Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “I’ll promise,” said Harrigan suddenly. “I’ve waited so long — I can stand five hours more.”

  “I’ll promise,” said McTee; but he scowled upon the floor.

  CHAPTER 39

  THEY LEFT HER and walked from the hotel. At the door Harrigan turned fiercely upon the Scotchman.

  “Do what ye please for the five hours, McTee, but give me the room I need for breathin’. D’ye hear? Otherwise I’ll be forgettin’ me promises.”

  “Do I hear ye?” answered McTee, snarling. “Aye, growl while you may.

  I’ll stop that throat of yours for good — tonight.”

  He turned on his heel, and the two men separated. Harrigan struck with a long swing out over a road which led into the rolling fields near the little town. He walked rapidly, and his thoughts kept pace, for he was counting his chances to win Kate as a miser counts his hoard of gold. Two pictures weighed large in his mind. One was of Kate at ease in the home of the Spaniard. Such ease would never be his; she came from another social world — a higher sphere. The second picture was of McTee climbing down from the wireless house and calmly assuming command of the mutineers in the crisis. Such a maneuver would never have occurred to the Irishman, and it was only through that maneuver that the ship had been brought to shore, for nothing save the iron will of McTee could have directed the mutineers.

  When the sun hung low, he turned and strode back toward the village, and despair trailed him like his shadow.

  He began to see clearly now what he had always feared. She loved McTee — McTee, who spoke clear, pure English, when he chose, and who could talk of many things. She loved McTee, but she dared not avow that love for fear of infuriating Harrigan and thereby risking the life of the Scotchman. It grew plainer and plainer. With the thought of Kate came another, far different, and yet blending one with another. When he reached the village, it was still a short time before sunset. He went straight to the British consulate and entered, for he had reached the solution of his puzzle.

  “My name’s Harrigan,” he said to the little man with the sideburns and the studious eyes, “and I’ve come to know if the old country has sent for volunteers. I want to go over.”

  “The old country,” said the consul, “has called for volunteers, and I have discovered a means of sending our boys across the water; but” — and here he examined Harrigan shrewdly— “but it’s an easy thing to take an Irish name. How am I to know you’re not a German, my friend? I’ve never seen you before.”

  Harrigan swelled.

  “A German? Me?” he muttered, and then, his head tilted back: “Ye little wan-eyed, lantern-jawed, flat-headed block, is it me — is it Harrigan ye call a German? Shtep out from behind the desk an’ let me see av you’re a man!”

  Strangely enough, the consul did not seem irritated by this outburst.

  He was, in fact, smiling. Then his hand went out to the Irishman.

  “Mr. Harrigan,” he said, “I’m honored by knowing you.”

  Harrigan stared and accepted the hand with caution; there was still battle in his eyes.

  “And can you send me over?” he asked doubtfully.

  “I can. As I said before, we’ve raised a small fund for just this purpose.”

  He drew out a piece of paper and commenced taking down the particulars of Harrigan’s name and birth and other details. Then a short typewritten note signed by the consul ended the interview. He gave Harrigan directions about how he could reach a shipping agent on the eastern coast, handed over the note, and the Irishman stepped out of the little office already on his way to the world war. He took no pleasure in his resolution, but wandered slowly back toward the hotel with downward head. He would speak a curt farewell and step out of the lives of the two. It would be very simple unless McTee showed some exultation, but if he did — Here Harrigan refused to think further.

  It was well after sunset when he crossed the veranda, and at the door he found McTee striding up and down.

  “Harrigan,” said McTee.

  “Well?”, growled Harrigan.

  “Stand over here close to me, and keep your face shut while I’m speaking. It won’t take me long.”

  The words were insulting enough, but the voice which spoke them was sadly subdued.

  “Listen,” said McTee. “What I’ve got to say is harder for me to do than anything I’ve ever done in my life. So don’t make me repeat anything. Harrigan, I’ve tried to beat you by fair means or foul ever since we met — ever since you saved my hide in the Ivilei district of Honolulu. I’ve tried to get you down, and I’ve failed. I fought you” — here he ground his teeth in agony— “and you beat me.”

  “It was the bucking of the deck that beat you,” put in Harrigan.

  “Shut up till I’m through or I’ll wring your neck and break your back! I’ve failed to down you, Harrigan. You beat me on the Mary Rogers. You made a fool of me on the island. And on the Heron—”

  He paused again, breathing hard.

  “On the Heron, it was you who brought us food and water when we were dying. And afterward, when Henshaw died, I jumped out before the mutineers and took command of them because I thought I could win back in Kate’s mind any ground which I’d lost before. I paraded the deck before her eyes; I gave commands; I was the man of the hour; I was driving the Heron to the shore in spite of the fire.”

  “You were,” admitted Harrigan sadly. “It was a great work you did,

  McTee. It was that which won her—”

  “But even when I was in command, you proved yourself the better man,

  Harrigan.”

  The Irishman leaned back against the wall, gasping, weak with astonishment.

  McTee went on: “I paraded the deck; I made a play to make her admire me, and for a while I succeeded, until the time came when you were carried up to the deck too weak to keep the men at work in the fireroom. Ah, Harrigan, that was a great moment to me. I said to Kate: ‘Harrigan has done well, but of course he can’t control men — his mind is too simple.’”

  “Did you say that?” murmured Harrigan, and hatred made his voice soft, almost reverent.

  “I did, and I went on: ‘I suppose I’ll have to go down there and drive the lads back to their work.’ So down I went, but you know what happened. They wouldn’t work for me. They stood around looking stupid at me and left me alone in the fireroom, and I had to come back on deck, in the sight of Kate, and rouse you out of your sleep and beg you to go back and try to make the lads keep at their work. And you got up to your knees, struggling to get back your consciousness! And you staggered to your feet, and you called to the firemen who lay senseless and sick on the deck around you — sick for sleep — and when they heard you call, they got up, groaning, and they reeled after you back to their work in the fireroom, and some of them dragged themselves along on their hands and knees. Oh, God!”

  He struck his clenched fist across his eyes.

  “And all the time I was watching the awe and the wonder come up like a fire in the eyes of Kate, while she looked after you.”

  Harrigan watched him with the same stupid amazement.

  “Harrigan,” said McTee at last, “you’ve won her. When I walked out by myself today, I saw that I was the only obstacle between her and her happiness. She doesn’t dare tell you she loves you, for fear that I’ll try to kill you. So I’ve decided to step out from between — I have stepped out! I’m going back to Scotland and get into the war. If I have fighting enough, I can forget the girl, maybe, and you! I’ve talked to the British consul already, and he’s given me a note that will take me over the water. So, Harrigan, I’ve merely come to say good-by to you — and you can say good-by for me to Kate.”

  “Wait,” said Harrigan. “There are a good many kinds of fools, but a Scotch fool is the worst of all. Take that paper out of your pocket and tear it up. Ah-h, McTee, ye blind man! Can’t ye see that gir-rl’s been eatin’ out her hear-rt for the love av ye, damn your eyes? Can’t ye see that the only thing tha
t keeps her from throwin’ her ar-rms around your neck is the fear of Harrigan? Look!”

  He pulled out the note which the consul had given him.

  “I’ve got the same thing you have. I’m going to go over the water. I tell you, I’ve seen her eyes whin she looked at ye, McTee, an’ that’s how I know she loves ye. Tear up your paper! A blight on ye! May ye have long life and make the girl happy — an’ rot in hell after!”

  “By God,” said McTee, “we’ve both been thinking the same thing at the same time. And maybe we’re both wrong. Kate said she had something to say to us. Let’s see her first and hear her speak.”

  “It’ll break my heart to hear her confess she loves ye, McTee — but I’ll go!”

  They went to the sleepy clerk behind the desk and asked him to send up word to Miss Malone that they wished to see her.

  “Ah, Miss Malone,” said the clerk, nodding, “before she left—”

  “Left?” echoed the two giants in voices of thunder.

  “She gave me this note to deliver to you.”

  And he passed them the envelope. Each of them placed a hand upon it and stared stupidly at the other.

  “Open it!” said Harrigan hoarsely.

  “I’m troubled with my old failing — a weakness of the eyes,” said McTee.

  “Open it yourself.”

  Harrigan opened it at last and drew out the paper within. They stood under a light, shoulder to shoulder, and read with difficulty, for the hand of Harrigan which held the paper shook.

  Dear lads, dear Dan and Angus:

  As soon as you left me, I went to the British consul, and from him I learned the shortest way of cutting across country to the railroad. By the time you read this, I am on the train and speeding north to the States.

  I have known for a long time that the only thing which keeps you from being fast friends is the love which each of you says he has for me. So I have decided to step from between you, for there is nothing on earth so glorious as the deep friendship of one strong man for another.

  I fear you may try to follow me, but I warn you that it would be useless. I have taken a course of training, and I am qualified as a nurse. The Red Cross of America will soon be sending units across the water to care for the wounded of the Allies. I shall go with one of the first units. You might be able to trace me to the States, but you will never be able to trace me overseas. This is good-by.

  It is hard to say it in writing. I want to take your hands and tell you how much you mean to me. But I could not wait to do that. For your own sakes I have to flee from you both.

  Now that I have said good-by, it is easier to add another thing. I care for both of you more than for any man I have ever known, but one of you I love with all my soul. Even now I dare not say which, for it might make enmity and jealousy between you, and enmity between such men as you means only one thing — death.

  I have tried to find courage to stand before you and say which of you I love, but I cannot. At the last moment I grow weak at the thought of the battle which would follow. My only resort is to resign him I care for beyond all friends, and him I love beyond all other men.

  I know that when I am gone, you will become fast friends, and together you will be kings of men. And in time — for a man’s life is filled with actions which rub out all memories — you will forget that you loved me, I know; but perhaps you will not forget that because I resigned you both, I built a foundation of rock for your friendship.

  You will be happy, you will be strong, you will be true to one another. And for that I am glad. But to you whom I love: Oh, my dear, it is breaking my heart to leave you!

  Kate

  One hand of each was on the paper as they lowered it and stared into each other’s face, with a black doubt, and a wild hope. Then of one accord they raised the paper and read it through again.

  “And to think,” muttered Harrigan at last, “that I should have ruined her happiness. I could tear my heart out, McTee!”

  “Harrigan,” said the big Scotchman solemnly, “it is you she means. See!

  She cried over the paper while she was writing. No woman could weep for

  Black McTee!”

  “And no woman could write like that to Harrigan. Angus, you can keep the knowledge that she loves you, but let me keep the letter. Ah-h, McTee, I’ll be afther keepin’ it forninst me heart!”

  “Let’s go outside,” said McTee. “There is no air in this room.”

  They went out into the black night, and as they walked, each kept his hand upon the letter, so that it seemed to be a power which tied them together.

  “Angus,” said Harrigan after a time, “we’ll be fightin’ for the letter soon. Why should we? I know every line of it by heart.”

  “I know every word,” answered McTee.

  “I’ve a thought,” said Harrigan. “In the ould days, whin a great man died, they used to burn his body. An’ now I’m feelin’ as if somethin’ had died in me — the hope av winnin’ Kate, McTee. So let’s burn her letter between us, eh?”

  “Harrigan,” said McTee with heartfelt emotion, “that thought is well worthy of you!”

  They knelt on the little spot. They placed the paper between them. Each scratched a match and lighted one side of the paper; the flames rose and met in the middle of the letter. Yet they did not watch the progress of the fire; by the sudden flare of light they gazed steadily into each other’s face, straining their eyes as the light died away as though each had discovered in the other something new and strange. When they looked down, the paper was merely a dim, red glow which passed away as quickly as a flush dies from the face, and the wind carried away the frail ashes. Then they rose and walked shoulder to shoulder on and into the night.

  Riders of the Silences (1919)

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  PROLOGUE

  THE GREAT WEST, prior to the century’s turn, abounded in legend. Stories were told of fabled gunmen whose bullets always magically found their mark, of mighty stallions whose tireless gallop rivaled the speed of the wind, of glorious women whose beauty stunned mind and heart. But nowhere in the vast spread of the mountain-desert country was there a greater legend told than the story of Red Pierre and the phantom gunfighter, McGurk.

  These two men of the wilderness, so unalike, of widely-differing backgrounds, had in common a single trait: each was unbeatable. Fate brought them clashing together, thunder to thunder, lightning to lightning. They were destined to meet at the crossroads of a long, long trail … a trail which began in the northern wastes of Canada and led, finally, to a deadly confrontation in the mountains of the Far West.

  Riders of the Silences

  CHAPTER 1

  IT SEEMED THAT Father Anthony gathered all the warmth of the short northern summer and kept it for winter use, for his good nature was an actual physical force. From his ruddy face beamed such a kindliness that people reached out toward him as they might extend their hands toward a comfortable fire.

&n
bsp; All the labors of his work as an inspector of Jesuit institutions across the length and breadth of Canada could not lessen the good father’s enthusiasm; his smile was as indefatigable as his critical eyes. The one looked sharply into every corner of a room and every nook and hidden cranny of thoughts and deeds; the other veiled the criticism and soothed the wounds of vanity.

  On this day, however, the sharp eyes grew a little less keen and somewhat wider, while that smile was fixed rather by habit than inclination. In fact, his expression might be called a frozen kindliness as he looked across the table to Father Victor.

  It required a most indomitable geniality, indeed, to outface the rigid piety of Jean Paul Victor. His missionary work had carried him far north, where the cold burns men thin. The zeal which drove him north and north and north over untracked regions, drove him until his body failed, drove him even now, though his body was crippled.

  A mighty yearning, and a still mightier self-contempt whipped him on, and the school over which he was master groaned and suffered under his régime. Father Anthony said gently: “Are there none among all your lads, dear Father Victor, whom you find something more than imperfect machines?”

  The man of the north drew from a pocket of his robe a letter. His lean fingers touched it almost with a caress.

  “One. Pierre Ryder. He shall carry on my mission in the north. I, who am silent, have done much; but Pierre will do more. I had to fight my first battle to conquer my own stubborn soul, and the battle left me weak for the great work in the snows, but Pierre will not fight that battle, for I have trained him.

  “This letter is for him. Shall we not carry it to him? For two days I have not seen Pierre.”

  Father Anthony winced.

  He said: “Do you deny yourself even the pleasure of the lad’s company? Alas, Father Victor, you forge your own spurs and goad yourself with your own hands. What harm is there in being often with the lad?”

  The sneer returned to the lips of Jean Paul Victor.