Old Carver Ranch

by Max Brand

  Jerry Jr., remembering the withered face and the oversweet smile of Estelle Winwood, sighed. He pondered over an answer, a plea for more time, but he knew that his father, having announced a decision, would abide by it at all costs. That was his way. What he said with a smile, he abided by to the end of time. In short, that little quiet speech was nothing more or less than an ultimatum. Within ten days he should bring back the promise of the girl to marry him, or else he must take as a wife a girl who he detested.

  That danger sent him into the saddle as soon as the breakfast was over, and at a hard gallop he went toward the Carver Ranch. He reached there before midmorning and went at once to the cottage behind the main house, for, though he had been very little around Carver Ranch during the last month, he had heard of the change in quarters.

  But he was by no means prepared for the change that confronted him in Mrs. Carver as she answered his knock. Twenty-four hours had sufficed to plant a ghostly look of dread in her eyes. Her color was altered. Her very carriage was bowed. Her step, when she moved back to permit him to enter, was faltering and uncertain, and in her movements and her looks she was the very picture of one who has been recently unnerved by some horror.

  So greatly was Jerry Swain impressed by this that he even forgot for a moment his own motives and reasons for coming. He was genuinely concerned.

  “What on earth has happened?” he asked. The answer struck him dumb.

  “He knows everything. Timothy Kenyon is Tom Keene.” When he could speak, he answered, “Does Mary know?”

  “No, thank heaven for that. All she knows is that poor John held up young Crofton.”

  “It was Carver, then?”

  “Aye. He had to have the money. Tom Keene had tricked him out of our savings of the month. And now he has John at his mercy, and he’s torturing us, all three.”

  “All three?”

  “Mary, too.”

  “The devil!”

  “He’s a devil, a cold, calculating devil. He’ll kill John with the dread and the worry inside of a month. Look at him now.”

  There was a sound of a foot crunching in the gravel of the path around the cottage. John Carver appeared, gave only a sullen glance to the younger man, then pushed past into the house.

  “He ain’t closed his eyes for a wink of sleep. He’s sure going mad,” said the poor wife. “Not even Mary can get a smile out of him. Oh, Jerry Swain, in the name of heaven, what can we do?”

  A great light fell upon the brain of Jerry Swain. It caused him actually to spread his feet farther apart and thrust his hands deep into his pockets and fight to restrain a smile. “Missus Carver,” he said, “there is one way to reach any man in the world.”

  “How is that?”

  “Every man has his price.”

  “But Tom Keene is rich now. No one knows where he got the money, but money he has to burn.”

  “He was pardoned?”

  “Yes. Maybe he bought them off.”

  “Rich or poor … every man has his price. And there is one way that price can be offered to Tom Keene …”

  “But I tell you, money won’t do. He wants to grind us down. He wants to make us pay in suffering for his time in the prison. He has no heart. We showed him no mercy when he was here before. Now he’ll show us none.”

  “Still you’re wrong,” said Jerry Swain. “I’m not speaking of a few thousand. I’m speaking of enough money to offer such a price for the ranch that he’d have to take it and move away and leave you here unexposed. And there’s only one person in the country rich enough to offer the money. That’s my father.”

  “No good for us. He has no use for John.”

  “But he has for Mary … he’d pay high if I could marry Mary. I’ll tell you, Missus Carver, the thing would be for me to marry her, and then let him know afterward the scrape that John is in. That would make him curse, but, when he got through cursing, he’d bring out his checkbook and start signing checks. I know him. There’s no quitter about him.”

  “Jerry … Jerry Swain … Oh, are you speaking truth to me?”

  “I tell you, there’s only one thing in the way, and that’s Mary’s consent. I’m going to get onto my horse again and ride up the road. You send for Mary. Tell her the truth. Tell her how fond of her I am. I know she doesn’t love me, but I think she likes me well enough, and I can make that grow into a real love one of these days if I have a chance. Tell her these things but, first and last and all the time, make her understand that, if this doesn’t happen, there’s no way to save her father. You see, Missus Carver,” he added with an attempt at humility that was entirely graceless, “I know that it’s wrong to force her into a wedding in this fashion. But in the end, also, I know that she’ll be happier.”

  “You really think Tom Keene would give up …?”

  “Give up his chance of tormenting you and Carver? Of course he would. For a clear profit of twenty or thirty thousand dollars, such a man would give up anything. Isn’t that true?”

  The great sum dazed her. “Would your father pay as much as that to get rid of him?”

  “Twice as much as that, if he had to. Now get Mary and tell her what I’ve told you. I’m not going to stay here to bargain. But I’ll come back in half an hour for her answer.”

  He went out to his horse and, a moment later, had cantered out of view around the next hillside. No sooner was he gone than Mrs. Carver rushed for the house. There, in the kitchen, she found Mary busy scrubbing pots and pans. She dragged her daughter to the window, a trembling hand on either shoulder of the girl, and held her so that the light flooded upon her face.

  “Mary, Mary, Mary,” she whispered. “There’s a chance in your hands to save your father … to save all of us from shame. Oh, child, listen to this word from heaven … it’s no less than that.”

  And she stammered out, in short and confused sentences, all the plan as Jerry Swain had laid it before her. Not until she had ended did Mary speak, and then it was a low-voiced wail of despair rather than a refusal.

  “But I don’t love him, Mother. I never can.”

  “Love?” her mother cried fiercely. “Is this a time to be talking about such foolishness? It’s the life and the death of your father that I’m asking you to think about. Mary, will you mind that and stop thinking only of yourself? Oh, if ever you want my blessing, and if ever there’s a reward coming to me for bringing you into the world, Mary, tell me now like a good girl that you’ll do this.”

  Poor Mary, beset in such a way she could not turn, raised her head and looked out through the window. Far away she saw the towering outline of black Major, with the new master passing over a hill. She watched him out of sight.

  “I have to say yes,” she said. “Heaven forgive me for it.”

  “Heaven forgive you?” exclaimed her mother. “Heaven will reward you for it.”

  “You don’t understand,” answered the girl sadly. “You can’t understand. But … I’ll do it, and that’s enough. When … when do I have to see him?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Astonished, Tom Keene drew rein, and Major came to a jog trot. It was the sound of a man’s voice singing in the cottage near the big ranch house that had startled him. It could not be, he told himself, that John Carver was actually singing on this day of all days. But, listening for a moment, full recognition of the voice came to him.

  With an oath, anger and bewilderment alive within him, he sent Major on at full speed again. Crossing in front of the cottage, he struck the butt of his quirt heavily against one of the pillars of the little porch.

  “Carver!” he called.

  The singing ceased. Presently steps hurried to the door, which was opened by Carver himself, a rather dim figure in the gathering hour of the dusk.

  “You’re feeling better today, Carver, eh?” asked Tom.

  “I was singing an o
ld song my wife used to like,” Carver muttered in answer.

  Tom swung to the ground and tossed the reins to the other. “Take Major and put him up. Maybe you’ll feel like singing to him. What the devil has happened to you? Have you found or inherited a fortune?”

  “Is there anything wrong in singing?” Carver asked, half sullenly and half in fear. As he spoke, he gingerly fixed his grip on the reins and regarded the great stallion in dread.

  Tom Keene watched him for a moment, then turned and strode for the house. He rounded the corner in time to see the kitchen door open and Jerry Swain Jr. come out of the door and down the steps from the rear veranda to the ground, whistling and swinging the riding crop that he affected instead of the usual quirt used in that cow country. Tom regarded him with a start of surprise and detestation. From the day of his first encounter with the fellow over eight years before until now, he had heard no good of him. The narrow, handsome face and the small eyes, set close together and giving a fox-like look to his countenance, were indelibly connected, in Tom’s recollection, with the hold-up after his first winning in the gambling house of Will Jackson at Porterville. As he hailed him now, he thought of the mingled knavery and cowardice that Swain had shown on that occasion.

  At the sound of his voice, Swain whirled sharply on his heel and even jerked back his right hand in a gesture that unmistakably showed that he was carrying a concealed weapon on his hip. Plainly he was not expected back until dark. In fact, he had announced when he left at noon that he would be late on the road and had left orders for a dinner served accordingly. That was the reason he had overheard Carver’s song, that was the reason he now saw Swain leave the house.

  The smaller man waited uneasily, not at all sure of the reception that he would receive. But Tom put him instantly at ease with a cordial handshake.

  “The first time we met,” he said, “we were taking opposite sides of a question. I hope we’ll get on better now.”

  Jerry Swain hoped that they would. He wished that everything might prosper with Mister Kenyon. In the meantime, he would be late home unless hurried.

  “But why hurry?” asked Tom. “Dinner will be ready here in half an hour. And I see that you’ve been with Mary, peaking at her dishes, no doubt before they were cooked. But if you’ve seen them already in the oven, wait to see them again on the table.”

  Jerry Swain hesitated, glaring anxiously at his formidable host as though he wanted to escape, but also as though he felt that he must curry the favor of the big man.

  “The only place I could see Mary was in the kitchen,” he declared, “she was so busy there. As for staying …”

  The suspicions of Tom were instantly sharpened. “Tush,” he said, “you must stay. I have grown lonely here for an entire month. Come in. Besides, I have some old whiskey left over in a corner of the cellar from a better day.”

  His joviality had already produced a mellowing effect. But the mention of the liquor was a conclusive point. And up the steps they went, chatting like the best of friends. In five minutes they were safely established with glasses and a black bottle, and at the second drink Jerry Swain’s tongue was loosened, exactly as Tom had known it would be.

  The air of constraint vanished, and they sat in an atmosphere of good fellowship. It was agreed that Jerry was to stay for dinner. The moment that agreement was reached, Tom called for Mary, and she came in to them.

  “Another place for tonight at the table,” he requested. “Mister Swain is staying.”

  Mary turned with a wan, joyless smile toward Jerry Swain. And after that acknowledgment of his coming, she looked back to Tom with lackluster eyes. The big man studied her keenly. He had seen her in the bitterest trouble for the past month, and yet he had never seen an expression of such suffering in her face. He could not avoid connecting her sadness with the coming of Swain.

  When she was gone, he turned the talk, however, on other subjects, and he began to ply Jerry with liquor. It was not raw-edged moonshine, but old stuff as smooth as oil and of a deceptive strength. Jerry was decidedly mellow before they sat down at the table, and throughout the meal Tom plied him with well-regulated care. He was drinking himself, and an equal amount, but his mind was working ceaselessly, and the alcohol had no apparent effect.

  It was necessary that he draw out the truth about Jerry Swain’s visit to Mary Carver. He waited until the soup that began the meal was gone, and until the slender white hands of Mary had brought the meat. The edge of Jerry’s appetite was gone by that time, and he was ready for words. Tom opened the subject deftly.

  “A good cook,” he declared, “is like a good artist … she’s born, not made. There’s Mary Carver, now, for an example. So far as I can make out, she was raised to be the lady of the family, but, when the pinch came, see what she’s done.”

  It needed no more than that to tap the floodgates of Jerry Swain’s emotions. “Cook?” he exclaimed. “Mister Kenyon, when you speak of her, you speak of my future wife!”

  And the last words fell upon the ears of Mary as she entered from the kitchen bearing another dish. Such was the alcoholic enthusiasm of Jerry Swain that he would have started up from the table with a fervent address had not the gloomy look of Tom Keene held him a little in check. When she had passed out again, he resumed his eloquent praise of her.

  She possessed, he declared, every virtue. Her loveliness was beyond compare. And upon this subject he quoted a man who he vowed to be always infernally right, namely his own father.

  “But,” interrupted Tom, “I fail to see, Mister Swain, how you are entitled to such a wife as she.”

  “Entitled to her?” Swain said, almost sobbing with self-denunciatory enthusiasm. “Why, I’m not entitled to a single smile from her. I’m not worthy of looking at her. But luck is behind me … luck and the old man. And the old man always has his way. The devil and the deep sea combined couldn’t beat him. He’s a known man, is old Jerry Swain. A dozen of the hardest have tried to down him one time and another, but he’s always come back to the top like a cork, and they’re the ones who have gone down in the end. Well, sir, it’s he who wants me to marry Mary Carver now, and, because he wants it, it has to happen. He’s succeeded in everything else he’s ever undertaken, and now he says that the rest of his life will be failure unless he gets me married to please himself. You understand?”

  Only too well the big man understood. His prey was about to slip through his fingers. The marriage of Mary would withdraw her, and at the same time it would put in her hands an enormous weapon to use for the benefit of her parents. Money, Tom knew only too distinctly, was a power that could evade danger of a thousand sorts. His own fortune had taught him that. But what was his own fortune compared to the great wealth of Jerry Swain? It was a mere nothing. To make sure of John Carver’s destruction, he must make sure that this marriage did not take place. He went steadily ahead in his brutal campaign.

  “I say again,” he said, “that she’s very much too good for you, Swain.”

  The fact that he was being insulted gradually filtered to the inner intelligence of young Jerry. In an instant he was in an ugly, half-drunken rage. But the cold voice of Tom went on: “Swain, if you were simply a gambler and an idler, you might do. But not as a highway robber. That, certainly, will never do.”

  All the fumes of alcohol were suddenly swept from the brain of the other as a broom sweeps cobwebs clear. He peered at Tom with a working face of dread. He attempted to speak. And yet he could not continue. Even though the identity of Tom had been revealed to him by Mrs. Carver, he had hoped against hope that his own indiscretion of eight years before could not be used against him. Now he saw those hopes shaken and on the verge of disappearing.

  “Highway robber?” he echoed.

  But here the face of Tom smoothed suddenly as the door from the kitchen opened and Mary Carver entered. He turned the talk away. And Swain, realizing that he must not show h
is horror to the girl, managed to force a laugh. So she disappeared again, and Tom leaned forward once more. Jerry Swain was a thoroughly sobered man by this time. He realized that he had talked too much.

  “Keene,” he said, “what do you want?”

  “Ah,” sighed Tom, “that was what I hoped for. I simply wanted you to admit, in the first place, that you know me. In the second place, Jerry, I want you to remember that the club that I hold over John Carver … oh, I know well enough that they’ve told you … is the club that I hold over you!”

  “Good Lord!” cried Jerry Swain. “You’ll try blackmail?”

  “I’ll try anything.”

  “But it’s eight years ago that I … Keene, no court in the world would believe that you’d keep silent for eight years about such a thing.”

  And Tom Keene knew that he was perfectly right. It was only by the power of physical fear and, more than that, sheer bluff, that he could control Jerry Swain.

  “You’re a fool,” he said calmly. “I’ve waited because I had no way in which I could use you, Swain. But things have changed. I can now use you very neatly, and I intend to. You shall not marry the Carver girl, my friend. You hear me? You shall not marry her.”

  Jerry Swain sat gaping at him, left hand resting on the edge of the table and twitching violently. If ever there were murder in the eyes of a man, Tom was seeing it now in the eyes of Jerry Swain. But he saw a greater thing, a controlling fear, also.

  “In affairs like that,” Swain said, “one man can’t control another. You ought to know that, Keene. You can’t stop me from marrying Mary Carver. Even if I were to go to prison the next day …”

  “You would,” Tom said slowly and heavily. “You certainly would.”

  “Why in the name of heaven …?” began Jerry.

  But his host interrupted him. “Why I’m going to do it,” he said, “is something you can guess when you have a chance to think. But the important thing for you to know, Swain, is that I’m a man who is determined to have his own way in the matter. You can’t put me aside or alter me. My mind is made up and is as fixed as stone. I’m going to crush the Carvers, root and branch. I’m going to smash them, Swain. And here you are going to help me. Sit down.”