by Max Brand
He made a rush at Vinnie, but another of the clan rammed a gun into his bearded face.
“You back up, Sig,” said the fellow. “We all been the hired hands of you and Harry, all of these years. Now we’re all gonna be the equal partners, if Vinnie can tell us the truth. If we know enough to hang you, we know enough to make us all partners. The kid, yonder, was the one that seen that. Jimmy Jones has a brain in his head.”
Harry and his father drew close together. Plainly they were desperate. But what could they do?
Then Harry, turning on Jimmy Jones, cursed him brutally, and with the flat of his hand struck him repeatedly across the face. It was as though he had delivered the same blows to the girl. Her soul shrank from the man; her whole body trembled, and her face grew fevered with heat. She wanted to rush out, but she realized that none of the old Western chivalry would make her safe in the hands of men of this sort.
Vinnie Wharton was continuing. “Along come that night, and Mister Denham was pretty happy. I was cooking, and, after we’d finished supper, Sig and Harry Burwell, they walked off into the brush. After a while they got out of sound. Mister Denham sat there in the firelight, sipping coffee and talking about his plans and what he wanted to do for his girl.
“We didn’t hear Harry and Sig come back. The only thing that I heard was the crack of a pair of rifles. Mister Denham dropped over on his side, and I felt a whir of something go singing past my face. So I knew that was a sign for me that I should be dead, and I dropped on my face.
“Then Harry and Sig came up on the run, and I remember that Harry said . . . ‘Pretty good shooting, Pop. You picked off Vinnie, all right. Where’d your shot hit him?’ Then Sigmund Burwell started to prod at me to see where his shot had hit, and I knew that I couldn’t play ’possum no more. So I sat up and begged for my life. I told them that if they would let me live, I wouldn’t talk about what I knew, and that I’d sure be a regular slave for them all my life. Well, when I begged like that, Harry was for killing me, anyway, but Sigmund said to leave me live, because I’d be so scared all my life that I’d never dare to talk. So they let me live.
“And then Sigmund asked how they would arrange to make it look like a hunting accident. And Harry said it was dead easy, and, instead of looking like a murderer, he’d make it appear that he was a hero. So he got Mister Denham’s body on his back and he walked or ran with it all the three miles into Jasper. And when he got there, he was covered with blood and pretty well tuckered out, all right. So he looked like a hero, right enough, and ever since then all the people in the town never get tired of talking about what a hero Harry Burwell is, and they say that the Denham girl is gonna marry the man that killed her father.”
Here Harry Burwell, with a yell, since his own gun had been taken away from him, snatched a gun out of the hip holster of a companion and fired straight into the body of Vinnie Wharton. The old man screamed with pain and fear; two more shots silenced the screeching.
And as the girl clung to the corner of the boulder, half fainting, she heard someone say: “Well, now we know what he’s got in his head, the best way is to have him dead and done for. There won’t be any fear of blackmailing, then. Now what about Jimmy Jones? He’s heard all of this, and he’s got to pay for what he knows.”
“I’ll finish him,” said Harry Burwell. “No matter what I lose tonight, I’m going to have the taking of his scalp.”
X
Jimmy Jones faced the Burwell clan with his head high.
Harry Burwell, as self-appointed executioner, stood with a Colt poised in his hand. “Now tell me who wins, Jimmy?” he asked.
“I win, Harry,” said Jimmy Jones.
“I’ll give you a chance to explain what fool idea you’ve got in your head when you say that,” said Burwell.
“Why,” said Jimmy Jones, “the game is spoiled for you, Harry. I hear that you’ve been cleaning up more than fifty thousand a year, clear profit, out of Denham’s mine. Now that money will have to be split into many parts. Besides, no secret can be kept by this many people. The world is going to know what all of you know, and, inside of a month or so, every ratty one of the Burwells will be running for his life. Mind you, you’re all murderers. You that hold the gun and all the rest of these brutes that stand around and consent to the crime. D’you see that, Harry? Before a month is over, the Burwells will begin to die. Some of ’em from the bullets of a sheriff . . . some of ’em at the end of a rope. No, Harry, I’m going to die, I know, but I die the winner.”
“D’you hear him talk?” said Harry over his shoulder to the others.
And that was the instant that a knife cut the rope that held the hands of Jimmy Jones behind the tree. It took him a fraction of a second to realize the miracle. Then he whirled from the tree and instantly had its trunk between him and the gun of Harry Burwell, whose incredulous yell came ringing. He had fired at the vanishing Jimmy Jones, and the bullet thudded heavily into the trunk of the tree.
The whole Burwell clan, with a wild shout, sprinted in pursuit.
Jimmy Jones, as he dodged around the tree, saw the slender form of a girl running for a huge boulder, almost the size of a house. He was at her heels as she dodged around the corner of the great rock. He had a glimpse of the white, strained face of Ruth Denham as she sprang into the saddle on her bay mare, and, with a flying leap, he put himself behind her. The mare was off like a streak.
Not half a dozen shots followed them, for the big intervening boulders quickly made an effective screen. But Jimmy Jones could hear the frantic voice of Harry Burwell crying: “The horses! The horses! If we don’t catch that pair, we’re all dead men inside the hangman’s noose.”
That was true enough.
But the race was by no means over. The bay mare was headed up Taylor Gulch with her speed not yet lessened by the weight of two riders, but already the Burwells were in the saddle, and the hoofs of their horses were beating up a rapid thunder through the ravine. A mile of running would bring their guns to bear on the fugitives, and by bright moonlight like this they would not miss their mark.
To turn to either side was impossible because of the steep walls of the ravine that no horse could climb. To ride straight on was certain destruction. That was why Jimmy Jones exclaimed: “Ruth, your horse may take you away to safety! But it can’t carry two. Pull up and let me down!”
“I’ll never let you go . . . I’ll never leave you, Jimmy,” said the girl. “And if it’s dying, we’ll die together.”
Joy like a flame leaped through the brain of Jimmy Jones, but he reached around the girl and pulled the mustang to a trot. Instantly he was on the ground, begging her to go on as fast as spurs would drive the mare.
But she dropped to the ground at once and turned back to him. In a frenzy, she struck at the mare, which fled at full speed down the cañon. There could be no argument now. They were hopelessly closed into the same destiny this night.
The roar of hoofs came swiftly on them; it seemed to rise and grow greater, like a towering wave about a small boat. And Jimmy Jones drew the girl back with him into the shadow of a huge fallen rock.
At once, a dozen horsemen plunged into view, riding hard, leaning far forward over their saddles, their sombreros blown out of shape by the stiff wind of the gallop. Harry Burwell led those riders who stormed by like gigantic shadows, with the moon behind them.
Then they were gone around the next bend of the ravine.
“We run for it, Ruth,” commanded Jimmy Jones. “They’ll be back down the valley in a wave, before long, when they have a sight of the mare with no one in the saddle. They’ll search the ravine bit by bit, and we’ve got to be out of it.”
Run? She could run like a deer. The divided skirt fluttered and snapped with the speed of her going. The brim of her hat curled. And Jimmy Jones strode half a pace behind her to view her beauty until a passion of joy and admiration overwhelmed him.
The mouth of the ravine was before them when they heard the hoof beats and the yelli
ng behind them. The horses came like the wind.
“The brush there at the right of the entrance. Get to that and dive into it,” ordered Jimmy. He gripped her by the collar of her shirt at the back of her neck and helped her forward. And with that helping hand to lighten her weight, her step grew longer and swifter.
It seemed to Jimmy that the uproar of the riders was immediately behind him, the cold grip of panic would not let him look behind. Then they reached the brush at the mouth of the ravine and flung themselves into it. Flat on the ground, side-by-side, they looked back through the branches of the brush and saw the flying cavalcade.
They seemed aimed at the place of hiding; but, instead of driving at the fugitives, the charge burst right out into the open, leaving the wild echoes still pealing inside the valley.
Here the Burwells drew rein.
Harry began to shout orders. “They’re still in the valley!” he cried. “They’re tucked away in some crevice of the rocks. Find ’em, boys. Two of you get a mile up the cañon. I’ll wait here with Dad and plug this end of the valley. The rest of you make two parties, and each take one side of the ravine. We’ve got ’em bottled up. They’re done for. They’re in the pocket. Even a bird would have a hard time getting out of Taylor Gulch. But look alive, boys! You use your eyes!”
This excellent advice was acted on. Most of the riders disappeared at once while Sigmund Burwell and his son remained in the saddle at the mouth of the gulch, patiently on guard. Since their attention was turned up the valley, it was no wonder that they saw no disturbance among the bushes at their left. There, very gradually, soundlessly, the girl and Jimmy Jones slid snake-like away, while Harry Burwell was saying: “It was the girl, Dad. She’s in on this. She turned Jimmy Jones loose. And I’d as soon put lead into her as into Jones himself. I was a fool to ever think of marrying her. She’s not my kind. Every time I’ve looked at her, I’ve seen Denham and his dead face.”
“Well, you’re a considerable spell away from having her now, Harry,” said the father. “And if you ask me, I’d say that the Burwell luck sure has changed. It was the devil himself that sent Jimmy Jones to Jasper.”
Jimmy and the girl reached a scattering of rocks behind which they could stand up free from observation; in a few moments more, they were far from the mouth of Taylor Gulch and heading toward Jasper. The girl ran at a dog-trot, like a young Indian, and the slow lines of the hills moved gradually past them until they saw the lights of the town glimmering well ahead. Those lights meant safety.
And now they were on the main street of the little town, where a riderless horse walked slowly before them. It was the bay mare, and a call from her mistress stopped the animal.
“Look, Jimmy,” said the girl. “Even Jess has come back to me. It’s a sign that everything is going to go right from now on. It’s a sign that the sad days are over and never will catch us again.” But at this, she began to cry.
Jimmy Jones held her close and patted her shoulder gently. All he could find to say was: “It’s going to be all right. I love you, Ruth. It’s going to be all right.”
The girl knew that she was hearing the most wonderful eloquence in the world.
People came out and stared at them, but they were unaware of the existence of others. Their own existence, they felt, was barely commencing.
XI
Joe Parson had been put to bed in the Denham house as a man who it would be dangerous to move as far as the hotel. He was weak, but he was gaining in strength already when on Friday afternoon Jimmy Jones walked into the sick room and sat down by the bed.
“Two messages,” he said. “One from my uncle, asking what new kinds of devils I’ve raised in Jasper. One from Harry Burwell. Listen to me. If we hold our hands and don’t publish what we know, Harry Burwell will pay a hundred thousand dollars spot cash, and guarantee twenty thousand a year to us.”
“To us?” said Joe Parson feebly.
“They make the offer to me, but we’re partners in this deal, Joe. We split every profit fifty-fifty.”
Parson grinned. “Then take my share and throw it and the offer to the dogs,” he said. “I want Burwells. I don’t want their rotten money.”
“Hold on, Joe,” said Jimmy Jones. “Fifty thousand down, and ten thousand a year as long as you live.”
“Damn the money,” said Joe Parson. “Let me see a Burwell hanging from a tree. That’s all I want.”
“Well,” said Jimmy Jones, “the offer was made, so I had to tell you about it, but I’m glad that you and I feel the same way. Tomorrow morning is Saturday, partner . . . and that’s when the crash comes.” He added: “I’m writing copy for a third supplement. So I’ve got to get back to the office.”
He was gone, and, as he walked whistling down the street, people turned and smiled on him approvingly; perhaps it was partly because his hat sat at a jaunty angle above the bandage that swathed his head.
* * * * *
There was more excitement about the publishing of that Saturday’s Jasper Journal than there ever had been about any event in the history of the town. Cowpunchers that had come to town to celebrate on Friday night remained to guard the building of the Journal from any possible foul play on the part of the Burwells. But still the story was unknown; only a savage whisper was beginning to circulate. And it was said that the Burwells were showing great activity. Three separate families of them suddenly had offered their farms for sale. All of them were packing, buying horses, buckboards, making ready for a swift departure, said rumor. And that was why orders for copies of the Saturday edition kept pouring in to the Jasper Journal until the very moment when the paper came wet off the press.
It cost 25¢ a copy, and there were three thousand and then four and five thousand copies printed; advertising brought in a beautiful flat figure of $7,500. So the good word went to Joe Parson that he would be getting several thousand dollars for his share.
But money was the least consideration. Other things mattered far more, and among them was the reception of the paper by the people of the town.
The news was not all on the first page. All that appeared there, in great, black type, was the confession of the dead man, poor Vinnie Wharton. Through the rest of the paper and through those parts of the supplements that were not given up to advertising, ran all the tale of exactly how Jimmy Jones had come to the town of Jasper and made an old saying into a new fact. There is one murder behind every successful gold mine. In the case of the Burwell mine he seemed to have proved it.
The town of Jasper roused to an uproar. Before the midmorning, a mass of nearly two hundred armed men mounted and rode suddenly out of the town toward the Burwell mine and the Burwell farms that lay about the mine.
They found everything deserted. In the mine there were only idling workers because the bosses were all away. On the farms there were no men. But in the house of Sigmund Burwell they found news enough. There, in the dining room, Sigmund Burwell lay on his back, dead from bullets that had streamed out of the gun of his son, and Harry Burwell leaned forward from a chair, spilling his dead weight across the table. Sigmund, in falling, had fired at the murderer and killed him.
As for the rest of the Burwells, they had fled. Some of them were overtaken before they got through the mountains, some were ridden down in the desert beyond, but a few never were heard of again.
* * * * *
Jimmy Jones was married to Ruth Denham before the last of the Burwells were brought to trial as aids and abettors at the killing of Vinnie Wharton. The party went back to the Denham house, afterward, and it was there that Mr. Cadwallader arrived with a rather pale face and insisted on seeing Jimmy Jones alone.
Mr. Cadwallader had reason to look pale, because his paper had been so terribly scooped that not a single copy of the recent issues had been sold, except those that went to the few subscribers. Advertisers were leaving him en masse.
“Mister Jones,” he said, “the fact is that this town is not large enough to support two newspapers . . . I’v
e come to buy you out.”
“Fifty thousand is the price,” said Jimmy Jones.
Mr. Cadwallader turned crimson. He threw both hands high into the air, but finally he sat down at the table and wrote out a check for that amount. “Mister Jones,” he said with a sigh, “you’ve had the luck of the devil. But it’s a happy moment for me to get you out of the Jasper Journal.”
* * * * *
And this was the basis for a certain letter that Mr. Oliver T. Jones received from his nephew. As he read it, Oliver T. Jones rubbed his bald head until it shone and then pulled his beard until his chin burned like a fire. The letter said:
Dear Uncle Oliver:
I got your letter and the gift of the Jasper Journal two weeks ago. What interested me was your willingness to double any profits I made out of running the paper.
So I started to make profits.
News is what makes circulation. Murder makes the biggest news. Since there was no murder at hand, I found an old one. And the old murder led up to some nice, juicy new ones. The great Mr. Cadwallader was scooped until he screamed out: “Fifty thousand dollars!”
So he is now the owner of the Jasper Journal, and I am the owner of the $50,000.
I mean to say, $95,000, because you are going to give as much as I make, above $5,000.
So far as I know, it will be the only cash you ever gave away in your life. I hope it starts a good habit in your declining years.
Sincerely yours,
Jimmy
P.S. Ruth sends her love.
P.P.S. Ruth is my wife; her name used to be Denham, and she now owns the Burwell mine.
P.P.P.S. I am thinking of opening a school of journalism and will offer a scholarship free to Oliver T. Jones if he wishes to take the course. J.J.
The Lion’s Share
This story originally appeared in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine in the issue dated December 15, 1928. It was published under Faust’s George Owen Baxter byline, and was one of eleven short novels to appear that year, along with twelve serials. In the story, Jeff Garlan finds himself entangled in a web of greed, murder, rustling, and romance when desperation for fast cash takes him to the West. This is its first appearance since original publication.