Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  He made a little pause before her name, and when he spoke it, in spite of himself, his voice changed, became softer. The girl straightened somewhat, and the light was now increased to such a point that he could make out that she was frowning at him through the dimness.

  “First, you been adopted, then you been raised on a great big place with everything you want, mostly, and now you’re out — playing at Pedro’s. How come, Terry?”

  “I was sent away,” said Terry faintly, as all the pain of that farewell came flooding back over him.

  “Why?”

  “I shot a man.”

  “Ah!” said Kate. “You shot a man?” It seemed to silence her. “Why,

  Terry?”

  “He had killed my father,” he explained, more softly than ever.

  “I know. It was Minter. And they turned you out for that?”

  There was a trembling intake of her breath. He could catch the sparkle of her eyes, and knew that she had flown into one of her sudden, fiery passions. And it warmed his heart to hear her.

  “I’d like to know what kind of people they are, anyway! I’d like to meet up with that Elizabeth Cornish, the—”

  “She’s the finest woman that ever breathed,” said Terry simply.

  “You say that,” she pondered slowly, “after she sent you away?”

  “She did only what she thought was right. She’s a little hard, but very just, Kate.”

  She was shaking her head; the hair had become a dull and wonderful gold in the faint moonshine.

  “I dunno what kind of a man you are, Terry. I didn’t ever know a man could stick by — folks — after they’d been hurt by ’em. I couldn’t do it. I ain’t got much Bible stuff in me, Terry. Why, when somebody does me a wrong, I hate ’em — I hate ’em! And I never forgive ’em till I get back at ’em.” She sighed. “But you’re different, I guess. I begin to figure that you’re pretty white, Terry Hollis.”

  There was something so direct about her talk that he could not answer. It seemed to him that there was in her a cross between a boy and a man — the simplicity of a child and the straightforward strength of a grown man, and all this tempered and made strangely delightful by her own unique personality.

  “But I guessed it the first time I looked at you,” she was murmuring. “I guessed that you was different from the rest.”

  She had her elbow on her knee now, and, with her chin cupped in the graceful hand, she leaned toward him and studied him.

  “When they’re clean-cut on the outside, they’re spoiled on the inside. They’re crooks, hard ones, out for themselves, never giving a rap about the next gent in line. But mostly they ain’t even clean on the outside, and you can see what they are the first time you look at ’em.

  “Oh, I’ve liked some of the boys now and then; but I had to make myself like ’em. But you’re different. I seen that when you started talking. You didn’t sulk; and you didn’t look proud like you wanted to show us what you could do; and you didn’t boast none. I kept wondering at you while I was at the piano. And — you made an awful hit with me, Terry.”

  Again he was too staggered to reply. And before he could gather his wits, the girl went on:

  “Now, is they any real reason why you shouldn’t get out of here tomorrow morning?”

  It was a blow of quite another sort.

  “But why should I go?”

  She grew very solemn, with a trace of sadness in her voice.

  “I’ll tell you why, Terry. Because if you stay around here too long, they’ll make you what you don’t want to be — another Black Jack. Don’t you see that that’s why they like you? Because you’re his son, and because they want you to be another like him. Not that I have anything against him. I guess he was a fine fellow in his way.” She paused and stared directly at him in a way he found hard to bear. “He must of been! But that isn’t the sort of a man you want to make out of yourself. I know. You’re trying to go straight. Well, Terry, nobody that ever stepped could stay straight long when they had around ’em Denver Pete and — my father.” She said the last with a sob of grief. He tried to protest, but she waved him away.

  “I know. And it’s true. He’d do anything for me, except change himself. Believe me, Terry, you got to get out of here — pronto. Is they anything to hold you here?”

  “A great deal. Three hundred dollars I owe your father.”

  She considered him again with that mute shake of the head. Then: “Do you mean it? I see you do. I don’t suppose it does any good for me to tell you that he cheated you out of that money?”

  “If I was fool enough to lose it that way, I won’t take it back.”

  “I knew that, too — I guessed it. Oh, Terry, I know a pile more about the inside of your head than you’d ever guess! Well, I knew that — and I come with the money so’s you can pay back Dad in the morning. Here it is — and they’s just a mite more to help you on your way.”

  She laid the little handful of gold on the table beside the bed and rose.

  “Don’t go,” said Terry, when he could speak. “Don’t go, Kate! I’m not that low. I can’t take your money!”

  She stood by the bed and stamped lightly. “Are you going to be a fool about this, too?”

  “Your father offered to give me back all the money I’d won. I can’t do it, Kate.”

  He could see her grow angry, beautifully angry.

  “Is they no difference between Kate Pollard and Joe Pollard?”

  Something leaped into his throat. He wanted to tell her in a thousand ways just how vast that difference was.

  “Man, you’d make a saint swear, and I ain’t a saint by some miles. You take that money and pay Dad, and get on your way. This ain’t no place for you, Terry Hollis.”

  “I—” he began.

  She broke in: “Don’t say it. You’ll have me mad in a minute. Don’t say it.”

  “I have to. I can’t take money from you.”

  “Then take a loan.”

  He shook his head.

  “Ain’t I good enough to even loan you money?” she cried fiercely.

  The shaft of moonlight had poured past her feet; she stood in a pool of it.

  “Good enough?” said Terry. “Good enough?” Something that had been accumulating in him now swelled to bursting, flooded from his heart to his throat. He hardly knew his own voice, it was so transformed with sudden emotion.

  “There’s more good in you than in any man or woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Terry, are you trying to make me feel foolish?”

  “I mean it — and it’s true. You’re kinder, more gentle—”

  “Gentle? Me? Oh, Terry!”

  But she sat down on the bed, and she listened to him with her face raised, as though music were falling on her, a thing barely heard at a perilous distance.

  “They’ve told you other things, but they don’t know. I know, Kate. The moment I saw you I knew, and it stopped my heart for a beat — the knowing of it. That you’re beautiful — and true as steel; that you’re worthy of honor — and that I honor you with all my heart. That I love your kindness, your frankness, your beautiful willingness to help people, Kate. I’ve lived with a woman who taught me what was true. You’ve taught me what’s glorious and worth living for. Do you understand, Kate?”

  And no answer; but a change in her face that stopped him.

  “I shouldn’t of come,” she whispered at length, “and I — I shouldn’t have let you — talk the way you’ve done. But, oh, Terry — when you come to forget what you’ve said — don’t forget it all the way — keep some of the things — tucked away in you — somewhere—”

  She rose from the bed and slipped across the white brilliance of the shaft of moonlight. It made a red-gold fire of her hair. Then she flickered into the shadow. Then she was swallowed by the darkness.

  CHAPTER 28

  THERE WAS NO Kate at breakfast the next morning. She had left the house at dawn with her horse.

  “May be n
ight before she comes back,” said her father. “No telling how far she’ll go. May be tomorrow before she shows up.”

  It made Terry thoughtful for reasons which he himself did not understand. He had a peculiar desire to climb into the saddle on El Sangre and trail her across the hills. But he was very quickly brought to the reality that if he chose to make himself a laboring man and work out the three hundred dollars he would not take back from Joe Pollard, the big man was now disposed to make him live up to his word.

  He was sent out with an ax and ordered to attack a stout grove of the pines for firewood. But he quickly resigned himself to the work. Whatever gloom he felt disappeared with the first stroke that sunk the edge deep into the soft wood. The next stroke broke out a great chip, and a resinous, fresh smell came up to him.

  He made quick work of the first tree, working the morning chill out of his body, and as he warmed to his labor, the long muscles of arms and shoulders limbering, the blows fell in a shower. The sturdy pines fell one by one, and he stripped them of branches with long, sweeping blows of the ax, shearing off several at a stroke. He was not an expert axman, but he knew enough about that cunning craft to make his blows tell, and a continual desire to sing welled up in him.

  Once, to breathe after the heavy labor, he stepped to the edge of the little grove. The sun was sparkling in the tops of the trees; the valley dropped far away below him. He felt as one who stands on the top of the world. There was flash and gleam of red; there stood El Sangre in the corral below him; the stallion raised his head and whinnied in reply to the master’s whistle.

  A great, sweet peace dropped on the heart of Terry Hollis. Now he felt he was at home. He went back to his work.

  But in the midmorning Joe Pollard came to him and grunted at the swath

  Terry had driven into the heart of the lodgepole pines.

  “I wanted junk for the fire,” he protested; “not enough to build a house. But I got a little errand for you in town, Terry. You can give El Sangre a stretching down the road?”

  “Of course.”

  It gave Terry a little prickling feeling of resentment to be ordered about. But he swallowed the resentment. After all, this was labor of his own choosing, though he could not but wonder a little, because Joe Pollard no longer pressed him to take back the money he had lost. And he reverted to the talk of Kate the night before. That three hundred dollars was now an anchor holding him to the service of her father. And he remembered, with a touch of dismay, that it might take a year of ordinary wages to save three hundred dollars. Or more than a year.

  It was impossible to be downhearted long, however. The morning was as fresh as a rose, and the four men came out of the house with Pollard to see El Sangre dancing under the saddle. Terry received the commission for a box of shotgun cartridges and the money to pay for them.

  “And the change,” said Pollard liberally, “don’t worry me none. Step around and make yourself to home in town. About coming back — well, when I send a man into town, I figure on him making a day of it. S’long, Terry!”

  “Hey,” called Slim, “is El Sangre gun-shy?”

  “I suppose so.”

  The stallion quivered with eagerness to be off.

  “Here’s to try him.”

  The gun flashed into Slim’s hand and boomed. El Sangre bolted straight into the air and landed on legs of jack-rabbit qualities that flung him sidewise. The hand and voice of Terry quieted him, while the others stood around grinning with delight at the fun and at the beautiful horsemanship.

  “But what’ll he do if you pull a gun yourself?” asked Joe Pollard, showing a sudden concern.

  “He’ll stand for it — long enough,” said Terry. “Try him!”

  There was a devil in Slim that morning. He snatched up a shining bit of quartz and hurled it — straight at El Sangre! There was no warning — just a jerk of the arm and the stone came flashing.

  “Try your gun — on that!”

  The words were torn off short. The heavy gun had twitched into the hand of Terry, exploded, and the gleaming quartz puffed into a shower of bright particles that danced toward the earth. El Sangre flew into a paroxysm of educated bucking of the most advanced school. The steady voice of Terry Hollis brought him at last to a quivering stop. The rider was stiff in the saddle, his mouth a white, straight line.

  He shoved his revolver deliberately back into the holster.

  The four men had drawn together, still muttering with wonder. Luck may have had something to do with the success of that snapshot, but it was such a feat of marksmanship as would be remembered and talked about.

  “Dugan!” said Terry huskily.

  Slim lunged forward, but he was ill at ease.

  “Well, kid?”

  “It seemed to me,” said Terry, “that you threw that stone at El Sangre. I hope I’m wrong?”

  “Maybe,” growled Slim. He flashed a glance at his companions, not at all eager to push this quarrel forward to a conclusion in spite of his known prowess. He had been a little irritated by the adulation which had been shown to the son of Black Jack the night before. He was still more irritated by the display of fine riding. For horsemanship and clever gunplay were the two main feathers in the cap of Slim Dugan. He had thrown the stone simply to test the qualities of this new member of the gang; the snapshot had stunned him. So he glanced at his companions. If they smiled, it meant that they took the matter lightly. But they were not smiling; they met his glance with expressions of uniform gravity. To torment a nervous horse is something which does not fit with the ways of the men of the mountain desert, even at their roughest. Besides, there was an edgy irritability about Slim Dugan which had more than once won him black looks. They wanted to see him tested now by a foeman who seemed worthy of his mettle. And Slim saw that common desire in his flickering side glance. He turned a cold eye on Terry.

  “Maybe,” he repeated. “But maybe I meant to see what you could do with a gun.”

  “I thought so,” said Terry through his teeth. “Steady, boy!”

  El Sangre became a rock for firmness. There was not a quiver in one of his long, racing muscles. It was a fine tribute to the power of the rider.

  “I thought you might be trying out my gun,” repeated Terry. “Are you entirely satisfied?”

  He leaned a little in the saddle. Slim moistened his lips. It was a hard question to answer. The man in the saddle had become a quivering bundle of nerves; Slim could see the twitching of the lips, and he knew what it meant. Instinctively he fingered one of the broad bright buttons of his shirt. A man who could hit a glittering thrown stone would undoubtedly be able to hit that stationary button. The thought had elements in it that were decidedly unpleasant. But he had gone too far. He dared not recede now if he wished to hold up his head again among his fellows — and fear of death had never yet controlled the actions of Slim Dugan.

  “I dunno,” he remarked carelessly. “I’m a sort of curious gent. It takes more than one lucky shot to make me see the light.”

  The lips of Terry worked a moment. The companions of Slim Dugan scattered of one accord to either side. There was no doubting the gravity of the crisis which had so suddenly sprung up. As for Joe Pollard, he stood in the doorway in the direct line projected from Terry to Slim and beyond. There was very little sentiment in the body of Joe Pollard. Slim had always been a disturbing factor in the gang. Why not? He bit his lips thoughtfully.

  “Dugan,” said Terry at length, “curiosity is a very fine quality, and I admire a man who has it. Greatly. Now, you may notice that my gun is in the holster again. Suppose you try me again and see how fast I can get it out of the leather — and hit a target.”

  The challenge was entirely direct. There was a perceptible tightening in the muscles of the men. They were nerving themselves to hear the crack of a gun at any instant. Slim Dugan, gathering his nerve power, fenced for a moment more of time. His narrowing eyes were centering on one spot on Terry’s body — the spot at which he would attempt to d
rive his bullet, and he chose the pocket of Terry’s shirt. It steadied him, gave him his old self-confidence to have found that target. His hand and his brain grew steady, and the thrill of the fighter’s love of battle entered him.

  “What sort of a target d’you want?” he asked.

  “I’m not particular,” said Hollis. “Anything will do for me — even a button!”

  It jarred home to Slim — the very thought he had had a moment before. He felt his certainty waver, slip from him. Then the voice of Pollard boomed out at them:

  “Keep them guns in their houses! You hear me talk? The first man that makes a move I’m going to drill! Slim, get back into the house. Terry, you damn meateater, git on down that hill!”

  Terry did not move, but Slim Dugan stirred uneasily, turned, and said:

  “It’s up to you, chief. But I’ll see this through sooner or later!”

  And not until then did Terry turn his horse and go down the hill without a backward look.

  CHAPTER 29

  THERE HAD BEEN a profound reason behind the sudden turning of Terry Hollis’s horse and his riding down the hill. For as he sat the saddle, quivering, he felt rising in him an all-controlling impulse that was new to him, a fierce and sudden passion.

  It was joyous, free, terrible in its force — that wish to slay. The emotion had grown, held back by the very force of a mental thread of reason, until, at the very moment when the thread was about to fray and snap, and he would be flung into sudden action, the booming voice of Joe Pollard had cleared his mind as an acid clears a cloudy precipitate. He saw himself for the first time in several moments, and what he saw made him shudder.

  And still in fear of himself he swung El Sangre and put him down the slope recklessly. Never in his life had he ridden as he rode in those first five minutes down the pitch of the hill. He gave El Sangre his head to pick his own way, and he confined his efforts to urging the great stallion along. The blood-bay went like the wind, passing up-jutting boulders with a swish of gravel knocked from his plunging hoofs against the rock.

  Even in Terry’s passion of self-dread he dimly appreciated the prowess of the horse, and when they shot onto the level going of the valley road, he called El Sangre out of the mad gallop and back to the natural pace, a gait as swinging and smooth as running water — yet still the road poured beneath them at the speed of an ordinary gallop. It was music to Terry Hollis, that matchless gait. He leaned and murmured to the pricking ears with that soft, gentle voice which horses love. The glorious head of El Sangre went up a little, his tail flaunted somewhat more proudly; from the quiver of his nostrils to the ringing beat of his black hoofs he bespoke his confidence that he bore the king of men on his back.