by Max Brand
He nodded, waved, and was off, smiling reassurance at her over his shoulder. As a matter of fact, her last remark had made him feel that what he was about to do was not a crime at all, but almost a virtue.
Who is it that does not know that lawyers are a quicksand that will swallow up a fortune as a shark swallows a small fish? Therefore, if the girl intended to spend her fortune on the law, it was far better that she should have no fortune to spend. That money would round out the sum that he needed.
He never had seen himself satisfactorily as a small rancher. The picture of Ben Thomas that he retained in his inmost mind’s eye was of a great power, a man of nationally felt force, one whose name would be familiar to the captains of finance.
He was sure that he had in him the brains and the mental resource to employ great good fortune, if ever it came his way. But the cattle business had not brought him luck. On the contrary, he seemed apt to buy high and sell low. Then there was the matter of the infernal mortgages. He had thought himself a lucky man when he was able to raise the money at the banks. He had assured himself that in two years, at the most, he would be able to pay off the debt. As a matter of fact, he had increased his indebtedness, and never lowered it a penny. That he constantly attributed to bad fortune, not to lack of energy or ability on his part.
In the back of his mind, there was established a sneering contempt for most other men who he met. He was always seeing political posters along the roads, nailed or pasted up, and reading in place of the actual names: Ben Thomas, for state senator; Ben Thomas for sheriff; Benjamin Thomas, the people’s true friend, for governor; The Honorable Benjamin Royce Thomas, for the United States Senate!
In those terms he saw himself, and they were the reality. This actual self that moved through the world, unappreciated, slapped upon the shoulder as hearty, hail-fellow-well-met, Ben Thomas, the rancher, was merely the sham that bad luck forced him to maintain against his will, against his higher nature.
Now, as he walked rapidly down the street, he saw the future with amazing clearness. There might be half a million, perhaps a million in that black clay on the shoulder of the mountain. Half of that sum he could put in investments, and he knew just where to place the money—in small loans to ranches that would soon go under and whose owners could be squeezed out into the road while he, Ben Thomas, properly organized the places. The other half he would use to pay his debts, build a good house, enlarge and restock completely the old place, and suddenly step forward as a public-spirited citizen, ready to assume the burdens of legislation and law enforcement.
Well, he felt that he had the presence, for one thing, and for another he was confident that he had the brains. It might be that he had failed so far to make a great position for himself, but that was simply because he never had been able to fill his hands with opportunities large enough to fit his grasp.
This was the humor he was in, when he came to his first and most important destination, a little shack on the street, with a shingle sticking out over the door and painted with the inscription: Office of the Sheriff: Samuel Hollis. He turned in under the sign and found himself in a little room, half of which was clouded with the blue-brown of cigarette smoke.
Through that cloud he saw a man whose hair was so straw-colored, and whose eyes were so pale a gray that he looked like an albino. There was something startling about his nondescript features. He was standing by a table and revealing himself in boots and long, spoon-handled spurs. His chaps were of worn, scarred leather, hanging over the back of a neighboring chair. He was not very big, and he was not very impressive. Ben Thomas wished that he had found a more startling and formidable-looking man.
Another man had preceded Ben Thomas. This visitor was dressed up in the semiofficial costume of a gambler, from the long coat to the wide-brimmed hat of gray felt. He was a big, important-looking fellow, but now he was sagging, as though under a weight. And the gentle, soothing voice of the sheriff was heard saying, in a mere murmur: “The only thing is, that I wouldn’t do it again. Mind you, I ain’t got a thing ag’in’ you. I don’t want to have a thing ag’in’ you. I’m only telling you . . . I hope that I won’t hear a yarn like that ag’in, with you in it.”
“You won’t hear a thing like that again,” said the other. “On my word of honor.”
“Don’t go to promising. Go to doing,” said the sheriff. “So long, and good luck to you, brother.”
The gambler walked to the door, blinked at the sun, and then slid away to one side with a furtive, dodging movement, as though he were afraid that a gun might be leveled against him from behind.
The opinion of Ben Thomas about the sheriff rose a great deal. He stepped forward and said: “Are you Sam Hollis?”
“That’s my name,” said the other gently.
“I’m Ben Thomas. I’ve brought you news.”
“News that comes to a sheriff ain’t often good news,” said Sam Hollis. “But what is it?”
“You’ve heard of Oliver Fenton?”
“Ain’t he the man that killed Henry Dodson?”
“That’s the one. And he’s the one that Missus Dodson will pay ten thousand dollars for, once he’s brought to trial.”
“Ten thousand is a lot of money,” said the sheriff.
“I can tell you where to pick it up.”
“You mean, where to pick up Fenton? Ain’t that the idea that you’re drivin’ at?”
“That’s the idea.”
The sheriff nodded. “That’d be right friendly,” he declared. A mild, childish interest began to flicker in his pale eyes.
“Here’s the place,” said the other. Quickly he dictated the description of the way to the shoulder of the mountain where Oliver Fenton had struck the pay dirt.
“That sounds good to me,” said the sheriff. “Maybe I could pick up that fellow. You don’t know him?”
“I know him pretty well.”
“Know whether he’s much of a fighting man?”
“Every Fenton’s a fightin’ man,” declared the rancher, “and Ollie Fenton is a scoundrel, that’s all. He’s a demon on wheels. He ain’t a youngster, but he’s fast, and he’s strong.”
“I wasn’t exactly talking about fistfighting,” the sheriff drawled naïvely.
“He can use guns, too,” said Ben Thomas. “He’s a mighty good shot.”
“He might be a good shot, but is he a cool head?” asked the sheriff.
“He’s the coldest that you ever seen, when it comes to a pinch. He’s the kind of fire that don’t sputter, but it burns through steel plate like shingle wood.”
“I’ve seen that kind of man, I reckon,” said the sheriff as mildly as before. “I’d kind of like to have a look at this Fenton, too. The ones that fight cold are always interesting. Show me a gent that has to warm himself up by swearing a little before he pulls a gun, and I’ll mostly show you a gent that shoots crooked, too . . . unless he’s Irish.” He smiled a little, as he added the last words, and shrugged his lean shoulders.
Thomas was satisfied. He was convinced that he was in touch with a man who knew his work. “You’d better take some others along with you,” suggested Thomas.
“When I go out to bring in one man, I go alone,” said the sheriff. “Now, about a split in the reward, if any reward turns up. Whacha think should be your split?”
“My split? Well, what do you say?” asked Thomas, always pleased to bargain.
“One third,” said the sheriff.
“A half, sounds more like it to me,” said Thomas.
“He’s a fightin’ man,” said the sheriff. “I notice that you didn’t bring him in yourself.”
“Him? I couldn’t bring him in myself, and I can’t be mentioned. I know him, d’ye see?”
The eyes of the sheriff narrowed for a shooting instant. “Might be that you’re a friend of his?” he suggested.
“I ranched near him,” Thomas responded uncomfortably.
The sheriff nodded. “I see,” he said. As he considere
d Thomas, the latter found that his face was rapidly growing very warm. “We’ll make it a half, if you say so,” said the sheriff, half turning away.
“Aw, a third would do, too,” said Thomas, red but amiable. “Let it go at that. And where’s the bureau? I’m gonna file on a little claim . . .” He reached, as he spoke, for the full description of the claim that Oliver Fenton had written out and given to him. To his amazement, the papers were no longer in his coat pocket.
Chapter 8
There was a reason for the disappearance of the prize from the pocket of big Ben Thomas. When he had reached the hotel with the girl, across the street, in the smoky mouth of a blacksmith shop, Speedy had been standing, breathing rather hard from his long run across the uplands and through the woods. But he had been content because he had arrived in town before Thomas and his protégée. It was not for nothing that he had lain out on the limb of the pine tree and studied the upturned evil in the face of the big man, back there in the clearing.
Now, eager and keen as a hunting hawk, he watched the girl take the two mules, while Thomas turned down the street.
Speedy was after him at once, and his movements were like the flight of a snipe downwind. For he did not go straight forward. Pursuing an irregular course, pausing here, halting there, and then cutting at a diagonal across the street, he came up behind his quarry just as Ben Thomas paused to allow an eightmule team to turn in the street, the tossing heads of the leaders swinging across the sidewalk.
“Good work!” called Ben Thomas cheerfully to the teamster at that moment and waved his hand. As he waved and the wagon straightened out down the street, the coat of Ben Thomas belled out and under the flap of the pocket Speedy could see the glint of white, the top edges of the papers.
His hand dipped in like the beak of a bird and came out again, bearing the prize, which disappeared into his own coat with such speed that even if any passerby had been looking, he would have seen hardly more than a flash of light as Speedy turned on his heel, shook his head, and frowned like a man who must retrace his steps because of something forgotten. He hurried back up the street to the hotel.
Only once he paused and risked a glance behind him, and that glance showed him Ben Thomas turning in under the sheriff’s sign. It was enough to indicate that he needed speed, but he had to be nonchalant, also.
He went to the hotel clerk and asked for Miss Fenton. She would be called. The clerk himself went to do it, and a rusty-headed boy slid in behind the desk to take up the duties of handing out and receiving keys.
Through the register, the fingers of Speedy sifted, found that day’s arrivals, and glanced at the handwriting of the girl. A second and longer glance printed the characters in his mind, and the next moment he was writing a by no means clumsy imitation of her hand:
Dear Uncle Ben:
I’ve just seen an old friend, and he asked me to go down the street to see his father. I’ll be back in a half hour or so. Wait for me here.
Jessica
He folded the paper and pushed it across the table to the redheaded boy. “Give this to Mister Ben Thomas when he comes in, will you?” he asked.
“Sure,” said the boy, and stuffed the paper into its key box.
When Speedy turned, the clerk was coming toward him, and Jessica Fenton along with him. There was first a shock of surprise in her face, followed at once by the most brilliant of smiles. Genuine pleasure made her hold out her hand and grip Speedy’s.
“I might have known that you’d be traveling toward the most excitement,” she said. “How are you, Speedy? Or do you really want people to call you that?”
“I can’t help myself,” he said. “I’m one of those poor chaps who can’t keep a name of his own. I’ve tried all sorts of names, but they won’t stick. They roll off me like water off a duck’s back. I’ve brought you a message from Mister Thomas.”
“Oh, you’ve seen him?” asked the girl.
Trouble was in her eyes, the old trouble, as she watched her companion.
“We’re not enemies,” said Speedy, “because of that little trouble at Council Flat. Mister Thomas was in a crush of business, something that he had to do at once. He begged me to do something for you and, of course, I said that I would.”
He drew the papers from his pocket, and her eyes widened as she recognized the handwriting of her father.
“Here’s the description of a claim that he wants you to hurry down to the bureau and file.”
“But he has to go along and file with me,” said the girl. “That’s the agreement.”
“Is it?” Speedy said. He went on smoothly: “Thomas doesn’t want any part of the claim, according to what he says. His idea is that, if anything happens to him, well, people wouldn’t know that he owed it all to you, and that it’s really your property. He was only going to file to help you hold the property.”
He had ended rather lamely on this note, but the girl had not the slightest suspicion in her mind.
“That’s greathearted!” she exclaimed.
“Well, he’s a big man, and he has to have a heart that will match his size,” said Speedy calmly. “We’d better start. He said that there was the greatest sort of a hurry.”
“He was in a hurry,” admitted the girl. “We’ll go along. Do you know the way?”
“Yes.” He had, in fact, spotted the place on his first visit to the town. He was not one who could settle blindly into any nest, for the world was filled with enemies for Speedy, and he dared not close both eyes at once, either by night or day, in new surroundings or old ones.
He waved her on, and paused again for a moment to say to the clerk: “What’s the sheriff look like?”
“You mean Sam Hollis?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why, you can’t mistake Sam. Smallish, and ain’t got no color in his hair and eyes, but Sam’s a real man that’ll . . .” He broke off with a grunt, for Speedy was already gliding away to the door, where he joined the girl and turned down the street.
There was much, there was very much for him to do, and, because of it and the danger that lay before him, he smiled and hummed as he walked along.
“This is a happy day for you,” said the girl.
“It’s the mountain air,” he answered her. “It goes to the bottom of the lungs, to the bottom of the heart, too. It gives a fellow life.”
She drew out a broad silver dollar and held it out. “I owe you this,” she said.
The happiness went out of his face and left it grim. Then he shook his head: “I can’t take it. Not yet,” he said.
It seemed to her that half the brightness went out of the morning by that change in his expression and by something coldly ominous that lay behind the words. Death had been his word to her the day before, and death, she felt, was in his expression again at this moment. Yet happiness returned to her. For it seemed that both she and her father were on the upward path. How could trouble come when the very soil of the earth was yielding up treasures to their hands?
They turned into a long, low shed, filled with smoke, from which there issued an uproar of angry voices as half a dozen men disputed before another man on the other side of a desk, which was made of a flat board laid over two hurdles. The man had a tired face.
“You see him?” asked Speedy.
“Yes.”
“He’ll record the claim. It won’t take long, once you get to him. But I’ll tell you something more, you want to get in there as fast as you can. Shove in, Miss Fenton. You’ll get ahead faster by yourself than you will if I wait here. Shove straight ahead and try to close up the deal. I have to leave you. These fellows will give way to you when they know that you only have a half hour.”
“A half hour,” she asked him with suddenly increased interest.
“Just about a half hour,” he said.
“What do you mean? Is there something that you’re keeping back from me?”
“Nothing that would do any good, if it were told,” Speedy replied che
erfully, making his expression brighter for her sake.
“But how can you know that there’s exactly a half hour?”
“It’s something that I got out of this good clean mountain air as I was coming down the street. It’s just that I have a pretty keen sense of time, d’you see?”
She eyed him, shaking her head. What there was behind his words she could not, of course, guess, but her mind groped blindly, striving for some clue. But he was waving good-bye, and now he stood at the door. She saw his head turn to the right, and then to the left. There was something infinitely cautious about him. Just in this fashion she had seen a cat pause at the open door of a house before stepping out into the mystery of the open night. Somehow, very strongly, she felt that Speedy was heading into danger. However, that would never be solved by her, and she stepped forward into the waiting line.
Speedy, in the meantime, got into the street in time to see a man dismount from a lump-headed yellow mustang, a fifty-dollar antique, with a tendollar wreck of a saddle cinched on its back.
“How much for that outfit?” he asked.
“To you, brother, only two hundred bucks,” said the other, grinning a little in the eyes, but not with the lips.
$200 in currency was suddenly counted into his amazed hands.
“Hold on!” he exclaimed.
“See you later,” Speedy announced, and sprang into the saddle.
The Westerner watched him go down the street, bounding high with every stride of the mustang.
“Another damned fool of a tenderfoot,” he said to himself, and began to count his money over again.
Chapter 9
A mile up the ravine, Speedy, already well pounded and hammered by the clumsy gait of the mustang, passed another single horseman on the way, pushing his horse ahead at a steady, easy dogtrot. As Speedy went by, he noted the pale hair, the paler eyes, the keenness of his glance, and something quietly efficient and self-reliant about the way the man sat his saddle. That was Sam Hollis, he could lay his bet, and, if it were Hollis, then there was still plenty of time to do the work that he had in mind. He was glad to reduce the pace of the yellow mustang, therefore, and still he was reasonably sure that he had gained a good half mile on the man of the law by the time he came to the two black rocks with the evergreen tree between them.