by Max Brand
“Try to bring him back to life.”
“And did they do that?”
“Yes,” said Garlan. “They gathered around him.”
“And what happened next?”
“In a moment, one of them stood up and said . . . ‘Poor Dixon is dead, my friends.’ One or two of them took off their hats. That was all I waited to see.”
“I could’ve told you that without you waiting,” said Genniver. “I don’t miss. I gave him that through the head. How’n earth could he be anything but dead?”
As though he expected some answer to this question from behind, he jerked his head around and looked over his shoulder.
III
Far below the snows, a small stream curved out of the forest through a clearing and, having flashed across a hundred yards of sunshine, disappeared with murmurs among the trees again. On the inside of that curve was a stretch of sand untroubled by a single bush, and here Genniver and Garlan camped, a week later.
Their horses were starvation thin. They had covered two hundred and fifty miles of terrible country, and twice they had nearly been caught by racing posses. The woods and the broken country had sheltered them. But now they were working into a kinder region—and, therefore, one more dangerous to them.
On this ideal watering spot they camped, and they roasted mountain partridges over a small fire and ate their fill. They had no coffee, no bread. They had powder and shot and salt. And they had lived on the land as they traveled—like a barbarian army of another century.
They had grown leaner and harder. The jowls of Genniver hung in folds and the frown deepened between his eyes. He ate. Then he lay in the sand on the flat of his back, with only his head in the shadow, and slept. Garlan slept, also, but curled up on one side. And every now and again he opened his eyes and looked about him. Then he slept again. At last, he wakened with a start and looked carefully around. The sound of the rushing water sang in his ears; he felt that he had been sound asleep while dangerous eyes looked out at him. The murmur of the stream among the trees was almost human, like people speaking in guarded tones to one another. He looked at Genniver, who still had not moved, although now the sun beat fully upon his face. Garlan sat where the shadow of his body shut the rays of the sun away from the sleeper’s head.
Genniver began to snore. He slept for another full hour, and then he groaned as he opened his eyes.
“I’m tired,” said Genniver.
“Of course you are,” said Garlan.
The big man dragged himself to a sitting posture and clutched his knees. “Gimme my hat,” he said.
Garlan placed it on his head, but too accurately to suit his companion, who brushed it back so that his long, disheveled hair poured down over his forehead.
“The cayuses are done up,” said Genniver.
“Yes,” said Garlan, “they’re badly tired.”
“You know horses, kid?”
Garlan shrugged.
“How long before they’ll be fit for another long run?”
“Ten days,” said Garlan.
“Ten days too long!” exclaimed Genniver.
As usual, Garlan did not argue.
“That bay,” decided Genniver, “is breaking down in front.”
“You ride him too hard downhill,” said the boy.
“Do I? And why didn’t you tell me so before?”
“I can’t give you advice. Could . . . but what’s the use? You never take it.”
“Who said so? Well, let it go. We ain’t made the split yet.”
Garlan made a cigarette and lighted it. He began to watch a squirrel that had ventured out from among the trees and now sat up, brushing its whiskers, and looking up and down the stream like a mariner stranded on a strange, wild shore.
“You don’t worry none, kid,” murmured Genniver. “By grab, you pretty near beat me, the way that you slope along through all of this. Dead men ain’t a thing to you. You’d think that you was just driftin’ around on a vacation party, or something like that.”
“Perhaps,” said Garlan. “But I don’t feel that way about it.”
The older man jerked out a wallet. “There’s ten thousand bucks there,” he said. “If you don’t believe it, count it for yourself.”
“I believe it,” said Garlan.
The other compressed his lips a little, and thereby suppressed the smile of satisfaction. “Now, what should your share be?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Garlan.
The outlaw said gently: “I know the way that some gents do. They take the lion’s share. When they’re breakin’ in a kid like you, they always take the lion’s share. They give the kid a salary, maybe. Chuck Morrissey, he told me that when he started he worked with Missouri Slim, and old Missouri, he used to give Chuck just money enough to find him in grub. But I’d call that pretty small. I said so right out to Chuck. I thought it was a real outrage. Chuck didn’t seem to mind, though. He said he’d learned enough with Slim to make it worthwhile. He was gettin’ his schoolin’, you see. Chuck looked at it that way.”
Garlan blew a thin whiff of smoke high in the air. He studied it until the wind struck and shattered and tore it to bits invisible to the eye of man.
“But the way I work it,” continued Genniver, “I’d say that even a young kid like you that don’t know nothin’ has got a right to a percentage. Everything fair and square for everybody, I’d say. That’s the only way to work it. I dunno what sort of a percentage, though. Maybe you got some ideas on that subject?”
Garlan shook his head.
“We ain’t out of the woods yet,” commented the older man. “We still gotta wind our way around and try to get clear and safe, and you’ll need my brains to help you to do that. I suppose that maybe it would be better if I didn’t make the split with you until we got loose. But I tell you the way that I am. I like to have everything divided up quick. I like to have a young kid like you contented.”
“Thank you,” said Garlan faintly.
“Now, suppose we start off by seein’ what sort of a percentage you had ought to get?”
“Yes,” said Garlan.
“I’ll make a suggestion. You raise me if you don’t think it’s fair. Nothin’ like talk to get down to a good understanding about everything, is there?”
“No,” said Garlan.
“Take a young kid like you, money don’t mean nothing to him. I know that. Money comes like the leaves come, for a young kid. And money goes like the leaves go. Just the same way.”
Garlan nodded.
“But still, you gotta have a good, fat share. So I say . . . a whole thousand dollars to you, Garlan . . . though heaven knows what you’d be doing with that much money.”
“No,” said Garlan, “I don’t know what I’d do with it, of course.” Then he added: “The money that I want, Genniver, is only enough to pay for the horse.”
The eyes of the other bulged suddenly and his color changed. “What horse?” he asked, in such a voice as one might use in asking after a ghost.
“The horse I killed,” said the youngster.
Genniver narrowed his eyes. “I dunno that I foller your drift,” he said.
“She was a little gray mare,” said Garlan. “I never saw a brighter head, with a white splash between the eyes. She came up into her collar with spirit, too.”
“You wanna pay the price of her?” drawled Genniver.
“Yes.”
“And that’s all you want out of this pile of money?”
“No,” said Garlan, “I don’t want it out of the pile of money. I don’t want any of that money. Not a penny. Now that I think it over,” he said more slowly, “I couldn’t use that money to pay for her. I’ll have to make it some other way.”
“This here ten thousand . . .,” began the outlaw, and stuck at that point.
“Well?” asked Garlan politely.
“You don’t want any of it?”
“No.”
“You couldn’t touch a penny of it
?”
“No.”
“Well,” said Genniver, “I’ll be everlastingly hanged.” He snatched out his revolver and fired. The little squirrel on the far bank rolled over and over with a scream. It was not a very loud sound, but it cut across the stream like the cry of a human being. However, the squirrel was not killed. It staggered to its feet and made off toward the woods, its hind legs trailing. Again and again the big man fired, rousing thunderous echoes through the woods, and the third shot obliterated the squirrel.
This result seemed to relieve the mind of Genniver. He reloaded his gun, handled it a moment fondly, and then returned it to the holster. “You don’t want a penny?” he repeated.
“No,” said Garlan, “I don’t think I could take any of that money, Genniver.”
“But you want the cash to pay for a gray mare that had a splash of white between her eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Genniver, “I’ve been about the world a little, and I’ve met queer cases, and I’ve found strange folks, but, of all the fools that ever I met, I gotta hand you the credit for bein’ the biggest.” He waited for some rejoinder, and, when he received none, he yelled suddenly: “It’s ten thousand in hard cash!” This lucid statement still brought not a sign of an answer, and finally he had to ask outright: “Will you tell me why this coin is no good to you?”
“Because there’s blood on it,” said Garlan.
IV
This speech seemed to astonish the big man mortally. He grew pale and rubbed the end of his nose with the back of his hand. “Blood on it,” gasped Genniver at last. “Of all the . . .” He broke off, leaned forward, and planted his fists upon his knees. “If there’s blood on the money, there’s blood on me,” he stated.
Garlan did not answer. His failure to reply to all manner of suggestive speeches made Genniver angrier and angrier, and now he snarled: “Maybe it kind of hurts you to be takin’ the bread and butter out of the mouths of kids? Maybe you’re mournin’ and moanin’ because of them orphans, eh?”
“I think of them, also,” said Garlan, “but I’m sorry to say that I can’t think of them so much.”
“You think of them, but you can’t think of them so much,” Genniver repeated with huge irony. “Dog-gone me if it don’t tire me to listen to you yap, like the bawlin’ of a dog-gone’ calf for its ma.”
Garlan did not seem perturbed by this remark. “She was a fine little mare,” he said. “She had short, pointed ears. Did you notice how they quivered back and forth? A nervous, big-hearted horse is apt to have that habit with the ears.”
“Oh, what do I care about her ears,” grunted the other.
“They were black,” answered Garlan. “Both black. And her muzzle was black, too. And all her points were black. She was a beauty, Genniver.”
“Look here,” said his companion rudely, “are you plumb batty? Ever been any nuts in your family before?”
Garlan thought it over. He was always one of two things—very sudden and swift in his actions and his words, or else prodigiously slow. His words were apt to be spoken just loud enough to make a listener lean forward. And his gestures were slow, like his drawling voice. “I don’t think I’m unbalanced,” said Garlan. “And I don’t think there have been any cases of mental illness in my family.”
“Because,” said Genniver, “if you didn’t know it before, I gotta tell you now. You’re batty, son. You’re plumb crazy, and I’ll give you a certificate as a loony.”
Garlan made no protest to this generous offer.
“And after all,” said Genniver, with increased anger, “what are you gonna do about the money that’s got the blood on it?”
“I don’t know,” said the youth seriously. “I’ve been thinking it over. I don’t suppose I could wash it clean.”
“I don’t suppose you could,” sneered the outlaw.
“But perhaps,” went on Garlan, “I could wash the blood off my hands.”
“By leavin’ all the cash with me, eh? Well, I got nothin’ to say about that, either. I might even call that good sense. You leave me the money. You wait for an easier job before you get your share. I see how it is. I wouldn’t rob you of a penny, but you’ve got a conscience. A lot of young kids, they got consciences. I had a conscience once, too. It used to bother me a good deal. I’ve laid awake half the night, pretty near. I see how it is with you, exact. You wouldn’t want to have this money. It’d bother you. Why, kid, I respect you for feelin’ that way.”
“He fell down rather slowly,” said Garlan thoughtfully. “I thought that he was only wounded, at first.”
Genniver laughed loudly. The outburst rang through the glade almost as violently as had the explosions of his gun, a few minutes before. “You dunno me, yet,” he said. “I never pull a gun till I gotta. And when I pull it, I make sure that I kill.”
“Did you have to pull your gun on that squirrel?” asked Garlan curiously.
Genniver gnawed his lip with rage. “That didn’t please you, neither?” he suggested.
Garlan failed to comment again.
“Nothin’ much that I do pleases you!” shouted Genniver. “What d’you mean by it?” Then a moment later he roared: “Blood money!” His temper was rising momently.
“Ah, well,” said Garlan. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“About cleaning my own hands.”
“There’s the brook,” said Genniver with a sneer. “Don’t let all that water hold you back.”
“Who was Dixon?” asked Garlan.
“A banker. A lawyer, too. I hate lawyers and bankers. I’ll tell you why, too. They’re livin’ off of other people. They’re exploiting other folks. They don’t do no work at all. They sit behind desks and wait like spiders waitin’ for flies. I tell you, I hate them. It makes my heart bleed to see what suckers gents are, borrowing money from bankers. I gotta admit that it makes my blood boil, kid. This here Dixon, he was a banker and he was a lawyer.
“He was pretty rich, too. They say that he was worth about a couple or four millions. I dunno. I suppose every banker has a chance to make that much. Squeezing gents to death. I hate the banker crew, the whole clan of ’em. Exploiters!”
Genniver dwelt upon this word with a good deal of relish. It had newly been added to his vocabulary, and, although he was not quite sure of its meaning, he liked to put it into occasional sentences. He felt that it gave a great deal of polish and strength to his speech.
Garlan, as this outburst endured, turned his head toward his companion for the first time in several moments and regarded him steadily. “I understand, I think,” he said.
“You do, eh? I tell you, it’s a fact.”
“I understand,” said Garlan. “You’ve been in their hands, Genniver, before?”
“Been in their hands! Six dog-gone’, separate, unlucky times I been tried, and those lawyers worked to get at me like wolves for raw meat. You could see ’em gnashin’ their teeth to get at me.”
“Ah,” said Garlan. “And I have no doubt that you’ve had trouble with banks. Perhaps some unfair mortgage foreclosed was the thing that first sent you adrift . . . and hardened you . . . so that you hate all bankers and lawyers. And you hated Dixon, also, because he was one of them . . . and . . .”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” said Genniver. “I never had no ranch to be foreclosed on.”
“Ah?” said Garlan. Then he sighed.
“You look sick,” said Genniver. “What you got in your head?”
“I’m wondering,” said the boy. “I want to do the right thing. I’m struggling to get at the right thing.”
“The right thing about what?”
“About the gray mare, and the money . . . and the squirrel,” said Garlan.
At this, Genniver rose to his feet. “Now, by grab,” he said, “I wonder what you’re thinkin’ of tryin’ or doin’?”
“I think I should,” declared Garlan.
“You think you sho
uld what?”
“Kill you,” said Garlan. And he rose in turn, lightly, without touching the ground with his hands.
“Crazy,” gasped Genniver. “Plumb batty . . . and I guessed it before.”
“Kill you,” said Garlan, enlarging the thought, “because, as it appears to me, you are rather a useless fellow, Genniver. You’re not a bold, rough, honest, wild fellow.” He discarded that suggestion with a gesture. “You’re plainly a brutal murderer. You murder a man . . . you murder a squirrel. I think you ought to die for it.”
Genniver laughed, but his excitement was so great that the laughter went awry and sounded extremely wrong. “You’re gonna stand up and die, are you?” he said.
“I won’t die,” said Garlan. “I’m three or four inches faster with my hand than you are. I’m not quite so accurate. I couldn’t hit a squirrel, for instance, as you did. But at this distance I’m sure to kill you, Genniver.”
The larger man bellowed like a tormented bull. “You whippersnapper!” he cried.
“I don’t want to harm you,” said Garlan. “Only, I’m forced to. You dragged me into killing a horse. Then I stood by and watched you kill a helpless man. You’ve made me witness, jury, judge, and executioner, too. The stain of that is on my soul, Genniver.”
“Soul?” boomed Genniver. “I’ll soul you, you calf-eyed lunatic!” He jerked his Colt out of its holster, and the hand of Garlan flashed through the same movement. The first fire spat from the mouth of Genniver’s gun, in spite of Garlan’s boast, but the bullet merely struck the earth at the feet of the youngster. For, indeed, that was the system of Genniver.
Start the old gat spoutin’ the minute that it’s loose out of the leather, he would say, and then keep it workin’ till you’ve spilled out all the six chunks of lead. It don’t hurt the ground or the air none, and it might do the other gent no good.
So fought Genniver, true to his principles.
But Garlan waited a thousandth part of a second while the muzzle of the big Colt tipped higher. Then he shot Genniver fairly through the body.
The impact of the half-inch slug jerked even such a bulk as Genniver’s halfway around. The gun was flung from his hand, and he sagged to one knee, catching at his breast.