The Red Well

by Max Brand

He lurched forward, putting a hand on the ground to push himself up. Quick stepped in and rapped the long, heavy barrel of the Colt accurately against the base of the look-out’s skull. The fellow dropped loosely to the ground and lay without movement.

  Even when a man has two hands to work with, it is not easy to lift a senseless human body that seems like quicksilver, eluding the grasp through its looseness. But Quick managed the task. He got the weight of the fellow over his back and shoulders, bending far forward to keep the burden on a broader base of support. Then he went on toward the house, stooped in this manner.

  He was not far from the rear of the dwelling when the voice of Sarah sounded, small but sharp: “What’s that? Jerry, look there.”

  “Open the door,” panted Quick. “It’s me. Hurry!”

  The door opened as he reached it. He stepped inside and let the weight of the prisoner spill out across the floor.

  The dim lamplight showed a fellow with a week’s worth of reddish beard on his face—a tall, heavily built man of thirty years or more. He began to groan and murmur.

  “What have you got?” demanded Jerry. “Quick, you crazy man, what you gone and done?”

  “We needed some news,” said Quick. “Tie his hands . . . and tie ’em behind his back, Jerry.”

  “Here’s some rope,” offered Jerry.

  “Not rope,” directed Quick. “Use twine.”

  With twine, therefore, the hands of the prisoner were lashed together behind his back. He was half fighting against the bite of the string before that process had ended. Now he sat up, muttering.

  Quick waited until the fellow had had a chance to look about him and realize his situation.

  Then a groaning curse announced that he was aware of what had happened. “Finnegan, you got me?” he demanded. “It was you that come up behind me?”

  “No. It wasn’t me. What’s your name?” asked Finnegan.

  “To hell with my name,” said Slade’s man.

  Quick took him by the collar of his shirt and twisted the knuckles of his hand into the man’s spine. “Will you talk?” he demanded. “What’s your name?”

  The man looked up with a gasp.

  “It’s Quick,” he muttered. “I thought that you was done for.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sam Dillon. Quick, I thought that you was dead.”

  “Get up and sit in that chair,” commanded Quick.

  He was obeyed. Dillon sat in a corner where the dullness of the lamplight showed only the red glint of his beard and the fishy gleam of his eye as he looked uneasily around him.

  He said: “It was you that come up behind me, Quick?”

  “It was,” admitted Quick.

  “But you couldn’t’ve drug me in here with only one hand, and the other one is done up, I see.”

  “You’re in here, no matter how you came. You know what it means to be in here?”

  “I guess I know,” said Dillon.

  “What’s happening out there in the trench?”

  “They’re driving it toward the house, and they’re sinking it deeper and deeper all the time.”

  “Why deeper and deeper?”

  “To get under the foundation.”

  “Look here, Dillon. Does Slade intend to blow up the place?”

  “I guess that’s what he means to do. He’s got enough dynamite to do it, all right.”

  “He means murder for the lot of us?”

  “Yeah, he sure means that.”

  “Tell me another thing. Who was it that lay in the tank and took the long-distance shot at me when I went out to fight Slade?”

  “That was Dick Loomis.”

  “What sort of a looking fellow?”

  “He’s a runt and he wears a patch over his left eye. He ain’t got more’n one eye . . . but that’s enough when it comes to guns.”

  “What was he to get if he dropped me?”

  “A thousand bucks, flat.”

  “That’s generous of Slade,” said Quick. “A thousand dollars is quite a price for a single life. I hope Slade pays him something on account.”

  “He paid half, because Dick swore that he sure put that bullet through your gizzard . . . the other half was to go to Dick when Slade seen your body stretched out dead. He sure hates you, Quick. But how’d you manage to handle me with one hand?”

  “Never mind that. Tell me another thing.”

  “I’ve gotta answer what you ask,” said the prisoner dolefully.

  There was a pause, and the only sound was the great, stormy bellowing of the frantic herd, a dreadful music to the ears of Quick.

  “Why does Slade want this place?”

  “I dunno,” said Dillon.

  “If you lie, Dillon . . .,” began Quick.

  “I swear I dunno,” said Dillon.

  “It’s not for the cattle,” said Quick. “He’s letting them die of water famine. Is it for gold?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Dillon.

  “He brought out plenty of tools for digging when he came. It has to be gold that he’s after,” insisted Quick.

  “Then why didn’t he bring pans for washing?” asked Dillon.

  “You’re sure that he didn’t bring any? Well, a Dutch oven would do that job for him.”

  “He didn’t bring a single double jack or a drill . . . so, if he run into a ledge under the ground, how would he handle it?” said Dillon.

  Quick considered for a moment. “He came out to dig for something. What was it he wanted to dig for, Jerry?” he asked Finnegan.

  “I can’t make no sense out of it,” said Finnegan.

  “You, Sarah?” asked Quick.

  “It’s got me plumb beat,” said Sarah.

  “He came out ready to dig on a big scale,” said Quick. “And what could he want to dig for unless it were gold?”

  “There’s the ruins of the old Mexican town,” said Sarah. “Maybe he thinks that there’s a treasure around the foundations of the old houses.”

  “Mexicans never left so much as a red cent behind them when they deserted an old town,” answered Quick. “And they could smell buried treasure miles away. It’s not likely that Slade would be wasting time running down any old Mexican legend.” His mind reverted to another idea. “Slade came through here some time ago,” said Quick, “and wanted to pay a price for the land here. You know about that?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Dillon.

  “Ever hear of a well turning red?”

  “Yes,” answered Dillon.

  “Ah-ha!” exclaimed Quick. “Now we’re getting at something. What did you hear about a well turning red?”

  “Some of us asked him what the devil he was hunting for,” said Dillon, “and Slade laughed and said that one night he had a dream, and in the dream he had seen water turn red. He said that was why he was here.”

  “Is that all the explanation he gave?”

  “Yeah, and every word.”

  “That sounds more like a joke than an explanation.”

  “I’m telling you the straight of it. He said that he dreamed that water turned red and that was why he was here. It don’t make no sense, but I’m telling you the truth.”

  “There’s a lot of funny new things in the world,” said Finnegan, “and maybe that red in the water means a queer kind of a new thing that’s worth a lot of money.”

  It had to have some such meaning, thought Quick, and yet the red stain had, in the meantime, been fading out and leaving the water pure.

  Outside the house, a loud voice began to call: “Dillon! Hey, Dillon! Oh, Dillon!”

  IX

  Quick said to the prisoner: “You can go over to the window and answer if you want to, Dillon.”

  The man stalked to the window and leaned against the side of it, as he bellowed: “Yeah, Slade!”

  “Where are you, fool?” shouted Slade.

  “I’m in here.”

  “In the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “What com
e over you to go in there, you dummy?”

  “Quick caught me.”

  “Quick’s a dead man. How could he catch you? Are you drunk?”

  “He ain’t dead. He’s got one arm in a sling, but the other hand is worth both of mine, it looks like.”

  “What happened?”

  “I dunno. Somebody stepped up behind and said you wanted me. When I started to get up, I was socked over the head. And I woke up inside the house.”

  “That’s too damn’ funny to be a lie,” commented Slade from the ditch. “They got you in there to pump you?”

  “There wasn’t anything they wanted to know that they hadn’t guessed already,” said Dillon.

  “Slade, I’ll make a bargain with you!” called Quick.

  “That you singing out, Quick?” answered Slade.

  “Yes,” said Quick,

  “What kind of a bargain do you want to make?”

  “A bargain for Dillon. He’s a good man, isn’t he?”

  “One of the best that ever forked a horse,” answered Slade. “I never thought that he’d be fool enough to set still without a pair of eyes in the back of his head.”

  “We’ll send him back to you, Slade.”

  “Yeah? And what do I have to pay?”

  “Let the boy, Jimmy, have his pinto, and give him a start from the door of the house in the morning, so that we can see he has a fair chance to get clean away. We’ll send you Dillon for that.”

  “Yeah, and would I trust you?” asked Slade.

  “You’ll trust me if I give you my word,” said Quick.

  Several other voices from the trench, where the digging had stopped, commented: “Yeah, you can trust Quick if he gives his word.”

  “Give us a horse and a chance to get the boy away in the morning,” pleaded Quick.

  Slade began to swear. “I want Dillon back,” he declared. “But if the kid goes away, he’s sure to hit town and tell folks what’s happening out here. How can I leave the kid go?”

  “Slade, you can’t mean to murder everybody in the house. There’s a woman here and a boy, too.”

  “You’re whining, are you?” commented Slade. “Why, I gave that fool of a Finnegan a chance to sign and get out free . . . yeah, and a chance to save some of his cows, too. It would’ve been a good chance last evening. Even now, some of them will last a drive up to the river. I’m still leaving that chance open.” Then he added: “You hear that, Sam? I got ’em inside my hand, but I’ll let ’em go for the sake of turning you free ag’in.”

  “It’s dog-gone’ kind of you, chief,” said Dillon. “I guess they’ll make the bargain, now.”

  But here one of the men in the trench protested: “No matter whether there’s a paper signed or not, it wouldn’t hold no strength in the law, chief. Not a thing that folks have been forced to do.”

  “That’s true,” Slade said in response the man in the trench. “I never thought of that.” Then to Dillon: I guess you’re a goner, Sam. Sorry, but what can I do?”

  Dillon swore softly, and stepped back from the window.

  Sarah Finnegan began to weep, a very soft, small sound. She kept saying: “Poor Jimmy. Poor Jimmy.”

  But the voice of Jimmy sounded suddenly from the inner door: “Supposing I had a chance to skin out and leave you all, would I be the kind of a yaller dog to do that? Pop, you don’t think that bad of me, do you? Mom wouldn’t know no better. But, Quick, you don’t mean that you’d expect me to go, do you?”

  And Quick had to answer, with an odd choking in his throat: “No, Jimmy, you’d never leave a partner in a pinch.”

  “So long, Sammy!” called Slade. “If they won’t turn you loose . . . and they’d be fools to do that . . . I guess you go to hell with the crowd of ’em. Anyway, you’ll have company, Dillon.”

  “It’s OK!” sang out Dillon in answer. “So long, Slade. So long, boys!”

  The sounds of digging began again, always creeping slowly and more slowly toward the house.

  “Well,” said Quick to Finnegan, “do we have to let the poor devil die with us?”

  “Why not?” asked Finnegan. “He’s been one of them, ain’t he?”

  “A fellow can go pretty far wrong with bad leading all around him,” remarked Quick. “He went with the crowd . . . and Slade showed them all the way.”

  “Would you turn him loose, Quick?” asked Sarah Finnegan in wonder.

  “Anyway, you brought him in, so you can turn him out again, if you want to,” said Finnegan.

  Quick, without a word, picked up a knife from the table and cut the twine that tied the wrists of big Dillon. “You’ll only make one more to add to them,” said Quick. “You’re free to go back to Slade and the rest.”

  Dillon stood with hanging head and arms in the middle of the floor. “Wait a minute,” he muttered. “Wait a minute.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Quick.

  Dillon lifted a hand and rubbed the swollen spot at the base of his skull. “I was trying to think,” he said. He wandered toward the rear door of the house. But before he opened it, he turned again with the same stunned face. “Well . . . so long,” he said, and held out a hand.

  Quick, without hesitation, shook that proffered hand, and Dillon went out into the night to return to his kind.

  “Why’d you do that, Quick?” asked Finnegan.

  “One more death inside won’t make us any happier,” said Quick. “Besides, Dillon isn’t such a bad fellow. He wanted to say something here, before he left. Well, the thing that he didn’t say, he’ll do some thinking about later on.”

  Dillon could be heard calling out as he left the house: “It’s me, boys! It’s Sam . . . don’t shoot.”

  “How the devil did you get loose?” shouted a chorus.

  “Quick, he turned me free . . . for nothing!” exclaimed the bewildered voice of Dillon, and the answer was in a loud chorus: “Hey, was he drunk, maybe?”

  Quick looked out toward the edge of the sky and saw a pallor on the horizon and a seemingly greater blackness of the heavens above. He knew that the dawn had commenced.

  X

  The day that in its pale coming showed their position more clearly, also showed its utter desperation. From the top of the house Quick turned his hollow, burning eyes toward the horizon and saw two riders who kept circling around and around the ruins of San José. They were the outposts of Slade, and now that the trench was actually close under the end of the house and the explosion probably would take place before long, it seemed an odd folly that Slade should waste his men on this sentinel work. If the defenders issued on foot, they would soon be run down and shot.

  Inside the house, Quick could hear Jimmy Finnegan singing cheerfully, insensible to fear, and the heart of Quick closed and grew small. If time were spared to Jimmy, what a man he was in the making.

  That thought had hardly come to Quick when he saw a moving dust cloud that advanced from the horizon with a wonderful rapidity, for as the sun approached more and more toward rising, the brighter light seemed to draw the dust cloud nearer until it was transformed into a rider.

  As this image drew closer, a queer touch of expectation melted away from the mind of Quick. He had dreamed, for an instant, that the stranger might possibly come close enough to spot the mischief that was being carried on at the ruins of San José. And afterward he might escape to carry the tidings away and bring help. Would even Slade persist in wholesale murder when he knew that his work was to be reported?

  But the first hope had faded when, after a time, the sentinels of Slade paid no heed to the approaching horseman.

  In fact, they were at the other end of their beats before one of them suddenly shouted and then fired his rifle.

  The stranger slowed for an instant—then rushed for the house with body well forward, like a jockey.

  Quick could understand, then. The coming figure that had been clearly in his eye for so long had been seen by him more easily because he was at a height above the ground. Bes
ides, the eyes of Slade’s men were dimmed with long watching and because they could not dream that another person would come from the outside world at this time of the day.

  At any rate, they had opened fire, and still the rider rushed in—a small figure with shoulders no wider, it seemed, than the shoulders of a boy.

  Then, with a cold thrust of astonishment, Quick realized that it was a woman. And still, with a closing spurt that polished her horse with sweat, she drove headlong through the bullets that were coming at her.

  Slade’s two outposts were rushing back. Now they could no longer fire, as they found the bulk of the adobe house in their way.

  And at that moment Quick could recognize the black mare of Eunice Chalmers, with Eunice herself in the saddle. A wild voice tore out of his throat. He leaned from the edge of the roof to warn her away, but she, looking up, waved her arm at him and cried out a cheerful answer. It seemed madness.

  He, like a madman himself, got from the roof, fairly dropped down the ladder into the kitchen, and gained the front door in time to wrench it open for the girl.

  Slade’s men were sweeping up on either side of the house, at the same time, but Eunice Chalmers ran through the doorway into safety and the embrace of Quick.

  Safety?

  Through the whirling of his mind he remembered again the noise of picks and shovels at the rear of the house. There was not, perhaps, an hour of life for any person inside the place. And Eunice Chalmers was here with him. She was half crying, half laughing over him. She was touching the red-stained bandage that bound his shoulder and lashed his arm to his body. She was telling him that, after he had left the house, an agony of dread had come over her, a terrible feeling that he would never come back to her. She had gone on the trail, through the pass, and at last she had voyaged out, late at night, over the plain. In the first of the daylight she saw the square shoulders of the house far in the distance, and heard the lowing of the cattle. She was here—and what did it matter that armed men were about the house?

  Sarah Finnegan had come into the room. Jimmy was there, looking white and sick.

  Jimmy said: “Mom, look what we been and done. She belongs to Quick. And she’s lost here with us.”

  Sarah Finnegan ran back through the house and began to scream through a kitchen window.