“You fool’ Won’t she find you out? Do you think I could trust you? Only in one place—underground.”
Donnegan had clasped his hands upon his breast and his eyes were wide.
“What is it you mean, Henry?”
“I’ll trust you—dead!”
“Henry!”
“That name means nothing to me I’ve forgotten it. The worlds has forgotten it.”
“Henry, I implore you to keep cool—to give me five minutes for talk—”
“No, not one. I know your cunning tongue!”
“For the sake of the days when you loved me, my brother. For the sake of the days when you used to wheel my chair and be kind to me.”
“You’re wasting your time. You’re torturing us both for nothing. Donnegan, my will is a rock. It won’t change.”
And drawing closer his right hand gripped his gun and the trembling passion of the gunfighter set him shuddering.
“You’re armed, Garry. Go for your gun!”
“No, no!”
“Then I’ll give you cause to fight.”
And as he spoke, he drew back his massive arm and with his open hand smote Donnegan heavily across the face. The weight of that blow crushed the little man against the wall.
“Your gun!” cried Lord Nick, swaying from side to side as the passion choked him.
Donnegan fell upon his knees and raised his arms.
“God have mercy on me, and on yourself!”
At that the blackness cleared slowly on the face of the big man; he thrust his revolver into the holster.
“This time,” he said, “there’s no death. But sooner or later we meet, Donnegan, and then, I swear by all that lives, I’ll shoot you down—without mercy—like a mad dog. You’ve robbed me; you’ve hounded me: you’ve killed my men: you’ve taken the heart of the woman I love. And now nothing can save you from the end.”
He turned on his heel and left the room.
And Donnegan remained kneeling, holding a stained handkerchief to his face.
All at once his strength seemed to desert him like a tree chopped at the root, and he wilted down against the wall with closed eyes.
But the music still came out of the throat and the heart of Lou, and it entered the room and came into the ears of Donnegan. He became aware that there was a strength beyond himself which had sustained him, and then he knew it had been the singing of Lou from first to last which had kept the murder out of his own heart and restrained the hand of Lord Nick.
Perhaps of all Donnegan’s life, this was the first moment of true humility.
CHAPTER 43
One thing was now clear. He must not remain in The Corner unless he was prepared for Lord Nick again: and in a third meeting guns must be drawn. From that greater sin he shrank, and prepared to leave. His order to George made the big man’s eyes widen, but George had long since passed the point where he cared to question the decision of his master. He began to build the packs.
As for Donnegan, he could see that there was little to be won by remaining. That would save Landis to Lou Macon, to be sure, but after all, he was beginning to wonder if it were not better to let the big fellow go back to his own kind—Lebrun and the rest. For if it needed compulsion to keep him with Lou now, might it not be the same story hereafter?
Indeed, Donnegan began to feel that all his labor in The Corner had been running on a treadmill. It had all been grouped about the main purpose, which was to keep Landis with the girl. To do that now he must be prepared to face Nick again; and to face Nick meant the bringing of the guilt of fratricide upon the head of one of them. There only remained flight. He saw at last that he had been fighting blindly from the first. He had won a girl whom he did not love—though doubtless her liking was only the most fickle fancy. And she for whom he would have died he had taught to hate him. It was a grim summing up. Donnegan walked the room whistling softly to himself as he checked up his accounts.
One thing at least he had done; he had taken the joy out of his life forever.
And here, answering a rap at the door, he opened it upon Lou Macon. She wore a dress of some very soft material. It was a pale blue—faded, no doubt—but the color blended exquisitely with her hair and with the flush of her face. It came to Donnegan that it was an unnecessary cruelty of chance that made him see the girl lovelier than he had ever seen her before at the very moment when he was surrendering the last shadow of a claim upon her.
And it hurt him, also, to see the freshness of her face, the clear eyes; and to hear her smooth, untroubled voice. She had lived untouched by anything save the sunshine in The Corner.
Her glance flicked across his face and then fluttered down, and her color increased guiltily.
“I have come to ask you a favor,” she said.
“Step in,” said Donnegan, recovering his poise at length.
At this, she looked past him, and her eyes widened a little. There was an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, as though the very thought of entering this cabin horrified her. And Donnegan had to bear that look as well.
“I’ll stay here; I haven’t much to say. It’s a small thing.”
“Large or small,” said Donnegan eagerly. “Tell me!”
“My father has asked me to take a letter for him down to the town and mail it. I—I understand that it would be dangerous for me to go alone. Will you walk with me?”
And Donnegan turned cold. Go down into The Corner? Where by five chances out of ten he must meet his brother in the street?
“I can do better still,” he said, smiling. “I’ll have George take the letter down for you.”
“Thank you. But you see, father would not trust it to anyone save me. I asked him; he was very firm about it.”
“Tush! I would trust George with my life.”
“Yes, yes It is not what I wish—but my father rarely changes his mind.”
Perspiration beaded the forehead of Donnegan. Was there no way to evade this easy request?
“You see,” he faltered, “I should be glad to go—”
She raised her eyes slowly.
“But I am terribly busy this morning.”
She did not answer, but half of her color left her face.
“Upon my word of honor there is no danger to a woman in the town.”
“But some of the ruffians of Lord Nick—”
“If they dared to even raise their voices at you, they would hear from him in a manner that they would never forget.”
“Then you don’t wish to go?”
She was very pale now; and to Donnegan it was more terrible than the gun in the hand of Lord Nick. Even if she thought he was slighting her why should she take it so mortally to heart? For Donnegan, who saw all things, was blind to read the face of this girl.
“It doesn’t really matter,” she murmured and turned away.
A gentle motion, but it wrenched the heart of Donnegan. He was instantly before her.
“Wait here a moment. I’ll be ready to go down immediately.”
“No. I can’t take you from your—work.”
What work did she assign to him in her imagination? Endless planning of deviltry no doubt.
“I shall go with you,” said Donnegan. “At first—I didn’t dream it could be so important. Let me get my hat.”
He left her and leaped back into the cabin.
“I am going down into The Corner for a moment,” he said over his shoulder to George, as he took his belt down from the wall.
The big man strode to the wall and took his hat from a nail.
“I shall not need you, George.”
But George merely grinned, and his big teeth flashed at the master. And in the second place he took up a gun from the drawer and offered it to Donnegan.
“The gun in that holster ain’t loaded,” he said.
Donnegan considered him soberly.
“I know it. There’ll be no need for a loaded gun.”
But once more George grinned. All at once Donnegan t
urned pale.
“You dog,” he whispered. “Did you listen at the door when Nick was here?”
“Me?” murmured George. “No, I just been thinking.”
And so it was that while Donnegan went down the hill with Lou Macon, carrying an empty-chambered revolver, George followed at a distance of a few paces, and he carried a loaded weapon unknown to Donnegan.
It was the dull time of the day in The Corner. There were very few people in the single street, and though most of them turned to look at the little man and the girl who walked beside him, not one of them either smiled or whispered.
“You see?” said Donnegan. “You would have been perfectly safe—even from Lord Nick’s ruffians. That was one of his men we passed back there.”
“Yes. I’m safe with you,” said the girl.
And when she looked up to him, the blood of Donnegan turned to fire.
Out of a shop door before them came a girl with a parcel under her arm. She wore a gay, semi-masculine outfit, bright-colored, jaunty, and she walked with a lilt toward them. It was Nelly Lebrun. And as she passed them. Donnegan lifted his hat ceremoniously high. She nodded to him with a smile, but the smile aimed wan and small in an instant. There was a quick widening and then a narrowing of her eyes, and Donnegan knew that she had judged Lou Macon as only one girl can judge another who is lovelier.
He glanced at Lou to see if she had noticed, and he saw her raise her head and go on with her glance proudly straight before her; but her face was very pale, and Donnegan knew that she had guessed everything that was true and far more than the truth. Her tone at the door of the post office was ice.
“I think you are right, Mr. Donnegan. There’s no danger. And if you have anything else to do, I can get back home easily enough.”
“I’ll wait for you,” murmured Donnegan sadly, and he stood as the door of the little building with bowed head.
And then a murmur came down the street. How small it was, and how sinister! It consisted of exclamations begun, and then broken sharply off. A swirl of people divided as a cloud of dust divides before a blast of wind, and through them came the gigantic figure of Lord Nick!
On he came, a gorgeous figure, a veritable king of men. He carried his hat in his hand and his red hair flamed, and he walked with great strides. Donnegan glanced behind him. The way was clear. If he turned, Lord Nick would not pursue him, he knew.
But to flee even from his brother was more than he could do; for the woman he loved would know of it and could never understand.
He touched the holster that held his empty gun—and waited!
An eternity between every step of Lord Nick. Others seemed to have sensed the meaning of this silent scene. People seemed to stand frozen in the midst of gestures. Or was that because Donnegan’s own thoughts were traveling at such lightning speed that the rest of the world seemed standing still? What kept Lou Macon? If she were with him, not even Lord Nick in his madness would force on a gunplay in the presence of a woman, no doubt.
Lord Nick was suddenly close; he had paused; his voice rang over the street and struck upon Donnegan’s ear as sounds come under water.
“Donnegan!”
“Aye!” called Donnegan softly.
“It’s the time!”
“Aye,” said Donnegan.
Then a huge body leaped before him; it was big George. And as he sprang his gun went up with his hand in a line of light. The two reports came close together as finger taps on a table, and big George, completing his spring, lurched face downward into the sand.
Dead? Not yet. All his faith and selflessness were nerving the big man. And Donnegan stood behind him, unarmed!
He reared himself upon his knees—an imposing bulk, even then, and fired again. But his hand was trembling, and the bullet shattered a sign above the head of Lord Nick. He, in his turn, it seemed to Donnegan that the motion was slow, twitched up the muzzle of his weapon and fired once more from his hip. And big George lurched back on the sand, with his face upturned to Donnegan. He would have spoken, but a burst of blood choked him; yet his eyes fixed and glazed, he mustered his last strength and offered his revolver to Donnegan.
But Donnegan let the hand fall limp to the ground. There were voices about him; steps running; but all that he clearly saw was Lord Nick with his feet braced, and his head high.
“Donnegan! Your gun!”
“Aye,” said Donnegan.
“Take it then!”
But in the crisis, automatically Donnegan flipped his useless revolver out of its holster and into his hand. At the same instant the gun from Nick’s hand seemed to blaze in his eyes. He was struck a crushing blow in his chest. He sank upon his knees: another blow struck his head, and Donnegan collapsed on the body of big George.
CHAPTER 44
An ancient drunkard in the second story of one of the stores across the street had roused himself at the sound of the shots and now he dragged himself to the window and began to scream: “Murder! Murder!” over and over, and even The Corner shuddered at the sound of his voice.
Lord Nick, his revolver still in his hand, stalked through the film of people who now swirled about him, eager to see the dead. There was no call for the law to make its appearance, and the representatives of the law were wisely dilatory in The Corner.
He stood over the two motionless figures with a stony face.
“You saw it, boys,” he said. “You know what I’ve borne from this fellow. The big man pulled his gun first on me. I shot in self-defense. As for—the other—it was a square fight.”
“Square fight,” someone answered. “You both went for your irons at the same time. Pretty work, Nick.”
It was a solid phalanx of men which had collected around the moveless bodies as swiftly as mercury sinks through water. Yet none of them touched either Donnegan or George. And then the solid group dissolved at one side. It was the moan of a woman which had scattered it, and a yellow-haired girl slipped through them. She glanced once, in horror, at the mute faces of the men, and then there was a wail as she threw herself on the body of Donnegan. Somewhere she found the strength of a man to lift him and place him face upward on the sand, the gun trailing limply in his hand. And then she lay, half crouched over him, her face pressed to his heart—listening—listening for the stir of life.
Shootings were common in The Corner; the daily mortality ran high; but there had never been aftermaths like this one. Men looked at one another, and then at Lord Nick. A bright spot of color had come in his cheeks, but his face was as hard as ever.
“Get her away from him,” someone murmured.
And then another man cried out, stooped, wrenched the gun from the limp hand of Donnegan and opened the cylinder. He spun it: daylight was glittering through the empty cylinder.
At this the man stiffened, and with a low bow which would have done credit to a drawing-room, he presented the weapon butt first to Lord Nick.
“Here’s something the sheriff will want to see,” he said, “but maybe you’ll be interested, too.”
But Lord Nick, with the gun in his hand, stared at it dumbly, turned the empty cylinder. And the full horror crept slowly on his mind. He had not killed his brother, he had murdered him. As his eyes cleared, he caught the glitter of the eyes which surrounded him.
And then Lou Macon was on her knees with her hands clasped at her breast and her face glorious.
“Help!” she was crying. “Help me. He’s not dead, but he’s dying unless you help me!”
Then Lord Nick cast away his own revolver and the empty gun of Donnegan. They heard him shout: “Garry!” and saw him stride forward.
Instantly men pressed between, hard-jawed men who meant business. It was a cordon he would have to fight his way through: but he dissolved it with a word.
“You fools! He’s my brother!”
And then he was on his knees opposite Lou Macon.
“You?” she had stammered in horror.
“His brother, girl.”
And
ten minutes later, when the bandages had been wound, there was a strange sight of Lord Nick striding up the street with his victim in his arms. How lightly he walked; and he was talking to the calm, pale face which rested in the hollow of his shoulder.
“He will live? He will live?” Lou Macon was pleading as she hurried at the side of Lord Nick.
“God willing, he shall live!”
It was three hours before Donnegan opened his eyes. It was three days before he recovered his senses, and looking aside toward the door he saw a brilliant shaft of sunlight falling into the room. In the midst of it sat Lou Macon. She had fallen asleep in her great weariness now that the crisis was over. Behind her, standing, his great arms folded, stood the indomitable figure of Lord Nick.
Donnegan saw and wondered greatly. Then he closed his eyes dreamily. “Hush,” said Donnegan to himself, as if afraid that what he saw was all a dream. “I’m in heaven, or if I’m not, it’s still mighty good to be alive.”
LITTLE BIG HORN MEDICINE, by Owen Wister
Something new was happening among the Crow Indians. A young pretender had appeared in the tribe. What this might lead to was unknown alike to white man and to red; but the old Crow chiefs discussed it in their councils, and the soldiers at Fort Custer, and the civilians at the agency twelve miles up the river, and all the white settlers in the valley discussed it also. Lieutenants Stirling and Haines, of the First Cavalry, were speculating upon it as they rode one afternoon.
“Can’t tell about Indians,” said Stirling. “But I think the Crows are too reasonable to go on the war-path.”
“Reasonable!” said Haines. He was young, and new to Indians.
“Just so. Until you come to his superstitions, the Indian can reason as straight as you or I. He’s perfectly logical.”
“Logical!” echoed Haines again. He held the regulation Eastern view that the Indian knows nothing but the three blind appetites.
“You’d know better,” remarked Stirling, “if you’d been fighting ’em for fifteen years. They’re as shrewd as Æsop’s fables.”
Just then two Indians appeared round a bluff—one old and shabby, the other young and very gaudy—riding side by side.
The Second Western Megapack Page 133