by Brand, Max
Judge Brender had come down for the trials of Rap and Christian. He said to Jim Silver:
“What did you think when Lawson did that to the watch and gave it to you?”
“I thought there was one chance in two that it had nothing to do with me,” said Silver.
“Why take an even chance for the sake of a dirty crook?” asked Brender.
The reply of Silver was a memorable one that was widely, repeated at the time. He said:
“You see, Lawson was not a crook just then; he was only a dying man.”
By the time the trial of Rap Brender came on, public opinion had been pretty well informed as to what had happened, and public opinion demanded an acquittal. If the law had an honest hold on the life and the fortunes of Rap, it had not the slightest chance to exert an influence for the good reason that in the courtroom sat Rap’s father, his mother, the girl, and, above all, Jim Silver. There is one thing they understand in the West, and that is friendship. Every man and woman in that courtroom knew what Silver and Brender had done for one another.
The judge, though he kept his face like iron all during the trial, at the end of it delivered to the jury a charge that was really shameful, for he said that such a true narrative as that of the heroism and self-sacrifice of Brender and Jim Silver was better for the youth of the nation than all the moralizing in books, and that every man in the West would stand inches straighter because he knew what a friend could and ought to be.
Then the jury walked out of the box, walked back again, and by its smiling its verdict was known. The judge smiled, also.
Then came two events in rapid succession — the disappearance of Jim Silver and the marriage of the girl with Rap Brender. Of course, Silver was to stand as best man, but as the wedding couple waited in the hotel to start for the little church through streets lined with a thousand excited cow-punchers drawn from distances of a hundred miles, a note was brought to Rap, and when he opened it he read aloud:
“Saying good-by needs a special talent that I lack. God bless you both. I’m called north on a long errand, but one day I’ll see you again — in Texas, San Nicador, or somewhere.
“JIM SILVER.”
“But why?” cried the girl. “What could it be that takes him away?”
Rap Brender, considering that question with a sad face, said: “It’s something in his blood. And no doctor will ever discover what. But the main reason he’s gone is that we don’t need him any more.”
“Need him?” said the girl. “We’ll always need him. We’ll never be so happy that having Jim near wouldn’t make us happier.”
But Brender shook his head, looking old and grave.
“You don’t understand,” he said, and she saw that she would have to leave it at that.
Of course, the law wanted Silver’s testimony against Barry Christian, but the district attorney was not foolish enough to try to pursue the rider of the chestnut stallion. And there was plenty of other testimony to offer. Witnesses flooded in from ten directions. One man had traveled five thousand miles so that he could stand up in the courtroom and say what he knew.
Barry Christian, his pale, sensitive face always in repose, listened calmly to the testimony. His lawyer offered a vague defense. There was really nothing to be said, and Barry Christian knew it. He was as calm as ever when he heard the jury’s verdict, and also later, when he was sentenced to be hanged.
Afterward a curious reporter said to Christian: “What did Jim Silver get out of all this riding and fighting, and taking his life in his own hands?”
Christian answered: “He got the knowledge that he’d gained a friend, and that I would have a chance to think things over. No one minds dying. It’s the death house that counts.”
That was characteristic of Christian. He was big enough and calm enough even to confess his own fears!
And Jim Silver?
On the day when the judge sentenced Barry Christian, Silver was far, far to the north, halting Parade at the mouth of a pass that overpeered a sweep of desolate mountains, far above the timber line. But there was a smile on the lips of Silver. The thrilling cold of the wind washed the soul of the man clean. It made him as free as the wild ducks which, in a dim, gray wedge, were hurling north above him, with the song of their freedom reaching the earth as a melancholy music.
Serving as inspiration for contemporary literature, Prologue Books, a division of F+W Media, offers readers a vibrant, living record of crime, science fiction, fantasy, western, and romance genres. Discover more today:
www.prologuebooks.com
This edition published by
Prologue Books
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.prologuebooks.com
Copyright © 1933 by Frederick Faust. Copyright © renewed 1960 by Dorothy Faust. The name Max Brand? is a registered trademark with the United States Patent and Trademark Office and cannot be used for any purpose without express written permission. Published by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency. All rights reserved.
Cover Images © www.Clipart.com
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-4997-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4997-7
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4995-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4995-3