Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  Every man in the saloon stopped in the midst of gesture or spoken word. What a thrill in that girl’s voice! Perhaps she was some old friend. She had danced with Charlie Valentine. She had known him when he was a child. She had even loved him, perhaps, and now she cried this warning.

  The affair had been grim before. It now suddenly became filled with horror.

  Then followed a heartbreaking pause, a dead silence outside the saloon. No voice within. What was happening? Had Charlie Valentine paused? Had the cry of this girl broken his nerve? Was he taking her advice and turning away? Was it this that accounted for the silence?

  Jess Dreer, believing this, sighed with relief — and then Charlie Valentine stepped into the doorway.

  It was the thing for which everyone in the saloon had been waiting and priming himself during the past hour or more.

  And here stood Charlie Valentine, dark against the white sunlight beyond. Being the center of attention, he seemed hardly more than a child. Defiantly he had put on a shirt of blue silk, and he had a scarlet handkerchief around his neck. Poor fellow! His very gaudiness accentuated his deadly pallor. Purple circles surrounded his eyes. His mouth was set until the red of the lips disappeared. One could understand at a glance that this youngster had not slept in expectation of the fight.

  Now he looked over the barroom, with its crowd of faces, and smiled. There was no mistaking it. Every ounce of power in his soul and body was given to make that smile. His lips parted; he tried to speak.

  He had to moisten his lips and try again before the sound would come.

  Very faintly: “Hello, boys! I — I’ve come for that saddle, Danny.”

  Dan Carrol from behind the bar looked somberly at him. As much as to say: “Poor devil, you’ve come to be killed!”

  Aloud he said: “It’s yours, Charlie. And a beauty, too. Bring in the buckboard for it—”

  “Yep.”

  And Charlie Valentine walked to the saddle and put his hand on the horn of it.

  With one accord, every eye in the room turned upon Jud Boone. Yes, he was slowly rising; he had pulled down his hat a little; he was sauntering forward carelessly with his hands dropped lightly upon his hips.

  Jess Dreer heard, near his door, a whisper which said: “It’s plain murder. That kid agin’ Boone! It ought to be stopped!”

  But who would stop it? Jud Boone was a known man.

  “Kind of a fine-looking saddle, Valentine, ain’t it?” Jud remarked.

  At the voice, a shock went through Charlie Valentine; a shudder as though a powerful current of electricity had been flung through him. Then, slowly, fighting himself to make his movements calm, he turned his head. His face was like death, yet he forced a wan smile. A little whisper of admiration went up and down the saloon. The combatants were at length face to face. And what a contrast! As well send a stripling two-year-old to try his horns against the scarred front of some bull who has long lorded it over his range.

  The sneering smile of Jud Boone was a silent token of his knowledge of superior strength. And the head of Valentine, held desperately high, was an equally eloquent token that he knew he was approaching his death.

  CHAPTER 23

  “A FINE SADDLE, kid, eh?” repeated Jud Boone, who after pausing a few paces now went a stride nearer. The eyes of Valentine widened a little, fascinated, and then, by degrees, he was able to look away from his enemy to the prize. He touched it with a shaking hand.

  “Pretty nice,” he admitted.

  “Yep, and they’ve wasted a pile of silver in fixing it up, I’d say.”

  It was an obvious opening for an insult, if Charlie Valentine chose to follow it up. But it was instantly clear that he would avoid the issue if that were possible.

  “I guess I’ll have time to keep the silver shined up, Jud.”

  It seemed somehow that a subtle appeal were conveyed by this use of the man- killer’s first name. Something of appeal, too, in the faint smile which the boy now turned on his antagonist.

  As though he was mutely saying: “For Heaven’s sake, Jud Boone, be merciful. Don’t push me to the limit; give me a chance!”

  Salt Springs noted all this, and the face of Salt Springs took on a sick look of pain and horror.

  Then the same girl’s voice, shriller than before, and closer to the door of the saloon:

  “I will get in there, I tell you. I will get in! They’re getting ready to fight now. I can tell it by the silence!”

  A muttering of men’s voices followed. Those were the Normans, no doubt, who were keeping the poor creature away.

  And then her voice, pitched higher still: “Oh, if any of you are half men, go in and stop them! Save Charlie Valentine! He’s only a boy!”

  Somehow that girl’s voice was the crowning horror.

  Charlie Valentine, shaking like a hysterical woman, turned his head with jerks and stared at the silent crowd along the wall.

  “Won’t some of you — go out — and stop that noise?” he murmured gaspingly.

  But the brutal Boone had seen another opening and instantly took advantage of it.

  “What’s the matter, Charlie? Does the lady think you’re sick? Or about to get sick? That’s Nan Tucker, ain’t it?”

  But he had whipped down the pride of the boy too much. Now a touch of color came in young Valentine’s face.

  “My dad taught me one little thing,” he said, “and that was never to name ladies when I was having a drink. Around these parts, Boone, we most generally keep our womenfolk outside of saloons.”

  “But,” said Boone, furious at the murmur of approbation along the wall, “I ain’t seen any drinking going on.”

  “We’ll start in now then.” He turned to the others. “Step up, boys, and have one on me.”

  Not a man stirred from the wall. The pale, interested faces stared as if these two had been on a stage, and the others were sitting behind footlights watching the drama of unreal lives. Charlie Valentine swung back again with an attempted smile, which only served to show his set teeth, flashing. “Nobody ain’t particular dry, I guess,” remarked Jud Boone.

  “I guess not,” whispered Charlie.

  “Speaking of saddles, son, I hear that you ain’t really got any right to that one.”

  “I got no right to it? Well, what d’you mean by that?”

  Obviously the crisis was coming. There would be no escaping from the quarrel which Jud Boone was urging on.

  “I’ll tell you what I mean — it’s what I hear pretty general around Salt Springs. They say that young Tolliver really ought to be taking off this saddle today.”

  “And how comes that?” queried Charlie Valentine in the same ghastly, faint voice.

  “It comes this way. Bud Tolliver rides straight up and won’t pull the leather, and he sticks on every horse but the last one. And then you come out and stick through all the horses. But when you come to the one that throwed young Tolliver, you sneak a grip that the judges don’t see and pull the leather, and that’s how you happen to be here today taking off the prize saddle.”

  Once more Charlie Valentine moistened his colorless lips.

  “Somebody has been joking with you, Jud. I didn’t pull no leather that day.”

  Jud Boone raised his head and laughed derisively. And the fire was in his eyes. Plainly he was drinking deep of pleasure in this torture scene.

  “Ask the boys, Jud,” gasped Charlie Valentine. “They’ll tell you I didn’t pull leather.”

  Jud Boone rolled his keen glance up and down the line — and not a man stepped forward — not a voice was raised.

  Once more the gun fighter laughed. His confidence was mounting to great heights by this time. No attempt had been made so far by Jess Dreer to break through the cordon of the Normans around the saloon; and apparently the game was in his hand. And even if Charlie Valentine mustered courage enough to draw his gun, he would be worse than helpless with such shaking hands. Yet Jud was determined to avoid a shooting affair if possible. He w
as set on breaking the nerve of this boy and making him “take water.” Because there was one chance in ten that even though Jess Dreer were not here today, he might make it a point to look up the slayer later on. And Jud was distinctly desirous of avoiding that future meeting.

  “You see,” he said, “they ain’t any volunteers for information. Kind of looks as though they were agin’ you, Charlie. Look ’em over yourself.”

  Obediently Charlie cast a wild glance down that line. Not a man would stir or speak. He looked back to Jud.

  “I dunno how it is,” he said.

  Suddenly Jud shouted: “Well, how do you think it is?”

  Charlie Valentine trembled. Perspiration poured out on his forehead.

  “Maybe,” he whispered very faintly, “I’m wrong. Maybe — I’ve forgotten — just what I did — that day!”

  Gratification flooded the face of Jud Boone. Plainly the nerve of the boy was breaking; he was about to take water. And in the closet at the rear of the room Jess Dreer, though he was quivering with horror, muttered to himself: “Thank Heaven. They ain’t going to come to a show down. I won’t have to step-in!” But a great desire to spring at Boone and break him in his hands was sweeping over the outlaw.

  “Yep,” sneered Jud Boone, “I figure that you got a pretty handy memory. But I’ll tell you what you do, son, to put yourself in right ag’in. You just leave this saddle here for young Tolliver, and I’ll see that he gets it.”

  The head of Charlie Valentine dropped; his hand which had been twisted around the horn of the saddle loosened and fell nervelessly away. He seemed about to turn back toward the door, and a breath of relief came from the onlookers.

  It may have been that breath that changed the mind of Charlie Valentine; it may have been that little whispering sound which made him recall the stern words of his father when he set out that morning.

  He whipped himself together with an effort and looked Jud Boone in the eye.

  “Jud Boone,” he said, “the saddle’s mine!”

  The other was shaken by the sudden change. On his brow gathered his most ferocious frown.

  “Son,” he said ominously, “watch what you’re saying. I’m a tolerable peaceful man — till I get riled up. And you’re riling me a whole pile. If you take this saddle, it’s just the same as calling me a liar!”

  “Then — Heaven help me — that’s what I call you, Boone!”

  It was done. Even Boone could hardly believe that he had heard it.

  “Think twice, Valentine. I ain’t a man to stand such talk!”

  “I — I’ve done my thinking,” cried the young fellow, trembling like a girl. “And now — have it over with!”

  He stood perfectly straight, his chin up; and it was patent that he could never get his gun out of the holster in time to meet the lightning draw of the other. And Jud Boone had forgotten all scruples, forgotten even Jess Dreer. The fighting lust was on him, and his upper lip was drawing back over his teeth in that bestial manner which needs to be seen only once to be remembered forever.

  Then a voice cried from the other end of the room — a deep, mellow voice: “Boone! Jud Boone! You’re facing the wrong way!”

  Those who saw the change that came in the face of Boone were haunted by it. They looked down the saloon, and there stood a big man, broad-shouldered, long- armed, with his gun hanging far down on his thigh. There was something negligent in his attitude, and negligently alert.

  Yet for a long instant Jud Boone did not turn. When he whirled, it was with a shrill, animal cry, the gun coming into his hand as he veered.

  Two reports. Two drifts of thin smoke, like two small puffs from a cigarette which is being deeply inhaled. The smoke went upward slowly. Jess Dreer had dropped his gun to his side again. But Jud Boone stood with a dazed expression, his revolver still extended. First the weapon crashed on the floor. Then he reached his left hand along the rail of the bar. His head dropped over, and he lowered himself slowly to the floor.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE GROUP ON the veranda of the Valentine house had remained there for close to two hours. Mary sat halfway down the steps with her hands clasped about her knees. Elizabeth was above her, leaning against the railing. Morgan Valentine and his wife were in chairs on the veranda itself.

  He was smoking his short-stemmed pipe steadily. Mrs. Valentine had abandoned her knitting some half an hour before, and now sat stiffly erect, with her chin drawn in, her mouth tight, her color ashen.

  And every eye of the four was bent fixedly upon that point where the road swerved around the shoulder of the western hill and dipped toward the house in a long, swift curve. No one had spoken — hours, ages of silence, it seemed. But now and then the glance of Mrs. Valentine lowered upon Mary, and her lips stirred with bitter, soundless words. And once when Mary turned and looked up, she met the glance of Elizabeth fixed on her as though she were a snake.

  All this trouble rested on the head of the girl, and only the eye of Morgan Valentine was kind and clear. But even he, toward the end, was abstracted,

  Now, over the hill, a horseman darted. And the four rose to their feet at the signal. It was Louis Valentine. He was spurring his horse to a mad gallop down the slope. His hat off, he was waving it frantically. Every inch of his body spoke joy.

  And a cry came from the watchers.

  “Thank God, thank God!” whispered Mrs. Valentine, and fumbling blindly, she found the hand of her husband and clung to it.

  Elizabeth was weeping soundlessly.

  Now the courier plunged up to the house and flung himself out of the saddle.

  “I seen him!” he cried. “I seen Charlie coming over the next rise! I seen him! He’s all right! He’s coming alone!”

  “But you don’t know,” said Mrs. Valentine. “He may be—”

  “Not a scratch on him. I can tell by the way he’s riding. Coming like sixty. Spurring every jump. He’s got Baldy stretched out straighter’n a string. No wounded man could ride like that.”

  Then Morgan Valentine spoke: “Did you see the saddle? How’s it come that he drives in in the buckboard and comes riding a hossback? He drives Baldy in and rides him back? Where’s the saddle?”

  A gasp from Louis; half of his joy disappeared.

  “You mean — you think Charlie took water — you—”

  “I don’t care what he did!” cried the boy’s mother. “He’s alive — he’s safe — in spite of you, Morgan!”

  “But his honor,” said the indomitable rancher. “How about that?”

  There was no opportunity for further surmise. Over the hill came a second rider, and this time it was Charlie who appeared, spurring hard, as Louis had said. He did not wave his hat as he saw the waiting family. At their joyous shout that went tingling to him, he returned no answer.

  “Rides like they was someone behind him,” muttered the ominous voice of Morgan Valentine, and for the first time he removed the pipe from between his teeth, and shaking himself clear from the hands of his wife, he stepped to the head of the stairs and waited.

  Charlie Valentine dismounted less hastily than his brother had done and was caught in four pairs of arms; showered with exclamations from four pairs of lips. Only his father remained aloof.

  “The saddle, Charlie!” he cried at length, even his iron nerve breaking under the strain. “Did you bring it out?”

  At this the women and Louis released the boy and turned; his face could be seen clearly for the first time, and it was notable that there was not the slightest sign of exultation. He seemed to have aged many years; he had gone in hardly more than a child; he came out to the ranch from Salt Springs carrying his manhood stamped upon his face.

  “There’s the prize saddle on the hoss,” he said tersely.

  “And Jud Boone?” breathed his brother Louis, half abashed before this new Charlie Valentine.

  “Jud Boone is dead.”

  Dead silence. Had their own Charlie killed the man? Did that explain the gravity, the joylessness o
f his manner?

  But Morgan Valentine came down the steps with gleaming eyes. He stretched out his hand.

  “Son,” he said, “you live up to the blood that runs in you. I’ll tell you now that when you left the house this morning, I thought you were riding to your death. I’ve had you dead in my thoughts, Charlie!”

  “I can’t shake your hand,” replied the son. “It wasn’t me that killed Jud Boone.”

  Another caught breath from the crowd. The arm of Morgan Valentine fell slowly to his side.

  “I’ll tell you how it was,” said Charlie slowly. He frowned and recalled the bitter picture in detail.

  “When I faced Jud Boone, my nerve left me. I was like — like I was standing in a cold wind. That’s the way his eye got on my nerves. I kept thinking — about death — and being young. And — I near crumpled up. I — I near took water. Along comes the last minute. I was just swaying between being a coward — and then something snapped in me. I called Jud Boone a liar, and then waited for the draw. But I knew I was simply waiting to be killed. My hand was shaking so I couldn’t of hit the other side of the room. And Jud Boone was as cool as if he was getting ready to shoot at a target.

  “And then — I heard a big voice call: ‘Boone! Jud Boone! You’re facing the wrong way!’”

  He imitated that deep tone, that full voice, and a quiver ran through the listeners.

  “Jud turned with a yell, with his gun out before he was clear around. Wasn’t till he was clear around that the stranger made a move. Then it was just a jerk of his hand, a flash of light as the gun jumped into it — and he shot Jud Boone dead! And that’s why I’m here — alive.”

  “God bless him! Who did it, Charlie?”

  But still Charlie showed no joy. He lifted his arm and pointed sternly at Mary Valentine. The others followed that pointing hand and saw her standing with a white face and great, staring eyes.

  “I reckon you know, Mary. When it was over, he says to me: ‘Tell her that she don’t owe me nothing. That the account is just squared up, that’s all.’ I reckon you know who he was speaking about, Mary!”