Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  But Gregg was not there. He surveyed the assembly twice, incredulous, for surely the tall man should be here, but when he was on the very point of turning on his heel and slinking down the hall to pursue his hunt in other quarters, the voice of the minister stopped, and the deep tone of Vic himself rolled through the room.

  It startled Barry like a voice out of the sky; he stared about, bewildered, and then as the minister shifted his position a little he saw that it was Gregg who stood there beside the girl in white, — it was Gregg being married. And at the same moment, the eyes of Vic lifted, wandered, fell upon the face which stood there framed in the dark of the doorway. Dan saw the flush die out, saw the narrow, single-purposed face of Gregg turn white, saw his eyes widen, and his own hand closed on his gun. Another instant; the minister turned his head, seemed to be waiting, and then Gregg spoke in answer: “I will!”

  A thousand pictures rushed through the mind of Barry, and he remembered first and last the wounded man on the gray horse who he had saved, and the long, hard ride carrying that limp body to the cabin in the mountains. The man would fight. By the motion of Gregg’s hand, Dan knew that he had gone even to his wedding armed. He had only to show his own gun to bring on the crisis, and in the meantime the eyes of Vic held steadily upon him past the shoulder of the minister, without fear, desperately. In spite of himself Dan’s hand could not move his gun. In spite of himself he looked to the confused happy face of the girl. And he felt as he had felt when he set fire to his house up there in the hills. The wavering lasted only a moment longer; then he turned and slipped noiselessly down the hall, and the seventh man who should have died for Grey Molly was still alive.

  41. THE WILD GEESE

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS FROM Alder to Elkhead, and beyond Elkhead to the Cumberland ranch, is long riding and hard riding, but not far after dark on the following night, Joan lifted her head, where she played with the puppy on the hearth, and listened. There was no sound audible to the others in the living room; they did not even mark the manner in which she sat up, and then rose to her feet. But when she whispered “Daddy Dan!” it brought each of the three out of his chair. Still they heard nothing, and Buck and Lee Haines would have retaken their chairs had not Kate gone to the window and thrown it wide. Then they caught it, very far off, very thin and small, a delicate thread of music, an eerie whistling. Without a word, she closed the window, crossed the room and from the table she took up a cartridge belt from which hung the holster with the revolver which Whistling Dan taught her to use so well. She buckled it about her. Lee Haines and Daniels, without a word, imitated her actions. Their guns were already on — every moment since they reached the ranch they had gone armed but now they looked to them, and tried the actions a few times before they thrust them back into the holsters.

  It was odd to watch them. They were like the last remnant of a garrison, outworn with fighting, which prepares in grim quiet for the final stand.

  The whistling rose a little in volume now. It was a happy sound, without a recognizable tune, but a gay, wild improvisation as if a violinist, drunk, was remembering snatches of masterpieces, throwing out lovely fragments here and there and filling the intervals out of his own excited fancy. Joan ran to the window, forgetful of the puppy, and kneeled there in the chair, looking out. The whistling stopped as Kate drew down the curtain to cut out Joan’s view. It was far too dark for the child to see out, but she often would sit like this, looking into the dark.

  The whistling began again as Joan turned silently on her mother, uncomplaining, but with a singular glint in her eyes, a sort of flickering, inward light that came out by glances and starts. Now the sound of the rider blew closer and closer. Kate gestured the men to their positions, one for each of the two inner doors while she herself took the outer one. There was not a trace of color in her face, but otherwise she was as calm as a stone, and from her an atmosphere pervaded the room, so that men also stood quietly at their posts, without a word, without a sign to each other. They had their unspoken order from Kate. She would resist to the death and she expected the same from them. They were prepared.

  Still that crescendo of the whistling continued; it seemed as if it would never reach them; it grew loud as a bird singing in that very room, and still it continued to swell, increase — then suddenly went out. As if it were the signal for which she had been waiting all these heartbreaking moments, Kate opened the front door, ran quickly down the hall, and stood an instant later on the path in front of the house. She had locked the doors as she went through, and now she heard one of the men rattling the lock to follow her. The rattling ceased. Evidently they decided that they would hold the fort as they were.

  Her heel hardly sank in the sand when she saw him. He came out of the night like a black shadow among shadows, with the speed of the wind to carry him. A light creak of leather as he halted, a glimmer of star light on Satan as he wheeled, a clink of steel, and then Dan was coming up the path.

  She knew him perfectly even before she could make out the details of the form; she knew him by the light, swift, almost noiseless step, like the padding footfall of a great cat — a sense of weight without sound. Another form skulked behind him — Black Bart.

  He was close, very close, before he stopped, or seemed to see her, though she felt that he must have been aware of her since he first rode up. He was so close, indeed, that the starlight — the brim of his hat standing up somewhat from the swift riding — showed his face quite clearly to her. It was boyish, almost, in its extreme youth, and so thinly molded, and his frame so lightly made, that he seemed one risen from a wasting bed of sickness. The wind fluttered his shirt and she wondered, as she had wondered so often before, where he gained that incredible strength in so meager a body. In all her life she had never loved him as she loved him now. But her mind was as fixed as a star.

  “You can’t have her, Dan. You can’t have her! Don’t you see how terrible a thing you’d make her? She’s my blood, my pain, my love, and you want to take her up yonder to the mountains and the loneliness — I’ll die to keep her!”

  Now the moon, which had been buried in a drift of clouds, broke through them, and seemed in an instant to slide a vast distance towards the earth, a crooked half moon with its edges eaten by the mist. Under this light she could see him more clearly, and she became aware of the thing she dreaded, the faint smile which barely touched at the corners of his mouth; and in his eyes a swirl of yellow light, half guessed at, half real. All her strength poured out of her. She felt her knees buckle, felt the fingers about the light revolver butt relax, felt every nerve grow slack. She was helpless, and it was not fear of the man, but of something which stalked behind him, inhuman, irresistible; not the wolf-dog, but something more than Satan, and Bart, and Whistling Dan, something of which they were only a part.

  He began to whistle, thoughtfully, like one who considers a plan of action and yet hesitates to begin. She felt his eyes run over her, as if judging how he should put her most gently to one side; then from the house, very lightly, hardly more than an echo of Dan’s whistling, came an answer — the very same refrain. Joan was calling to him.

  At that he stepped forward, but the thing which stirred him, had hardened the mind of Kate. The weakness passed in a flash. It was Joan, and for Joan!

  “Not a step!” she whispered, and jerked out her gun. “Not a step!”

  He stood with one hand trailing carelessly from his hip, and at the gleam of her steel his other hand dropped to a holster, fumbled there, and came away empty; he could not touch her, not with the weight of a finger. That thoughtful whistle came again: once more the answering whistle drifted out from the house; and he moved forward another pace.

  She had chosen her mark carefully, the upper corner of the seam of the pocket upon his shirt, and before his foot struck the ground she fired. For an instant she felt that she missed the mark, for he stood perfectly upright, but when she saw that the yellow was gone from his eyes. They were empty of everything except a gr
eat wonder. He wavered to his knees, and then sank down with his arms around Black Bart. He seemed, indeed, to crumple away into the night. Then she heard a shouting and trampling in the house, and a breaking open of doors, and she knew that she had killed Whistling Dan. She would have gone to him, but the snarl of Bart drove her back. Then she saw Satan galloping up the path and come to a sliding halt where he stood with his delicate nose close to the face of the master. There was no struggle with death, only a sigh like a motion of wind in far off trees, and then, softly, easily Black Bart extricated himself from the master, and moved away down the path, all wolf, all wild. Behind him, Satan whirled with a snort, and they rushed away into the night each in an opposite direction. The long companionship of the three was ended, and the seventh man was dead for Grey Molly.

  Lee Haines and Buck Daniels were around her now. She heard nothing distinctly, only a great, vague clamor of voices while she kneeled and turned the body of Barry on its back. It was marvelously light; she could almost have picked it up in her arms, she felt. She folded the hands across his breast, and the limp fingers were delicate as the fingers of a sick child. Buck Daniels lay prone by the dead man weeping aloud; and Lee Haines stood with his face buried in his hands; but there was no tear on the face of Kate.

  As she closed the eyes, the empty, hollow eyes, she heard a distant calling, a hoarse and dissonant chiming. She looked up and saw a wedge of wild geese flying low across the moon.

  THE END

  The Ronicky Doone Trilogy

  University of California, Berkeley — where Brand was educated

  Ronicky Doone (1921)

  Ronicky Doone was introduced in the novel of the same name, published in 1921. It relates the adventures of the eponymous cowboy, Ronicky Doone, who battles a master criminal – the “Man with the Sneer” – whilst helping his friend win the hand of the woman he has fallen in love with. Unusually for a novel in the Western genre, their quest leads the protagonists to the east, with much of the action taking place in New York City.

  Two sequels followed in 1922, both of which position Doone as the mysterious outsider who, in typical Western fashion, rides into town to help solve a local difficulty. In Ronicky Doone’s Treasure, Doone races into action when he overhears a plot by a villainous gang leader to murder one of the gang’s ex-members, while the third novel, Ronicky Doone’s Rewards sees the hero intervene in a violent family feud, after arriving in the town of Twin Springs.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  1. A HORSE IN NEED

  2. FRIENDLY ENEMIES

  3. AT STILLWATER

  4. HIS VICTIM’S TROUBLE

  5. MACKLIN’S LIBRARY

  6. THE NEW YORK TRAIL

  7. THE FIRST CLUE

  8. TWO APPARITIONS

  9. A BOLD VENTURE

  10. MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  11. A CROSS-EXAMINATION

  12. THE STRANGE BARGAIN

  13. DOONE WINS

  14. HER LITTLE JOKE

  15. THE GIRL THIEF

  16. DISARMING SUSPICION

  17. OLD SCARS

  18. THE SPIDER’S WEB

  19. STACKED CARDS

  20. TRAPPED!

  21. THE MIRACLE

  22. MARK MAKES A MOVE

  23. CAROLINE TAKES COMMAND

  24. THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE

  25. UNHAPPY FREEDOM

  26. HILLS AND SEA

  27. THE LAST STAND

  28. HOPE DEFERRED

  1. A HORSE IN NEED

  HE CAME INTO the town as a solid, swiftly moving dust cloud. The wind from behind had kept the dust moving forward at a pace just equal to the gallop of his horse. Not until he had brought his mount to a halt in front of the hotel and swung down to the ground did either he or his horse become distinctly visible. Then it was seen that the animal was in the last stages of exhaustion, with dull eyes and hanging head and forelegs braced widely apart, while the sweat dripped steadily from his flanks into the white dust on the street. Plainly he had been pushed to the last limit of his strength.

  The rider was almost as far spent as his mount, for he went up the steps of the hotel with his shoulders sagging with weariness, a wide-shouldered, gaunt-ribbed man. Thick layers of dust had turned his red kerchief and his blue shirt to a common gray. Dust, too, made a mask of his face, and through that mask the eyes peered out, surrounded by pink skin. Even at its best the long, solemn face could never have been called handsome. But, on this particular day, he seemed a haunted man, or one fleeing from an inescapable danger.

  The two loungers at the door of the hotel instinctively stepped aside and made room for him to pass, but apparently he had no desire to enter the building. Suddenly he became doubly imposing, as he stood on the veranda and stared up and down at the idlers. Certainly his throat must be thick and hot with dust, but an overmastering purpose made him oblivious of thirst.

  “Gents,” he said huskily, while a gust of wind fanned a cloud of dust from his clothes, “is there anybody in this town can gimme a hoss to get to Stillwater, inside three hours’ riding?”

  He waited a moment, his hungry eyes traveling eagerly from face to face. Naturally the oldest man spoke first, since this was a matter of life and death.

  “Any hoss in town can get you there in that time, if you know the short way across the mountain.”

  “How do you take it? That’s the way for me.”

  But the old fellow shook his head and smiled in pity. “Not if you ain’t rode it before. I used to go that way when I was a kid, but nowadays nobody rides that way except Doone. That trail is as tricky as the ways of a coyote; you’d sure get lost without a guide.”

  The stranger turned and followed the gesture of the speaker. The mountain rose from the very verge of the town, a ragged mass of sand and rock, with miserable sagebrush clinging here and there, as dull and uninteresting as the dust itself. Then he lowered the hand from beneath which he had peered and faced about with a sigh. “I guess it ain’t much good trying that way. But I got to get to Stillwater inside of three hours.”

  “They’s one hoss in town can get you there,” said the old man. “But you can’t get that hoss today.”

  The stranger groaned. “Then I’ll make another hoss stretch out and do.”

  “Can’t be done. Doone’s hoss is a marvel. Nothing else about here can touch him, and he’s the only one that can make the trip around the mountain, inside of three hours. You’d kill another hoss trying to do it, what with your weight.”

  The stranger groaned again and struck his knuckles against his forehead. “But why can’t I get the hoss? Is Doone out of town with it?”

  “The hoss ain’t out of town, but Doone is.”

  The traveler clenched his fists. This delay and waste of priceless time was maddening him. “Gents,” he called desperately, “I got to get to Martindale today. It’s more than life or death to me. Where’s Doone’s hoss?”

  “Right across the road,” said the old man who had spoken first. “Over yonder in the corral — the bay.”

  The traveler turned and saw, beyond the road, a beautiful mare, not very tall, but a mare whose every inch of her fifteen three proclaimed strength and speed. At that moment she raised her head and looked across to him, and the heart of the rider jumped into his throat. The very sight of her was an omen of victory, and he made a long stride in her direction, but two men came before him. The old fellow jumped from the chair and tapped his arm.

  “You ain’t going to take the bay without getting leave from Doone?”

  “Gents, I got to,” said the stranger. “Listen! My name’s Gregg, Bill Gregg. Up in my country they know I’m straight; down here you ain’t heard of me. I ain’t going to keep that hoss, and I’ll pay a hundred dollars for the use of her for one day. I’ll bring or send her back safe and sound, tomorrow. Here’s the money. One of you gents, that’s a friend of Doone, take it for him.”

  Not a hand was stretched out; every head shook in negation.


  “I’m too fond of the little life that’s left to me,” said the old fellow. “I won’t rent out that hoss for him. Why, he loves that mare like she was his sister. He’d fight like a flash rather than see another man ride her.”

  But Bill Gregg had his eyes on the bay, and the sight of her was stealing his reason. He knew, as well as he knew that he was a man, that, once in the saddle on her, he would be sure to win. Nothing could stop him. And straight through the restraining circle he broke with a groan of anxiety.

  Only the old man who had been the spokesman called after him: “Gregg, don’t be a fool. Maybe you don’t recognize the name of Doone, but the whole name is Ronicky Doone. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Into the back of Gregg’s mind came several faint memories, but they were obscure and uncertain. “Blast your Ronicky Doone!” he replied. “I got to have that hoss, and, if none of you’ll take money for her rent, I’ll take her free and pay her rent when I come through this way tomorrow, maybe. S’long!”

  While he spoke he had been undoing the cinches of his own horse. Now he whipped the saddle and bridle off, shouted to the hotel keeper brief instructions for the care of the weary animal and ran across the road with the saddle on his arm.

  In the corral he had no difficulty with the mare. She came straight to him in spite of all the flopping trappings. With prickly ears and eyes lighted with kindly curiosity she looked the dusty fellow over.

  He slipped the bridle over her head. When he swung the saddle over her back she merely turned her head and carelessly watched it fall. And when he drew up the cinches hard, she only stamped in mock anger. The moment he was in the saddle she tossed her head eagerly, ready to be off.

  He looked across the street to the veranda of the hotel, as he passed through the gate of the corral. The men were standing in a long and awe- stricken line, their eyes wide, their mouths agape. Whoever Ronicky Doone might be, he was certainly a man who had won the respect of this town. The men on the veranda looked at Bill Gregg as though he were already a ghost. He waved his hand defiantly at them and the mare, at a word from him, sprang into a long- striding gallop that whirled them rapidly down the street and out of the village.