by Max Brand
“Mary,” she said, “I’ve got to see you alone.”
And Mary took Elizabeth to the door and then faced her aunt, turning slowly and nerving herself as if for a shock. Not that there was an actual anger existing between the two, but each was from a separate world, and they always looked on one another as from a distance. Mary, now, was forcing a faint smile of interest, but Mrs. Valentine was too distressed to even pretend to disguise her emotion.
“Like as not,” she said, and her voice was softer than her words were bitter, “like as not Elizabeth has been telling you things that only her mother should know.”
“I give you my word, Aunt Maude, that if there were anything really important about it, I’d tell you myself.”
The wan smile of Aunt Maude had no mirth in it.
“It’s the same with Elizabeth as it is with the boys. You come first, Mary. And you come first with — Morgan — I think.”
“Hush! Hush! What are you saying?”
“A man likes spirit. Decision. All the things that you have and that I haven’t.”
“Aunt Maude!”
“It’s true. You see, I’ve watched and understood. They come to me just to be around. But when it’s a big happiness or maybe a secret or maybe a sorrow — then they go to you. As if they felt I couldn’t hold a big thing.”
“I’m only a shock absorber. I simply take the shock of silly things that would bother you.”
“Ah, Mary,” said Mrs. Valentine, and she made a singular gesture of drawing imperceptible things toward her heart. “Don’t you know that a mother wants to be troubled by them that she loves? You’ll know someday, Mary. The treasures of a woman are the troubles that her family bring to her. It’s her secret life. I’ve got no such life, Mary! They pass by me. They go to you!”
Mary Valentine watched the head of her aunt bow with grief. She made a little movement as though she would go to her and strive to cherish her, but the movement was checked. Between the two was a barrier which even the smiles of Mary and all her ways could not break down.
“I don’t complain,” said her aunt faintly. “After all, I suppose it’s the call of blood to blood. You’re a Valentine — and I’m just about — nothing. I’m on the outside.
“But I haven’t come to rake up old troubles. I dunno why I always say these things to you, Mary. You’ve been fair and square to me, honey. You’ve never gone about behind my back. You’ve never repeated things. You’ve never tried to make bad blood between me and the rest. And Lord knows you could of done it many’s the time. They ain’t a small part about you, Mary. And — and now I’ve come the way Elizabeth comes to you, and the way Morgan comes to you, and the way Charlie and Louis come to you. I’ve come to ask for your help, Mary!”
After what she had said before, there could not have been a sadder confession.
“It’s about Charlie. The old trouble that started over Joe Norman. Now the Normans have hired Jud Boone, and he’s going to lay for Charlie when Charlie goes into Salt Springs to get the prize saddle tomorrow.”
“Then it all comes back to me. It was for my sake that Charlie fought Joe Norman.”
“But I’m not casting that in your face. I’m only asking you what we can do, Mary.”
“Sit down. You’re all of a tremble. Sit down — here — let me hold your hands. Is that better?”
“Yes. You sort of steady me, Mary.”
“I’ll tell you what we must do. We must keep Charlie at home.”
“I thought of that. Everybody thought of that first thing. But — Morgan won’t have it that way.”
“His own father!”
“He says it’s better to die than to be shamed.”
“Ah, that sounds like him! But — I’ll go and try to persuade him.”
At this, Aunt Maude winced.
“You could always do more with him than anybody else could, Mary. But this time you can’t budge Morgan. Because he’s following an example.”
“Whose?”
“Your father’s, dear.”
The girl was silent.
“But you’ll try to think of something to do, Mary? You’ll try to find some way to keep Charlie from Jud Boone? Ain’t there anybody among all the men you know that would help Charlie? You could ask someone — Morgan wouldn’t lift his finger to get help.”
Mary Valentine sat very stiff and straight in her chair and stared fixedly at her window, as though she saw a ghost forming against the bright rectangle:
“I’ve thought of a thing to do,” she said at last. “It won’t be easy. Maybe it won’t work. But — I’ll try!”
CHAPTER 17
SILENCE LAY OVER the house of Morgan Valentine. No one had asked Charlie for his ultimate decision, but Louis stole down to the family that afternoon and reported that Charlie was in his room upstairs working busily over two revolvers, oiling them, cleaning them, testing their balance with nervous care.
That report was more forcible than the most violent affirmation, on the part of young Valentine, of his determination to face Jud Boone and fight him man to man. Even the hand of Morgan Valentine was unsteady as he lighted his pipe. His wife had dropped her head upon her hands with a moan; and Elizabeth cried out.
One would have thought that a death had been announced.
But as for Mary, she still turned in her mind the gambling chance which she had determined to take. It was no less than a purpose of leaving the house and going to Salt Springs to speak with Dan Carrol and through him send to the outlaw, Jess Dreer, an appeal for help.
Yet it was not easy to do this. If she stated that she wished to go to town, some one of the family would accompany her; and if she wished to see Dan Carrol, questions would certainly be asked. For the repute of Carrol was a sooty thing and contaminated all who touched him. Even if she slipped away during the day and reached Salt Springs unknown to the family, it would be impossible to see Carrol without letting half of Salt Springs know to whom she made her visit. Not that she really cared what public opinion murmured about her, but if her visit were a public matter, there was very little chance that Carrol would tell her where she could find Jess Dreer.
It was a trip that must be completed between dark and dawn, and for this she laid her plans.
One thing favored her. The family did not sit up late in the living room, for it was a gloomy matter to stare from face to face and read in each eye the same foreboding which filled one’s own mind. Mrs. Valentine, close to tears, was the first to leave. Then Charlie, who had remained white-faced, sullenly defiant, apparently decided that he dare not risk the complete breakdown of his nerves. He rose, muttered his good night huskily, and hurried from the room.
The others trooped away one by one, leaving Morgan Valentine alone beside the fire. The report of Louis had made him show one touch of emotion, but neither before nor since had he appeared to be in the slightest degree concerned.
As soon as she was in her room, Mary hurried into her riding clothes before she put out the light and crept into bed. For she feared that visitors might come. And they did. First, Elizabeth. And then Mrs. Valentine came in and leaned over her. But when she heard the regular breathing, she apparently decided that the girl was asleep. She leaned and touched Mary’s forehead with her lips and then stole from the room.
Mary was deeply moved, for it had been years since her aunt had showed any true affection. And when, a little after this, the house was quiet, she got up, pressed her hat on her head, and slipped out by the rear of the house. Five minutes later she was speeding down the road on her sturdy little Morgan mare, docile as a pet dog and durable as leather.
Midnight brought her to Salt Springs, with the dust of the street squirting up around the hoofs of the mare. She rode on between the rows of black, silent houses until she was close to Carrol’s place. Then she swung her horse between two dwellings and came out directly in the rear of the big saloon.
The midnight of Salt Springs was the noon of Dan Carrol. His saloon burst wi
th light and voices, and through the open windows, across the shafts of light, clouds of tobacco smoke rose, cut briefly away by the darkness.
But how could she come to Dan Carrol?
A man came to the screen door at the rear of the building and opened it. She saw the faint arc of light as he tossed his cigarette butt away.
“Halloo!” called Mary, roughening her voice. “Send Danny out to me, will you?”
“Can’t you walk?” cried the man, who apparently did not recognize the voice of a woman. “Go get him yourself, son.”
She waited. A skulking figure slipped out of the darkness and hurried across the open toward the gaming house. She reined her mare across and touched his shoulder with her quirt. At that, the man leaped sidewise, very agile. He was a small fellow.
“Pardner,” said Mary, “I’ve got a word to say to Dan Carrol. Will you take it in to him?”
“Me?” said a harsh, shrill voice, the voice of a Chinaman. “Dan Carrol?”
“Never mind,” and she reined her horse back, for she had recognized the accent of Kong Li, her father’s cook.
This was the explanation, then, of Kong’s periods of sudden affluence and sudden poverty. But now the little man followed her.
“Never mind,” she repeated. “I don’t need you!”
“Miss Mary,” said the Chinaman, whining his astonishment. “Miss Mary!”
She writhed in the saddle. To be recognized in full daylight would have been bad enough; but to be recognized at the door of Carrol’s gaming house and saloon in the middle of night was infinitely worse.
“Listen to me, Kong Li,” she said fiercely. “I have to see Dan Carrol. I want you to see that he’s brought out here, but I don’t want you to tell him my name before any other man. Understand?”
“I savvy.”
“And if you ever tell anyone that I’ve been here — I — I’ll tie you by your queue to the limb of a tree till you starve to death, Kong Li. Understand?”
“I savvy,” said Kong, and he shuddered. It was not the first time in her life that Mary had threatened him, and he considered her quite capable of anything she named.
“But,” he murmured, “Dan Carrol very bad man, Miss Mary.”
“Don’t I know that? I’ll take care of myself. You hurry along.”
He hesitated a moment longer, but dread of Miss Mary’s tongue at length made him whirl and shuffle away toward the gaming house. At the door he paused and looked back again, but he went on, the screen door banging loudly behind him.
There followed a long pause. Her mind filled up the vacancy of Kong Li approaching the table of the gambler, touching his arm, and being cursed for a no-good chink. But eventually there was a sound of scuffling, the screen door burst violently open, and Kong Li leaped from the lighted interior into the darkness, sprawling, his arms and legs stretched out before him, and the pigtail whipped straight out behind.
Dan Carrol sprang into the doorway and poured a hurricane of abuse and profanity after his victim while Kong Li darted by, crying to Mary as he passed: “Bad man! Very bad man, Miss Mary!”
“Mr. Carrol!” called the girl, guarding her voice.
Carrol fell silent; at the very sound of the voice he had touched the hat which was never off his head. Now he stepped cautiously outside. There were a hundred men who would have welcomed a chance to shoot Carrol securely, by night.
“Who’s there?”
She rode close to him.
“I suppose you know me; but my name really doesn’t matter. I’ve come on important business, Mr. Carrol.”
Slowly he took off his hat and spun it in his hands; she could feel his astonishment even though darkness quite covered his face.
“You’re Mary Valentine!”
“Hush! I’m Mary Valentine. I want you to tell me where to find Jess Dreer. Can you?”
The gambler started, drew back, and then stepped close to the horse.
“How should I know Jess Dreer?” he muttered very softly. “You mean the outlaw?”
“He said you did.”
Carrol drew in his breath with a hissing sound.
“Dreer said that?”
“He did.”
“Well — he lied. That’s straight talk, and it’s true. What would I be doing with Dreer, eh?”
“He’s a man whom I am proud to know,” said the girl. “Does that make it any easier for you to talk?”
“Listen,” said Carrol. “The gent that knows where Jess Dreer is can take down several thousand for telling the sheriff. They’s a price on him that would stock a ranch.”
“That,” said she, “is the reason why he can’t trust any except men who are above money, Mr. Carrol. Will you tell me where he is?”
“Did he say I was above money?” asked the gambler curiously, after a pause.
“He didn’t. But he said you could send me to him. And I infer the rest of it.”
“You infer too much. I can’t do it.”
“I thought that perhaps you couldn’t. So I’ve written out what I have to say to him. I have it here in this envelope. If I give it to you, do you think that you could get it to Jess Dreer?”
“I don’t know nothing about him.”
“Of course you don’t.” She extended the letter. “But maybe you’d keep it for him on the chance that he might call in someday?”
“I don’t know anything about him,” repeated the gambler, “but if you ask me to keep this for you — why, I’ll hang onto it.”
“Thank you, and — good night. One thing, Mr. Carrol. I haven’t seen you tonight.”
“Lady, the gent that was to say that you’d seen me tonight would have to chew up his talk and swaller it ag’in. Good night, and good luck!”
And he remained standing with his hat in his hand until she was gone into the darkness with a quick patter of hoofs.
CHAPTER 18
IN THE DAYS of his youth, someone in the midst of a barroom brawl had stood on Dan Carrol’s nose, and the result was that the rest of his life it remained sadly crushed in the center. The nostrils flared out disagreeably from the same cause, over a wide, thin-lipped, sinister mouth and just such a jaw as brings admiration to the bull terrier. For Dan Carrol was the fighting type. Not brawny. But his body made up for flesh by bones and sinews. When he turned his head, the cords stood out on his neck. In spite of his little more than average weight, there were tales of Dan Carrol performing prodigious feats of strength.
In fact, he rarely used a gun in the brawls that often developed in his barroom, but was far more apt to trust to his naked hands. And it was known that more than one obstreperous drunkard, no matter what his size, had been lifted and swung crashing through the swinging doors of Dan’s domain.
He was not a pretty man to look at. Aside from his ugly face, his shoulders sloped forward so as to give an unhealthy look to his chest, and he was remarkably bow-legged.
“When most kids was flat on their backs sucking their thumbs,” Dan used to say, “I was on my feet trying to get places. That’s how it come I overstrained my legs.”
Dan’s moral character was as deformed as his body. But it would require a book by itself to deal with his past; and as for the name of Dan Carrol in Salt Springs, it was an offense. However, so long as no one aired his opinion in the hearing of Dan Carrol, he was indifferent to private judgments. He was known to run the squarest game in Salt Springs and to sell the cleanest liquor; and for that reason his prosperity waxed and his purse grew fat.
As he passed through the rooms with the letter stuffed into his hip pocket, someone hailed him to rejoin the game which he had just left, but he consigned them to another table and went on. To the second story of his rambling building he climbed and came to a room in the rear with this sign in great letters upon it: “Storeroom. Keep out!”
Upon this he tapped — three short taps, a pause, and then three more.
Whereupon, after a moment’s pause, but with no preliminary sound of the knob being turn
ed, the door was opened swiftly.
There was no sign of an occupant, at first, though the storeroom was fitted up as a bedroom, and the cigarette smoke was still curling slowly from an ash tray toward the shaded lamp. But as Dan Carrol stepped in, the inhabitant, who had been standing directly behind the door, now closed it and turned to his host. It was Jess Dreer.
“Neat little trick, that,” said Dan Carrol.
“Sit down,” Jess invited.
“I ain’t got a minute. I been wondering if you was getting lonely up here?”
“Me? I’m never lonely. Besides, I hear the boys soaking up the laughter and the booze downstairs, and I enjoy a jag at second hand. It’s cheaper, and it don’t give you no morning after.”
“That’s the first economical thing I ever heard you say. Well, Jess, it’s a shame you can’t pry your way downstairs and take in some of the loose coin. It’s floating in in oceans. I hate to take it away. They come up and pour it into my pockets.”
“I don’t have to play with the crowd,” murmured Jess. “I got it down to a finer system. You take the stuff from the boys, and then I get it from you. Nothing easier or simpler, Dan.”
The face of the gambler clouded, and he cast an expressive glance at the table as though it recalled gloomy scenes to him.
“You got all the luck,” he declared, “that a man was ever born with.”
“Nope,” said Jess. “I work on a system.”
“What?” His eyes gleamed while he asked.
“I wait for a hunch and then plunge to the limit.”
The gambler leaned back with a growl of disgust.
“Well, if you’re all right up here, I’ll go back.”
“Go ahead. But, first, ain’t you forgetting something?”
Dan Carrol squinted narrowly at his friend, for of all the men in the world he would, perhaps, have named Jess Dreer first in this capacity.
“What d’you mean?” he asked sharply.
“I mean, ain’t you forgot the thing that brought you up here? Talk short. What’s up?”
“A girl come here and wanted to see you, Jess.”