by Max Brand
I
The world was white and black. The pine trees were clotted and streaked with brilliance that etched their shadowy forms; every mountain height was inlaid mother of pearl, and every hollow was a pit of dark; the moon floated in a gloomy sea where nothing else was seen except the dim red point of Aldebaran and Sirius like a diamond in the forehead of the sky. There was no wind. At the least touch of a breeze the air would have been filled with sparkling clouds of the powder-dry snow, but the cold had frozen the cheeks of the wind god and he could not breathe on the mountains.
The two men walked back and forth in a short, beaten path. Poplars fenced them in. They had glimpses out between the narrow trees, except at the end of the pocket in which they moved. From that open end they could look up the road. It went down a steep, short incline, and then rose away in a long curve. Every road suggests motion. A straight way is like the flow of a river; this mountain road was like the flight of a bird that sways and dips in the heart of the sky.
“It’s cold,” said the big man.
“It is,” said Jerry Garlan.
“It’s cold as charity,” said the big man.
“It is,” said Garlan.
“You can’t have everything,” said the big man.
“You can’t,” agreed Jerry Garlan.
“The hardest shell is outside the sweetest kernel,” went on Bill Genniver. “But, you kids, you got no patience. You got no staying power. You want the world with a fence around it.”
They walked back and forth, Garlan attempting no answer.
“This is the prettiest lay I ever seen,” said Genniver. “Cold, sure. But all you need is to keep your right hand warm. How’s your right hand?”
“It’s comfortable,” said Garlan.
“It’ll be chilly enough when it sticks onto the frozen handles of your gun,” commented Genniver.
“I’ve wrapped the handles with a bit of cotton,” said Garlan.
At this, the other paused in his walking. Then he chuckled. “You got a head on your shoulders, boy. You got a head. I seen that. That’s why I tried to put something in it. Cotton!” He laughed again, and then rubbed the back of his mitten across his mustache, where his breath congealed in white frost.
“You notice this lay,” said Genniver. “It’s a sweet lay, I’m telling you.”
“It is,” said Garlan.
“Tell me why, then,” snapped Genniver with sudden violence.
“They’ll have to let their horses down to a walk to come up that last pitch,” said Garlan.
“Just that,” agreed Genniver.
“Then we’ll have them rather well in hand.”
“Your foreign lingo,” said Genniver, “it makes me sick. ‘We’ll have them rather well in hand.’ Why don’t you talk American? ‘We’ll have them cold.’ That means something. That’s got a kick in it. ‘We’ll have them rather well in hand.’ It’s gonna break my heart, tryin’ to teach you something. I waste my time on you.”
Garlan said nothing.
“The way you talk, it’d spot you anywhere,” said Genniver. “Lay off that lingo, will you?”
“Yes,” said Garlan.
“You say yes. You don’t mean yes, though. You’re proud of talkin’ like a book. Lemme tell you something. Books don’t mean nothing out here. Look at me. I never bothered none with books. I didn’t have to. Look where I got to.”
“You seem to be rather high,” said Garlan. “But cold.”
“Shut your lip,” replied Genniver. “I don’t want no smart cracks. We got business on hand. Not the kind of business that you tackle laughing. You got no seriousness in you. You gotta smile all the time. A heck of a way to stick up a stage.”
Garlan lapsed into obedient, observant silence.
“I made a terrible mistake with you,” said Genniver. “What have I taught you?”
“To ride, to shoot, and to lie,” said Garlan.
“Hey?” snorted Genniver. He glared at the youth.
“Not quite like the Medes and the Persians,” said Garlan in comment.
“To ride, to shoot, and to lie,” muttered Genniver in thought. “Well, there’s something in what you say. But riding ain’t important. Shooting and lying . . . that’s the main thing. Shoot fast and straight. Lie a little faster and a little straighter. But you took to horses and lying a great deal better than you did to guns.”
“I don’t pretend to be a graduate,” said Garlan.
“You won’t be,” said the other, “till you’ve chucked the kindergarten stuff that you’re full of.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Garlan.
“That’s education,” said Genniver. “Learning what to forget. Saving what’s useful. You take your mind. It’s a junk shop. It’s all piled up with useless stuff. You want to sort it over and chuck away the things you don’t need. You can’t ride a horse with a five-hundred-pound pack,” he ended.
“Perhaps not,” replied Garlan.
“They oughta arrive,” said Genniver.
“This snow will hold them back.”
“Maybe it’s too deep for them to try.
“No,” said Garlan. “They’ll try.”
“What makes you sure?”
“The driver. Snow wouldn’t hold him back . . . after the road is once open.”
“Maybe you’re right,” commented Genniver. “You got a head on your shoulders. You know men.” Then he asked: “I wonder what you think about me, kid?”
Garlan did not answer.
“When they top the rise,” said Genniver, “you put a bullet through the head of the near leader. That’s the quickest way to stop a stage.”
“I’ve never shot a horse,” said Garlan.
“You never shot a man, neither,” said Genniver. “You do what I tell you, and don’t ask no questions.”
Garlan cleared his throat.
“You hear me, kid? Drop the horse and then cover the driver and the guard. Probably you’ll have to slip a chunk of lead into the guard. He’s an Irishman. You take an Irishman, he’ll always fight. I got some Irish blood in me,” said Genniver.
“The guard won’t fight,” answered Garlan.
“Won’t he? You know better than me, do you?”
Garlan did not argue.
“D’you hear?” shouted Genniver. “Tell me what gives you that idea, will you?”
“That Irishman is in love,” said Garlan.
“Who told you that?”
“No one.”
“Then how d’you know? Did the guard start right off and tell you everything that was in his mind?”
“I saw the waitress look at him,” replied Garlan.
“Her? She’d flirt with a stone wall.”
“And I saw him look at her.”
“And an Irishman will flirt with a grandmother,” said Genniver.
Again Garlan was silent.
“You make me so red hot. I’m gonna have trouble with you, one day,” remarked Genniver. “What made you so sure about the guard?”
“He looked at her,” said Garlan slowly, “as though he were ashamed of himself.”
The big man grunted. “Well, maybe you know. You gotta pair of eyes in your head,” he said reluctantly.
“I don’t want to shoot the horse,” said Garlan.
“You make me tired,” answered Genniver. “Lemme tell you something. Would you rather shoot a man?”
“No,” answered the boy.
“If you don’t drop the horse, you’ll have to try to drop a man. I know. Suppose you just yell and cover the driver. Well, he may keep the horses running and grab a gun. But you shoot a horse . . . that stops the stage. It gives the driver something to think about to keep the stage from turning over. Instinctive, he handles the reins. It makes the stage lurch and heave like a boat on the sea. Bad for straight shooting. I’ll cover the passengers. You understand now?”
“You must be right,” said Garlan, and sighed.
“Of course I’m right. I been right
for fifteen years. I never seen the inside of a hoosegow. I never done no time at all. I’ve been free. I never done a stroke of work. That’s the way that I’ve lived.”
“Easy, comfortable jobs like this one?” Garlan smiled.
“Stow the lip,” replied Genniver. “D’you hear anything?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Our horses stamping down in the hollow. Their legs are growing numb, I suppose.”
“Hang their legs! Listen up the road.”
Garlan obediently stood at the verge of the road and listened. “Yes,” he said, “the stage is coming.”
“It’s the wind rising,” said Genniver.
In fact, the first breath of a breeze had picked up a silver cloud of snow mist and hung it across the moon.
“No, I hear the creaking of harness,” said Garlan.
Genniver came silently to his side.
And presently the sounds were unmistakable—the pulse of pounding hoofs, breaking into changing rhythms—the creaking of singletrees—the noise of wheels—and at last the crunching of the snow.
“Will they have the money aboard?” murmured Genniver.
II
What they first saw, far up the road, where it clove its way through the edge of the dark pines, was the flying snow dust. And next they saw the tossing heads of the leaders, and then the whole procession of six flying horses, going at full gallop down the slope, with the stage heeling behind them.
Halfway down the slope the big vehicle skidded to the side and cast up a mountainous spray of snow, but the skill of the driver righted it, and the shrill cry of fear from the passengers came thin and clear to the two watchers, like the scream of a great bird.
“That man is a man,” said Garlan, nodding his head a little.
“He’ll toss a wagon load of fools over the edge of a cliff one of these days,” answered Genniver with a grunt. “He pretty near chucked that load down the mountain, just now.”
“The faster you go, the farther you see,” said Garlan.
His companion cast him a black look.
So great was the speed of the coach that at the bottom of the slope the leaders were galloping wildly, and still they could not keep their traces taut, and the impetus brought them all almost to the top of the opposite pitch before they had slackened to a trot.
The last pull uphill is the hardest, however, and there was sufficient grade remaining at the top to bring the horses to a walk. They lugged at their collars with a steady creaking of leather against wood and iron. Garlan found that he could look down into the stage through its windows at the passengers who were mere lumps of shapeless furs and wrappings, and he wondered what were their names, what were their faces—and which of all these was John Dixon, for whose money they had come?
Now the stage reached the top of the rise and the driver raised himself a little from his seat. He had six reins in his left hand, in his right he swung a long-lashed whip. “Yea-a-a!” yelled the driver, and the horses struck their collars with a lurch.
Garlan looked from his shelter at the bigness of that driver, and at the chunky figure seated beside him, a sawed-off shotgun balanced over his knees. If that Irishman were not too deeply in love to be dangerous, then one would need to shoot quickly and accurately. Garlan picked out a target—a big, gleaming button halfway down the front of the guard’s coat. And then, turning a little to the side, Garlan shot the near leader through the head. It fell without a sound—stumbling to its knees and plowing up the snow, then rolling flat.
The driver yelled with excitement and rage and began to tug at the reins to keep the other horses from piling on top of the fallen leader. At the same time, he flung the long handle of the brake forward and jammed down his foot upon it.
While this happened, the guard stood straight up, swinging the shotgun uneasily from side to side. But as the coach came to an abrupt halt, he lost his balance and pitched forward.
Both barrels of the gun roared tremendously in the still night air as the guard struck the back of the near-wheeler and rolled to the ground. There he lay, struggling feebly, and writhing to win back the wind that had been knocked from his body.
The driver, with the coach halted, remained gripping the reins with one hand and the brake handle with the other. But only his body was still, his tongue rushed forth a torrent of invective.
All was well, then, with Garlan’s part of the task.
In the meantime, Genniver stalked up to the coach, his head lost in a great black hood, and dropped the barrels of a pair of Colts on the window sill.
“Pile out pronto,” snapped the bandit. “Do your climbin’ with your hands high, and remember that I got ten eyes. Boys,” he added, “look sharp at these suckers, now, and if one of them makes a funny move, drill him. We’ll ask the questions later on.”
This appeal to imaginary marksmen in the brush perhaps helped to overawe the passengers. At any rate, they came in perfect order from the stage and stood in a row, as ordered, against the bank. Garlan compelled the driver and guard to join that row. Then he stood back with a Colt in either hand and covered the string, while Genniver went back to the coach and turned out its contents into the snow. With a lantern he helped his search, and for a cold half hour Garlan held his guns steady and watched the weary arms of the passengers flag and bend at the elbows. Not a hand was more than shoulder high, before long, but he knew that the weary, numb muscles would not longer respond to the will. There was little to fear from these men.
Genniver went down the line, with suitable comments. “A lot of cheap suckers, I call you,” he said. “There ain’t a single gold watch in the lot of you. A pile of plated junk is all that you pack.” He took a pin from a necktie. “Ten dollars’ worth of diamonds,” he said in wrath, and tossed the pin far away. The owner started, with a muttered oath, but Genniver thrust the muzzle of a Colt into his stomach. “You were half an inch from kingdom come, son,” said Genniver. Then, to the next man: “You’re John Dixon, ain’t you?”
“That’s my name,” said the other.
He was a strong-looking fellow of middle age, unafraid, but watching everything with quiet attention.
“A smart man I’ve heard you to be,” said Genniver, “but this trip you’re a sucker, too. Get those hands up higher!”
The hands were obediently raised.
And then Genniver took from the victim his watch, pocketbook, and, above all, a large pigskin wallet. That wallet he opened, fanned a sheaf of bills under the edge of his thumb. “How much is here, Dixon?” he asked.
“If you take that money, Genniver,” said Dixon, “you’re done for.”
Genniver made a long stride backward and covered his man. “You think you know me?” he asked.
Dixon answered: “Do you know what that money is for?”
Genniver answered indirectly: “What do they want to keep orphans shut up in a house like a prison for? Why don’t they turn them loose and set them to work? What good are they stuck away like canned goods? Damn them, and the fool money that’s spent on them. But you think you know me, Dixon?”
“I begin to know you better, however,” said John Dixon.
“You think I’m Genniver, do you?”
“I know you, Genniver,” said Dixon. “Now, mind you, this money will do you no good. It’s more apt to be the death of you.”
“There’s enough of it,” the outlaw said, chuckling, “to make me die happy.”
“Genniver,” said the other, “I know you and what you’ve done in the world. But you’re not robbing one man, now. I’ve donated only a quarter of the cash in that wallet, but you’re taking ten thousand dollars from helpless children. I tell you, man, the state doesn’t forget such things. They’ll make your trail hot from this minute forward.”
“In the first place, I ain’t Genniver,” said the other. “And in the second place, I don’t give a hang for the state and the . . .”
“I know you by your size and by your
voice,” said Dixon.
“You never could convict a man on size and voice. You oughta have better sense than to think you can,” said Genniver.
“And by your limp,” said Dixon.
The outlaw stiffened suddenly.
“So I warn you, man. You’re spotted. Give back the wallet. Better do that than have a stretch of ten years in prison . . . or fifteen, perhaps.”
“You know me?” muttered Genniver.
“Like a book.”
“Then tell a jury in some other place about me,” said the big man, and fired.
The head of Dixon jerked back under the heavy impact. He touched his forehead with one hand, and then slipped softly to the ground, dead.
There was a sigh—a sound of intaken breath all down the line, but not a man moved.
Genniver backed slowly away from them. “I gotta mind to pepper the whole tribe of you,” he said. “I got a mind to do it, and I dunno why I don’t. A lot of sneakin’ coyotes . . . a pack of yaller sneaks. If you foller my trail, wear armor, I tell you.”
He reached the brush and sprang suddenly back into it, wheeling and running heavily forward. Half running and half sliding, he fairly flew down the slope beyond the trees and came into a hollow where two horses stood with thrown reins. The largest of these he took, throwing the reins over to the pommel and then swinging into the saddle.
At the same time Garlan emerged from the trees and leaped onto the other horse.
“Where’ve you been?” asked Genniver hoarsely.
“I stayed and watched them for a few seconds,” said Garlan.
They rode off side-by-side, jogging their horses. It is a waste of the energy of a horse to gallop it through snow, but at a trot, any Western pony can feel his way. So they passed along with no haste.
“You stayed and watched,” growled Genniver suddenly. “Suppose they’d rushed the brush and got to you?”
“They didn’t rush. I knew they wouldn’t,” answered Garlan.
“What did you think they’d do?”