by Max Brand
Her father had always attempted to convince her by reason and not to overwhelm her by the force of parental authority. He sat down to reason now. “I simply wish to submit the facts to you, my dear,” he said. “After you have examined them, you can make up your mind for yourself, Glory.”
“Fire away,” said Gloria, and she lighted a cigarette.
“You’re smoking simply to irritate me,” said John Hampton Themis.
“I’m smoking because it’s modern,” retorted Gloria.
“Modern be hanged,” said Themis. “Such modernity is ruining American girlhood.”
“That,” said Gloria, “is a bit strong.”
John Hampton Themis glared, then shrugged his shoulders, and sat back. But when a moment later Gloria laid aside the cigarette, he noted it with infinite satisfaction. As always, she only resisted to make her point, and then she yielded completely. She was more like a boy than a girl, he had decided.
“I told you yesterday,” he said, “the story of the Indian and the man whose dogs were killed.”
“I remember it all,” she said. “The man heard his dogs raise a clamor as though they had scented a bear. But when he went out, he found two of the dogs stabbed to death and a third with a crushed skull as though a bear had struck it. And when they examined the trail the next morning, they found that a man’s moccasined footprints were mixed with those of a huge grizzly. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“And the deduction is that a man had helped the bear to fight the dogs.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Well, isn’t it absurd on the face of it? Besides, all this happened years ago. You know how a story can grow in six years . . . yes, or six days.”
“Please be reasonable, Glory. There are three honest men who swear to the truth of that story.”
“You think that this Indian had actually tamed a grizzly? A grizzly!”
“Why not? It has been done before. There’s the story of Ben Adams. He trained one after another. They actually fought for him against their own kind.”
“When did Ben Adams live?”
“Because a thing happened seventy years ago,” cried her father, “does that turn it into a fable?”
“Usually,” she answered calmly.
“Hmm,” he said. “You’re in a bad humor today. But I’ll convince you in spite of yourself that this is a trail worth running down. Let me tell you what I’ve learned in addition.”
She shrugged her graceful shoulders.
“A day after the exploit of the dogs, a man named Hank Jeffries, a rough fellow who I’ve seen and talked with, went out to shoot an outlaw mustang, a stallion he had captured by creasing. It was a famous horse called Peter. But Peter, once captured, proved untamable. No one could sit the saddle on him for five consecutive minutes. Hank received several broken ribs and minor injuries from various attempts to ride the horse. Finally he invited three famous riders to his ranch. One by one they all tried the horse, and Peter won. So in the night Hank went out to shoot the creature. . . .”
“How terrible! Is that the sort of thing your precious Westerners, your romantic cowpunchers, will do? I’d rather shoot a man than a horse.”
“So would a good many cowpunchers. But Hank is not exactly a citizen of the finest character. He has a black record. The killing of a horse wouldn’t be the worst stain on his reputation, I understand. At any rate, he didn’t kill Peter.”
“Good!” cried Gloria.
Her father smiled at her enthusiasm. “No, when he raised the gun, a giant leaped on him from behind, took him with a terrific grip that crushed the wind out of him, threw him down to the ground, tore the gun out of his hand, and threatened to kill him if he stirred. Then the stranger took the lead rope of the horse and made off into the night . . . a huge man with long hair that flowed down almost to his shoulders. And he ran like the wind. He ran so fast, in fact, that, when Hank called his friends and they started in pursuit on their horses after only an instant . . . for the horses were saddled and waiting . . . they could not catch the stranger, although he had several miles to run.”
“That,” commented Gloria, “is plainly a fable. You must admit that it is.”
“I went over the ground today,” said the great hunter. “Even if they had had to capture their horses before they started, even if they had had to saddle them in the corrals, it would have required a great runner to get away from running horses into the shelter of the woods at the head of the cañon. Still, it’s possible that a man of iron nerve and iron muscles, a natural runner of a race of runners, might have done that very thing. And it has to be admitted that this Indian did it. Four men wouldn’t lie about such a point.”
“They’re sure he’s an Indian?”
“Everything points to it . . . the moccasins in part, because, though a good many mountaineers use them, the average white man prefers boots. But most of all, his quiet ways and that long, flowing hair point to an Indian. No white man, accustomed to other men, could have gotten along for these six years without coming down to mix with society now and then. But this fellow has lived inside himself. It is really most remarkable!”
“But has he been seen at all during these six years?” asked the girl.
“Not actually seen, I believe,” said the other thoughtfully. “But they know that he’s around.”
“And haven’t they been able to run him down?”
“No. Several times he’s come down from the mountains, however. The spring after the stealing of the mustang, a great bundle of beautiful beaver skins were brought down in the night and left at the house of Hank without word of who had brought them. It is generally taken for granted that the Indian brought them in payment for the horse that he had stolen. He has done the same thing at other times. Once the store was broken open in the town of Turnbull, yonder, and the next morning one rifle and a great stock of ammunition were found missing, but in return there was left a bundle of furs worth ten times the value of the stolen goods. On another occasion . . . you see that it must be the same man . . . a rancher’s house was invaded, and a hundred pounds of ham and bacon were taken, along with other food and more ammunition. But again furs were left in payment.”
“Oh,” cried Gloria, “Dad, what a wonderful fellow that hermit must be!”
“The Indian, you mean,” said Themis.
“Oh, well, call him that if you choose. But I for one don’t think that an Indian has such a conscience. But how does he manage to steal so many things without being caught?”
“He has the courage of a fiend,” said Themis. “He seems to laugh at the possibility of discovery. There are some uneducated people in the valley who are beginning to have a superstition that the Indian can actually go invisible. Of course, such rumors are bound to spring into the back of people’s heads. You see, this cunning devil comes always at night. He seems to be able almost to see in the dark. He will enter a house from the rear while the inhabitants are in the front of it. He moves as silently as a shadow in his moccasins. He takes what he wants, and then he goes. From what I can gather, he has committed his robberies about twenty times during the past six years, and not once has a soul, besides Hank, had a glimpse of him.”
“Not a single person?” said Gloria.
“Oh, there is a poor, half-witted fellow, a prospector, or one who calls himself a prospector,” said Themis. “He has a wild tale, but, if I were to repeat it, you’d be convinced that the whole thing is simply a legend.”
“On my honor,” said Gloria, “I’m already a convert. I’d give my eyeteeth to see this Indian, or whatever he is.”
“I’ll tell you the yarn, then, though unquestionably there is more whiskey than truth in it. He declares that one moonlit night, in the mountains, he had made his camp in a hollow, and his blankets were put down behind a big boulder. He wakened at midnight with a great moon in the center of a clear sky, and, when he sat up, he saw . . . don’t laugh, Gloria . . . he saw, he says, an immens
e grizzly bear, twice the size of any he had ever seen, coming down the mountainside with a tall, longhaired Indian sitting on its back, and behind them came a magnificent bay stallion, the most glorious horse he had ever laid eyes on, walking along of his free will, without a lead rope attached, but saddled, and with a pack behind the saddle. The idea was, you see, that the mountain was so steep that the Indian had gotten on the back of the bear to make it easier for his horse. A stiff wind was blowing from them to the prospector, so that the bear did not scent him.
“That strange caravan went by in silence. In utter silence, this poor half-wit declares. The very hoofs of the horse did not make a sound on the rocks. But, of course, I don’t advance this yarn seriously. The idea of a man riding a bear is too preposterous. And the idea that a high-strung horse would come so near to a grizzly is even more absurd. But I don’t need to say that some of these simple mountaineers declare that the story must be the truth.”
“And I,” said Gloria hotly, “am sure that it is the truth! Oh, how I should love to see him!”
“Now,” said Themis, “I see that I’ve touched the romantic vein.”
“You may laugh if you please,” said the girl, “but, when you go on the trail after him, I’m certainly going to ride with you.”
“You?” cried her father. “Absurd!”
“Not at all.”
“But, my dear, this fellow is dangerous.”
“But he’s an honest man, Dad. He pays for all he takes.”
“You can’t take things and then pay for them as you please,” said her father. “Ask the man whose dogs were killed, what he would do if he could get a chance to send a bullet into this Indian. Ask Hank, for instance, what he would do. And, above all, ask the poor sheriff, whose life has been hounded because he can’t make the capture. The man who held office when the Indian began these excursions into Turnbull valley was fairly laughed out of office. The second man stood the gaff his whole four years, and, when he ran again, he received exactly twelve votes. The poor devil that has the job now is more to be pitied than despised. Every one of those sheriffs has been a capable man, but they can’t follow a fellow who seems to be able to make his trail disappear at will.”
“Yes, but what of the trails of the horse and the bear?”
“People around here declare that he can make the trails of all three disappear like magic when he pleases. I suppose a hundred hunting parties have gone out to get him, equipped with dogs and fine horses and men who are expert riflemen. But they have always failed. Think of it! They have failed so miserably that they haven’t laid eyes on the Indian either by night or day, save for Hank and one halfwit, if he may be believed.”
“Well,” said Gloria, “everything that you say convinces me more and more. I’m going to ride with you when you hunt him. I only hope one thing . . . that you won’t hunt to kill.”
“Tush,” said her father, shrugging his shoulders, “when a man defies society, he has to take the consequences. But this time I’m going to run him down. It won’t be a matter of a day or two, or even a week or two, of running. I’m going to stay after this mystery until I have run it to the ground if it takes me all the summer. I have the best dogs, the
best horses, the best guides that money can hire, and I have employed them all indefinitely.”
“Then,” said Gloria, “it is plain that you could take me along. I won’t be a burden.”
“Stuff!” said Themis. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” But, nevertheless, he stared at his daughter with a species of dread. He foresaw trouble ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THEMIS’S PARTY
Only a rich man could have provided for such a summer. Only a genius could have selected so skillfully those who were to ride with him. In the entire range of the mountains, Themis could not have found five men better fitted to follow a long trail, an arduous trail, a trail that might come to a dangerous ending. In the first place, he made sure that every man was known for hardihood and skill as a mountaineer, familiar with the Turnbull valley and all the mountains of the region surrounding the valley, an expert trailer, and, above all, capable of using rifle or revolver with deadly effect. Not only that, but he made sure that all his men had shot before at human targets. There hardly existed unhung a blacker crew of rascals than the five he weeded out of many applicants—for the wages were large and the food would be good, and, given those conditions to prevail, he could pick who he would.
Every man of the five had a record, although some of them had not been in a penitentiary. There was Si Bartlett, a little, smiling, inoffensive man very fond of talk, with great, mild, brown eyes. Of his forty-five years no less than fifteen had been spent in prison in two terms, both for manslaughter; in each instance he had been pardoned before his term was up for the simple reason that no warden could believe that a man with such a face, such a voice, such a pair of eyes, such gentle manners, could be a murderer except by accident. But those who knew declared him to be a matchless and malignant fighter, one of those who love danger for its own sake, and bloodshed for the same reason. Yet he was appointed second in command by Themis. Character had nothing to do with his selections. Results were what he wanted.
Next came Red Norton, save that Red could hardly be put second to any man. He, also, had felt the shadow of a prison close over him. But with nine lives, men freely declared outside of courtrooms, he could not have paid for all his victims. He was a contrast to Si Bartlett, although just as dangerous. What made him less terrible was that his appearance advertised his true nature in advance. His huge body, the rank growth of red hair, which bristled on his face and head, his bold, staring blue eyes, his blunt manner—all announced the professional warrior.
The third of that noble crew was Dick Walker. Dick was the boy of the party. He was apparently just a big, laughing, good-natured child of twenty. But, when the pinch came, Dick was cold as ice and cutting as a steel edge. Older men who were apt to know predicted a long career and a black one for Dick. He had not seen the inside of a prison for the simple reason that no jury could pronounce a man with such a face and such ability to laugh guilty of murder. For the rest, he was a genius on the trail, as all men admitted, and he possessed an uncanny dexterity of hand that made him equally at home with a cowpuncher’s rope or a cowpuncher’s gun.
Dude Wesson was the cook. His nickname described him. He was a tall, lean man, with a starved face. His apparel ever showed signs of consummate care. Polish was never missing from his kit, and his boots were shined morning and even at noon to the amazement of those who did not know him. He was none of those who allow the face to become covered with a bristle of hairs that is shaved only every third day. It was said that he would rather have water for shaving than for drinking, even on a desert. His clothes, also, were never allowed to fall into disrepair, and a spot upon the trousers meant half an hour’s work to this fastidious gentleman.
Naturally such a man was self-indulgent in the matter of food. His fleshless face belied an appetite that was omnivorous. He began early at the table, he ate with terrible velocity, and he kept at it long after the others were through. Yet, no signs of that voracious gourmandizing appeared in his starved body. No one could cook to suit him. Therefore, he cooked for himself and for the rest. He was self-appointed to the task, and he was forgiven his other faults for the sake of his skill over a campfire and his genius with venison and coffee. Those faults were taciturnity, a temper as uneasy as a hair trigger, and a sullen dislike of everyone. He, too, had escaped the prison for the reason that he always forced the other man to make the first move, trusting to his superior speed of hand, his superior steadiness in aiming, to kill his victim at the last instant. In all his fights he had accumulated not a scar. Such was Dude Wesson.
The fifth and last of the party was no other than Hank Jeffries. He was the least famous of the lot, but he was taken along partly because he knew the mountains better than the student knows his book, and partly because he was inspired by a pro
digious hatred for the Indian. He had never forgiven the theft of the stallion. It mattered not that he had been on the verge of killing the animal. It was only more of a rankling wound in his malevolent soul that another should have been able to use that which he himself had not been able to master. Day and night, he dreamed of the battle that must at last take place between himself and the Indian.
To that end, he kept himself in constant fettle. He had begun a soberer life, because he did not wish to be taken unawares if the opportunity came. Day by day he practiced with his guns to make sure that he could make the best of the first opening. He had invested the last money he could borrow on his ruined ranch to buy two fast horses that should be ready for the pursuit. When he learned of the purpose for which John Hampton Themis was organizing the posse, he had come to the great man and begged with tears in his eyes to be granted the privilege of accompanying the party. At least, he could make himself useful on account of his skill in the handling of dogs.
Themis took him for the last reason as well as the others that have been mentioned. Even if Jeffries was not cast according to the heroic mold of the others, he was a man of talent, and the party could not get on without his skill. He had “learned” dogs in his childhood, and he had never forgotten the lessons. Not that he particularly loved them, but he knew their ways, and he could handle them in the field.
This was the more important to Themis because not the least important part of his posse consisted of the dogs. He had even sent to a distance and waited a week to secure a set of bloodhounds, and four of these long, low-geared, soft-eyed beasts were finally brought to him. Their noses were to be the first agency through which the trail would be unwound and the riddle solved.
But they were not the major portion of the dog pack. In addition, there were half a dozen mongrels of all sizes, shapes, and colors, but all valuable dogs on a bear trail where intelligence is needed. And it is an old tale that the nameless cur is the one with the peerless set of brains. Furthermore, the dog pack had its fighting, swift-running portion, consisting of eight big hounds with a strong strain of greyhound mixed with heavier and more powerful breeds. Two of them could pull down a timber wolf, for they were trained to fighting tactics. Four of them could worry a bear to death if they caught it in open country, and the eight could destroy any animal that walked if given a fair opportunity. Their noses were not altogether trustworthy, but, when the trail was hot, they could follow it well enough, and, the moment they had sight of the quarry and could get their heads up, they were off like eight streaks of murder bent on business.