Mountain Storms

by Max Brand

  So they went on. If it had been another party, there would have been gibes in plenty and choruses of laughter at the expense of Themis and his men. But the stern faces of the five silenced all mirth.

  Into Turnbull they descended, and there scattered, for they dreaded worse than death encountering the children of the village. What men dared not put a tongue to, children can turn into fluid laughter.

  In fact, what they dared not say in the presence of the Themis party was freely talked of by the entire valley the next day. Six famous men had started out mounted on fine horses and equipped to the teeth to catch a single man, and that single man had sent them back on foot. It was a story with a Homeric ring. The Turnbull valley sent up a thunderous peal of laughter.

  There was only one calm man in the valley, perhaps, and that man was John Hampton Themis. He could have pointed into his past to describe two months that had been entirely devoted to the trail of a man-killing lion in South Africa. He finally got that lion, and he would finally get the Indian. Of that he was quietly certain. In the meantime, he could do with less talk and more action.

  First of all, he took Si Bartlett and Red Norton with saddle horses and several pack mules. They headed through the mountains to locate Dick Walker and their cache of equipment and provisions that must be brought back to Turnbull. Heading in a straight line, with no trail problems to untangle, they made the journey in less than two days, and by the bank of the runlet they found Dick Walker lying on his back with his arms thrown out crosswise, smiling up to the heavens with placid, open eyes, and with a purple hole in the center of his forehead. A revolver lay where it had fallen as he had released it, only a few inches from his fingertips.

  But the pile of equipment was intact, and beyond it they found the tracks of the Indian’s bear—the unmistakable, huge tracks that not another creature in the mountains could have made. With the most casual scouting, they saw where the trail of Peter, the stallion, and Jerry, the bear, had approached the camp, apparently heading straight up to it, without an effort to conceal their coming. But perhaps they had come by night. Perhaps the fight had been by night. Perhaps it was the light of his own campfire that exposed poor Dick Walker to the fatal bullet.

  They dug his grave deep and buried him with his eyes still open. Over the grave they rolled big boulders to make sure that the body could not be dug by wild beasts. Themis had a hammer and chisel. He carved into the face of the largest of the stones: Here lies Richard Walker, murdered on this spot by treachery.

  When he had reached that point in his inscription, he turned to Si Bartlett and Red Norton. “Boys,” he said, “I think I ought to find some kind thing to say about Dick and put it on this stone. Something that’s true about him and fine about him.”

  The two were silent.

  “Something like generosity,” he said. “Was Dick generous? He gave the appearance of a liberal, free-swinging youngster.”

  Si Bartlett smiled. “Speaking of generosity,” he said, “Dick was wasted up here in the mountains. He ought to have been down in some city. If one of the boys got broke, Dick would lend ’em money and charge half what he loaned as interest at the end of a month. He always had coin, but that was the way he handed it around. No, I wouldn’t say that Dick was generous.”

  “He was faithful to his friends, though?” queried Themis.

  “Ha! Suffolk,” said Red Norton, “got interested in Dick when Dick was being tried for killing old Petersby. Hal sent out and brought in a fine lawyer and somehow got Dick loose from hanging . . . nobody ever knew just how. Then him and Dick went out on a prospecting trip. They got into some sort of an argument, and Dick shot him dead.”

  Themis rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “Miserly, ungrateful, vicious,” he said. “It seems there isn’t very much that’s good that we can say about him. But was he brave?”

  “Brave? He didn’t know what fear was,” said Norton.

  So it came about that the last of the inscription that Themis chiseled into the stone read: He never turned his back on his enemy and died as he lived, facing danger.

  So they left Dick Walker, packed the mules with the goods, and started back toward the town of Turnbull. One thing remained self-evident. The Indian must die. His daring thefts, his cunning depredations, might be forgiven in a court of law because he had always attempted to make restitution of property, as in the case of the horses of the Themis party, or else he more than paid with furs for the articles he took. But how could he pay the price of a human life?

  But they reached Turnbull, to find that the news they brought of the killing of Dick Walker was quite eclipsed by a recent happening in that village. Into the town, swarming as it was with armed men all keen to apprehend him, the Indian had come the night before, entered the house of Themis, found the room of the girl, and left upon her bed two priceless treasures—two perfect pelts of black foxes! An old trapper in a lifetime of work, if he is lucky, catches one such fox. But here were two beautiful skins whose value was simply what the fancy of a rich man chose to pay for them. They could not be represented by a market price. Furthermore, there was no doubt that the Indian had brought them. The prints of his moccasins were trailed back to a place in the hills where he had left Peter and the grizzly to come to the town. Then a serious effort had been made to trail him again on the return journey out of the town and into the hills. But here they had no luck. With consummate skill the wild man had made his return trail vanish into thin air, it seemed. They could not find a trace of him leaving the town.

  Turnbull boiled with rage and excitement. There was not a youth old enough to bear arms who did not feel that his honor had been outraged because this daring fellow had ventured into the town to pay court to beautiful Gloria Themis. Again posses were organized, but this time there was no sudden pursuit and scouring through the hills, for they had learned the lesson, and they knew that a haphazard rush through the hills brought no result. The expedition of Themis might have failed, but, at least, all men admitted that his method of patience had been the only possible one.

  Not a man would ride out to find the trail until the next day, and, in the meantime, to prevent a second visit of the Indian, a cordon was thrown around Turnbull. Literally scores of men and armed youths encircled the town. There was a perfect circle of campfires, so that the light of one stretched across and mingled with the light of another. The men sat in watches, relieving one another during the night and straining their eyes into the darkness. There was to be no hesitation, since the murder of Dick Walker was known. The instant they laid eyes upon a long-haired man, they were to challenge him, and, if he did not stop, they were to pour in their fire.

  All of Turnbull remained wakeful. But, to show the gambling spirit of the townsmen and their faith in the power of the Indian to make himself invisible, odds were freely offered and found many takers at one to three that the wild man would walk through the lines of fire safely and reach the home of his ladylove before the morning.

  In fact, there was an inner cordon, as it might be called, stretched around the house of Themis itself. The place that he had rented to serve as headquarters was guarded by a dozen trusted men organized by Dude Wesson and Si Bartlett themselves.

  In the house, like a small kernel inside so much guarding shell, sat Gloria, striving to read, but feeling a mist of excitement rising before her eyes again and again. In her lap lay one of those precious fox skins. It was like a mass of silk. It was dark as night. She could not help thinking of her face and white throat framed in the fur. But as she stroked it, she said to her father, who sat in the room with her for the sake of giving her more assurance: “Of course, if he’s taken alive, I’ll sell the skins for the best price I can get. In fact, I’ll buy them myself at double the market value, and with that money he can retain the best lawyer in the country.”

  “Hmm,” said her father. “I never before knew that you had such uneasy nerves, Glory. You’ve not turned a page for half an hour.”

  “Oh, Da
d,” murmured Gloria, throwing the book aside, “I can’t help pitying him. I can’t help remembering the flowers he put around me. Wasn’t that a beautiful thing to do?”

  “Hmm,” grunted Themis again, “there is a poetic strain in many savages. They sacrifice to the Almighty one moment and eat the burnt flesh of the sacrifice the next. Don’t think that this wild Indian is particularly remarkable in that respect. He shows his best talents on a trail.”

  “Dad,” she cried with a show of anger, “when you’ve committed yourself to a theory, you’re blind to everything else!”

  “I simply keep my mind open to the facts,” he said coldly, yet eying his daughter with a sharp anxiety. “This fellow doubtless has a fat squaw in the mountains. . . .”

  “Brr!” shivered Gloria.

  “Gloria,” said her father, “tomorrow you start for New York, and from there you go on to Paris. The Swains are there now. They’ll take care of you.”

  “I don’t give a rap about Paris,” said Gloria.

  “Gloria!” he exclaimed.

  “I don’t care if I never see it,” she insisted. “I’m going to stay here until I’ve seen the . . . Indian . . . face to face.”

  Themis bit his lip. “I’m going out to talk to Bartlett about something that’s just occurred to me,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment or two and look in to see if you’re quieter. I really am afraid that you’re growing hysterical, my dear. Good-bye for a moment. And, of course, remember that there’s no danger. No matter what these credulous townsmen may think, it’s impossible for a man to transform himself into thin air and blow across the lines of fire they’ve built.”

  He went out, and she heard his footsteps go down the hall. Then Gloria picked up the book again, settled herself firmly beside a light, and made her eyes follow the print. In a moment she was thoroughly into the story, and, when the door clicked behind her, she said quietly: “Is everything all right, Dad?” Then she jerked up her head and stared at the window, not daring to look behind her, for whoever had entered the room had come with a footfall as silent as the passage of the wind. There had been merely the stirring of a draft through her hair and the light click of the turning lock. Someone had entered and locked the door behind him. She was alone with the man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  AS FROM ANOTHER WORLD

  In that moment of horror, she looked to the revolver that lay beside her on the table. No, if she reached for that, the Indian—if it were indeed he— would bound upon her from behind. But it could not be he. It must be John Themis who had returned so quickly. She forced herself to speak: “Dad!”

  But the voice was a harsh, low whisper. Suddenly hysteria poured through her and supplied the place of strength. She leaped to her feet, scooped the gun from the table, whirled, and presented it at a tall man who stood just inside the door, a huge man, with sun-faded, brown hair that swept in a mass down to the nape of his neck, where it had been sawed off carelessly with a knife, a man whose skin was brown as an Indian’s, indeed, but whose eyes were a bright and unmistakable Anglo-Saxon blue. He was dressed in a loose, buckskin shirt; rather, it was a buckskin sack with a hole through which his head had passed, and other holes where the sun-blackened, sinewy arms went through and were exposed to the shoulder. His trousers were of the same homemade pattern. They fitted closely about the ankles. On the man’s feet were soft moccasins.

  That was what she saw in the first wild glance. Then weakness swept through all her body. She slumped back into the chair. The gun slipped from her hand to the floor unheeded. It was a man of her own blood, a white man! No Indian that ever lived had looked out upon the world through such clear, blue eyes. But, as one terror left her, another took its place. Why had he come, and what would he do?

  She scanned his face with a feverish interest, as one sweeps through the denouement of a strange story. She saw nobly molded features, a great, spacious forehead, an aquiline nose, a square, broad chin. Between his eyes there was incised a single deep wrinkle that seemed to say that this man had known pain and sorrow. As for his age, she guessed him at first to be thirty. But at a second glance something told her he was younger, much younger. Yet how could he be, if for six years he had defied all the manhunters of the Turnbull valley?

  He had not stirred, meanwhile. He had not spoken. But he stood there with fire in his eyes, staring into her face. Then his glance lowered. He blushed through all the deep coats of tan, and raised his hand.

  She saw for the first time that it was filled with moss, and on top of the moss was a cluster of pale blue flowers such as she had never seen before.

  “I knew that there were no flowers in this place,” he said, “so I brought these, but it was a long way, and they died. Perhaps they need the snow.”

  Fear had been like a cold mantle on Gloria, but, when she heard his voice, when she saw the flowers in those strong hands, the chill left her. Instead, she was poured full of excitement like a brimmed cup.

  He crossed the room. Even in that moment she noted that his step made no sound on the floor, no creaking of the boards. He dropped to a knee before her as she shrank away, and offered the withering blossoms.

  “You are afraid,” he said sadly. “But I tell you truly that they can do you no harm. I found them by a stream of snow water. There was a thick cluster of them. They were like water themselves reflecting the sky. You see what a pale blue?”

  “I am not afraid . . . of them,” murmured Gloria. “May I take them?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said eagerly. “And if you close your eyes and look into the darkness hard, you will see the mountain where they grew. It is just below timberline. The snow is still beneath the trees. The air is sweet with the pines. And the head of the mountain goes up above into the sky. At night, it touches the stars.”

  She took the moss into her lap. The flowers were faded, indeed, but all that she could see of them was a mist of blue, a pale blue like when the sun is in the middle of heaven.

  He knelt still with his hand outstretched. His glance went up from the blossoms to her eyes. The shock of those meeting glances sent a tingle through her.

  “Who are you? What are you?” said Gloria.

  “I am Tom Parks,” he answered.

  It was like giving the free wind a name. She could not hold back a faint, excited smile.

  “I have heard them speak your name near the campfire,” he said. “You are Gloria.”

  She nodded.

  “It is a good name to say over and over,” he said gravely. “I have said it in the middle of the night, aloud. It brings up your face.”

  A tide of deep crimson swept over the face of Gloria. She set her teeth, but still her heart fluttered.

  “Has that angered you?” he asked, and all the time his glance was prying anxiously at her face.

  She shook her head, for at that moment she could not have spoken.

  “You see,” he went on in that same musical, deep voice, “I cannot tell what words will do. For ten years I have not spoken to a man or a woman or even a child, so I cannot tell what words will do. I cannot tell what words should be used to make people happy. But if I knew . . . ah, if I knew, Gloria . . . I should take a thousand and a thousand words. I should make them into songs. I should sing them for you until you smiled and smiled and smiled!”

  He had thrown back his head, and the great, strong throat trembled with his emotion. Gloria looked on him with a sort of frightened wonder and scared delight. Outside the houses were the voices of men who were hunting him. They would snuff out his life like a candle. Yet here he was making love to her a dozen feet from them, and speaking as she had never before heard men speak. At eighteen Gloria had seen wise men grow silly. A pretty face performs strange feats of alchemy.

  “But, since I cannot talk,” said the wild man, “I have brought something you may understand better than my words. It has made me happy. Perhaps it will make you happy, too.”

  Then he took from a leather pouch at his side
a little, long-tailed, tree squirrel. The instant it was liberated, the tiny creature ran from his hand up his arms, climbed the ends of his hair, and sat on his head, looking at her out of twinkling eyes. Gloria caught her breath.

  “He has a small head, but he is very wise,” said Tom Parks. “He brings me a present every day out of the trees. He is never quiet. He is always doing something. But, when you whistle like this, he will always stop and come to you.”

  He whistled softly, a low, faint note, and the squirrel whirled, climbed to his shoulder, darted down onto his hand, and stood up, looking into his face. Gloria clasped her hands with delight. Girls at eighteen may be very wise, but, after all, they are only girls of eighteen.

  “Call him,” said Tom, entranced with happiness as he saw her pleasure.

  She tried the whistle, and she learned the note almost at once. The tree squirrel twisted about, eyed her with an anxious interest, and then ran down the leg of Tom Parks and climbed up her dress to her lap. There he sat up and regarded her with deep interest. Tom Parks gave her a pine nut. She offered it to the little fellow between the tips of her dainty fingers, and he took it in his paws like a child and sat up peeling the brittle shell away and then nibbling the kernel. The tip of his tail was curled up over his head.

  “When winter comes,” said Tom Parks, “and you are alone in the evenings, when the wind is shouting through the mountains and the cave is cold in spite of the fire, you will be glad to have him. He will make you smile.”

  “But how can I take him?” said Gloria. “You will be lonely and unhappy without him.”

  “No, no,” he protested. “You must see that, if I know he is with you, I shall be ten times happier, for, when you see him, you will think of me. Is that true?”