Gunman's Rendezvous

by Max Brand

  It was the certainty of the girl that had distressed him. However great a champion Tom Dexter might be—and his name was great enough—there should always be a pretty fair chance for the other fellow when he, also, is an expert. But she had spoken as though Tom Dexter were as certain as the god of death.

  It had not been sheer brag on her part, either, but a definite conviction. That was what disturbed him—the definiteness of the conviction. She had not gloated on the things that her man would do to Sandy. She had proclaimed them like a seer who does not rejoice in inevitable foreknowledge.

  Well, the best of them have to go down sometime, and this might be the time for Dexter to drop, no matter what the girl thought.

  “Which way, brother?” asked a voice. A man with a shotgun rose out of a bush and covered him, casually.

  “Tom Dexter,” said Sandy. “I want to see him.”

  “He ain’t expecting you,” said the other, after a pause of surprise.

  “He’ll expect me when he sees me. I have a message for him.”

  “Who told you he was here?”

  “Sally.”

  “The hell she did!”

  Sandy waited.

  “Hey, Jumpy!” called the man with the shotgun. A second figure came out from the shrubbery on the opposite side of Sandy. “Here’s a gent that says that Sally told him to come up here to see Tom Dexter.”

  “If Sally sent him, he’s all right,” said the second man. “This way, hombre, and I’ll show you home.”

  He walked ahead of Sandy to show the way, without the slightest sign of further doubt. But the second guide, who remained at his post, could be overheard growling: “I don’t like it. He don’t look like one of us.”

  How does a man need to look to be like one of them? Sandy wondered. Perhaps that was the lack in him that made the girl so sure that Tom Dexter would put him down. She would have to learn that an unshaven face and scowling, brutal manners are not the sure signs of the unconquerable fighting man.

  His guide took him through the brush into the midst of a forest of lodgepole pines that grew up the side of the mountain to the north. Sandy could hear water chiming somewhere near them.

  “The chief’s got a hell of a grouch on,” said the guide, falling back beside young Sandy Lane. “Things have been breakin’ bad for him, lately. Mostly about Sally. If you know her, you know how things is between them.”

  “They’re pretty thick, I guess,” said Sandy.

  “The chief’d cut off his head to make her happier,” said the guide. “But what the hell? What can they do, anyway? Go and marry her . . . and maybe get himself hanged the next month? A swell joke on Sally, that would be. You know . . . I’m sayin’ things the way that the chief sees them . . . me, I’d take and marry her and the hell with everything. But some gents, they get funny ideas.”

  Very funny, indeed, thought Sandy. An odd thrill of irresolution passed through his body. He had been prepared, he was sure, to face any hard-handed scoundrel in the world. But it appeared that Tom Dexter was something more than a villain. He was capable of at least some acts of kindness and of thought. Remorse could still enter him, no matter how long his list of dead men.

  What had the girl said? That she didn’t want Tom to commit his first murder now? A certain vagueness came over the mind of Sandy Lane. He never before had approached battle without a singing in his blood. Now his heart was still in him.

  The red-eye of a fire looked through the woods.

  “Hey!” called the guide. “Comin’! Me! Jumpy! Comin’ with a gent! Me, Jumpy! Comin’ in with a gent! Hey!”

  A whistle answered them, and, passing through the trees, Sandy rode out into a small clearing where a fire burned with a fine, cheerful crackling. A coffee pot, steaming briskly, had been pulled back from the edge of the blaze to keep hot in the warmth of the ashes.

  Half a dozen hobbled and sidelined horses grazed the long grass on the farther side of the clearing but there was only one man present, a fellow somewhat above average height with the gray hair of middle age. No, it was closer to white, although his face remained young except for the care in it. He was drawing lines on the ground and studying them with care.

  When the others came closer, the man by the fire looked up and, rising, stamped out the map that he had been drawing. “Well, Jumpy,” he asked, “who’s your friend?”

  “He ain’t any friend of mine. Sally sent him,” the guard answered.

  “I have a letter for you,” said Sandy Lane. He dismounted and passed the letter to Tom Dexter. Now that he was on foot before that very famous man, it was a pleasant comfort to Sandy to find himself a vital pair of inches taller. In fact, there was nothing very impressive about Tom Dexter unless it were a certain calmness and consideration in his face. In his clothes, he was like any down-at-the-heel cowpuncher. He wore cheap old overalls with a big faded patch over the right knee. It was plain that this man had no pride of appearance. He seemed to have little pride in other ways, but, when he heard that Sandy was a friend of Sally’s, he gave the stranger a pleasant smile and a nod.

  He took the letter that Sandy offered, ripped it open, and at once muttered: “Why should the old devil send me a message by code?”

  He sighed, sat down by the fire again, and began to work out the words one by one, checking off with his thumb the enigmas that he solved. Once he glanced up curiously at Sandy. There was no waver in his eye. It dwelt on the face of Sandy as steadily as on the face of a book. After a moment, Dexter dropped the paper into the fire and stood up.

  “I hear that you’re a skunk that needs to be drowned,” he said.

  Was that the message that old Jig Carter had confided with such care to his messenger? The shock of the knowledge made even Sandy Lane blink a little, but he rallied at once.

  “I’m a skunk, am I?” said Sandy. “Then it’s fair to tell you that I came up here to do more than carry a letter.”

  The curious eye of Dexter dwelt on him again, and at length he said: “You’re another one, are you?” he asked. “Another one of the gun boys? Going to be famous at my expense, Lane? Well, I’m glad it’s that way.” He nodded.

  Jumpy, in the meantime, had been softly fading away to get a position behind Sandy, but the chief called him back: “Jumpy, get out of that. I don’t want him shot through the back. Get out of here and, when you reach the pass, sing out so that I’ll know.”

  “You keep on taking chances like this, Tom,” said Jumpy, “and one of these days you’re going to get plastered right between the eyes.”

  “Of course,” said Dexter calmly. “Nobody’s any better than his luck. Back out of this, Jumpy.”

  There was a muttering protest, and then Jumpy retired, the brush crackling about him as he drew away.

  Dexter said: “This is one of those things right out of a book. The outlaw hiding in the mountains . . . you come up single-handed to do him in. No shooting from ambush. Everything right out in the open, eh?”

  “Sneering at me won’t buy you anything,” commented Sandy. “You can’t talk me down, Dexter.”

  “Talk you down? Good God, I don’t want to do that. We’re going to make this as straight as a string, but . . . you’re not just a fool of a boy, are you? You’ve had more experience than shooting at a mark?”

  “You wouldn’t want to take advantage. Is that it?” asked Sandy. “Well, you won’t be taking any advantage. You may call it book stuff . . . but I’ve one here to clean you up.”

  “Well,” answered Dexter, “that’s the way I take it. But I’d like to ask you one question on the way down. How did Sally happen to send you out here?”

  “She thought I might as well get it over with.”

  “She what?” snapped Dexter, jerking up his head.

  “She didn’t want a dead man hanging around the hotel, day after day. I suppose that was it.”

  “Ah?” said Dexter. He stared at Sandy with a new light in his eye. “I’m going to kill you, Lane,” he said. “Whe
re should word be sent . . . so’s we can make this nice and polite and out of a book right to the wind-up.”

  “If I go to hell, nobody needs to know about it,” said Sandy.

  “Are you ready to fill your hand?” the gunman asked.

  “Make your move,” said Sandy in a ringing voice.

  “You’re going to give me the first chance?” said Dexter, smiling a little. “Well, we’ll wait till Jumpy sings out . . . and then we’ll both go for the guns. Does that suit you?”

  “To a T.”

  “Steady, then, and we’ll wait.”

  Dexter shifted back so that the light from the fire would not strike up into his eyes. They stood perhaps ten or twelve paces apart. The moonlight, striking over the tops of the trees, gave them an excellent light, almost as useful as that of the sun. To the west, the trees of the clearing were silvered—to the east they were black points against the strange blue of the night sky. Some of the horses moved in thick shadow like images under water. Some of them were marble figures in the moonlight.

  Jumpy would sing out any moment now.

  Something hissed beside the fire. It was the coffee pot, which had suddenly begun to boil violently, casting out a long slant of frosty breath on the night.

  A voice rang from far away. Big Sandy Lane flashed a hand toward a gun. He saw an incredibly swift wink of light in Dexter’s hand—and then a bolt of darkness and blood red struck the brain of Sandy Lane into oblivion.

  VI

  When light came back across Sandy’s eyes, he felt a dreadful burning across the side of his head and a hot flowing of blood. He was dying? That did not matter. What counted was that he had stood in battle, and he had been beaten. Death was nothing—but to be conquered . . .

  Perhaps he was not finished, yet. If he could regain his feet and find the gun that had fallen from his numbed fingers he might be able to go on.

  A swirl of silver-like water glowed above him—that was the moon. A dash of trembling red and gold—that was the campfire. But where was Tom Dexter?

  Sandy got to his knees. He pushed himself up to his feet, unsteadily.

  “Where are you, Dexter?” he called. “Come back . . . and fight!”

  “Thank God!” cried the voice of Sally.

  He heard the rustle of skirts coming on the run toward him; the sound reached his mind, but he could see nothing. He had a second gun, of course. For this he reached. Sally was there. Men do not fight in the presence of women, but after all he ought to try to make a last stand—if only he could see something more than sheer moonlight and the fire.

  “He’s living . . . he’s not dead . . . you haven’t murdered him!” Sally was crying. She got to Sandy and tore the second gun from his loose fingers. “Listen, Sandy,” she cried at him, “you can’t fight any more! You’re facing the wrong way. Sandy, are you blind?”

  There was a rising note of agony in these last words.

  “You care a good deal what happens to him, eh, Sally?” asked Tom Dexter’s voice.

  “If you’d killed him, it would have been my murder!” cried the girl. “Sandy . . . sit down here . . . listen to me . . .”

  He let himself be forced down. It was true that still his vision was clearing only slowly, very slowly. He sat down and found a stump under him. The fragrance of the boiling coffee was in his nostrils.

  “Don’t waste your time on me,” said Sandy to the girl. “I’ve been well licked. Keep away from me, and herd with the real men. I’m only a sort of a roustabout. I’m a loud mouth that talks big and does nothing.” He groaned with shame as he spoke.

  “I’ll get some water heated here,” said Tom Dexter.

  Then Jumpy’s voice broke in: “Why didn’t you finish him, chief, as long as it was a fair fight?”

  “I thought he was finished,” said Dexter. “So did Sally, and that’s what she was mourning about. Listen to me, Lane . . . how badly are you used up?”

  “I’ll be ready for another crack at you in half a minute,” said Sandy Lane. “We’ll finish this job tonight.”

  “I never play my money on a sure thing,” answered Tom Dexter.

  The girl drew a warm, wet cloth over Sandy’s face. She began to wash his torn scalp, where the bullet had plowed its way through the flesh and made a furrow in the tough bone. Her touch was as light as mercy itself. The warmth of the water drew away the first exquisite agony.

  “We’d better get out of here and leave you alone with your boy, hadn’t we?” asked Tom Dexter.

  “What’s the matter with you, Tom?” she demanded.

  “I’m only asking you,” said the cold-voiced Dexter. “You came up with your horse run to a lather. You must have taken twenty chances of breaking your neck on the way here. That’s more than you would ever have done for me. Or was it me that you were thinking about? Did you want to take care of me, Sally? Were you afraid that the kid would shoot me?”

  “Tom Dexter, you’re talking like a jealous baby,” said the girl. “I can’t believe my ears. How is it, Sandy? Can you see, now?”

  He looked up. She was arranging a bandage around his head, her touch miraculously soft.

  “I can see. I can see my way out. Sally, go home,” he said.

  “And then what?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” said Lane. “Nothing . . . but you go home.”

  “You want to finish with Tom, do you? Well . . . I won’t go.”

  The bandage was snug around his head, and he stood up.

  “Quite a hero, isn’t he?” asked Tom Dexter. “Wants to finish the thing tonight . . . no matter how dizzy he is. Listen, you fool . . . I don’t drill lead into helpless men.”

  “I’m not helpless!” Sandy snapped.

  “You’re sagging at the knees. You’ve got your face all pulled to one side with the pain in your head. Don’t play the fool,” said Tom Dexter.

  “I’ll take him away,” suggested Sally.

  “I thought you’d think of that,” answered Dexter coldly. “But he stays here.”

  “Why should he stay here?”

  “I can’t explain.” said Dexter. “I’ve had a letter about him. He has to stay here for nine more days.”

  Sandy could hear the girl panting with excitement. “You mean that you’re going to let him get well . . . and then you’ll shoot him down . . . in one of your fair fights?”

  “Is that what you think?” demanded Dexter.

  “You never fought fair in your life!” exclaimed the girl. “The other fellow never had a chance because you have the speed of a cat in your hand, and you can’t miss. It’s never been a fight. It’s always been murder . . . murder . . . dirty murder!”

  “Ah?” said Tom Dexter.

  “I knew that I couldn’t keep Sandy away from you, so I told him where to find you because I wanted the horrible thing ended quickly. That’s why I sent him,” she said. “But you’ve had your chance. Tom, if you fight him again, I’ll never . . .”

  “Go on. You’ll never what?” demanded Tom Dexter.

  He came a step nearer. His voice was quiet; his face was perfectly composed. Suddenly Sandy Lane realized that the outlaw never was anything but composed in voice and expression, no matter how the devil might be dancing on his heart with spurred heels.

  “Now, you listen to me, Tom,” said the girl. “You know that nothing can ever change me. . . .”

  “I don’t know that,” he replied. “You never were what I thought, it seems. And you’ve changed even from what you used to be. How much did you talk to this . . . this Sandy Lane?”

  “Only a few words.”

  “Did you tell that you and I . . .?”

  “Yes.”

  “Only a few words, but you told him that?”

  “Tom, you’re simply bent on misunderstanding me.”

  “No, I don’t misunderstand. I understand it all pretty well,” said Dexter. “You want to take him back to the hotel with you, eh?”

  The girl gasped, frightened. “No, Tom. Not i
f you don’t want me to. But if you keep him here . . . you’ll fight him again . . .”

  “Did I say that I’d fight him again?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “I’ve never bet on a sure thing in my life. You know that. I’m not going to fight him again, unless he tries to sneak away.”

  “Listen to him, Sandy,” said the girl. “Promise him that you won’t try to get away.”

  Sandy Lane smiled. “I’ll make no promises,” he said.

  “But what do nine days mean to your life?” she argued.

  “I don’t know. The nine days mean something to somebody . . . to old Jig Carter, for instance. Otherwise, Dexter wouldn’t want to keep me that long.”

  “What can I do!” groaned Sally.

  “You can go home,” said Sandy Lane. “I’m sending my thanks along with you. One of these days . . . maybe I’ll see you again.”

  “That ought to comfort you a little, Sally,” remarked Tom Dexter.

  And suddenly the girl turned and flung herself into the saddle on a sweating little mustang, close to the fire. “I wish I’d never seen you, Sandy Lane!” she cried, and she dashed the horse away through the brush, through the trees.

  The crackling noise of the shrubbery died away; she was gone down the pass.

  “And now, Dexter,” said Sandy, standing straight.

  “And now what?” asked Dexter. “Do you think that I was only talking to get the girl out of the way?”

  “No, but I think . . .”

  “Damn you and your thinking. I’ve heard enough of it!” exclaimed Dexter. “Jumpy!” The guard came to attention. “You’ve got that pair of handcuffs we took from the sheriff last week? Put them on the hero, will you?”

  Dexter stood back, watching, and Sandy calmly allowed the manacles to be clamped over his wrists. The steel was rusted, but it would be powerful enough to control ten times his strength. There was nothing for him to do except to submit.