by Max Brand
They rode on past shimmering lengths of barbed-wire fence, then across a shallow, sandy ford, the water lashing up about the stirrups of Garlan as his pony jogged forward through the stream, and so to the enveloping shade of the trees that grew around the ranch house.
Once he was close to them, they were seen not to form nearly so continuous a forest as he had thought from a distant view, but they were huge, big-headed trees. And they marched in groups and scatterings rather than in ordered ranks, sweeping about the ranch house itself, the barns, the sheds, and the haystacks. Finally the girl pointed to a series of three lighted windows in the distance.
“That’s the bunkhouse,” she said. “I suppose I’d better take you over there and tell Doc Ruhlan that you’re working for me.”
“I suppose so,” said Garlan.
“No,” she replied, “it’s better for you to be rough and hard from the very first, I think. You go in and tell them that you want a bunk. You have your blanket roll, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to take your chance as you find it. And good luck to you, Mister Gannon. What’s your first name?”
“My name is Jeremiah.”
“We’re not a proper lot out here. We go by first names,” she said. “And if you’re still alive in the morning, I want you to call me Georgia. Good night, Jerry.”
She rode straight off to the right toward the house, and Jerry went more leisurely toward the three dimly lighted windows. As he came closer, he heard the whine of a mouth organ, interspersed with wheezings and unmelodious croakings from the same instrument. And he rode up to the sight of half a dozen men lying about on the steps of the bunkhouse, or sprawling on the ground, smoking, listening in the meantime to the artist who performed. Through the open door, Garlan had a sight of two or three more men inside the building. One was sewing a patch on a pair of overalls. Two more were stretched in bunks, reading magazines.
It looked, on the whole, the quarters of a comfortable and contented crew, which he had come to disturb, which, in fact, he wished to turn aside into a course of his own choosing.
And what a crew!
He dismounted from his horse and waited for a moment for a chance to speak, and, while he waited, by the light which streamed out through the doorway, he glanced at the faces. Time is not a gentle or a delicate artist. It works with a broad thumb upon a soft clay model, and time had thumbed these fellows most grotesquely. Even by that indistinct light, Garlan could see that an ear was missing from this man, that another wore a patch over his eye, that still a third had a face puckered upon one side by the drawing power of a vast scar.
He waited for the musician to cease his disturbance, but there was no stopping of the artist. He drawled on from one tune into another until Garlan noticed an exchange of evil grins between a pair of the cowpunchers.
A bad lot, they were. He told himself that he never had seen worse, and yet in his strange life he had been forced to look at men of all kinds and descriptions.
So now he unstrapped his pack from behind his saddle and advanced, picking his way through the lounging crowd, until he came to the steps. They were blocked from side to side by three cowpunchers who squared their shoulders and looked Garlan insolently in the face. The central figure was that of the mouth organist. He watched them with concern. It was hard to tell exactly how he should go about forcing a passage, but at last he ventured to insert the toe of his boot between two of them.
“What’s the matter with you!” shouted one of these gentlemen, outraged. “Wipin’ your shoes on me, are you?”
Alas for Jerry Garlan. He was seized by the calf of the leg and a single upward jerk cast him off balance and flung him spinning backward. His blanket roll fell in one direction. He himself toppled in another and into the grasp of enormously powerful hands. Those hands seized on him, shifted their hold down to his ankles, and then commenced to whirl him around and around as a father sometimes whirls a boy.
Laughter roared from the group. They scattered to either side.
“See can you break your record with him! He don’t look heavy, Doc!” they called.
So this was Doc Ruhlan. Garlan had a picture of a brutal, laughing face, and then the dizzy motion blurred all things before his eyes. He was hurled through the air. It seemed as though his arching flight never would end, but end it did—a great and crushing shock as he descended upon the harsh bosom of the earth. There he lay writhing, the breath knocked from his body, his head bruised, and, even after he sat up, he still swayed a little back and forth, gasping.
It was long moments before the stars ceased to whirl through the skies, and after that he could still hear the roar of laughter from the cowpunchers as they enjoyed the Homeric proportions of this jest.
Garlan, at last, rose to his feet and walked back into the group. Doc Ruhlan stood, vast and defiant, his legs braced far apart, and his laughter still rumbling in the deeps of his throat. But the others offered Garlan no injury. They even allowed him to pick up his roll of blankets and pass in between them—unmolested still—until he stood in the bunk room.
It was like all bunk rooms—its walls dripped with all manner of clothing—from hats above, to boots beneath—and bridles, quirts, and ropes dangled and poured down from every hook. All things have their own odor, and that of this conglomeration would have been fragrant but it was all seasoned and reduced to a single quality by the strength of the tobacco smoke that, during countless hours of the winter nights, had lain in pools throughout the place, soaking into every crevice and growing stale. The only means of ventilation consisted in the single open door. The three windows on each side of the long room had been carefully closed. Some of them were secured, furthermore, with strong nails.
These details Garlan observed with a careful, unhurrying eye. He understood why he had been allowed such a free entrance. It was from the hand of big Ruhlan that he had been cast into disgrace, and, if he expected to be accepted as a man by these fellows, he would have to fight out his quarrel with Doc Ruhlan.
In the meantime, he would be given a breathing spell. And if he did not try to strike back—no matter what the size of Ruhlan—he would be condemned to unspeakable contempt.
He was frightened. He was cold with a great fear. But the same impulse that had seized him in the room of the sheriff’s house and driven him out in frantic pursuit of the girl still possessed him. It forced him on with an open, thoughtful eye, while his lips were compressed.
There were four men in the bunkhouse. Each of these had proved the iron of his nerve and of his indifference by continuing his occupation, without caring to step to the door to see the disgraceful rout of the stranger. Three of them were reading. The other continued his patching.
Of the mender Garlan asked quietly: “Which is Ruhlan’s bunk?”
The latter lifted his head and regarded Garlan coldly. He then looked down to his work and took another stitch, but, changing his mind again, he pointed across the room.
In the center of the opposite wall there was a space between the bunks that, as a rule, were built up two and even three high. Here there were none, and the gap was filled with a comfortable three-quarters bed.
This, then, was Ruhlan’s resting place, as though his huge bulk could not have been contained by an ordinary bunk. Garlan looked upon it as a traveler might look upon the throne of an African king. Then he stepped to it and neatly rolled up the bedding that was spread over its surface. This large, long roll he carried to the center of the floor and dropped it there.
Instantly the three readers lowered their magazines. The patch-maker lowered his damaged overalls, and four pairs of eyes curiously watched the further procedure of Garlan.
He returned to the bed and upon it rolled down his own blankets. After that, he took from the three hooks that hung at the side of the bed and above it the piles of paraphernalia of all kinds that they supported, and in two liberal armfuls he carried them to the center of the room and deposited them up
on the blankets of the foreman.
This done, upon one hook he hung his quirt. Upon another he hung his sombrero. Upon the third he draped a silken bandanna.
Thus he took possession, and afterward he marched to the end of the room and wrenched open a window. It blew a cold draft upon one of the magazine holders, but the latter made no protest. Only his lower jaw thrust out a trifle.
In the meantime, the entering wind struck the smoke, scattered it, and rapidly cleared the bunk room of its heavy atmosphere. With this accomplished, Garlan sat down on Ruhlan’s desecrated bed and rolled a cigarette.
XII
The degrees by which we know danger are as various as the degrees in which we know life itself. There is the battle hero, capable of going over the top cheerfully enough, if he has hundreds of companions at his side. There is the strong man, who is not unwilling to accept any challenge to the hardness of his fists. There is the criminal who steals at night through an upper window and slips from room to room, listening to the breathing of the sleepers. There is the footpad who surprises the pedestrian. There is the gunfighter, who bursts into foul language in the barroom and draws his gun at the end of his tirade. But there is no test for the nerves so complete and so awful that comes between the delivery of a formal challenge and the moment when the duel must be fought.
The challenge of Garlan lay piled, as it were, in the center of the bunk room floor, and now he steadied his shaking nerves with a cigarette as he sat on the edge of Ruhlan’s bed, perched on the very edge of it, so that his Colt hung freely down from his right hip.
The silence lasted in the meantime in the bunkhouse. The four other occupants got up from their beds, one by one, and established themselves in good positions from which they could watch what was bound to follow. And the battery of their eyes fell upon Garlan.
Moreover, the news of what had happened indoors seemed to have permeated to the outside. For the silence had spread there, also. And the moments went by slowly, slowly.
The cigarette was half finished, and eternities lapsed between the drawing of each and every puff. But when the halfway mark had been reached, and the long ash tumbled to the floor, Ruhlan himself strode into the doorway.
Then Garlan could see that the big fellow was adorned with a revolver pendant at either hip. He wore those guns low down, the lower end of the holster in each case fastened around the leg by a strap and the upper end opened and at such a point that the hand of the fighter could seize the weapon without reaching either up or down. Many a man has worn two guns in the West, but there are few indeed who have been able to use them effectively at the same instant.
And by the confident bearing of the big fellow, and by something in his expression, Garlan could guess that he was one of the selected group.
Three long steps Ruhlan strode into the room and then paused. “You sneakin’ coyote,” said Ruhlan with bitterness. “Stand up!”
Garlan obediently rose.
Behind Ruhlan he saw six faces peering through the doorway with great, eager eyes. The mouth of the scar-faced fellow was agape with a dreadful grin. Then he looked back to Ruhlan himself. The fury of the big man was enough to quell the bravest heart, but Garlan had discovered the proper manner of looking another in the eye. He had learned it from no less accomplished a ruffian than Genniver himself, and the secret lay in looking at another as one looks at the page of a book, scanning the always legible print with care in the hope of discovering somewhere signs of weakness, of folly.
So Garlan looked at Ruhlan now, calmly regarding the fleshy brow now gathered in imitation thunder, the upturned nose with the flaring nostrils, the little, overly bright eyes so brilliant with anger, the vast, loose mouth, the chin short and square, and the somewhat full and pendant jowls.
As for Ruhlan himself, he had paused for a moment as though to let the greatness of his size overawe the smaller man, the hugeness of his self-confidence oppress the stranger. But as he saw no sign of weakening, his anger grew. He stamped, and the whole floor trembled.
“Even Injuns,” said Ruhlan, “gotta have a little pity on a half-wit or a nut. I gotta have a little pity on you, kid, for the same reason. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Yank your bedroll off my bed, put my own back . . . careful, mind you . . . and after that I’ll find out what next I want out of you . . . but it’s likely that I won’t have to plant you.”
“You’re Ruhlan,” said Garlan.
“I’m Ruhlan,” said the big fellow.
“I knew you at once,” said Garlan. “I was told to look for a man with the face of a pig, so I distinguished you at once from the rest.”
Ruhlan actually blinked. His position so long had been assured, so long unchallenged, that now he could not believe his ears. He made a little movement with his hands, as though eager to settle this debate by weight of punching, but the argument was removed to another plane, and the smaller man had whatever advantage could be bestowed by physical dimensions.
For that reason, the fury of Ruhlan exploded again. “I’m gonna break you apart!” he bellowed. “I’m gonna . . .”
“Fill your hand,” said Garlan quietly. “I’ll give you the advantage of the first move.”
That remark actually silenced Ruhlan. In return for his insults, a favor was extended to him. He was allowed to take the first hold, so to speak, as the stronger wrestler always allows the weaker to do. And thrilling fear shot through the heart of Ruhlan. He stared, aghast, and the cold, quiet face of the younger man seemed to him suddenly the face of his fate.
“Lord!” gasped Ruhlan, and snatched at his weapons with both hands. He had the gift of ambidexterity, but perhaps it was the effort to use both guns at once that undid him. Plainly he beat Garlan to the draw. He put one bullet right across the part of the smaller man’s hair. With the bullet from his left-hand gun, he split the floor at the feet of the boy. Then Garlan’s single weapon spoke from the hip, where it had twitched from the holster, and Ruhlan staggered.
Both his Colts clattered to the floor. He clutched at his right shoulder with his left hand, and his eyes glared at Garlan. He was no longer Ruhlan, the bully. He was more like a frightened pig—frozen white with fear.
So much had been done, as Garlan realized instantly, more by clever strategy and clever tactics than by any superiority of gunmanship on his own part. And now he decided to touch off the charge with another spark. A weapon was useless in his own left hand, but the hint was given to him by the frightened face of the giant. He threw his Colt into his left, therefore, and called: “You still have your left arm safe and sound, Ruhlan. We’ll fight it out fairly and squarely . . .”
Ruhlan backed toward the door. He gasped: “Don’t let him murder me. Boys, don’t you let him murder me. If I got any friend among you, keep him away from me, boys!”
“And a yellow dog at heart, all the time,” said Garlan.
Ruhlan reached the door.
“You fat skunk!” shouted an angry voice, and Ruhlan was jerked headlong through the doorway.
A cry of agony followed. There was the loud spat of a fist striking home against a bare face. And then groaning, and the pounding of running feet.
Garlan took off his clothes and went to bed, but he sat up for a good-night smoke. He needed the soothing of the tobacco; all his nerves were jerking and jumping. But as he smoked, he saw the men file in through the door and go to their places. They went silently, or softly murmuring to one another.
“That pile of stuff,” said Garlan quietly, “you can split up among yourselves. I don’t think Ruhlan is going to come back to claim it.”
Curious eyes watched him. No one made a move toward the recently abandoned possessions of Ruhlan.
“And now,” said Garlan, “we’re going to have a complete understanding. Some of you fellows have been playing a crooked game, and you’ve been playing it at the expense of a girl who can’t help herself. Most of you were led into it. I understand that Ruhlan has been running the place and Georgia Dixon hasn
’t been able to help herself. That’s changed. Ruhlan is gone. Beginning with tomorrow, everyone is going to have a chance to show that he’s a square shooter. We’ll keep that window open and have clean air at night. And we’ll keep clean in the day, too. That’s all, boys. Good night.”
There was not a murmur of answer from the sullen men.
Garlan sat suddenly erect in his bed. “Good night!” he repeated in a ringing voice.
Muttering and sullen the answer came: “Good night.”
Garlan laid down and turned his back upon them.
For some time he had a twitching of the muscles between his shoulder blades, as though he feared that a bullet might be discharged at that spot, but there was not the slightest token of trouble from that crew of grim characters. They had had a lesson so extremely complete and to the point that not a voice was raised as they turned into their bunks, and Garlan, at last, noted that his heart was thundering less loudly.
He heard murmurs—he even heard whispers. Then the lanterns were blown out, one by one. The last of the men was under blankets. The cold, pure air of the outer night streamed through the room. And lifting his head a little, Garlan could see the glimmering of the horizon stars outside the door. Like friendly signals, they seemed to him. At last he could stretch himself, his toes pointing straight down, his hands folded above his heart. He closed his eyes.
Sleep began to well up in waves of dimness, spreading softly across his mind. And through those waves of darkness he saw Georgia Dixon moving, and he heard her voice speaking as if in the distance of his thoughts, more musical than a bell.
At last he slept, and the dreams of Garlan were cheerful indeed.
When he wakened from that profound slumber, he found that every man already was out of the bunkhouse. The pile of Ruhlan’s possessions had disappeared. Out of the distance came cheerful voices in the morning air.
And he knew that he had won.
XIII
There were two dining rooms at the Dixon Ranch. One was for the family and the other was for all the hired hands and for any chance travelers who passed that way and who claimed hospitality. But, as a rule, John Dixon had made a point of eating with the cowpunchers, and Georgia had strictly followed that custom. She was even up on this morning for breakfast in the first rose of the dawn, and saw the men file in.