just as he had worn them in Sloan. And when Jerry saw the sheriff standing in the entrance to the patio, he was swept directly back to the little town. He had connected Edward Sturgis with the law so long that he immediately forgot all about the letter. Indeed, it seemed quite impossible that the sheriff should have come in answer to any written appeal. So he said as he took the stubby hand of Sturgis: “What’s the matter, Ed? Do they want me back in Sloan?”
“Nothin’ particular,” said the sheriff, and his bright little eyes surveyed every inch of Jerry in a split-second glance. “I ain’t heard any special mournin’ because you’re away, Jerry.”
The latter smiled faintly. “Come in and sit yourself down, Ed. I’m some glad to see you.” He led the way to one of the tables in the patio. At his direction, cold drinks and strong drinks were brought, while the sheriff sat back and fanned himself with his hat and looked admiringly about on the coolness and upon Jerry.
“Kind of to home here, ain’t you?” he commented.
“Old Spaniard runs this dump,” said Jerry, who had forgotten to wonder at his own relations with the don. “He’s a pal of mine. Sort of took me in when I blew down into these parts. But come out with it, Ed. What do you want me for?”
“I don’t want you,” said the sheriff gently. He finished a drink, and continued to look about him. “This is a rum place, Jerry.”
“But if you don’t want me, who does?” asked Jerry.
“Durned if I know,” replied the sheriff frankly. “I don’t know of anybody that hankers after you, particular. Why?”
“You haven’t come here to take me back?” Jerry inquired, sitting back in his chair with a sigh of relief.
“Certainly not.” The sheriff grinned. “Nothin’ pleases me more than to have you do your plantin’ of dead men outside my hang-out. Well, I’m glad you’re fixed comfortable.” He continued to fan himself, always looking about him. He was one of those men who discover interesting details no matter where they may be. And his shoulders were so humped with riding a horse and sitting at a desk that when he looked around he had to move his head in hitches, so to speak.
“Not bad,” said Jerry, still looking narrowly at the sheriff. “I hope you’re not trying to put something over on me, Ed.”
“What makes you ask that?”
“I dunno,” said Jerry. He leaned back in his chair again, with one hand behind his head—but his right hand was always free, always unemployed with the fingertips continually tapping light
ly on something. No matter in how perfect a state of quiescence he might be, that right hand remained alive, as though it were controlled by a separate intelligence. All of this the sheriff noted.
“You’re always set for something, ain’t you, Jerry?”
“That’s where you’re all wrong,” said Jerry. “I’m never set . . . I’m just sort of expecting.”
“Oh, all right,” Sturgis said, and grinned. “Put it that way, then.”
“I’m glad you understand,” Jerry said. “This is pretty peaceful country, but I believe in goin’ prepared for war.”
“Get that out of your head, Jerry. I’m not down here gunnin’ for you. I’m pretty smooth, maybe, but I don’t drink with a man I want to get.”
“I know that, Ed. But tell me straight, hasn’t your being down here got . . . ?”
“Got something to do with you? Well, maybe it has. Maybe it hasn’t.”
“Take your time,” said Jerry. “I hate to rush a man. Have another drink. You weren’t interested in what I wrote about Langley, were you?”
“I seen what you said about him.”
“Know him?”
“I dunno. What’s he look like? Oh, I remember you told me what he was like. Well, I’d like to look him over.”
“I can’t take you over to see him, Ed. Him and me, we had a little falling out. In a word, he’s a skunk, Ed.”
“You don’t say,” murmured the sheriff conversationally. He settled himself to hear a story.
“He must have millions,” said Jerry. “But he made a flying trip up to Chambers City on some queer sort of business, and on the way he took it into his head that he wanted The Voice of La Paloma. Somebody must have told him about it while he was going through. Or else he was an old-timer in those parts and knew all about it already. Anyway, he stuck me up for it when I was helpless with my wrists all bunged up. I took his trail . . . and here I am. But the way he rode that country up home made me think he was an old-timer there . . . so I wrote to you to see if you knew his record.”
“Have you met up with him?”
“Twice.”
“And you’re both still healthy . . . up and around?”
Jerry flushed.
“You must be kind of out of practice, Jerry.”