by Max Brand
“Ain’t you heard me say it?”
“Then the Lord pity you, Larrimer!”
Ordinarily Larrimer’s gun would have been out long before, but the change from this man’s humility of the moment before, his almost cringing meekness, to his present defiance was so startling that Larrimer was momentarily at sea.
“Damn my eyes,” he remarked furiously, “this is funny, this is. Are you preaching at me, kid? What d’you mean by that? Eh?”
“I’ll tell you why. Face me squarely, will you? Your head up, and your hands ready.”
In spite of his rage and wonder, Larrimer instinctively obeyed, for the words came snapping out like military commands.
“Now I’ll tell you. You manhunting cur, I’m going to send you to hell with your sins on your head. I’m going to kill you, Larrimer!”
It was so unexpected, so totally startling, that Larrimer blinked, raised his head, and laughed.
But the son of Black Jack tore away all thought of laughter.
“Larrimer, I’m Terry Hollis. Get your gun!”
The wide mouth of Larrimer writhed silently from mirth to astonishment, and then sinister rage. And though he was in the shadow against the door, Terry saw the slow gleam in the face of the tall man — then his hand whipped for the gun. It came cleanly out. There was no flap to his holster, and the sight had been filed away to give more oiled and perfect freedom to the draw. Years of patient practice had taught his muscles to reflex in this one motion with a speed that baffled the eye. Fast as light that draw seemed to those who watched, and the draw of Terry Hollis appeared to hang in midair. His hand wavered, then clutched suddenly, and they saw a flash of metal, not the actual motion of drawing the gun. Just that gleam of the barrel at his hip, hardly clear of the holster, and then in the dimness of the big room a spurt of flame and the boom of the gun.
There was a clangor of metal at the farthest end of the room. Larrimer’s gun had rattled on the boards, unfired. He tossed up his great gaunt arms as though he were appealing for help, leaped into the air, and fell heavily, with a force that vibrated the floor where Terry stood.
There was one heartbeat of silence.
Then Terry shoved the gun slowly back into his holster and walked to the body of Larrimer.
To these things Bill, the storekeeper, and Jack Baldwin, the rancher, afterward swore. That young Black Jack leaned a little over the corpse and then straightened and touched the fallen hand with the toe of his boot. Then he turned upon them a perfectly calm, unemotional look.
“I seem to have been elected to do the scavenger work in this town,” he said. “But I’m going to leave it to you gentlemen to take the carrion away. Shorty, I’m going back to the house. Are you ready to ride that way?”
When they went to the body of Larrimer afterward, they found a neat, circular splotch of purple exactly placed between the eyes.
CHAPTER 31
THE FIRST THING the people in Pollard’s big house knew of the return of the two was a voice singing faintly and far off in the stable — they could hear it because the door to the big living room was opened. And Kate Pollard, who had been sitting idly at the piano, stood up suddenly and looked around her. It did not interrupt the crap game of the four at one side of the room, where they kneeled in a close circle. But it brought big Pollard himself to the door in time to meet Denver Pete as the latter hurried in.
When Denver was excited he talked very nearly as softly as he walked. And his voice tonight was like a contented humming.
“It worked,” was all he said aside to Pollard as he came through the door. They exchanged silent grips of the hands. Then Kate drew down on them; as if a mysterious; signal had been passed to them by the subdued entrance of Denver, the four rose at the side of the room.
It was Pollard who forced him to talk.
“What happened?”
“A pretty little party,” said Denver. His purring voice was so soft that to hear him the others instantly drew close. Kate Pollard stood suddenly before him.
“Terry Hollis has done something,” she said. “Denver, what has he done?”
“Him? Nothing much. To put it in his own words, he’s just played scavenger for the town — and he’s done it in a way they won’t be forgetting for a good long day.
“Denver!”
“Well? No need of acting up, Kate.”
“Who was it?”
“Ever meet young Larrimer?”
She shuddered. “Yes. A — beast of a man.”
“Sure. Worse’n a beast, maybe. Well, he’s carrion now, to use Terry’s words again.”
“Wait a minute,” cut in big blond Phil Marvin. Don’t spoil the story for Terry. But did he really do for Larrimer? Larrimer was a neat one with a gun — no good otherwise.”
“Did he do for Larrimer?” echoed Denver in his purring voice. “Oh, man, man! Did he do for Larrimer? And I ain’t spoiling his story. He won’t talk about it. Wouldn’t open his face about it all the way home. A pretty neat play, boys. Larrimer was looking for a rep, and he wanted to make it on Black Jack’s son. Came tearing in.
“At first Terry tried to sidestep him. Made me weak inside for a minute because I thought he was going to take water. Then he got riled a bit and then — whang! It was all over. Not a body shot. No, boys, nothing clumsy and amateurish like that, because a man may live to empty his gun at you after he’s been shot through the body. This young Hollis, pals, just ups and drills Larrimer clean between the eyes. If you’d measured it off with a ruler, you couldn’t have hit exact center any better’n he done. Then he walks up and stirs Larrimer with his toe to make sure he was dead. Cool as hell.”
“You lie!” cried the girl suddenly.
They whirled at her, and found her standing and flaming at them.
“You hear me say it, Kate,” said Denver, losing a little of his calm.
“He wasn’t as cool as that — after killing a man. He wasn’t.”
“All right, honey. Don’t you hear him singing out there in the stable?
Does that sound as if he was cut up much?”
“Then you’ve made him a murderer — you, Denver, and you, Dad. Oh, if they’s a hell, you’re going to travel there for this! Both of you!”
“As if we had anything to do with it!” exclaimed Denver innocently.
“Besides, it wasn’t murder. It was plain self-defense. Nothing but that.
Three witnesses to swear to it. But, my, my — you should hear that town
rave. They thought nobody could beat Larrimer.”
The girl slipped back into her chair again and sat with her chin in her hand, brooding. It was all impossible — it could not be. Yet there was Denver telling his story, and far away the clear baritone of Terry Hollis singing as he cared for El Sangre.
She waited to make sure, waited to see his face and hear him speak close at hand. Presently the singing rang out more clearly. He had stepped out of the barn.
Oh, I am a friar of orders gray,
Through hill and valley I take my way.
My long bead roll I merrily chant;
Wherever I wander no money I want!
And as the last word rang through the room, Terry Hollis stood in the doorway, with his saddle and bridle hanging over one strong arm and his gun and gun belt in the other hand. And his voice came cheerily to them in greeting. It was impossible — more impossible than ever.
He crossed the room, hung up his saddle, and found her sitting near. What should he say? How would his color change? In what way could he face her with that stain in his soul?
And this was what Terry said to her: “I’m going to teach El Sangre to let you ride him, Kate. By the Lord, I wish you’d been with us going down the hill this morning!”
No shame, no downward head, no remorse. And he was subtly and strangely changed. She could not put the difference into words. But his eye seemed larger and brighter — it was no longer possible for her to look deeply into it, as she had done so easily th
e night before. And there were other differences.
He held his head in a more lordly fashion. About every movement there was a singular ease and precision. He walked with a lighter step and with a catlike softness almost as odd as that of Denver. His step had been light before, but it was not like this. But through him and about him there was an air of uneasy, alert happiness — as of one who steals a few perfect moments, knowing that they will not be many. A great pity welled in her, and a great anger. It was the anger which showed.
“Terry Hollis, what have you done? You’re lookin’ me in the eye, but you ought to be hangin’ your head. You’ve done murder! Murder! Murder!”
She let the three words ring through the room like three blows, cutting the talk to silence. And all save Terry seemed moved.
He was laughing down at her — actually laughing, and there was no doubt as to the sincerity of that mirth. His presence drew her and repelled her; she became afraid for the first time in her life.
“A little formality with a gun,” he said calmly. “A dog got in my way,
Kate — a mad dog. I shot the beast to keep it from doing harm.”
“Ah, Terry, I know everything. I’ve heard Denver tell it. I know it was a man, Terry.”
He insisted carelessly. “By the Lord, Kate, only a dog — and a mad dog at that. Perhaps there was the body of a man, but there was the soul of a dog inside the skin. Tut! it isn’t worth talking about.”
She drew away from him. “Terry, God pity you. I pity you,” she went on hurriedly and faintly. “But you ain’t the same any more, Terry. I — I’m almost afraid of you!”
He tried laughingly to stop her, and in a sudden burst of hysterical terror she fled from him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him come after her, light as a shadow. And the shadow leaped between her and the door; the force of her rush drove her into his arms.
In the distance she could hear the others laughing — they understood such a game as this, and enjoyed it with all their hearts. Ah, the fools!
He held her lightly, his fingertips under her elbows. For all the delicacy of that touch, she knew that if she attempted to flee, the grip would be iron. He would hold her where she was until he was through talking to her.
“Don’t you see what I’ve done?” he was saying rapidly. “You wanted to drive me out last night. You said I didn’t fit — that I didn’t belong up here. Well, Kate, I started out today to make myself fit to belong to this company of fine fellows.”
He laughed a little; if it were not real mirth, at least there was a fierce quality of joy in his voice.
“You see, I decided that if I went away I’d be lonely. Particularly, I’d be lonely as the devil, Kate, for you!”
“You’ve murdered to make yourself one — of us?”
“Tush, Kate. You exaggerate entirely. Do you know what I’ve really done? Why, I’ve wakened; I’ve come to my senses. After all, there was no other place for me to go. I tried the world of good, ordinary working people. I asked them to let me come in and prove my right to be one of them. They discharged me when I worked honestly on the range. They sent their professional gunmen and bullies after me. And then — I reached the limit of my endurance, Kate, and I struck back. And the mockery of it all is this — that though they have struck me repeatedly and I have endured it, I — having struck back a single time — am barred from among them forever. Let it be so!”
“Hush, Terry. I — I’m going to think of ways!”
“You couldn’t. Last night — yes. Today I’m a man — and I’m free. And freedom is the sweetest thing in the world. There’s no place else for me to go. This is my world. You’re my queen. I’ve won my spurs; I’ll use them in your service, Kate.”
“Stop, Terry!”
“By the Lord, I will, though! I’m happy — don’t you see? And I’m going to be happier. I’m going to work my way along until I can tell you — that I love you, Kate — that you’re the daintiest body of fire and beauty and temper and gentleness and wisdom and fun that was ever crowned with the name of a woman. And—”
But under the rapid fire of his words there was a touch of hardness — mockery, perhaps. She drew back, and he stepped instantly aside. She went by him through the door with bowed head. And Terry, closing it after her, heard the first sob.
CHAPTER 32
IT WAS AS if a gate which had hitherto been closed against him in the Pollard house were now opened. They no longer held back from Terry, but admitted him freely to their counsels. But the first person to whom he spoke was Slim Dugan. There was a certain nervousness about Slim this evening, and a certain shame. For he felt that in the morning, to an extent, he had backed down from the quarrel with young Black Jack. The killing of Larrimer now made that reticence of the morning even more pointed than it had been before. With all these things taken into consideration, Slim Dugan was in the mood to fight and die; for he felt that his honor was concerned. A single slighting remark to Terry, a single sneering side glance, would have been a signal for gunplay. And everyone knew it.
The moment there was silence the son of Black Jack went straight to Slim
Dugan.
“Slim,” he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “a fellow isn’t himself before noon. I’ve been thinking over that little trouble we had this morning, and I’ve made up my mind that if there were any fault it was mine for taking a joke too seriously. At any rate, if it’s agreeable to you, Slim, I’d like to shake hands and call everything square. But if there’s going to be any ill will, let’s have it out right now.”
Slim Dugan wrung the hand of Terry without hesitation.
“If you put it that way,” he said cordially, “I don’t mind saying that I was damned wrong to heave that stone at the hoss. And I apologize, Terry.”
And so everything was forgotten. Indeed, where there had been enmity before, there was now friendship. And there was a breath of relief drawn by every member of the gang. The peacemaking tendency of Hollis had more effect on the others than a dozen killings. They already granted that he was formidable. They now saw that he was highly desirable also.
Dinner that night was a friendly affair, except that Kate stayed in her room with a headache. Johnny the Chinaman smuggled a tray to her. Oregon Charlie went to the heart of matters with one of his rare speeches:
“You hear me talk, Hollis. She’s mad because you’ve stepped off. She’ll get over it all right.”
Oregon Charlie had a right to talk. It was an open secret that he had loved Kate faithfully ever since he joined the gang. But apparently Terry Hollis cared little about the moods of the girl. He was the center of festivities that evening until an interruption from the outside formed a diversion. It came in the form of a hard rider; the mutter of his hoofs swept to the door, and Phil Marvin, having examined the stranger from the shuttered loophole beside the entrance, opened the door to him at once.
“It’s Sandy,” he fired over his shoulder in explanation.
A weary-looking fellow came into the room, swinging his hat to knock the dust off it, and loosening the bandanna at his throat. The drooping, pale mustache explained his name. Two words were spoken, and no more.
“News?” said Pollard.
“News,” grunted Sandy, and took a place at the table.
Terry had noted before that there were always one or two extra places laid; he had always liked the suggestion of hospitality, but he was rather in doubt about this guest. He ate with marvellous expedition, keeping his lean face close to the table and bolting his food like a hungry dog. Presently he drained his coffee cup, arranged his mustache with painful care, and seemed prepared to talk.
“First thing,” he said now — and utter silence spread around the table as he began to talk— “first thing is that McGuire is coming. I seen him on the trail, cut to the left and took the short way. He ought to be loping in almost any minute.”
Terry saw the others looking straight at Pollard; the leader was thoughtful for a moment.
“Nope — alone.”
“He was always a nervy cuss. Someday—”
He left the sentence unfinished. Denver had risen noiselessly.
“I’m going to beat it for my bunk,” he announced. “Let me know when the sheriff is gone.”
“Sit where you are, Denver. McGuire ain’t going to lay hands on you.”
“Sure he ain’t,” agreed Denver. “But I ain’t partial to having guys lay eyes on me, neither. Some of you can go out and beat up trouble. I like to stay put.”
And he glided out of the room with no more noise than a sliding shadow.
He had hardly disappeared when a heavy hand beat at the door.
“That’s McGuire,” announced Pollard. “Let him in, Phil.” So saying, he twitched his gun out of the holster, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back.
“Don’t try nothing till you see me put my hand into my beard, boys. He don’t mean much so long as he’s come alone.”
Marvin drew back the door. Terry saw a man with shoulders of martial squareness enter. And there was a touch of the military in his brisk step and the curt nod he sent at Marvin as he passed the latter. He had not taken off his sombrero. It cast a heavy shadow across the upper part of his worn, sad face.
“Evening, sheriff,” came from Pollard, and a muttered chorus from the others repeated the greeting. The sheriff cast his glance over them like a schoolteacher about to deliver a lecture.
“Evening, boys.”
“Sit down, McGuire.”
“I’m only staying a minute. I’ll talk standing.” It was a declaration of war.
“I guess this is the first time I been up here, Pollard?”
“The very first, sheriff.”
“Well, if I been kind of neglectful, it ain’t that I’m not interested in you-all a heap!”
He brought it out with a faint smile; there was no response to that mirth.
“Matter of fact, I been keeping my eye on you fellows right along. Now, I ain’t up here to do no accusing. I’m up here to talk to you man to man. They’s been a good many queer things happen. None of ’em in my county, mind you, or I might have done some talking to you before now. But they’s been a lot of queer things happen right around in the mountains; and some of ’em has traced back kind of close to Joe Pollard’s house as a starting point. I ain’t going to go any further. If I’m wrong, they ain’t any harm done; if I’m right, you know what I mean. But I tell you this, boys — we’re a long-sufferin’ lot around these parts, but they’s some things that we don’t stand for, and one of ’em that riles us particular much is when a gent that lays out to be a regular hardworking rancher — even if he ain’t got much of a ranch to talk about and work about — takes mankillers under their wings. It ain’t regular, and it ain’t popular around these parts. I guess you know what I mean.”