by Max Brand
After a little pause, seeing that no one offered a suggestion as to the identity of the owner, Strann said, softly: “That hoss is mine.”
It caused a stir in the crowd of his followers. In the mountain-desert one may deal lightly with a man’s wife and lift a random cow or two and settle the score, at need, with a snug “forty-five” chunk of lead. But with horses it is different. A horse in the mountain-desert lies outside of all laws — and above all laws. It is greater than honour and dearer than love, and when a man’s horse is taken from him the men of the desert gather together and hunt the thief whether it be a day or whether it be a month, and when they have reached him they shoot him like a dog and leave his flesh to the buzzards and his bones to the merciless stars. For all of this there is a reason. But Jerry Strann swung from his mount, tossed the reins over the head of the chestnut, and walked towards the black with hungry eyes. He was careless, also, and venturing too close — the black whirled with his sudden, catlike agility, and two black hoofs lashed within a hair’s breadth of the man’s shoulder. There was a shout from the crowd, but Jerry Strann stepped back and smiled so that his teeth showed.
“Boys,” he said, but he was really speaking to himself, “there’s nothing in the world I want as bad as I want that hoss. Nothing! I’m going to buy him; where’s the owner?”
“Don’t look like a hoss a man would want to sell, Jerry,” came a suggestion from the cavalcade, who had dismounted and now pressed behind their leader.
Jerry favoured the speaker with another of his enigmatic smiles: “Oh,” he chuckled, “he’ll sell, all right! Maybe he’s inside. You gents stick out here and watch for him; I’ll step inside.”
And he strode through the swinging doors of the saloon.
It was a dull time of day for O’Brien, so he sat with his feet on the edge of the bar and sipped a tall glass of beer; he looked up at the welcome click of the doors, however, and then was instantly on his feet. The good red went out of his face and the freckles over his nose stood out like ink marks.
“There’s a black hoss outside,” said Jerry, “that I’m going to buy. Where’s the owner?”
“Have a drink,” said the bartender, and he forced an amiable smile.
“I got business on my hands, not drinking,” said Jerry Strann.
“Lost your chestnut?” queried O’Brien in concern.
“The chestnut was all right until I seen the black. And now he ain’t a hoss at all. Where’s the gent I want?”
The bartender had fenced for time as long as possible.
“Over there,” he said, and pointed.
It was a slender fellow sitting at a table in a corner of the long room, his sombrero pushed back on his head. He was playing solitaire and his back was towards Jerry Strann, who now made a brief survey, hitched his cartridge belt, and approached the stranger with a grin. The man did not turn; he continued to lay down his cards with monotonous regularity, and while he was doing it he said in the gentlest voice that had ever reached the ear of Jerry Strann: “Better stay where you are, stranger. My dog don’t like you.”
And Jerry Strann perceived, under the shadow of the table, a blacker shadow, huge and formless in the gloom, and two spots of incandescent green twinkling towards him. He stopped; he even made a step back; and then he heard a stifled chuckle from the bartender.
If it had not been for that untimely mirth of O’Brien’s probably nothing of what followed would have passed into the history of the Three B’s.
8. THE GIFT-HORSE
“YOUR DOG IS your own dog,” remarked Jerry Strann, still to the back of the card-laying stranger, “but this ain’t your back-yard. Keep your eye on him, or I’ll fix him so he won’t need watching!”
So saying he made another step forward, and it brought a snarl from the dog; not one of those high-whining noises, but a deep guttural that sounded like indrawn breath. The gun of Jerry Strann leaped into his hand.
“Bart,” said the gentle-voiced stranger, “lie down and don’t talk.” And he turned in his chair, pulled his hat straight, and looked mildly upon the gunman. An artist would have made much of that picture, for there was in this man, as in Strann, a singular portion of beauty. It was not, however, free from objection, for he had not the open manliness of the larger of the two. Indeed, a feminine grace and softness marked him; his wrists were as round as a girl’s, and his hands as slender and as delicately finished. Whether it be the white-hot sun of summer or the hurricane snows of winter, the climate of the mountain-desert roughens the skin, and it cuts away spare flesh, hewing out the face in angles; but with this man there were no rough edges, but all was smoothed over and rounded with painful care, as if nature had concentrated in that birth to show what she could do. Such fine workmanship, perhaps, would be appreciated more by women than by men; for men like a certain weight and bulk of bone and muscle — whereas this fellow seemed as light of body as he was of hand. He sat now watching Strann with the utmost gravity. He had very large brown eyes of a puzzling quality; perhaps that was because there seemed to be no thought behind them, and one caught the mystery and the wistfulness of some animals from a glance at him.
The effect of that glance on Strann was to make him grin again, and he at once banished the frown from his forehead and put away his gun; the big dog had slunk deeper into the shadow and closer to his master.
“I’m Strann. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”
“My name is Barry,” said the other. “I’m sorry that I haven’t heard of you before.”
And the sound of his voice made Jerry Strann grin again; it was such a low, soft voice with the velvet of a young girl’s tone in it; moreover, the brown eyes seemed to apologise for the ignorance concerning Strann’s name.
“You got a hoss out in front.”
A nod of agreement.
“What’s your price?”
“None.”
“No price? Look here,” argued Strann, “everything’s got a price, and I got to have that hoss, understand? Got to! I ain’t bargaining. I won’t try to beat you down. You just set a figger and I’ll cover it. I guess that’s square!”
“He ain’t a gentle hoss,” said Barry. “Maybe you wouldn’t like him.’
“Oh, that’s all right about being gentle,” chuckled Strann. Then he checked his mirth and stared piercingly at the other to make out if there were a secret mockery. It could not, however, be possible. The eyes were as gravely apologetic as ever. He continued: “I seen the hell-fire in him. That’s what stopped me like a bullet. I like ’em that way. Much rather have ’em with a fight. Well, let’s have your price. Hey, O’Brien, trot out your red-eye; I’m going to do some business here!”
O’Brien came hastily, with drinks, and while they waited Strann queried politely: “Belong around these parts?”
“No,” answered the other softly.
“No? Where you come from?”
“Over there,” said Barry, and waved a graceful hand towards half the points of the compass.
“H-m-m!” muttered Strann, and once more he bent a keen gaze upon his companion. The drinks were now placed before them. “Here,” he concluded, “is to the black devil outside!” And he swallowed the liquor at a gulp, but as he replaced the empty glass on the table he observed, with breathless amazement, that the whiskey glass of the stranger was still full; he had drunk his chaser!
“Now, by God!” said Strann in a ringing voice, and struck a heavy hand upon the top of the table. He regained his control, however, instantly. “Now about that price!”
“I don’t know what horses are worth,” replied Barry.
“To start, then — five hundred bucks in cold cash — gold! — for your — what’s his name?”
“Satan.”
“Eh?”
“Satan.”
“H-m-m!” murmured Strann again. “Five hundred for Satan, then. How about it?”
“If you can ride him,” began the stranger.
“Oh, hell,” smiled Strann
with a large and careless gesture, “I’ll ride him, all right.”
“Then I would let you take him for nothing,” concluded Barry.
“You’d — what?” said Strann. Then he rose slowly from his chair and shouted; instantly the swinging doors broke open and a throng of faces appeared at the gap. “Boys, this gent here is going to give me the black — ha, ha, ha! — if I can ride him!” He turned back on Barry. “They’ve heard it,” he concluded, “and this bargain is going to stick just this way. If your hoss can throw me the deal’s off. Eh?”
“Oh, yes,” nodded the brown-eyed man.
“What’s the idea?” asked one of Jerry’s followers as the latter stepped through the doors of the saloon onto the street.
“I dunno,” said Jerry. “That gent looks kind of simple; but it ain’t my fault if he made a rotten bargain. Here, you!”
And he seized the bridle-reins of the black stallion. Speed, lightning speed, was what saved him, for the instant his fingers touched the leather Satan twisted his head and snapped like an angry dog. The teeth clicked beside Strann’s shoulder as he leaped back. He laughed savagely.
“That’ll be took out of him,” he announced, “and damned quick!”
Here the voice of Barry was heard, saying: “I’ll help you mount, Mr. Strann.” And he edged his way through the little crowd until he stood at the head of the stallion.
“Look out!” warned Strann in real alarm, “or he’ll take your head off!”
But Barry was already beside his horse, and, with his back towards those vicious teeth, he drew the reins over its head. As for the stallion, it pricked one ear forward and then the other, and nuzzled the man’s shoulder confidingly. There was a liberal chorus of astonished oaths from the gathering.
“I’ll hold his head while you get on,” suggested Barry, turning his mild eyes upon Strann again.
“Well,” muttered the big man, “may I be eternally damned!” He added: “All right. Hold his head, and I’ll ride him without pulling leather. Is that square?”
Barry nodded absently. His slender fingers were patting the velvet nose of the stallion and he was talking to it in an affectionate undertone — meaningless words, perhaps, such as a mother uses to soothe a child. When Strann set his foot in the stirrup and gathered up the reins the black horse cringed and shuddered; it was not a pleasant thing to see; it was like a dog crouching under the suspended whip. It was worse than that; it was almost the horror of a man who shivers at the touch of an unclean animal. There was not a sound from the crowd, and every grin was wiped out. Jerry Strann swung into the saddle lightly.
There he sat, testing the stirrups. They were too short by inches but he refused to have them lengthened. He poised his quirt and tugged his hat lower over his eyes.
“Turn him loose!” he shouted. “Hey!”
And his shrill yell went down the street and the echoes sent it barking back from wall to wall; Barry stepped back from the head of the black. But for an instant the horse did not stir. He was trembling violently, but his blazing eyes were fixed upon the face of his owner. Barry raised his hand.
And then it happened. It was like the release of a coiled watch-spring; the black whirled as a top spins and Strann sagged far to the left; before he could recover the stallion was away in a flash, like a racer leaving the barrier and reaching full speed in almost a stride. Not far — hardly the breadth of the street — before he pitched up in a long leap as if to clear a barrier, landed stiff-legged with a sickening jar, whirled again like a spinning top, and darted straight back. And Jerry Strann pulled leather — with might and main — but the short stirrups were against him, and above all the suddenness of the start had taken him off guard for all his readiness. When the stallion dropped stiff-legged Jerry was thrown forward and an unlucky left foot jarred loose from the stirrup; and when the horse whirled Strann was flung from the saddle. It was a clean fall. He twisted over in the air as he fell and landed in deep dust. The black stallion had reached his master and now he turned, in that same catlike manner, and watched with pricking ears as Strann dragged himself up from the dust.
There was no shout of laughter — no cheer for that fall, and without a smile they watched Strann returning. Big O’Brien had seen from his open door and now he laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the men and whispered at his ear: “There’s going to be trouble — bad trouble, Billy. Go for Fatty Matthews — he’s a deputy marshal now — and get him here as quick as you can. Run!”
The other spared time for a last glance at Strann and then hurried down the street.
Now, a man who can lose and smile is generally considered the most graceful of failures, but the smile of Jerry Strann as he walked slowly back worried his followers.
“We all hit dust sometime,” he philosophized. “But one try don’t prove nothin’. I ain’t near through with that hoss!”
Barry turned to Strann. If there had been mockery in his eyes or a smile on his lips as he faced Jerry there would have been a gun play on the spot; but, instead, the brown eyes were as dumbly apologetic as ever.
“We didn’t talk about two tries,” he observed.
“We talk about it now,” said Strann.
There was one man in the crowd a little too old to be dangerous and therefore there was one man who was in a position to speak openly to Strann. It was big O’Brien.
“Jerry, you named your game and made your play and lost. I guess you ain’t going to turn up a hard loser. Nobody plays twice for the same pot.”
The hazel eye of Strann was grey with anguish of the spirit as he looked from O’Brien to the crowd and from the crowd to Satan, and from Satan to his meek-eyed owner. Nowhere was there a defiant eye or a glint of scorn on which he could wreak his wrath. He stood poised in his anger for the space of a breath; then, in the sharp struggle, his better nature conquered.
“Come on in, all of you,” he called. “We’ll liquor, and forget this.”
9. BATTLE LIGHT
O’BRIEN PRESSED CLOSE to Barry.
“Partner,” he said rapidly, “you’re clear now — you’re clear of more hell that you ever dream. Now climb that hoss of yours and feed him leather till you get clear of Brownsville — and if I was you I’d never come within a day’s ride of the Three B’s again.”
The mild, brown eyes widened.
“I don’t like crowds,” murmured Barry.
“You’re wise, kid,” grinned the bartender— “a hell of a lot wiser than you know right now. On your way!”
And he turned to follow the crowd into the saloon. But Jerry Strann stood at the swinging doors, watching, and he saw Barry linger behind.
“Are you coming?” he called.
“I got an engagement,” answered the meek voice.
“You got another engagement here,” mocked Strann. “Understand?”
The other hesitated for an instant, and then sighed deeply. “I suppose I’ll stay,” he murmured, and walked into the bar. Jerry Strann was smiling in the way that showed his teeth. As Barry passed he said softly: “I see we ain’t going to have no trouble, you and me!” and he moved to clap his strong hand on the shoulder of the smaller man. Oddly enough, the hand missed, for Barry swerved from beneath it as a wolf swerves from the shadow of a falling branch. No perceptible effort — no sudden start of tensed muscles, but a movement so smooth that it was almost unnoticeable. But the hand of Strann fell through thin air.
“You’re quick,” he said. “If you was as quick with your hands as you are with your feet—”
Barry paused and the melancholy brown eyes dwelt on the face of Strann.
“Oh, hell!” snorted the other, and turned on his heel to the bar. “Drink up!” he commanded.
A shout and a snarl from the further end of the room.
“A wolf, by God!” yelled one of the men.
The owner of the animal made his way with unobtrusive swiftness the length of the room and stood between the dog and a man who fingered the butt of his gun nervou
sly.
“He won’t hurt you none,” murmured that softly assuring voice.
“The hell he wont!” responded the other. “He took a pass at my leg just now and dam’ near took it off. Got teeth like the blades of a pocket-knife!”
“You’re on a cold trail, Sam,” broke in one of the others. “That ain’t any wolf. Look at him now!”
The big, shaggy animal had slunk to the feet of his master and with head abased stared furtively up into Barry’s face. A gesture served as sufficient command, and he slipped shadow-like into the corner and crouched with his head on his paws and the incandescent green of his eyes glimmering; Barry sat down in a chair nearby.
O’Brien was happily spinning bottles and glasses the length of the bar; there was the chiming of glass and the rumble of contented voices.
“Red-eye all ‘round,” said the loud voice of Jerry Strann, “but there’s one out. Who’s out? Oh, it’s him. Hey O’Brien, lemonade for the lady.”