Mountain Storms

by Max Brand

  Tom called to Sideways, and the good little horse lowered his nose, stretched out his neck, and raced like a champion until the steep hill shadows pushed past him and he was shut from the view of the pursuers.

  Chance came to the help of Tom then. He saw before him half a dozen little ravines opening like so many funnels into the heart of the hills. How could the pursuers pick the right avenue for following him? He took the one that led most directly to the right, and, still keeping Sideways at top speed, he tore down it. Behind him, as the mustang raced, he heard the roar of hoofs and the shouting of men as they drove past the entrance to the cañon. But Tom did not slacken the pace even after this assurance that the posse had gone wrong. What he vitally needed was a sufficiently big gap between him and the others so that, when he chose, he could angle back across the Turnbull valley.

  But he rode fast simply to make surety doubly sure, as men will do sometimes. It was twenty minutes before he decided that he could safely cut back. Then he let Sideways, now badly blown by all this sprinting, fall to a swaying canter that, he knew, the little horse could maintain all day. So he drifted back through the hills and came out on the plain once more.

  He scanned it eagerly right and left, but over the rolling ground, now white with moonshine, he saw no dark forms of hurrying horsemen. He let Sideways continue at the same pace. Then, from a slight elevation, he caught sight of the wide, bright body of the river flowing through the distance ahead of him. They could swim that to safety.

  But, as he sent Sideways ahead at a slightly freshened pace, a change of the wind brought an ominous sound to his ear. He swung sharply about, and he saw, streaking across the crest of a low knoll, a compact body of half a dozen mounted men, aimed at him at full speed. For a moment he was stunned. Then he saw the only possible explanation. Those who led the party that first pursued him must have guessed that his retreat into the hills was only a feint, for he had always made his descents into Turnbull valley from the opposite side of the valley. So they had split their party into sections. One plunged after him into the hills, and he had heard them go by on a false scent. The other had roamed along the foothills to see if they could find him as he doubled back. That strategy had succeeded. There they were coming with their comparatively fresh horses that had been kept in hand all this time. And here was he with a weary mount!

  But there was nothing for it save to make Sideways sprint again and head straight on for the river. That was what he did, working himself well forward toward the withers of the little horse so that his weight would be a lesser burden at great speed. Then, with hand and voice, he shot Sideways ahead.

  The brave little horse answered with all the strength in his body and, what was more important, with all the power in his soul. He ran until his legs were numb and his lungs on fire, but still those swiftly shooting shadows behind him gained and gained. In vain Tom tried to angle up the river for a more favorable crossing place. The instant he started to travel at a slant, the pursuit gained with appalling speed. Still, when he straightened the little horse fully for the river, they gained again.

  Even if he gained the water, they could reach the bank, and, sitting quietly in the middle, they could riddle him with bullets better aimed than the few that they now, from time to time, sent whizzing after him. But shooting from horseback is a fine art in itself. If he, Tom Parks, had a rifle with him, he would show them how it was done. If he had six shots, he would empty six saddles for them and hunt the rest of them back across the valley as fast as they had hunted him. But his hands were empty, and he could only groan, then throw all his anguish into the voice that called on Sideways for more speed.

  Still somewhere in the valiant recesses of his heart, Sideways found mysterious stores of energy upon which he called. Still he answered that voice, until he was reeling in his stride. Yet the posse closed suddenly upon him. Now the water flashed just before them. Headlong he drove the mustang at it. A cloud of silver spray was dashed up by the hoofs of the horse. He lunged in, and the water closed over them.

  That instant Tom thrust himself from the mustang and kicked off underwater, swimming below the surface and with all his might. He swam until his lungs threatened to burst. Then his hands touched bottom. He drew himself to the edge of the river. In a tangle of weeds he thrust his nose and eyes above the surface and saw the drama that followed.

  The horsemen of the posse, as he had expected, had halted on the bank. Their rifle butts were pitched into the hollows of their shoulders. For an instant they scanned the silver surface of the Turn-bull for sight of the man they wanted. But, imagining that the mustang in some way concealed the master, they poured a volley of lead at that gallant head where Sideways was struggling on across the current.

  Tom, with an aching heart, saw poor Sideways sink beneath the surface. Then, to his soul of souls, he made a vow that for the sake of Sideways he would be kinder to all horses—to all dumb creatures—if his own life were spared from this crisis.

  But there was now a shout of wonder from the posse as they saw the head of the horse go down while still no man appeared in the water.

  “I guess I nailed him just as he hit the water,” said one voice. “Sure looked to me like I landed him. Look down the stream a ways, boys. Maybe you’ll see him floating.”

  “If he went down, he won’t be up for days,” said another. “Why didn’t you hold up and wait when you seen we had him, Bill?”

  “A fox like that?” said Bill. “Any way of getting him was good enough for me. But I’d sure like to see his face. Hunt down the stream, boys. This current might wash him into the shallows.”

  They drifted down the stream a little, but Tom dared not move from his place. There he lay in the numbing water and heard them come back.

  “The thing to do,” said the quiet voice of John Hampton Themis, “is for you fellows to go back to the town and tell what has happened. Tell ’em that we’ve run the rat into the water. I’ll stay out here and watch the place.”

  “D’you think that he’s living and breathing down under the water, Mister Themis?” asked another with a chuckle.

  “I don’t know what to think,” answered Themis. “I only know that it will be a strange thing if a man such as he seems to be has been disposed of as easily as this. We’ve only accounted for one of his lives tonight.”

  This brought another good-natured laugh. They were in high spirits. The heart of Tom raged in him as he listened to their laughter. Presently, however, they agreed with Themis. They bade him farewell and assured him that he would not have a lonely watch. Others would come out from the village in the night to see the place, and in the morning they would all come out and drag the river by sunlight.

  “And watch yourself, Mister Themis,” they said. “The rat might come out of the water and sink his teeth into you.”

  So, with more laughter, they rode on. The great silence of the night fell over the place. There was only the light whisper of the river against its banks.

  “Strange . . . very strange,” Tom heard Themis say, speaking just above him.

  Then the noise of the horse of Themis retreated down the river a little and Tom dared to raise his head above the weeds. Down the bank he saw Themis disappear below a knoll. Quickly he worked himself out of the slime. On the grassy bank he rolled himself. He worked all his muscles convulsively two or three times to restore, in part, his deadened circulation and the vitality that the chill of the water had sapped. Then he rose to his knees.

  Instantly he heard the sound of the hoofs of the horse as the solitary sentinel started to return. He must find shelter somewhere, and there was only one possibility. That was a growth of shrubs not more than a foot high, far too low and too thin to give him actually a shelter, but they must serve his purpose. He lay among them, face down, because there is nothing that, for some mysterious reason, so attracts the eye as the human face, even by night. He could only pray that his body might not be distinguishable among the shadows of the shrub. To reinfor
ce his hope, he felt that the eye of the watcher would be chiefly employed on the bright surface of the river.

  Back came the noise of hoofs. It was aimed directly at him. So straight came the noise of the approach that he turned his head toward it, and it was as he feared. Themis was letting the horse wander on straight toward the patch of shrubbery. Perhaps he would let the animal walk straight through it.

  Tom gathered his legs a little under him. If it came to the worst, he must attack in the face of that gleaming rifle that was balanced across the pommel of Themis’s saddle. He waited, his teeth set, his eyes gleaming, his toes digging in to gain a purchase in case that leap must be made.

  Still the nodding head of the horse came on, while Themis sat the saddle looking toward the water. A yard away—suddenly the horse stopped, snorted, then bounded to the side while Themis, with an exclamation of surprise, lowered his rifle and drew heavily on the reins.

  There was no escape now for Tom. The horse had seen him. The man would see him in another instant. He came out of the shrubs with a rush. He saw the rifle swing up. Then he leaped for the rider and, with up flung left hand, touched the muzzle of the gun of Themis. It discharged its contents just beside Tom’s ear. Then, his lunge carrying him on and up, one hand fell on the shoulder of Themis, another circled his neck.

  Themis was torn from the saddle and brought heavily to the earth. Half stunned by the fall, he allowed the rifle to be jerked from his nervous hands. He was forced upon his back. In a trice, hands and feet were tied. Then he was wrenched to a sitting posture and found himself confronting the muddy, dripping figure that stood there, rifle in hand.

  “You are still alive,” said a stern voice. “You are her father, and therefore you are still alive. But the others, when I find them, shall die. They murdered the poor horse while it swam in the water. How had that horse harmed them? They shall die as the horse died. Tell them that when they come. I have let them hunt me like a dog through the mountains. When they come again, tell them that I shall shoot, and I never miss.”

  He threw rifle and revolver far off into the river, while the frightened horse fled, neighing. Then he ran to the edge of the river and dived into it.

  Themis, looking after him, saw the water close above him with hardly a ripple to break the surface. He came up far toward the center of the stream, swimming strongly, with his face buried. He reached the farther bank. He climbed the shore and stood a moment, a dripping, shining figure. Then he struck across country with a long, free stride and was lost in the moon haze.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  GLORIA IS UNYIELDING

  “We start this afternoon,” said John Hampton Themis with the cheery finality of one who expects opposition but pretends that he does not dream of it. “I have completed the arrangements, my dear. New York and then a boat for Paris.”

  But Gloria, for a moment, merely tapped her foot and watched him. She seemed to be more interested in him than in any effect this statement might have upon her.

  “You’ll have a beautiful time, Dad,” she said. “I wish you joy.”

  “And you,” said Themis, “will have your Paris . . . as much of it as you can stand.”

  “Paris?” she said in mock surprise. “Paris for me? No, no, Dad. I’ve finally become convinced that you are right. I’m too young to do justice to Paris, or for Paris to do justice to me. I’ll wait. I don’t care how many years it is . . . but I’ll wait for another time.”

  Themis cleared his throat, began a sentence, and changed his mind. “Just what are your plans?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen nearly enough of Turnbull valley,” she said. She whistled softly. A tiny little form whisked across the room, ran up her skirt, and perched upon her knee. It was the tree squirrel. She began to pet it idly.

  “So you stay here?” asked Themis, staring fixedly at the squirrel.

  “Yes, thank you. I’ve barely become acclimated, you see. It would be a shame to leave now. And for my part, I don’t see how you can leave, Dad.”

  “No?”

  “Certainly not. Every man in the valley expects you to stay here until you’ve caught the wild man . . . the Indian, as you call him.”

  Themis flushed. “I freely admit,” he said, “that I was in error. He’s white. As for staying here to capture him, you’ve surely not forgotten what happened the other night?”

  “In what way?”

  “He had me helpless under his gun, and he let me live.”

  “People may say that you’re afraid to face him again.”

  Once more Themis flushed. “I’ll have to endure that,” he said quietly. “My friends, I hope, will not believe it. As for the others . . . well, no matter what they think, I can’t stay on the trail of a man who had me at his mercy, then let me go after I had hunted him for his life.” He sighed, and his glance probed the distance with a singular regret. “How he did it,” he said, “I still can’t understand. I look back on it, and it still doesn’t seem possible that any human being could have been capable of such activity. It was like the rush of a tiger . . . like the rush of a tiger, on my honor.”

  He rose and paced the room hurriedly. His voice was low, while speaking of that incredible thing. “He must have been flat on the ground when the horse shied, Glory. But he came off from it, with a bound as though he were made of rubber. And the second leap had him at me. I’ll never forget that face. His teeth were glinting in the moonshine. His long hair was tangled with mud and dirt. He looked like a devil. All that happened before I could get in a shot.” He shook his head. “When he caught my shoulders . . . gad, his fingers seemed iron! The flesh is still black and blue.” He rubbed that shoulder meditatively.

  “Frankly,” he continued, “I’m afraid of him. I’d hate like the devil to have to trail him. But the worst of it is that, while I might go with a gun to shoot him, he’ll not take his chances to shoot in turn, because I’m your father. And that, Glory, brings me to the crux of the matter.”

  She nodded quietly, but she drew the tree squirrel suddenly close to her.

  “Glory,” he said slowly, “you want to stay here because of that wild man. Tell me truly.”

  “That’s the exact truth,” said Gloria. “You’ve seen through me, Dad.”

  He shuddered. There was such pain in his face that she lowered her eyes, unable to watch him.

  “Gloria,” he said sadly, “it’s my fault, I know. It’s entirely my fault. I’ve let you grow up doing as you please. I’ve spoiled you terribly. Now you’ll fight for your own way. It’s impossible for you to give up anything you want.”

  She slipped out of the chair and went to him and took his hands.

  The squirrel ran up the back of the chair and perched on the top of it, peering at her with its bright little eyes.

  “Don’t say that, Dad,” she pleaded. “I know you’ve spoiled me, but there’s hardly a thing in the world that I wouldn’t do for you, if you seriously asked me.”

  “Except to leave Turnbull with me now?”

  She bowed her head.

  “Glory!” he cried in agony. “Do you mean it? Even if I beg you, as I do now, to come with me?”

  “Oh, Dad,” she answered, her eyes filling with tears, “if you only would ask proof of me in some other way. If I could only show you how dear you are to me, Dad, and what I would suffer for you. But this one thing. . . .”

  He released her hands and stepped to the window, breathing deeply. Then he forced himself to face her again. It seemed to Gloria that he had aged by ten years in the past day.

  “It means a tragedy if you stay here,” he said. “My dear, we all feel that we know ourselves better than others can possibly know us. But don’t you think we may sometimes be wrong? I think I understand you, Glory. And I tell you that if you see this wild man again while your brain is still in a riot from that first meeting, you’ll lose control of yourself. Before you know it, you’ll be married, and your life will be ruined.”

  She paused to
show that she was taking all his words to heart. “Will you listen to my viewpoint?” she said at last.

  “Of course,” said Themis. “I want you to talk . . . talk about everything. Get it out of your heart and into words if you can.”

  “Suppose you look at it in this way, then. If I never see him again, if I never talk with him again, the thought of him will haunt me. Dad, this room is filled with him. He was here five minutes, but he has left something in every corner of the room. The sound of his voice has never run out of my ears. I keep seeing his face . . . sometimes I’ve turned around short in going down the hall because it seemed to me as if he were coming behind me with that silent step of his. Do you understand how I feel now?”

  “Glory,” he said, “let’s take another angle. If you stay here, the man’s devotion to you will bring him down to the town again. When he comes down, he’ll be caught. He escaped once, you know by how small a margin. A second time he can’t escape. And when he’s caught, he’ll be hanged for murder. Nothing can prevent that.”

  “It’s not true!” cried Gloria. “He told me with his own voice that he did not kill Dick Walker.”

  “I believe him as thoroughly as you do,” said Themis. “But that does not spoil the case against him. He had a motive for killing Walker. His trail was seen going there. What more could be needed? He’d be hanged, Gloria.”

  “An innocent man! Oh, Dad, it’s too horrible! I’ll find some means of preventing it.”

  “That’s a blind hope. If you really are fond of the wild man . . . of Tom Parks, as you call him . . . the best thing is to leave Turnbull valley, because, so long as you stay here, you’re the bait for a trap that may catch him.”

  “He has gone himself to find the murderer of Walker.”

  “But the trail has been wiped out by the rains before this. You mustn’t console yourself with absolute impossibilities, my dear.”

  “Oh,” she cried, bewildered, “there will be some way!”