Gunman's Rendezvous

by Max Brand

  “D’you ever think of going straight?” asked Sandy Lane.

  “I think, but that’s all there is to it. I’ve got too long a record.”

  “Down in Mexico . . . down in South America . . . a man’s record doesn’t count. He makes a new start. Australia is that way, too,” said Sandy.

  “Maybe. But this part of the world has been in my blood. Once I have Sally, I make a new start.”

  “You think you will?”

  “Aye,” said Tom Dexter. He jerked up his head and took a breath. “I can work . . . I can go straight . . . I could go straight for Sally in the middle of hell. But I need money to make the move.”

  He looked younger as he spoke. But something stung Sandy as deep as the heart and ached there.

  “What about you and the straight life?” asked Tom Dexter.

  “If I pull out of this, I’ll never turn a wrong corner as long as I live,” said Sandy.

  “And pulling out of this means shooting it out with me?” said Dexter.

  “That’s what it means.”

  “I understand,” said Dexter. “Well, time will be up by midnight tomorrow. I’ll give you your chance by early the next morning. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “Thanks,” said Sandy Lane. “That sounds all right to me.” Then he added: “What do you make out of me, Tom?”

  “Something over thirty thousand,” said Dexter.

  Sandy whistled. “I think more of myself,” he muttered. “If I’m worth that much, being held for ten days, my time ought to be worth something to myself.”

  The rest of that day passed easily, and he slept that night more soundly than he had done at any time since becoming helpless in the hands of the outlaw. But the same surprising ache was in his heart all through the next day.

  He thought, at first, that it was mere fear of facing Tom Dexter the following morning, and then he realized that Tom had little to do with the pain. It was another thing that burdened his soul.

  Early that afternoon—it was a still, hot hour—Jumpy climbed up to them through the rocks.

  “Hey, chief,” he said, “I thought that nobody knew where this camp was . . . not even Sally?”

  “She doesn’t know. I didn’t tell her,” said Dexter.

  “You must’ve told her in your sleep, then,” declared Jumpy. “Because she’s sure on the trail . . . and a kid with her . . . looks twelve, maybe thirteen years old.”

  Tom Dexter jumped to his feet. “And a boy with her?” he demanded.

  “That’s right. I’ve just spotted them through the glass.”

  Dexter looked bewildered for a moment. “Stop the brat . . . let Sally come on through,” he said. He turned back to Sandy as Jumpy disappeared. “I forgot that Sally can follow a trail like a bloodhound,” he said. “But what can she want as bad as all of this? And who’s the boy?”

  Big Sandy Lane was as baffled as the outlaw. And then, as he saw Sally coming toward them as fast as her mustang could leg it among the rocks of the upland, he realized why it was that the pain had been stabbing his heart with a deep wound all these last hours. It was not fear of Dexter—it was love for Sally, the memory of her green eyes, and the surety that she was lost to him and gained for Tom Dexter.

  When he fought with the outlaw, it would be a battle for more than life, he knew.

  IX

  She began to wave her hand and call out, when she was still at a distance. And Tom Dexter sprang up and waved and shouted in return. Sandy sat still, his lips pressing hard together.

  As she came up, she exclaimed: “Good news, Sandy! Good news, Tom!”

  “That’ll be queer . . . the same package of good news for the pair of us,” said Dexter, smiling. “You’re good news . . . the best I’ve had in my life,” he added.

  Sandy could have said the same thing; a smile came up tingling in his straight-drawn lips.

  She stepped over to him and grasped one of his manacled hands in the same friendly way. “What’s Tom been doing to you? Putting years on your face?” she asked.

  “Tom’s been treating me like a friend,” said Sandy quietly.

  She turned back to the outlaw. “D’you know the good news? The little tike of a boy brought it to me. It’s this . . . back at the Lane Ranch . . . did you know there was a Lane Ranch and that this fellow Sandy has a grand-uncle worth a couple of millions, Tom?”

  Dexter muttered something in astonishment.

  “It’s true!” exclaimed the girl. “He’s not a talking man or he might have told you. But look at this! Sandy Lane’s grand-uncle is lying on a deathbed and . . .”

  “Uncle Oliver? Dying?” cried out Sandy. “He can’t die! He’ll live . . . forever . . .” He stood, pale and shaken, his eyes staring very wide. He was taking into his mind the image of the thin old man who had always seemed to be composed of unbreakable stuff.

  “It’s true,” repeated the girl. “Look, Tom . . . it makes Sandy heir to a fortune . . . but he cares more about the poor old man.”

  “Not dying!” groaned Sandy. “Who told you that?”

  “Dying . . . the doctor says he ought to be already dead. And he’s sent twenty men out looking for you . . . twenty men to bring you word that, if you return before midnight of today, you’ll be his sole heir. But if you don’t turn up . . . he has to trust to it that you’re a vagabond by nature . . . and the whole thing goes to another man. . . .”

  “To Barnes!” exclaimed Sandy.

  “That’s the fellow,” she answered. She turned back to Dexter. “You see how it is, Tom? Put it on a business basis, if you want to. I don’t know who’s paying you to keep Sandy . . .”

  “Barnes is . . . through Jig Carter,” confessed Dexter readily. He kept on staring at the girl, not at Sandy.

  “But Sandy can afford to pay a lot more than Barnes would.” The girl spoke rapidly. “Sandy could afford to set you up. You could trust his word to do anything he says . . .”

  “You put a lot of trust in Sandy, don’t you?” asked Dexter very coldly.

  “Are we going to have that all over again?” demanded the girl. “Are you baby enough to be jealous of me, Tom?”

  Dexter did not smile. He kept on studying her face. “I think Sandy’s pretty fond of you,” he said finally.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” answered the girl. “It’s business that I’m talking to you, and you won’t listen to me, either of you. Tom . . . Sandy . . . tell me . . . don’t you see what it means? Sandy, you’ll be so rich that it won’t hurt you to give Tom something. Tom, you can easily take it . . . you can trust Sandy to do anything that he’ll promise.”

  “I wouldn’t pay Dexter a penny for the saving of my soul!” Sandy blurted suddenly. He could hear himself speaking but he was amazed by it. It seemed as if it were actually someone else who made that statement.

  Sally, at that moment, was holding Tom’s two hands in hers, and smiling up at the outlaw. She jerked about and faced Sandy in bewilderment. “What’s this?” she cried.

  “It’s something that sounds big to me,” said Dexter.

  “What does it mean?” exclaimed the girl. “I’ve trailed you on my hands and knees . . . and this is the finish! Tom . . . Sandy . . . I’m talking about two millions! Are you both crazy?”

  Dexter laughed, a sudden, jarring sound. “You tell her,” he said to Sandy.

  “Tell her what?” asked Sandy, scowling.

  “Tell her what means more than money.”

  And Sandy, looking long and earnestly at Dexter, finally said: “What do you mean by that, Tom?”

  “You know what I mean,” answered Dexter. “You’re straight . . . you’re a white man . . . but you know what I mean. What’s more than money to you? Answer me!”

  Sandy, watching the other man with hypnotized eyes, answered: “Sally is more.” He saw her start. He saw that from the corner of his eye. It was the outlaw that he was watching.

  Tom Dexter, growing a little pale, nodded. “I guessed at it the first nigh
t,” said Dexter. “Since then, I’ve been hoping against hope, like a blind fool. But I knew that the pair of you were in love. I wanted . . . I wanted to murder you both.” He made a wide gesture. “There’s the key to the irons, Sally. And there’s your man. I’m glad you picked out a millionaire to fall in love with. It makes a pretty smooth life.”

  “Fall in love with?” echoed the girl. “But I don’t . . . Tom, I don’t!”

  “Tell me, honestly,” snapped Tom Dexter. “If he’s free and on a horse, which way will you ride . . . on with me, or back to the ranch with him?”

  She paused, turning her head slowly as she looked first at Dexter and then toward Sandy Lane. “Why do you ask me that, Tom?” she said.

  “I can see the answer in your face already,” he replied. “But I’d like to hear it spoken out loud . . . you love Sandy, eh?”

  She was silent, staring at Sandy so that he could see the green of her eyes shimmering, and the tremor of her lips. She seemed to him the exquisite quintessence of all that was perfectly desirable. At last she said slowly: “Sandy, is it true? You . . . I mean . . .?”

  “I love you,” said that strange new voice out of Sandy’s throat.

  “Damn you!” snapped Dexter.

  His fury made his hand snap down to his gun. Slowly, slowly he fought his grip away from the butt of it.

  Sally saw that gesture. It gave a stamp of utter reality to Sandy’s words. She seemed to sway, physically, toward the captive.

  “There’s the key,” said Dexter’s harsh voice. “It’s on the rock there. Take it, and set him free . . . and ride . . .”

  She spoke small, almost like a child. “I don’t know, Tom. But I don’t know,” she said.

  “You don’t know what?” snarled Dexter. “There he is. I won’t try to harm him, if that’s what you mean. He’s safe from me. Get away with him. Pick up the money and the man. It’s a fine life you’ve got ahead of you. God knows that I can’t offer anything equal to it.” She was silent, and Dexter added: “He’s had his lesson, too. He’ll go straight from now on.”

  She turned and glanced at Dexter. “I don’t know,” she said again.

  Sandy understood first. Even now she could not make a choice. She swayed at a balance between them. She said: “I thought I was going to solve everything at a stroke. I didn’t dream . . . that it would be like this.”

  “If I’d made the bargain,” said Dexter, “you mean that you would have let him gallop away? Hell, no. You would have been after him before his inheritance had been warmed two days between his hands.”

  Sandy said: “Be still, Tom. Why hit yourself in the eye when she’s trying to make up her mind between us?”

  Dexter started as he answered: “Do you mean that, Sally? Do you mean that you can’t make that choice?”

  “I love you, Tom,” she said. Dexter made half a step toward her. But she added: “And I love Sandy. I don’t know . . . I can’t tell.”

  Dexter came to an abrupt halt and faced back toward his captive. “We’ll have to talk this over alone,” he declared.

  “Aye,” said Sandy. “We’ll have to talk it over.”

  “You mean that you’ll fight it out?” said the girl.

  “No. We’ll try to fix up the business. If I have that much money, why shouldn’t I turn some over to Tom? I’m seeing things in a better light now. But let us have a chance to talk alone.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dexter, flashing a sharp glance toward Sandy. “We have to talk it out alone. Go back there among the rocks out of hearing of us. We may be swearing a little before we’re finished, Sally.”

  “Do you mean it?” she murmured. She hesitated still for an instant, and then resolutely turned her back and walked from view among the big boulders.

  X

  The moment she was gone, Dexter picked up the fallen key, fitted it into the locks that secured Sandy’s hands, and set him free. The handcuffs dropped to the ground with a light chiming sound.

  Overhead, an eagle screamed as it circled at a height.

  “There might be some other way,” said Dexter. “I don’t know. All I can see is bullets.”

  “That’s all there is to see,” said Sandy. “We’ve got to die . . . one of us.”

  “I think that’s the only way out,” said Tom Dexter. Then, with a great outward breath, he added: “There’s never been a man that I wanted more to cut in two . . . there’s never been a man I’d rather have for a friend.”

  Suddenly Sandy held out his hand. “I feel the same,” he declared, and, as he looked over the weary, life-saddened face of the outlaw, he meant his words.

  They shook hands with a firm grip. “Here’s your guns,” went on Tom Dexter.

  Sandy took them, put them away. Dexter had retreated to a little distance. “Wherever you go, if you have that bad luck, I’m sending good wishes after you,” said Sandy.

  “If I nail you,” declared Tom, “I hope you have a fine passage. I’ll never forget you, Sandy.” He paused in his slow retreat. “How’s this distance suit you, Sandy?”

  “It suits me fine,” answered Sandy.

  “What is there about her that drives a man crazy?” asked Tom Dexter.

  “It’s the green of her eyes,” said Sandy. “Sort of like the sea.”

  “It’s the sound of her voice. Deep and high at the same time. It puts a tingle right up through my brain.”

  “Have you felt that, too?” murmured Sandy. “She has a walk like a deer that’s ready to jump. I never saw a step like hers.”

  “We’ll take the next holler out of that eagle for a signal to start,” said Dexter.

  “That suits me,” answered Sandy Lane.

  “But you’ve had your hands tied up for a long time. That’s a bad thing. You may be stiff in the fingers.”

  “I’ll be all right. It’s the brain that does the work, and I’ve had my brain sharpening on a grindstone these past nine days.”

  “Sandy, so long.”

  “Good bye, old son,” said Sandy.

  They stood still, waiting. Tom Dexter’s friendliness went rapidly out of his eyes. He stood swaying a little forward, so that his arms might hang more easily clear of his body, and gradually his jaw thrust forward and out. With each passing second, a greater tenseness grew in him until he was like a beast ready for the spring—or a racer ready for the start.

  Big Sandy Lane, on the other hand, stood perfectly straight and at ease. He was remembering what he had thought out for himself during the time of his captivity. The speed of the hand that he had worked up through countless hours of practice was not what mattered. The truly important thing was to keep the brain perfectly clear—and his brain was as clear as ice.

  Instead of crouching, he put his left foot a little forward and raised his head a trifle higher. One may see boxers like that—the slugger canted forward, ready to throw his weight behind every blow he strikes—the skillful artist erect, at an easy balance, ready to move in or out lightly.

  What Sandy was telling himself was that he must be prepared to withstand the shock of bullets. If one struck him, it was not necessarily fatal. Even if it jerked him to the side, he must pour in his own fire with a swift and deadly aim.

  So he looked at his antagonist without the slightest tension of body and mind, merely watchful and keenly aware of the weight of his guns. And above them the eagle was circling higher.

  The moments went past them, slowly. And still there was no sound from the upper air. Tom Dexter was growing pale. His hands began to open and shut. Then the signal came, thin, small, wind-blown to obscurity, like writing that had been partly erased.

  Sandy, flicking out the right-hand gun, fanned the first bullet—his brain, working at lightning speed, was a thousandth of a second before his action. Fairly and squarely, he had beaten Tom Dexter to the draw—but his bullet merely struck dust from the face of a rock at Dexter’s feet!

  Too much speed, too little aiming.

  A blow struck Sandy inside his le
ft shoulder at the same instant that Dexter’s gun barked. The shock jerked him sidewise, and that impact and movement, swifter than he could have made by a shift of feet, saved him from Dexter’s second shot, which drilled the air close beside his head.

  Then Sandy fired his second bullet. He was about to fire the third time, fanning his gun rapidly, when he saw that the famous Tom Dexter’s revolver was pointing down, his arm was declining from the level. His entire body leaned forward. His head jerked back in a vast effort to counterbalance that motion, but the impulse was irresistible and he could not overcome it. He sank, face down, toward the rocks. But big Sandy Lane, running at full speed, caught the falling weight before it crashed against the ground.

  He caught it in his right arm, because the left was dangling, useless, and slipped Dexter over on his back. Over his breast there was a spot of crimson, and the spot grew. The sight of it made Sandy forget the agony in his own body, the hot running of the blood down his side.

  Then voices were running in upon him. He heard the outcry of the girl. He heard the thin, piping voice of a boy. Where was Jumpy? Too far away, on post, to hear the guns, perhaps.

  The girl, flinging herself to her knees beside the fallen man, cast one wild look up into Sandy Lane’s face. “You . . . murderer!” she screamed, and began to tear the clothes away from the wound.

  Her words struck Sandy like two more bullets—closer to the heart.

  But poor Tom Dexter—was he surely dead?

  A dimness came over Sandy’s mind. He was vaguely aware that a small, panting voice beside him was shrilling: “Come on . . . quick . . . quick! The other gents’ll be coming in a minute. Here’s two horses! Come on, Sandy! Come quick!”

  The girl was calling: “Tom! Tom, darling! Speak to me! Tom, won’t you hear me?”

  Well, if Tom Dexter was dead, there was nothing Sandy could do except remove himself from a scene where his presence merely insulted the girl whose lover had been killed by him.

  But why could she not have told before the battle that it was Tom Dexter she loved? If she had made this choice—no, even then the battle had to be fought. There could not be two champions; one must fall, definitively.