Larramee's Ranch

by Max Brand

  “All of this is true,” said Holden. “I have thought of it all. All!”

  “My own opinion,” said Larramee slowly, “you do not value.”

  “On the contrary,” said Holden, “I value it more than the opinion of any man I have ever known.”

  “Bah!” said Larramee. “That is simply noisesome flattery.”

  “If you will think for a moment,” said Holden, “you will see that I have not the slightest reason to flatter you. I am not a fool. I realize that nothing can change your scorn or your hatred for me!”

  At this, the rich man was staggered. There is such a thing as golden sincerity, the sound of which is current coin in every ear with wit enough to distinguish between good and bad. And here was sincerity of such a nature. Mr. Larramee reconsidered Tom Holden. The more he saw of the phases of this youth, the harder he found it to reconcile them with one another and make a comprehensible whole.

  “Very well,” said Larramee at last. “We will not argue about that point. I have a very definite and concrete offer to make you. What your scheme is with me and with my daughter I cannot tell. I grant that you are a confident and clever chap. But you must be aware that I myself am not a complete idiot. If you take my proposal, all is well. If you do not, I shall do my best to crush you, Holden, and you must be aware that I have tools at my disposal.”

  Holden drew in a long breath. “The whole town and the countryside is under your thumb. I understand it perfectly,” said he.

  “Very well, Holden. You have fulfilled one part of a foolish bargain which I made with you. You have ridden a wild horse up to my house. It is your right to claim that I fulfill my contract, take you into that house, and do my best to introduce you to my daughter. At the same time, you will win the full weight of my enmity. This is one part of the bargain and one aspect of the thing, is it not?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “The other is that you take in hand a check for a certain sum of money and leave the town of Larramee and never come back.”

  Holden bowed, and his face turned a sicker white than ever.

  “Well?” asked Larramee sharply. “You understand? We need not mince words with one another. I have been a rough-handed fellow in my day, and by the gods, if the occasion arose I could be rough-handed again. But I have enough money to keep me from certain of the frictions of life. I don’t choose to act unless I am compelled to it. Now, Holden, balancing my enmity against whatever cash gains you have in mind in this adventure of yours—which at present seems to consist in heaping as much shame on the head of my daughter as possible—balancing one thing against the other—don’t you think that it would be wise to take a check for, say, a thousand dollars, and take yourself off to another climate?”

  Holden looked into his face sadly, gravely. Then he shook his head. “I cannot agree with you,” said he.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Larramee. “I misjudged you, quite. I see that you are a man of caliber, Holden. I will offer you five thousand dollars on the spot. In exchange, you will never show yourself near my house again and you will never, under whatever circumstances, mention her name?”

  Holden looked about him blankly. It was a bright, peaceful day. Little transparent wisps of cloud stood in the sky, too thin to make a shadow of the torrents of sunshine which rained through to the earth. A squirrel ran boldly out to the tip of a branch of a tree beside him. There was nothing that he could use as a sample and an illustration of what he felt.

  “I can only say,” said he, “that if you offered fifty thousand, or five hundred thousand, it could not buy me off.”

  Larramee nodded. “I hardly expected that I could do it,” he said thoughtfully. “This will be a black day in your record of life, my young friend. Tell me only this. What do you expect to gain which will be of more solid value to you than five thousand in cash?”

  And Holden answered quietly: “The inexpressible happiness of seeing her, of standing before her, of speaking so that she must hear me—and of hearing her speak in exchange!”

  “Folderol and nonsense!” snapped out the great man.

  CHAPTER 19

  It was the first well-furnished room in which Holden had ever entered. He had tethered the stallion outside; the wolf dog, Sneak, followed him to the entrance to the house and there lay down across the threshold, on guard, ready to take advantage of any opening for the work of mischief which was ever nearest and dearest to his heart. And Holden, advancing without this escort, felt strangely alone.

  He was only dimly aware of a few physical objects near him. There were two things or three which had a distant reality to him. One was the solid yellow arm of sunshine which, thrust through a window, turned a crimson cluster of window flowers to flame, and descended upon the bold pattern of the rug. The second object was the face of Alexa in the distance, pale as a ghost, and—oh, far unlike the painting which hung in the house of the witch.

  He made his way cautiously with his staff. Once the rough wooden point was all that saved him from falling as a small runner slipped beneath his feet. As he went forward, he took note of another thing. Mr. Larramee showed not the slightest vexation. From his conversation beforehand, it was very plain that he was raging with anger within. But he maintained an exterior of the most perfect indifference.

  Holden, noting this, decided that the great man was greater than report had painted him, and far more dangerous.

  “Alexa,” he said, “I have come to present to you an acquaintance of mine, Mr. Thomas Holden. Mr. Holden, this is my daughter, Miss Larramee.”

  He added: “And this is my friend, Mr. John Cutting. You will excuse me for a moment, Mr. Holden?”

  With this he was gone from the room and left poor Tom Holden face to face with the most terrible of all powers—an injured woman. She smiled upon him coldly; then she turned to John Cutting.

  “We are happy to have Mr. Holden with us,” she said. “Perhaps you have not heard that Mr. Holden is a famous wit?”

  “I have not,” admitted Cutting, and he fastened a formidable pair of bold, staring eyes upon the other, as though trying to search out by this diligent inquiry the secret which made the slender young cripple so formidable, even to a man like the celebrated Oliphant Larramee. He could not find what he searched for. To all appearances this was no more than a weakling, a fellow not worth regarding for a moment.

  “His last jest was very amusing,” said Alexa. “He announced himself as my future husband. At a dance, John.”

  “I hope,” said Cutting, “that there was a great deal of laughter?”

  Holden felt himself burned to the heart with this contempt, this scornful sarcasm. And yet how could he reply? Certainly not to her; but here was a man before him, and to uphold his reputation, he must make some answer.

  “Of course,” said he gently to the girl, “it is your privilege to say what you please. I wanted to come here to make an explanation. I suppose you don’t care to hear it?”

  “You are delightfully naive, Mr. Holden,” said Alexa, and rose from her chair. “But I confess that this is a very busy day with me.”

  Even Holden, unskilled as he was in social manners and customs, could not fail to take so broad a hint. He bowed to her, with his hat still under his arm, leaning heavily on the staff.

  “I shall find another time for that explanation,” he said, growing whiter than before.

  “Your other visits,” said Alexa bitterly, “will of course be arranged through my father.”

  “If you please.”

  “I do,” said she.

  “Good-by, Miss Larramee.”

  “Good-by, Mr. Holden.”

  “Shall I see Mr. Holden out?” asked Cutting.

  “No, no, John!” And she caught at his arm. At this, the head of Holden went up and a spot of color leaped into his cheeks.

  “It will be easy to remember you, too, Mr. Cutting.”

  That taunt was too much for the vigorous spirit of John Cutting. He stepped forward. No matte
r how dire might be the powers of the cripple as a gun fighter, he would endure no slight in the presence of the girl.

  “I hope you do, Holden,” he said grimly. “I shall keep you in mind, also. Particularly on account of your jests, and your manner of using Miss Larramee’s name in public.”

  “John!” cautioned the girl. “That’s more than necessary! Be careful.”

  “Confound it, Alexa,” cried Cutting, “this man mustn’t presume that he can look me down, no matter what his record as a gunman and murderer may be. Mr. Larramee may not choose to speak his mind to you, Holden. I’ll speak mine instead—”

  “Hush, John!” cried the girl.

  “I won’t be quiet about it, Alexa. By Jove, it eats into me like an acid. These things can’t be put up with, you know. It’s not honorable to pocket up such things. It really isn’t! Mr. Holden, you have acted like a cad and cur toward Miss Larramee, and the next time I see you, if I have a riding whip with me, I’ll give you my opinion in something stronger than words.”

  There poured over Tom Holden all the horror of his weakness, all the sense of the overpowering strength of this athletic young man, all the shame of this scene in the very face of the girl. There was nothing left for him except to fall back upon the vague power of words and that false reputation which had been built up around him, like a mystery which has no foundation.

  “Mr. Cutting,” said he, “you talk very well—before ladies.”

  That taunt snapped the restraint of Cutting. He was a fellow of strong impulses, always, and the striking muscles of his good right arm had been taut ever since he first heard the name and the exploits of Mr. Holden. It was quite against his will. He did not wish to do such a thing in such a place. But his fist acted of its own accord, suddenly. It flicked out and struck the terrible Tom Holden squarely on the face and crashed him to the floor while the staff fell with a great rattling a long distance away.

  It amazed Cutting. He had been used to boxing with men of his own heavyweight dimensions, where a fist found a solid lodgment. This blow of his striking had not possessed half of his power, but it was as though he had aimed it at little Alexa Larramee. Holden had gone down as lightly as that.

  “His gun, John!” screamed the girl.

  That thought was in Cutting at the same moment. He could actually prevision the draw of the long Colt and hear the speaking of the revolver, and feel the heavy slug tear through his flesh. He was upon Holden in a single bound and had him by the nape of the neck.

  “You rat!” snarled out Cutting in an ecstasy of rage and power, like a fighting dog which had sunk its teeth home in a death hold.

  And here was Holden, limp in his hands; but Holden had an ally which came now in a whirl and a streak—a bounding gray streak which slipped across the threshold of the room and went at Cutting silently, its murderous fangs bared. The scream of Alexa was too late. There was no time for Cutting to spring away and defend himself. It was the voice of Holden which stopped the brute and brought it to a sliding halt at the side of its master, head flattened close to the floor, legs crouched and prepared, its whole wicked soul showing in green fire in its eyes. Cutting had leaped back. He would not run and leave Alexa behind him to face the crazed brute. But he was very close to a panic. Holden, in the meantime, dropped again by Cutting, had propped himself up, gathered the staff, and raised himself slowly to his feet. A little trickle of red was slowly running down from his mouth. Now he drew out a white handkerchief and pressed it over the bleeding place. Then he nodded to Cutting and smiled on him in a way that made the flesh of that healthy youth creep.

  “You are a brave man, Cutting,” he said, “and a strong man, too. But the next time we meet, I shall come prepared for you. I do not fight with my hands, Mr. Cutting. And when I see you again, I shall have other weapons. Steady, boy,” he added to the dog, which had begun to work itself forward on its belly, slavering with eagerness to be at the throat of the other. “Good-by, Miss Larramee.”

  He turned and went from the room slowly, hobbling painfully, for he had fallen on his weak leg.

  “The devil,” murmured big John Cutting. “I feel as though he had knocked me down. Confound him, Alexa. I beg your pardon a thousand times for allowing all of this to happen in your house and before you—but I couldn’t help it—my hand simply shot out of its own accord.”

  He turned to Alexa and found that she was still staring before her, as though she still saw violent action unrolling itself in her view.

  “The dog could have torn you to bits, John. Did you notice that?”

  “He looked quite able to.”

  “Why did Holden call him off?”

  “It’s a nasty mess, all of it. I don’t understand anything.”

  “Nor I,” whispered Alexa.

  “You see, Alexa, you hadn’t prepared me for this. I thought the fellow was a pure scoundrel. A rascally sneaking, murderous villain with a gun under each hand.”

  “But he had no weapon with him!”

  “Do you think that? It wasn’t that he was afraid—”

  “Afraid?” cried the girl. “No, no! He may be everything that’s vile. But I know what he’s done. With my own eyes I’ve seen how he handled that man-killing Clancy. No, no, John, if he’d wanted to, he could have shot you to bits while he was falling to the floor. But he wouldn’t wear a gun when he came to call—on me!”

  “After all, Alexa, the man is no good. There’s no use being so stricken about it.”

  “How can you be sure? I thought he was the lowest of the low. I thought he had come up here to put some sort of pressure on me, about Dad, but—John, the terrible part of it is that he acted like a gentleman! And we acted like—what?”

  CHAPTER 20

  The eyes of Oliphant Larramee missed nothing. And though the cripple was already mounted on the great height of the red stallion, he saw at a glance the stricken look on the face of Holden and the stain of blood on his mouth. So he asked with a smile: “Has everything been as pleasant as you expected, Holden?”

  He was surprised when the latter managed to smile back at him, even though the effort was manifest.

  “As well as could be expected,” said he. “I came to learn. But I have had to be a tutor.”

  “In what, if you please?” asked the rancher.

  “Manners,” said Holden, and smiled again.

  “You taught at some cost, it seems,” said the rancher, and stared at the bloodstain.

  “These small things,” said Holden, “must be endured. Life, it appears, is full of accidents.”

  “Very well,” said the rancher. “I like this spirit in you, Holden. I almost regret, in fact, that you have forced me into a hostile camp with your absurd behavior. In the meantime, what is the next thing I can do for you?”

  The smile of Holden turned to a grin. “Ask me to your house again,” said he. “For dinner and the night, Mr. Larramee.”

  Larramee grinned in turn. “I shall be glad to do that,” he said, “when the sky falls, or,” he added with a peculiar sneering emphasis, “when that rascal who is riding the roads about Larramee at night, robbing and murdering, is captured and brought into the hands of justice, and the case proved against him!”

  “Is that a bargain?” asked Holden.

  “Certainly,” said the rancher, shrugging his shoulders. “When that man is brought to justice, I shall be glad to have you in the house as a guest.”

  “You are very kind,” murmured Holden, and so he rode off down the hill, jolting clumsily in the saddle, even despite the silken-smooth gait of the stallion.

  He did not pause at the town of Larramee, however. He held straight on past it and rode south and west through that day until he ached with weariness. He paused at a little crossroads village for the night and journeyed again on the following day until the height of the midafternoon. Then he came to his destination. It was a foothills town, or rather it was a conjunction of four or five houses, a schoolhouse, and a store which carried the nam
e of a town.

  Of the storekeeper he asked if he could be directed to the place of Christopher Venner. The storekeeper smiled at once, and by that smile revealed that an excellent patron had been named to him. He himself came forth onto the worn veranda and pointed over the hills, whose brown sides were dimmed by a myriad of tangling heat waves. “Over in the valley,” he said. “You’ll see a big old house with a lump of scrub cypress on one side of it, and a bunch of willows along the creek next to it. That’s Venner’s place. Might you be a friend of his?”

  “I was a friend,” said Holden tentatively, “before he struck it rich. Maybe I won’t be so thick with him now.”

  The storekeeper shook his head. He said, looking first at the magnificent form of the red horse: “If you want a job, he’ll be the one to get you a place. Or,” he added, changing the direction of his glance to the crippled leg of the little man, “if you want a hand-out, he’s the gent to fix you up. What he’s got, everybody’s got, more or less! He’s a square shooter, is Venner!”

  Holden waited to hear no more, but he spoke to Clancy, and the great horse lifted into a long and swinging gallop which carried his rider lightly toward the hills. From the top of the first low ridge he saw the place. Through a long, narrow valley a stream meandered, here fathered in a yellow pool, there treading out in narrow rapids, a dirty, sullen little creek, but a priceless gift to the rancher, since it meant water for his cows.

  The house itself was an old ruin, unpainted, sunwracked and weather-beaten. It looked its feebleness even from the distance. But there were a number of new-built sheds near the house, and yonder was a set of great haystacks to carry the weaker part of the herd through the winter, if the winter should be bad, and the whole valley was dotted, here and there, with the grazing cattle.

  In spite of the ancient and tumbledown aspect of the house the valley gave a total impression of great prosperity, and Holden knew that the stolen money of Chris Venner had been put to a good and solid use. He sent the stallion down the slope, therefore, at a round pace, and presently was drawing rein under the enormous mulberry tree which extended its branches before the ranch house.