Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  While he smiled into the face of Milligan, perspiration was bursting out under his armpits.

  “Mr. Milligan, I implore you to give me your aid.”

  “What’s the difference?” Milligan asked in a changed tone. “If he don’t fight you here he’ll fight you later.”

  “You’re wrong, Mr. Milligan. He isn’t the sort to hold malice. He’ll come here tonight and try to get at me like a bulldog straining on a leash. If he is kept away he’ll get over his bad temper.”

  Milligan pushed back his chair.

  “You’ve tried to force yourself down the throat of The Corner,” he said, “and now you yell for help when you see the teeth.”

  He had raised his voice. Now he got up and strode noisily away. Donnegan waited until he was halfway across the dance floor and then rose in turn.

  “Gentlemen,” he said.

  The quiet voice cut into every conversation; the musicians lowered the instruments.

  “I have just told Mr. Milligan that I am sure Jack Landis is coming back here to try to kill me. I have asked for his protection. He has refused it. I intend to stay here and wait for him, Jack Landis. In the meantime I ask any able-bodied man who will do so, to try to stop Landis when he enters.”

  He sat down, raised his glass, and sipped the drink. Two hundred pairs of eyes were fastened with hawklike intensity upon him, and they could perceive no quiver of his hand.

  The sipping of his liquor was not an affectation. For he was drinking, at incredible cost, liquors from Milligan’s store of rareties.

  The effect of Donnegan’s announcement was first a silence, then a hum, then loud voices of protest, curiosity — and finally a scurrying toward the doors.

  Yet really very few left. The rest valued a chance to see the fight beyond the fear of random slugs of lead which might fly their way. Besides, where such men as Donnegan and big Jack Landis were concerned, there was not apt to be much wild shooting. The dancing stopped, of course. The music was ordered by Milligan to play, in a frantic endeavor to rouse custom again; but the music of its own accord fell away in the middle of the piece. For the musicians could not watch the notes and the door at the same time.

  As for Donnegan, he found that it was one thing to wait and another to be waited for. He, too, wished to turn and watch that door until it should be filled by the bulk of Jack Landis. Yet he fought the desire.

  And in the midst of this torturing suspense an idea came to him, and at the same instant Jack Landis entered the doorway. He stood there looking vast against the night. One glance around was sufficient to teach him the meaning of the silence. The stage was set, and the way opened to Donnegan. Without a word, big George stole to one side.

  Straight to the middle of the dance floor went Jack Landis, red-faced, with long, heavy steps. He faced Donnegan.

  “You skunk!” shouted Landis. “I’ve come for you!”

  And he went for his gun. Donnegan, too, stirred. But when the revolver leaped into the hand of Landis, it was seen that the hands of Donnegan rose past the line of his waist, past his shoulders, and presently locked easily behind his head. A terrible chance, for Landis had come within a breath of shooting. So great was the impulse that, as he checked the pressure of his forefinger, he stumbled a whole pace forward. He walked on.

  “You need cause to fight?” he cried, striking Donnegan across the face with the back of his left hand, jerking up the muzzle of the gun in his right.

  Now a dark trickle was seen to come from the broken lips of Donnegan, yet he was smiling faintly.

  Jack Landis muttered a curse and said sneeringly: “Are you afraid?”

  There were sick faces in that room; men turned their heads, for nothing is so ghastly as the sight of a man who is taking water.

  “Hush,” said Donnegan. “I’m going to kill you, Jack. But I want to kill you fairly and squarely. There’s no pleasure, you see, in beating a youngster like you to the draw. I want to give you a fighting chance. Besides” — he removed one hand from behind his head and waved it carelessly to where the men of The Corner crouched in the shadow— “you people have seen me drill one already, and I’d like to shoot you in a new way. Is that agreeable?”

  Two terrible, known figures detached themselves from the gloom near the door.

  “Hark to this gent sing,” said one, and his name was the Pedlar. “Hark to him sing, Jack, and we’ll see that you get fair play.”

  “Good,” said his friend, Joe Rix. “Let him take his try, Jack.”

  As a matter of fact, had Donnegan reached for a gun, he would have been shot before even Landis could bring out a weapon, for the steady eye of Joe Rix, hidden behind the Pedlar, had been looking down a revolver barrel at the forehead of Donnegan, waiting for that first move. But something about the coolness of Donnegan fascinated them.

  “Don’t shoot, Joe,” the Pedlar had said. “That bird is the chief over again. Don’t plug him!”

  And that was why Donnegan lived.

  CHAPTER 23

  IF HE HAD taken the eye of the hardened Rix and the still harder Pedlar, he had stunned the men of The Corner. And breathlessly they waited for his proposal to Jack Landis.

  He spoke with his hands behind his head again, after he had slowly taken out a handkerchief and wiped his chin.

  “I’m a methodical fellow, Landis,” he said. “I hate to do an untidy piece of work. I have been disgusted with myself since my little falling out with Lewis. I intended to shoot him cleanly through the hand, but instead of that I tore up his whole forearm. Sloppy work, Landis. I don’t like it. Now, in meeting you, I want to do a clean, neat, precise job. One that I’ll be proud of.”

  A moaning voice was heard faintly in the distance. It was the Pedlar, who had wrapped himself in his gaunt arms and was crooning softly, with unspeakable joy: “Hark to him sing! Hark to him sing! A ringer for the chief!”

  “Why should we be in such a hurry?” continued Donnegan. “You see that clock in the corner? Tut, tut! Turn your head and look. Do you think I’ll drop you while you look around?”

  Landis flung one glance over his shoulder at the big clock, whose pendulum worked solemnly back and forth.

  “In five minutes,” said Donnegan, “it will be eleven o’clock. And when it’s eleven o’clock the clock will chime. Now, Landis, you and I shall sit down here like gentlemen and drink our liquor and think our last thoughts. Heavens, man, is there anything more disagreeable than being hurried out of life? But when the clock chimes, we draw our guns and shoot each other through the heart — the brain — wherever we have chosen. But, Landis, if one of us should inadvertently — or through nervousness — beat the clock’s chime by the split part of a second, the good people of The Corner will fill that one of us promptly full of lead.”

  He turned to the crowd.

  “Gentlemen, is it a good plan?”

  As well as a Roman crowd if it wanted to see a gladiator die, the frayed nerves of The Corner responded to the stimulus of this delightful entertainment. There was a joyous chorus of approval.

  “When the clock strikes, then,” said Landis, and flung himself down in a chair, setting his teeth over his rage.

  Donnegan smiled benevolently upon him; then he turned again and beckoned to George. The big man strode closer and leaned.

  “George,” he said. “I’m not going to kill this fellow.”

  “No, sir; certainly, sir,” whispered the other. “George can kill him for you, sir.”

  Donnegan smiled wanly.

  “I’m not going to kill him, George, on account of the girl on the hill. You know? And the reason is that she’s fond of the lubber. I’ll try to break his nerve, George, and drill him through the arm, say. No, I can’t take chances like that. But if I have him shaking in time, I’ll shoot him through the right shoulder, George.

  “But if I miss and he gets me instead, mind you, never raise a hand against him. If you so much as touch his skin, I’ll rise out of my grave and haunt you. You hear? Go
od-by, George.”

  But big George withdrew without a word, and the reason for his speechlessness was the glistening of his eyes.

  “If I live,” said Donnegan, “I’ll show that George that I appreciate him.”

  He went on aloud to Landis: “So glum, my boy? Tush! We have still four minutes left. Are you going to spend your last four minutes hating me?”

  He turned: “Another liqueur, George. Two of them.”

  The big man brought the drinks, and having put one on the table of Donnegan, he was directed to take the other to Landis.

  “It’s really good stuff,” said Donnegan. “I’m not an expert on these matters; but I like the taste. Will you try it?”

  It seemed that Landis dared not trust himself to speech. As though a vast and deadly hatred were gathered in him, and he feared lest it should escape in words the first time he parted his teeth.

  He took the glass of liqueur and slowly poured it upon the floor. From the crowd there was a deep murmur of disapproval. And Landis, feeling that he had advanced the wrong foot in the matter, glowered scornfully about him and then stared once more at Donnegan.

  “Just as you please,” said Donnegan, sipping his glass. “But remember this, my young friend, that a fool is a fool, drunk or sober.”

  Landis showed his teeth, but made no other answer. And Donnegan anxiously flashed a glance at the clock. He still had three minutes. Three minutes in which he must reduce this stalwart fellow to a trembling, nervous wreck. Otherwise, he must shoot to kill, or else sit there and become a certain sacrifice for the sake of Lou Macon. Yet he controlled the muscles of his face and was still able to smile as he turned again to Landis.

  “Three minutes left,” he said. “Three minutes for you to compose yourself, Landis. Think of it, man! All the good life behind you. Have you nothing to remember? Nothing to soften your mind? Why die, Landis, with a curse in your heart and a scowl on your lips?”

  Once more Landis stirred his lips; but there was only the flash of his teeth; he maintained his resolute silence.

  “Ah,” murmured Donnegan, “I am sorry to see this. And before all your admirers, Landis. Before all your friends. Look at them scattered there under the lights and in the shadows. No farewell word for them? Nothing kindly to say? Are you going to leave them without a syllable of goodfellowship?”

  “Confound you!” muttered Landis.

  There was another hum from the crowd; it was partly wonder, partly anger. Plainly they were not pleased with Jack Landis on this day.

  Donnegan shook his head sadly.

  “I hoped,” he said, “that I could teach you how to die. But I fail. And yet you should be grateful to me for one thing, Jack. I have kept you from being a murderer in cold blood. I kept you from killing a defenseless man as you intended to do when you walked up to me a moment ago.”

  He smiled genially in mockery, and there was a scowl on the face of Landis.

  “Two minutes,” said Donnegan.

  Leaning back in his chair, he yawned. For a whole minute he did not stir.

  “One minute?” he murmured inquisitively.

  And there was a convulsive shudder through the limbs of Landis. It was the first sign that he was breaking down under the strain. There remained only one minute in which to reduce him to a nervous wreck!

  The strain was telling in other places. Donnegan turned and saw in the shadow and about the edges of the room a host of drawn, tense faces and burning eyes. Never while they lived would they forget that scene.

  “And now that the time is close,” said Donnegan, “I must look to my gun.”

  He made a gesture; how it was, no one was swift enough of eye to tell, but a gun appeared in his hand. At the flash of it, Landis’ weapon leaped up to the mark and his face convulsed. But Donnegan calmly spun the cylinder of his revolver and held it toward Landis, dangling from his forefinger under the guard.

  “You see?” he said to Landis. “Clean as a whistle, and easy as a girl’s smile. I hate a stiff action, Jack.”

  And Landis slowly allowed the muzzle of his own gun to sink. For the first time his eyes left the eyes of Donnegan, and sinking, inch by inch, stared fascinated at the gun in the hand of the enemy.

  “Thirty seconds,” said Donnegan by way of conversation.

  Landis jerked up his head and his eyes once more met the eyes of Donnegan, but this time they were wide, and the pointed glance of Donnegan sank into them. The lips of Landis parted. His tongue tremblingly moistened them.

  “Keep your nerve,” said Donnegan in an undertone.

  “You hound!” gasped Landis.

  “I knew it,” said Donnegan sadly. “You’ll die with a curse on your lips.”

  He added: “Ten seconds, Landis!”

  And then he achieved his third step toward victory, for Landis jerked his head around, saw the minute hand almost upon its mark, and swung back with a shudder toward Donnegan. From the crowd there was a deep breath.

  And then Landis was seen to raise the muzzle of his gun again, and crouch over it, leveling it straight at Donnegan. He, at least, would send his bullet straight to the mark when that first chime went humming through the big room.

  But Donnegan? He made his last play to shatter the nerve of Landis. With the minute hand on the very mark, he turned carelessly, the revolver still dangling by the trigger guard, and laughed toward the crowd.

  And out of the crowd there came a deep, sobbing breath of heartbreaking suspense.

  It told on Landis. Out of the corner of his eye Donnegan saw the muscles of the man’s face sag and tremble; saw him allow his gun to fall, in imitation of Donnegan, to his side; and saw the long arm quivering.

  And then the chime rang, with a metallic, sharp click and then a long and reverberant clanging.

  With a gasp Landis whipped up his gun and fired. Once, twice, again, the weapon crashed. And, to the eternal wonder of all who saw it, at a distance of five paces Landis three times missed his man. But Donnegan, sitting back with a smile, raised his own gun almost with leisure, unhurried, dropped it upon the mark, and sent a forty-five slug through the right shoulder of Jack Landis.

  The blow of the slug, like the punch of a strong man’s fist, knocked the victim out of his chair to the floor. He lay clutching at his shoulder.

  “Gentlemen,” said Donnegan, rising, “is there a doctor here?”

  CHAPTER 24

  THAT WAS THE signal for the rush that swept across the floor and left a flood of marveling men around the fallen Landis. On the outskirts of this tide, Donnegan stepped up to two men, Joe Rix and the Pedlar. They greeted him with expectant glances.

  “Gentlemen,” said Donnegan, “will you step aside?”

  They followed him to a distance from the clamoring group.

  “I have to thank you,” said Donnegan.

  “For what?”

  “For changing your minds,” said Donnegan, and left them.

  And afterward the Pedlar murmured with an oddly twisted face: “Cat-eye, Joe. He can see in the dark! But I told you he was worth savin’.”

  “Speakin’ in general,” said Joe, “which you ain’t hardly ever wrong when you get stirred up about a thing.”

  “He’s something new,” the Pedlar said wisely.

  “Ay, he’s rare.”

  “But talkin’ aside, suppose he was to meet up with Lord Nick?”

  The smile of Joe Rix was marvelously evil.

  “You got a great mind for great things,” he declared. “You ought to of been in politics.”

  In the meantime the doctor had been found. The wound had been cleansed. It was a cruel one, for the bullet had torn its way through flesh and sinew, and for many a week the fighting arm of Jack Landis would be useless. It had, moreover, carried a quantity of cloth into the wound, and it was almost impossible to cleanse the hole satisfactorily. As for the bullet itself, it had whipped cleanly through, at that short distance making nothing of its target.

  A door was knocked off its
hinges. But before the wounded man was placed upon it, Lebrun appeared at the door into Milligan’s. He was never a very cheery fellow in appearance, and now he looked like a demoniac. He went straight to Joe Rix and the skeleton form of the Pedlar. He raised one finger as he looked at them.

  “I’ve heard,” said Lebrun. “Lord Nick likewise shall hear.”

  Joe Rix changed color. He bustled about, together with the Pedlar, and lent a hand in carrying the wounded man to the house of Lebrun, for Nelly Lebrun was to be the nurse of Landis.

  In the meantime, Donnegan went up the hill with big George behind him. Already he was a sinisterly marked man. Working through the crowd near Lebrun’s gambling hall, a drunkard in the midst of a song stumbled against him. But the sight of the man with whom he had collided, sobered him as swiftly as the lash of a whip across his face. It was impossible for him, in that condition, to grow pale. But he turned a vivid purple.

  “Sorry, Mr. Donnegan.”

  Donnegan, with a shrug of his shoulders, passed on. The crowd split before him, for they had heard his name. There were brave men, he knew, among them. Men who would fight to the last drop of blood rather than be shamed, but they shrank from Donnegan without shame, as they would have shrunk from the coming of a rattler had their feet been bare. So he went easily through the crowd with big George in his wake, walking proudly.