Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “You’ve got to listen to me, Anthony—”

  “I’ll listen to nothing, for there he is and—”

  She said with a sharp, rising ring in her voice: “If you shoot at him while he carries that white flag I’ll — I’ll send a bullet through your head — that’s straight! We got only one law in the mountains, and that’s the law of honour. If you bust that, I’m done with you, Anthony.”

  “Take my gun — take it quickly, Sally, I can’t trust myself; looking at him, I can see the place where the bullet should strike home.”

  He forced the butt of his revolver into her hands, rose, and stepped to the door, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Tell me what he does.”

  “He’s comin’ straight toward us as if he didn’t fear nothin’ — grey

  William Drew! He’s not packin’ a gun; he trusts us.”

  “The better way,” answered Bard. “Bare hands — the better way!”

  “He has killed men with those bare hands of his. I can see ’em clear — great, blunt-fingered hands, Anthony. He’s coming around the side of the house. I’ll go into the front room.”

  She ran past Anthony and paused in the habitable room, spying through a crack in the wall. And Anthony stood with his eyes tightly closed, his head bowed. The image of the leashed hound came more vividly to her when she glanced back at him.

  “He’s walkin’ right up the path. There he stops.”

  “Where?”

  “Right beside the old grave.”

  “Anthony!” called a deep voice. “Anthony, come out to me!”

  He started, and then groaned and stopped himself.

  “Is the sign of the truce still over his head, Sally?”

  “Yes.”

  “I daren’t go out to him — I’d jump at his throat.”

  She came beside him.

  “It means something besides war. I can see it in his face. Pain — sorrow,

  Anthony, but not a wish for fightin’.”

  From the left side of his cartridge belt a stout-handled, long-bladed hunting-knife was suspended. He disengaged the belt and tossed it to the floor. Still he paused.

  “If I go, I’ll break the truce, Sally.”

  “You won’t; you’re a man, Anthony; and remember that you’re on the range, and the law of the range holds you.”

  “Anthony!” called the deep voice without.

  He shuddered violently.

  “What is it?”

  “It sounds — like the voice of my father calling me! I must go!”

  She clung to him.

  “Not till you’re calmer.”

  “My father died in my arms,” he answered; “let me go.”

  He thrust her aside and strode out through the door.

  On the farther side of the grave stood Drew, his grey head bare, and looking past him Anthony saw the snow-clad tops of the Little Brother, grey also in the light of the evening. And the trees whose branches interwove above the grave — grey also with moss. The trees, the mountain, the old headstone, the man — they blended into a whole.

  “Anthony!” said the man, “I have waited half my life for this!”

  “And I,” said Bard, “have waited a few weeks that seem longer than all my life, for this!”

  His own eager panting stopped him, but he stumbled on: “I have you here in reach at last, Drew, and I’m going to tear your heart out, as you tore the heart out of John Bard.”

  “Ah, Anthony,” said the other, “my heart was torn out when you were born; it was torn out and buried here.”

  And to the wild eyes of Anthony it seemed as if the great body of Drew, so feared through the mountain-desert, was now enveloped with weakness, humbled by some incredible burden.

  After that a mist obscured his eyes; he could not see more than an outline of the great shape before him; his throat contracted as if a hand gripped him there, and an odd tingling came at the tips of his fingers. He moved forward.

  “It is more than I dreamed,” he said hoarsely, as his foot planted firmly on the top of the grave, and he poised himself an instant before flinging himself on the grey giant. “It is more than I dreamed for — to face you — alone!”

  And a solemn, even voice answered him, “We are not alone.”

  “Not alone, but the others are too far off to stop me.”

  “Not alone, Anthony, for your mother is here between us.”

  Like a fog under a wind, the mist swept from the eyes of Anthony; he looked out and saw that the face of the grey man was infinitely sad, and there was a hungry tenderness that reached out, enveloped, weakened him. He glanced down, saw that his heel was on the mount of the grave; saw again the headstone and the time-blurred inscription: “Here sleeps Joan, the wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest.”

  A mortal weakness and trembling seized him. The wind puffed against his face, and he went staggering back, his hand caught up to his eyes.

  He closed his mind against the words which he had heard.

  But the deep organ voice spoke again: “Oh, boy, your mother!”

  In the stupor which came over him he saw two faces: the stern eyes of John Bard, and the dark, mocking beauty of the face which had looked down to him in John Bard’s secret room. He lowered his hand from his eyes; he stared at William Drew, and it seemed to him that it was John Bard he looked upon. Their names differed, but long pain had touched them with a common greyness. And it seemed to Anthony that it was only a moment ago that the key turned in the lock of John Bard’s secret room, the hidden chamber which he kept like Bluebeard for himself, where he went like Bluebeard to see his past; only an instant before he had turned the key in that lock, the door opened, and this was the scene which met his eyes — the grave, the blurred tombstone, and the stern figure beyond.

  “Joan,” he repeated; “your wife — my mother?”

  He heard a sob, not of pain, but of happiness, and knew that the blue eyes of Sally Fortune looked out to him from the doorway of the house.

  The low voice, hurried now, broke in on him.

  “When I married Joan, John Bard fled from the range; he could not bear to look on our happiness. You see, I had won her by chance, and he hated me for it. If you had ever seen her, Anthony, you would understand. I crossed the mountains and came here and built this house, for your mother was like a wild bird, Anthony, and I did not dare to let men near her; then a son was born, and she died giving him birth. Afterward I lived on here, close to the place which she had chosen herself for rest. And I was happy because the boy grew every day into a more perfect picture of his dead mother.

  “One day when he was almost three I rode off through the hills, and when I came back the boy was gone. I rode with a posse everywhere, hunting him; aye, Anthony, the trail which I started then I have kept at ever since, year after year, and here it ends where it began — at the grave of Joan!

  “Finally I came on news that a man much like John Bard in appearance had been seen near my house that day. Then I knew it was Bard in fact. He had seen the image of the woman we both loved in the boy. He was all that was left of her on earth. After these years I can read his heart clearly; I know why he took the boy.

  “Then I left this place. I could not bear the sight of the grave; for she slept in peace, and I lived in hell waiting for the return of my son.

  “At last I went east; I was at Madison Square Garden and saw you ride. It was the face of Joan that looked back at me; and I knew that I was close to the end of the trail.

  “The next night I called out John Bard. He had been in hell all those years, like me, for he had waited for my coming. He begged me to let him have you; said you loved him as a father; I only laughed. So we fought, and he fell; and then I saw you running over the lawn toward us.

  “I remembered Joan, her pride and her fierceness, and I knew that if I waited a son would kill his father that night. So I turned and fled through the trees. Anthony, do you believe me; do you forgive me?”


  The memory of the clumsy, hungered tenderness of John Bard swept about

  Anthony.

  He cried: “How can I believe? My father has killed my father; what is left?”

  The solemn voice replied: “Anthony, my son!”

  He saw the great, blunt-fingered hands which had killed men, which were feared through the length and breadth of the mountain-desert, stretched out to him.

  “Anthony Drew!” said the voice.

  His hand went out, feebly, by slow degrees, and was caught in a mighty double clasp. Warmth flowed through him from that grasp, and a great emotion troubled him, and a voice from deep to deep echoed within him — the call of blood to blood. He knew the truth, for the hate burned out in him and left only an infinite sadness.

  He said: “What of the man who loved me? Whom I love?”

  “I have done penance for that death,” answered William Drew, “and I shall do more penance before I die. For I am only your father in name, but he is the father in your thoughts and in your love. Is it true?”

  “It is true,” said Anthony.

  And the other, bitterly: “In his life he was as strong as I; in his death he is still stronger. It is his victory; his shadow falls between us.”

  But Anthony answered: “Let us go together and bring his body and bury it at the left side of — my mother.”

  “Lad, it is the one thing we can do together, and after that?”

  A plaintive sound came to the ear of Anthony, and he looked down to see Sally Fortune weeping at the grave of Joan. Better than both the men she understood, perhaps. In the deep tenderness which swelled through him he caught a sense of the drift of life through many generations of the past and projecting into the future, men and women strong and fair and each with a high and passionate love.

  The men died and the women changed, but the love persisted with the will to live. It came from a thousand springs, but it rolled in one river to one sea. The past stood there in the form of William Drew; he and Sally made the present, and through his love of her sprang the hope of the future.

  It was all very clear to him. The love of Bard and Drew for Joan Piotto had not died, but passed through the flame and the torment of the three ruined lives and returned again with gathering power as the force which swept him and Sally Fortune out into that river and toward that far-off sea. The last mist was brushed from his eyes. He saw with a piercing vision the world, himself, life. He looked to William Drew and saw that he was gazing on an old and broken man.

  He said to the old man: “Father, she is wiser than us both.”

  And he pointed to Sally Fortune, still weeping softly on the grave of

  Joan.

  But William Drew had no eye for her; he was fallen into a deep muse over the blurred inscription on the headstone. He did not even raise his head when Anthony touched Sally Fortune on the shoulder. She rose, and they stole back together toward the house. There, as they stood close together, Sally murmured: “It is cruel to leave him alone. He needs us now, close to him.”

  His hand wandered slowly across her hair, and he said: “Sally, how close can we ever be to him?”

  “We can only watch and wait and try to understand,” murmured Sally

  Fortune.

  They were so close to the door of the ruined house, now, that a taint of burnt powder crept out to them, a small, keen odour, and with a sudden desire to protect her, he drew her close to him. There was no tensing of her body when his arm went around her and he knew with a rush of tenderness how completely, how perfectly she accepted him. Over the hand which held her he felt soft fingers settle to keep it in its place, and when he looked down he found that her face was raised, and the eyes which brooded on him were misty bright, like the eyes of a child when joy overflows in it, but awe keeps it quiet.

  THE END

  The Man Who Forgot Christmas (1920)

  CONTENTS

  I. A FRESH START

  II. WITH A TWIG

  III. WHITE VS. YELLOW

  IV. GOOD SAMARITANS

  V. VICARIOUS VIRTUES

  VI. CHAPEL’S CHANGE OF HEART

  VII. ENTER MARSHAL GAINES

  VIII. LOUIS’S LETTER

  IX. LEADEN SOLDIER

  X. A MAN WHO FORGOT CHRISTMAS

  XI. THE GREATEST GIFT

  I. A FRESH START

  IT WAS SNOWING. A northwester was rushing over the mountains. As the storm wind shifted a few points west and east, the mountains cut it away, so that one valley lay in a lull of quiet air, with the snow dropping in perpendicular lines; or else the mountains caught the wind in a funnel and poured a venomous blast, in which the snow hardened and became cold teeth.

  The two men lying in a covert saw Skinner Mountain, due south of them, withdraw into the mist of white and again jump out at them, blocking half the sky. The weather and the sudden appearances of Mount Skinner troubled Lou Alp. In his own way and in his own time, Alp was a successful sneak thief. He had been known to take chances enough; but that was in Manhattan, where the millions walk the street and where mere numbers offer a refuge. That was in Manhattan, where a man may slip into twisting side streets with a dozen issues through alleys and cellars. That was in Manhattan, where a fugitive turning a corner is as far away as though he had dropped to the other side of the world.

  Far different here. Of man there was not a trace, and the huge and brutal face of nature pressed upon the sensitive mind of Lou Alp; the chill air numbed his finger tips and made his only useful weapons helpless. Lou Alp depended upon sleight of hand and agility rather than upon strength. This whirl and rush of snow baffled him and irritated him. He kept repeating to his companion: “Is this your sunshine? Is this your happy country? I say, to hell with it!”

  His companion, who lay by his side in the bushes and kept a sharp lookout up the road at such times as the drive of the snow made it possible to see fifty yards, would answer: “It’s a freak storm, Lou. Never saw it come so thick and fast so early in December as this. Give the country a chance. It’s all right.”

  Alp would stare at him in amazement. From the time of their first intimacy Jack Chapel had continually amazed him. That was in the shoe shop of the penitentiary where they had sat side by side on their stools. The rule was silence and, though there were many opportunities for speech from the side of the mouth in the carefully gauged whispers which state prisoners learn to use so soon, Chapel had never taken advantage of the chances. Lou would never forget the man as he had first seen him, the clean-cut features, the rather square effect given by the size of his jaw muscles, the prison pallor which made his dark eyes seem darker. On the whole he was a handsome chap, but he had something about him more arresting than his good looks.

  For the most part the prisoners pined or found resignation. Their eyes became pathetic or dull, as Lou’s eyes became after the first three months. But the eyes of Jack Chapel held a spark which bespoke neither resignation nor inertia. He had a way of sitting forward on his stool all day long, giving the impression of one ready to start to his feet and spring into action. When one of the trusties spoke to him, he did not stare straight before him, as the other prisoners did, but his eyes first looked his questioner full in the face and flashed, then he made his answer. He gave an effect, indeed, of one who bides a day.

  These things Lou Alp noted, for there were few things about faces which he missed. He had learned early to read human nature from his life as a gutter urchin who must know which face means a dime, which means a cent, and which means no gift to charity at all. But what lay behind the fire in Jack Chapel’s eyes he could not say. Alp was cunning, but he lacked imagination. He knew the existence of some devouring emotion, but what that emotion was he could not tell.

  He was not the only one to sense a danger in Chapel. The trusty in charge of the shop guessed it at the end of the first week, and he started to break Chapel. It was not hard to find an opening. Chapel had little skill with his hands, and presently job after job was turned back to him
. He had sewed clumsily; he had put in too many nails; he had built up the heel awry. After a time, he began to be punished for his clumsiness. It was at this point that Alp interfered. He had no great liking for Chapel, but he hated the trusty with the hatred of a weasel for a badger. To help Chapel was to get in an indirect dig at the trusty.

  Because Lou Alp could do almost anything with his agile fingers, he began to instruct Chapel in the fine points of shoemaking. It was a simple matter. He had only to wait until Chapel was in difficulty, and then Lou would start the same piece of work on one of his own shoes. He would catch the eye of Chapel and work slowly, painstakingly, so that his neighbor could follow the idea. Before long, Chapel was an expert and even the carping trusty could find no fault.

  Now charity warms the heart; a gift is more pleasant to him who gives than to him who takes. Lou Alp, having for once in his life performed a good deed, was amazed by the gradual unlocking of his heart that followed. He had lived a friendless life; vaguely, delightfully, he felt the growth of a new emotion.

  When the time came, he had leaned over to pick something from the floor and had whispered sidewise: “What’s the charge?”

  The other had made no attempt to reply guardedly. His glance held boldly on the face of the sneak thief, as the latter straightened again on his stool. There was a slight tightening of his jaw muscles, and then Chapel said: “Murder!”

  The word knocked at the heart of Lou Alp and made him tremble. Murder! Looking at the strong, capable, but rather clumsy hands of Chapel, he saw how all that strength could have been applied. Suppose those square-tipped fingers had clutched someone by the throat — an ache went down the windpipe of the thief.

  If Lou had been interested before, he was fascinated now. In all their weeks of labor side by side, only four words had been interchanged between them, and here he was in the soul of his companion. He was not horrified. Rather, he felt a thrill of dog-like admiration. He, Lou Alp, had wished to kill more than one man. There was the “flatty” who ran him down in “Mug” McIntyre’s place. He had wanted to bump that man off. There were others. But fear, which was the presiding deity in the life of the sneak thief, had warded him away from the cardinal sin. He respected Chapel; he was glad he had helped his neighbor; he felt even a touch of reverence for the boy.