by Max Brand
“That’s enough, Jumpy,” said the chief finally. “You’re free to go back into the pass now. Keep your eyes open. When birds like this are flying around, sometimes they move in whole flocks.”
“Sure. I’ll keep a tight watch,” said Jumpy, and added: “But if I was you, I’d make him safer than handcuffs are likely to do.”
“Sit down,” said Dexter after Jumpy went off through the trees.
Big Sandy Lane obeyed. Something was gone from him. He had been among the unconquered, now he was thoroughly beaten. He could understand how champions of the ring feel when they waken from a senseless sleep on the floor of the ring and hear the opponent acclaimed as the winner. He could understand how the stallion that leads the herd must hang its head forever, after a stranger has challenged and beaten him to a bloody token of defeat.
That was how the heart of Sandy Lane was bowed. And now that the first despair began to end in him—now that he was no longer desperate—now he wondered if the old strength of nerve would ever return to him.
Dexter, rolling a cigarette, lighted it, and smoked for a moment, looking down at the fire. “Coffee?” he asked at last in a pleasant voice.
Big Sandy shook his head.
“Cheer up,” said Dexter. “I wish that I’d laid you cold, Sandy. But as long as I didn’t have that luck, I’ve got to tell you that one good licking is what makes the best men turn from iron to steel. It takes a hammering to finish the finest metal.”
VII
Old Oliver Lane lay flat on his back. His muscles were so weakened by his long spell in bed that he even could feel the pull of his cheeks against his mouth, as though his lips were stretching to a smile. His head was raised by the pillow just enough to permit his eyes to travel down over the covers, hardly rounded by his starved body.
Age was starving him—he was over eighty—sickness was drinking his blood. And he remembered the day when the great arch of his chest lifted so high that, in a position like this, he could by no means see his feet.
Well, that great old time had passed him by. He was in another era.
He could see the peak of his nose, pale as marble, with a blue vein streaked across it. And he smiled to think how little power was in him, and how hard he had to fight to maintain the single spark of vitality that burned somewhere in his being.
He would not die—not yet. The doctor had given him up three weeks before. Every day the doctor drove out to the ranch house to look at the dying man, and every day the doctor took a deep breath and shook his head.
Oliver Lane ought to have been under the ground long before this. But he would not die. The same bulldog determination that had enabled him to begin, nearly sixty years before, the creation of a herd of cattle, the same patient defiance of markets, weather, plagues, disease among his stock, until through the long years he had accumulated a fortune—a slow fortune—thirty years to win the first $100,000—then gradually piling up the wealth—this same bulldog determination was what he used in fighting against death.
When he felt his heart sink away within him, when his breath began to fail and his eyes grew dim, then he would rally himself with a slight gripping of his jaws.
Tomorrow he could die. Tomorrow, he had marked the moment when he would be willing to close his eyes forever, because that was the final date he had set for himself.
He heard, now, a footfall in the hall of the house. A hand tapped at the door and instantly opened it. And Henry Barnes came in. He gave the old man one penetrating glance, and then smiled a greeting.
“News, Henry?” murmured old Oliver Lane.
Henry Barnes shook his head slowly, sadly. “Not a word about where Sandy might be,” he said.
“It’s a queer thing,” remarked old Oliver.
“Yeah . . . kind of queer,” agreed Henry. “But you know how it is. A fellow that raises that much hell . . . there’s so much trouble coming down his trail that he has to keep on the run.”
“No,” said the quiet voice of Oliver Lane. “Never on the run. Never on the run away from trouble. Always on the run toward it. That’s the only direction in which he runs.”
“Maybe, sometimes,” said Henry Barnes.
He sat down in the chair he always used beside the bed. He was not a bad-looking fellow. He was well-browned. His industry kept him constantly in the open riding herd, riding fence, keeping his eye upon a thousand details. There was only a touch of hardness to his face, and that hardness was appearing too early in life. His mouth could harden to too straight a line. His eyes could squint until they had the gleam of two rifle barrels.
“Maybe sometimes he’s running toward trouble, but he can get so many hornets into the air that even Sandy has to run,” said Henry Barnes. “Take over there at Three Rivers, for instance . . .”
“Three Rivers? What did he do there?”
“Kind of wrecked the town, was all. Smashed up a saloon or two, and fought pretty near everybody in the town. They waited around for him with a batch of guns, after he had locked himself into a hotel room . . .”
“You mean that after fighting the whole town, he went up into a hotel room and went to sleep?”
“That’s what it seems he did,” said Henry Barnes, shaking a sad head. Then he was shocked to see that the old man was smiling a little.
“How did he get away?” asked Oliver Lane.
“Through a window, with a rope, swam a fast river, robbed a man of a horse, and rode away.”
“Stole a horse?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Henry Barnes.
“He’ll pay for it,” said the rancher.
“Aye. With your money, Uncle Oliver.”
“No, not with my money. From the day when he started drifting, he’s never asked me for a penny.”
“Ashamed to, I guess,” said Henry Barnes.
“No. But money that he didn’t make himself had no flavor when he spent it,” said the rancher. “Henry, have you ever been young?”
“Not that young, thank God,” said Henry Barnes.
“I was,” said the rancher. “I made my share of trouble in the world. I’ve wondered a lot about it. Too much energy, in some young men. Perhaps that’s the answer.” He looked out the window. He could see two of the big barns that were filled with winter feed for the cattle. He could see the wild, windy sweep of the hills—his hills.
“Well,” said Henry Barnes, “it’s not for me to lay down the law.”
“No, don’t lay down the law. Never lay down the law to Sandy,” said the dying man. “That’s too dangerous. Even after you have the place for your own . . . and that will be no later than tomorrow at midnight . . . even after that, if you meet with Sandy, don’t lay down the law to him. He’s never yet done murder, Henry. Don’t tempt him.”
Henry Barnes flushed a little, but made no answer. He knew that the old fellow loved young Sandy Lane, no matter what Sandy had done in the world. He knew that Oliver Lane had for him, on the other hand, no more than an unwilling respect for his shrewdness, his industry. That was because, Henry felt, he was one more degree removed from the blood of Oliver Lane, or perhaps simply because he wore a different name. Yet on the day when he had suggested changing his name to Lane, the old man had merely looked at him in horror beyond words.
“He stole a horse,” murmured Oliver Lane, and almost laughed—at least his smile was very wide. “He could be lynched for doing that,” he said.
“I’m afraid, one day . . .” said Henry Barnes.
“Henry,” interrupted the old fellow. “I’ve put the search for poor Sandy into your hands. I’m sure that you’re doing everything.”
“Everything in the world that I can,” said Henry Barnes.
“I hope so,” said old Oliver Lane. “Tomorrow, Henry, I expect to die. Tomorrow, if Sandy doesn’t return, by the terms of my will you become the sole heir. But if you have not made an honest effort to find Sandy, my ghost will return and curse you every night of your life.”
Henry Barnes look
ed suddenly down to the floor. He gave not the slightest heed to vengeful ghosts. Fat bank accounts were all that he really heeded in this world.
“Well,” said the old man, “it’s too late for me to doubt you now, Henry. Whatever happens, I know that, if you have the place, you’ll take good care of it. Now let me be alone.”
Henry Barnes left the room in haste. But even his back was expressive of a consummate joy. He had closed the door behind him when a sharp voice said: “How d’you let yourself swallow all that bunk, Mister Lane?”
A small boy hoisted himself up to the sill of the window.
“Bunk?” said the sick man.
“Him hunting for Sandy,” said the boy, with a grunt of disgust.
“Who are you?” asked Oliver Lane.
“I’m just one of the kids around,” said the freckled lad. “By name of Mickey. The McGuires is my people.”
“What do you know about Henry and Sandy?” asked Oliver Lane.
“I know that Henry’s no good,” said the boy. “I seen him put his whip on a hoss one day. He laid into it till the blood flew. What kind of man would that be?”
“A bad horse needs a whip, sometimes,” commented the old man. But he frowned. It was not for nothing that the eyes of Henry Barnes were set so close together.
“All right,” said the boy. “I ain’t here arguin’. I’m just here lookin’.”
“When you’ve looked enough, you can run along, Mickey.”
But Mickey’s mind was too occupied with another train of thought to heed the words. “By jiminy, wouldn’t I’ve liked to see him clean up Three Rivers. Pop says that’s the toughest town anywheres around.”
“It’s a pretty hard town,” admitted Oliver Lane.
“What Sandy can’t bust, he’ll bend,” said the boy.
“Do you know Sandy well?”
“Sure do . . . I know him well. He gave me a pony, once. I was only five and he give me a whole horse!” The kid’s clear eyes glowed.
“When was that?”
“Seven years back. Just before he begun to hit the high spots.”
“I remember.” The old man sighed.
“D’you think that Henry Barnes would try to find Sandy?”
“He says he has tried. He’s followed the trail as far as Three Rivers.”
“He wouldn’t have to do no following to get that far. Look-it . . . everybody knows how Sandy cleaned up Three Rivers. Three Rivers is so dog-gone’ ashamed of how one man licked it and give it a black eye, that they say the folks up there are thinkin’ of getting’ a new name so’s the rest of us won’t laugh at ’em so much.”
Oliver Lane frowned at the ceiling. A single spark of suspicion ignited his soul. “How could Sandy fail to hear that I’m looking for him?” he muttered.
“He’s laying up somewhere and taking it easy,” said the boy.
“I’d give a thousand dollars to have him here before midnight tomorrow,” said the rancher faintly.
“You’d give what?” shrilled the boy.
“A thousand dollars . . . yes, more, more,” said Oliver Lane. He looked toward the window. But he merely saw a disappearing flash as Mickey dropped from view. Out of the distance, a moment later, he heard a whoop of excitement.
And Oliver Lane smiled. He could guess what frenzy of excitement was burning up the soul of little Mickey. But he knew that where grown men failed on a trail, a twelve-year-old boy was not likely to succeed.
The smile of the old man turned into a sigh. He wished, in his heart, that he never had made a promise to Henry Barnes. Something deep in his soul revolted at the mere thought of that earnest, scowling young man. And Oliver Lane began to wish that the morrow had already arrived, and ended, and that he might end with it.
VIII
Mickey McGuire sat by a map and considered. He spotted all the towns within a convenient sweep from Three Rivers and he picked out the one he had heard the least about, the hardest one to reach. That was the town of Cherrill. It was the hardest one to reach from Three Rivers—it was the easiest to get to from the ranch. The Cherrill Mountains were so close that they were brown, not blue. One could see the trees on the edges of the hills like stubble on the cheeks of an unshaven man.
So Mickey got his pinto and rode for Cherrill. He got there still in the heat of the day and felt very lonely and far away, as he rode up the main street. There are three centers of information in a town, he knew: the blacksmith shop, the saloon, the hotel. He went to the blacksmith shop first.
“You heard of big Sandy Lane?” he asked.
The blacksmith, looking up with a scowl, spat on the floor, looked down again, and went on hammering his bar of iron.
When Mickey got into the saloon, he called out to the fat barkeep: “You seen anything of Sandy Lane around here?”
“Say, kid,” growled the bartender, “wait till you’re a growed man before you ask a man’s questions! Get out!”
Mickey got out, and went to the hotel. When he tried to get in through the front door, the clerk ran him out.
“We don’t allow no damned dusty-footed brats in here,” said the clerk.
So Mickey went around to the kitchen door and, looking in, saw a wide-faced woman at work between the stove and the sink. The fleshy frown, which distorted her brow, told Mickey that it would be folly for him to speak to her. Cooks have hot water to throw. They are not to be tampered with. But a moment later a girl came in, wearing a trim white apron, with a brown, smiling face, and pleasant green eyes. There was a sheen of coppery red in her hair.
So Mickey went to the screen door and hissed softly.
The girl turned around.
“Give that kid a run around!” bawled out the cook.
“All right,” said the girl.
With a deft hand, she stole some crisp cookies off a tin tray and went to the door, which she threw open. “What are you doing here?” she demanded fiercely. And at the same time she held out the cookies.
They were instantly in Mickey’s pocket. “You ever hear of a fellow by name of Sandy Lane around here?” he asked. And he saw her start, and saw her eyes open a trifle. Most certainly she had heard of a fellow named Sandy Lane.
“Behind the hotel, in ten minutes . . . near the pump,” she whispered as she disappeared back into the kitchen.
Mickey went to the pump at once and sat on the platform of it, munching food and blessing the thought of girls who have green eyes. He thought, on the whole, that this girl was the prettiest he had ever seen. When he grew up, he would find him a girl with green eyes. When he got a herd of cattle, he would marry a green-eyed girl and settle down—that would be after he had killed a lot of bandits, and done the other things that are necessary to the making of a full life. He’d even throw in a little train-robbing perhaps.
Now the last cookie was hardly down, before he saw the girl coming toward him with a swift step. He rose with a grin to meet her.
* * * * *
Tom Dexter’s camp was not the same as the one in which he had first met Sandy Lane. He had moved every second day, as usual. And now they were above timberline, in one of those pleasant meadows where the wildflowers bloom small, but in myriads, and where the bees have their chosen pastures, loading themselves with the precious golden dust and sharing it as honey down the slopes in the hollow of an old tree. The hum of wings is never stilled on the broad face of one of these pastures. And the sleepy music contented the soul of most men.
But big Sandy Lane was not contented. He was a much altered man from the lad who had encountered Tom Dexter. For one thing, his eye had darkened. His face was thinner. And there was a permanent wrinkle forming between his eyes, like the lines that reside continually between the eyes of a lion. He looked much older. And in place of his old restlessness of a gay spirit, he rarely raised his voice, he rarely made a careless gesture.
Now, seated with his back against a rock, he looked down at the irons that shackled his wrists, and, when he looked up from them, he heard
the distant rushing sound of the waterfall, and, nearer, all the small violins that the bees and the flies kept playing in the sunny air.
By the fire sat Tom Dexter mending a broken bridle, sitting cross-legged, and rarely speaking.
Jumpy, in the shadow of some small brush, was sleeping, and snoring loudly. Now and again, a fly lighted on his face and he wakened long enough to curse once, loudly, before he fell asleep again.
The world was at a pause. The life of Sandy Lane was at a pause, also, and he felt that it would never resume its course until he had resumed existence where it had left off—facing Tom Dexter, gun in hand.
He said suddenly: “Tom, I’ve been eight days without a gun in my hand.” Dexter, looking up, nodded at him. “But when I start again,” said Sandy, “I’m going to be faster than I ever was before.”
He was surprised to hear Dexter say instantly: “I think you will.”
“The next chance I have at you, Tom, it will be a nearer thing than the last one.”
“I think it will, too,” said famous Tom Dexter.
“Tell me what’s your reason for thinking so?” asked Sandy.
“Because,” said Dexter, “no man does much with his hands except follow what the old brain tells him to tackle. No man’s hand is fast unless his brain is still faster. And you’ve been sitting there for eight days, sharpening your wits . . . thinking a gun out into the open in a fast draw.”
Sandy Lane smiled a little. “You’re a queer fellow, Tom,” he said.
“A lot of people think so,” said Dexter, “and some sheriffs among them.”
“I’m going to fight this out with you,” said Sandy. “But, by God, I like you as well as any man I ever knew.”
At this, Tom Dexter rested his chin on his fist and regarded his prisoner for a long moment. “I like you better, Sandy,” he declared. “And that’s the pity . . . that I have to hold you . . . or kill you. One of the two.”
“I’d like to know why you have to hold me,” declared Sandy. “What do you gain by that?”
“Enough to marry on,” said the outlaw. He made a gesture with both hands. “A hell of a life Sally has had, waiting for me,” he explained. “Being a waitress. Slopping around in a kitchen. I’ve made money and it’s all gone. Since Sally said she’d marry me, I haven’t pulled off any big deals. The luck’s been wrong. You’re the first big deal for me, Sandy.”