Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  On the outskirts of the town, where it began to run into the western hills, she stopped before a small cottage set well back from the street, and at her coming a tall, brown-faced, long-shanked boy in the awkward age of fifteen, rose and uncoiled his length to greet her. His grin abashed and diminished all the other features of his face.

  Why a cousin of her own should look like this she could not tell, though she had often asked that question of an uncommunicative Providence. But from his birth, it seemed, Willie Chalmers had been mostly mouth, so far as his face was concerned, and mostly legs in the rest of his make-up. She could not look beyond the veil of the future and see him a stalwart, fine-looking youth a short three years hence.

  “Willie,” she asked, “why have you never come to see me all the time I’ve been at the hotel?”

  “I sort of thought,” he answered, “that you’d be busy, Elsie. That’s why I never come. But I sure enough thought about it a couple of times. How’s everything with you been going?”

  He advanced toward the gate and faced her, dropping the heel of his right shoe most awkwardly upon the toes of his left and thrusting his hands into bottomless pockets.

  So she explained to him, still smiling and watching him during every instant of that smile, that on that very night she would have a tremendous need of him, and she wondered if she could depend on him. Willie was so eager that he swallowed before he could answer. Of course she could use him as she pleased to use him!

  “How far is it,” she asked, “to the Roger place?”

  “About a mile and a half,” said Willie.

  “And how long would it take a man to ride that far?”

  “All depends,” said Willie. “If he went like lickety he might get there in five minutes, I suppose.”

  “It has to be farther then,” she said. “But how far is it to the Chalmers’ place?”

  “That’s three mile, I guess.”

  “Oh, three miles — then it will take twice as long.”

  “More’n that His hoss would get pretty tired before it hit the last mile and a half at that clip.”

  “Well, that’s good! Willie, you know the Chalmers boy?”

  “Joe Chalmers? Sure, him and me fought every other week last year. I busted his face good for him. Sure I know Joe. Him and me are chums. We’re going shooting next month!”

  She was too serious to smile at this strange recital of the bases of friendship among the young.

  “Willie,” she said, “this is to be kept a dead secret, you see?”

  His eyes grew very wide.

  “Cross my heart to die!” whispered Willie in delight. “I sure won’t breathe a word of it to nobody!”

  “Then you come running to the hotel to-night at a quarter to eight — mind you, at seven-forty-five sharp! And you come shouting for the doctor!”

  “Why for the doctor?”

  “Because the Chalmers boy has been thrown from a horse and broken his leg.”

  “Thrown from a hoss? Why, there ain’t a hoss in the world that could throw — oh!”

  With this exclamation the light dawned upon Willie in a great and a blinding burst, so that he gasped, choked, and then was silent.

  “Will you do it?” she asked.

  “Will I do it?” exclaimed Willie. “Didn’t that damn doctor — excuse me for swearing, Elsie — pretty near raise me on castor oil?”

  XXXVIII. A FORMULA FOR HAPPINESS

  PERHAPS THE AGREEMENT at which Ronicky Doone arrived with the rancher was not large in words, but it was eloquent in substance.

  “How come you’ve lost so much coin?” asked Ronicky when he came to the gist of his argument in the growing twilight before the ranch house.

  “By bad luck,” said the other sadly. “Nobody in the world, hardly, has had such bad luck as I’ve had!”

  “At what?”

  “Cows — men — everything that I count on goes wrong.”

  “Chiefly cards, though,” said Ronicky.

  “Eh? The cards? I’ve had my ups and downs with ’em! Are you feeling up to a small game of stud?”

  But Ronicky was shaking his head and grinning scornfully.

  “I can see through you like glass, Bennett,” he said. “It’s the cards that have taken everything away from you. If you and me hit up for an agreement, we got to start right there!”

  “Right where?” asked the rancher, dismayed.

  “Right at the cards! Bennett, you’re through. You never lay a bet on the turn of a card again so long as you live. Understand?”

  Steve Bennett gasped a protest, but Ronicky raised his hand to silence the older man.

  “These boys I brung down here,” he said, “will be plumb happy to work for you and to clean up on Jenkins’ men. But the minute I give ’em the word they’ll be against you and for Jenkins. And the first time that I hear of you putting up some stakes I’m going to send word to the boys. Is that clear, and does that go?”

  Bennett swallowed and nodded sadly.

  “I was thinking of keeping ’em amused,” he began.

  “You keep ’em amused,” said Ronicky, “by starting your chink to cooking the best dinner that he ever turned out. That’s the best way to keep them amused. And don’t mind it if they make a mite of racket. They’re that kind.”

  Again Bennett could only mutely agree with the terms laid down by the dictator.

  “I’m going to slide off to Twin Springs,” said Ronicky. “But tell the boys that I’m coming back to-night. There ain’t going to be no trouble and no shooting scrapes come out of this little party. Everything is going to be plumb quiet, but to-morrow morning early I’m going to be back on the job, rounding up all the chances for a fight with Jenkins’ gang. But I think we’ve got ’em beat!”

  “We have!”, shouted Bennett savagely. “We’ve beat ’em, and when I see him again, the skunk, I’m going to tell him just what I—”

  But Ronicky had no desire to hear more of this meaningless boasting. He turned Lou with a twist of his body and, waving farewell to Bennett, galloped down the valley toward the little town.

  It was completely dark before he had covered more than half of the distance. In the shadows of the full night he swung down the street of Twin Springs, the bay mare rocking along as tirelessly as when he began the long run of that day’s journeying. And so he came to the hotel.

  But he did not choose to enter from the front. There might be too much talk, too much comment from the other men of the town. It seemed far better to Ronicky to send Lou between the two buildings next to the hotel and so around to the rear of the place. Here he dismounted and slipped up onto the veranda.

  There he paused, recalling the picture which he had last seen from that veranda, looking through the big window into the room where Blondy Loring lay. Now, stepping close to the outside edge, so that the boards would not creak under his weight, he stole softly on.

  As he went he heard a regular murmuring from the room — the low, low voice of the girl — the voices of two men — but all was kept so indistinct that he could not understand a syllable of it until he came opposite the window, and then a single glance was more eloquent with meaning than a thousand words.

  For there sat Elsie Bennett, wonderfully beautiful in an old yellow dress, with little flowers worked obscurely upon it in pastel shades, her blonde hair done low upon her forehead and upon her neck, her face quite pale with emotion that seemed to Ronicky to be fear. But with all her heart and soul she seemed to be driving herself forward.

  Beside her lay Blondy Loring, one hand stretched out from the bed and holding her hand. Over them stood a man reading from a book, a little man, with a high light thrown from the lamp on the back of his very bald head, and the light also shining in the aureole of misty hair which floated around the edge of the bald spot.

  And now the voice of Blondy, repeating the words of the minister, rose in a deep, heavy volume: “With this ring I thee wed!” And then the pale face of the girl was bowed over B
londy to kiss him.

  One step took Ronicky to the window, and another carried him over the low ledge and into the room. At the very shadow of his coming Elsie Bennett had started back. In vain Blondy strove to detain her with his big arm. She slipped out of his grasp and stood back against the farther wall, gasping, while the minister turned agape to face the intruder. Blondy was barely able to turn his head to view Ronicky.

  “You’re too late for the fun, son,” he sneered at Ronicky. “I’m sorry you didn’t come for the rest of the show!”

  “I’ve come to give it the last send-off, though,” said Ronicky grimly. “I’ve come to bring you good news.”

  “What news?”

  “A son has been born to your wife, and she’s sent for you — she needs you, Christopher!”

  He could not tell that this last name was already known to the girl. But it was not the name which struck her dumb; it was that first horrible message. Little Philip Walton reached her in time to lower her into a chair, where she sat nearly fainting and staring at Ronicky with uncomprehending eyes.

  Ronicky stepped to the bed and towered over the cringing, trembling outlaw. All the courage had gone out of the body of the bold Christopher, like the water out of a squeezed sponge.

  “I’m going to get you safe out of this,” said Ronicky Doone. “But when you’re safe and well, I’m going to run you down and kill you, you hound. At first I thought you were a sort of hero, and then I took you for a wolf of a man, Blondy, but finally I seen that all you were was just a miserable, sneaking coyote. And that’s the way I’m going to hound you, and I’m going to kill you in the end! But the time ain’t come yet. I’m not going to let the law finish you. I want to leave that for myself!”

  And to crown the horror, when the girl finally looked at her pseudo husband, she found him shaking and quivering and begging like a whipped dog. She got up from the chair, cold and perfectly calm, and walked straight to Ronicky and took his hand in both of hers.

  “I’ve been a great fool,” she said, “and you’ve saved me from myself!”

  So she turned and left the room, as quietly as though she were slipping out to let the patient get his rest undisturbed.

  “Ah,” said the minister, “what a woman she is! And what a God’s blessing, young man, that you came when you did. Now let’s find the sheriff!”

  But from that resolution Ronicky carefully dissuaded him in a long argument which lasted until the light burned low and until Christopher was nearly dead with fear and shame on the bed. Then the minister gave in, and he took Ronicky home with him.

  At the gate they parted.

  “It’s made me young again.” said the minister, “listening to you talk. It’s made me young again. But what I continually wonder at, Ronicky Doone, is where you get your reward?”

  “Why,” said Ronicky, “I’ve been thinking about that myself. I figure a gent gets his reward when he sees other people happy. As long as I can help other people to their happiness, I don’t require no other reward. But I’m going to stay around here and wait.”

  He added this with a little emphasis, and the minister chuckled.

  “I see,” he said. “I see perfectly. Yes, I think that would be the best thing to do after all — just wait!”

  And he was still chuckling when he went into his house.

  But Ronicky went back down the street full of a sad happiness and with his brain full of Elsie Bennett. He could not guess — that night — that she was watching from an upper window of the hotel every step he took that night.

  THE END

  The Dr. Kildare Series

  New York City, c. 1900 — after failing to graduate at Berkeley and having had his request to fight in the First World War denied, Brand was working in New York City as a labourer when a letter to the New York Times in 1917 led to a meeting with Robert Davis, an editor of Munsey’s pulp magazines. The meeting led to his employment as a writer on All-Story Weekly

  Internes Can’t Take Money (1936)

  Max Brand, created the character of Dr. James Kildare as a fictionalised version of his college friend, Dr. George Winthrop “Dixie” Fish, a New York surgeon. He first introduced the character in a short story, “Internes Can’t Take Money”, first published in the March 1936 issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. A second Kildare story, “Whiskey Sour”, appeared in Cosmopolitan in April 1938. In these early stories, Dr. James “Jimmy” Kildare is an aspiring surgeon that leaves his parents’ farm to practice at a fictional big-city hospital and through his work, comes into contact with underworld criminals. The first Kildare film, Internes Can’t Take Money (1937), based on the short story of the same title and made by Paramount, followed this version of the character (although with a greatly altered storyline).

  In 1938, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) contracted with Brand to acquire the rights to the Kildare character along with Brand’s services as a film story writer. Brand then made major changes to the character to fit MGM’s idea for a new movie series, including changing Kildare’s specialty to diagnostics rather than surgery, introducing the character of Kildare’s superior Dr. Leonard Gillespie, minimisng the criminal elements and restarting the story from Kildare’s first arrival at the city hospital. Brand collaborated with MGM on its Kildare film series starting with the first release, Young Dr. Kildare (1938) and continuing through to The People vs. Dr. Kildare (1941). During this time, Faust wrote several original Kildare stories which were first published in magazines, later republished in novel form and made into films by MGM. However, the stories (and not the screenplays) came first and were published before the films entered production, rather than as movie tie-ins.

  Young Doctor Kildare was the first full-length novel featuring the character and was followed by Calling Dr. Kildare (1939), The Secret of Dr. Kildare (1939), Dr. Kildare’s Girl (1940), Dr. Kildare Goes Home (also known as Dr. Kildare Takes Charge) (1940), Dr. Kildare’s Crisis (1941) and The People vs. Dr. Kildare (also known as Dr. Kildare’s Trial) (1941) and Dr. Kildare’s Hardest Case appeared in Cosmopolitan in 1942 and this was published in book form later that year as part of Dr. Kildare’s Search – a compilation of Dr. Kildare’s Girl and Dr. Kildare’s Hardest Case. An unfinished Dr. Kildare story, Dr. Kildare’s Dilemma, was published posthumously in 1971 and cannot appear in this edition due to copyright. Neither of these last three were produced as films, but Brand continued to receive a credit for creating the character.

  Cosmopolitan, March 1936 – the issue that carried the first Kildare story, “Internes Can’t Take the Money”

  Film poster for the first Kildare movie, ‘Internes Can’t Take the Money’ (1937)

  INTERNES CAN’T TAKE MONEY

  JIMMY KILDARE USED to get away from the hospital every afternoon and go over to Tom McGuire’s saloon on the avenue. He always drank two beers. An interne in the accident room has to have the brains in his fingertips in good order all day long, but two beers don’t get very far between a man and himself if he has a bit of head on his shoulders, and Jimmy Kildare had.

  McGuire’s saloon was comfortable in a dark, dingy way. The sawdust was swept out only once in two days, and the floors were never scrubbed except the evening before Election Day. Just the same, it was a good place. It made Jimmy Kildare think of the barn out on the old farm. The faces of the bums and crooks and yeggs who lined up at the bar were sour, just like the faces of the cows and horses that were lined along the mangers of the barn — long, and all the lines running down except for their arched eyebrows with the fool look of the cows.

  When Jimmy Kildare leaned an elbow on the worn varnish of McGuire’s saloon, it was always easier for him to think of home. The future to him was a great question mark, and New York was the emptiness inside the loop of the mark. Add a few strokes to the question mark and you get a dollar sign.

  Jimmy Kildare used to think about that but he never dared to think very far because, when he began to dream, he always saw himself back on the farm in the frosty stillness of an
autumn morning where every fence post and every wet rock said to him, “Jimmy, what are you doing away back here?”

  The only times that he escaped entirely from those dreams were when he was working at the operating table, all scrubbed up and masked and draped in white. But even when he was going through the wards and looking into the life or death that brightened or shadowed the eyes of his patients, the old days and the terrible sense that he must return to them used to come over him.

  He always wanted more relaxation from his work than those two beers in McGuire’s saloon, but he knew that his purse would not stand it. The hospital paid for his laundry. It gave him three meals a day of soggy food. Otherwise, he had to find himself entirely, except for an occasional lift from famous Doctor Henry Fearson. Fearson from his height had noticed Kildare in medical school and had made it possible for him to carry on when home funds ran out.

  Perhaps it was pity that moved Fearson to make those loans. Perhaps it was a quiet belief that there was a talent in the youngster. Kildare never could decide what the motive was, but he loved Fearson. During the interneship Fearson’s loans became almost negligible, possibly because an absent-minded genius like Fearson forgot that an interne is an unpaid labor slave. A lot of the other lads were the sons of affluent doctors, and they were always going places on days off, but they never took Kildare and he could not afford to take himself. He wasn’t a very exciting companion; he wasn’t good-looking; he wasn’t stylish.

  There was only one day at the hospital for him to write down in red, and that was the occasion when he had assisted at a kidney operation. In the blind red murk the scalpel of the operating surgeon made a mistake and a beautiful fountain of blood and life sprang upward. Jimmy Kildare snatched a forceps and grabbed at the source of that explosion. He reached through a horrible boiling red fog and clamped down. The fountain ceased to rise. Afterward the artery was tied off, and a blood transfusion brought the patient back to life.