Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  As for the danger of capture, he knew nothing of the unwritten law which makes horse stealing equally culpable with murder in the West, but no tale could have terrified him more than he already was. Dread of death kept him running. And now and again he would leap into a sprint involuntarily.

  Behind him came a distant whooping, and then the beating of many hoofs again was audible. He cast a glance behind him. There came Peter, the stallion, his ears pricking as though he rejoiced in the running, rocking along at a lazy canter. Oh, to be mounted on the back of that king of horses! Then how he would laugh at pursuit! It would be like adding wings! But far away over the starlit canyon floor he could see the horsemen beginning to loom.

  And they swept close and closer at a terrific speed. Yet, measuring the distance to the woods ahead of him, he knew that he must save his strength. There was still an open mile between him and the woods, and even in the woods he must still be prepared to run on, for they would spur ahead as fast as they could, weaving through the trees.

  That last mile was an untold agony, for a gun barked behind him. It was a random shot, but it made Tom leap ahead. His driving legs were numb to the knees, to the hips. His lungs were filled with fire. There was not enough air in the universe to give him one sweet, fresh breath.

  And how those wild riders behind him were gaining! He began to dread to glance back, so much more clearly were they growing upon his eyes. And now he threw caution to the winds, and he cast all his power into the last spurt. The woods grew up, black and tall. They were like a promise of heaven to Tom, with those increasingly loud hoof-beats ringing in his ears. And the pursuers, feeling that the race was close, opened with a rattling volley.

  But men cannot shoot straight from horseback, and the bullets flew wild, singing around Tom’s head, while he raced on with head straining back, with mouth gaped wide, with eyes wild, with his long hair blown back from his shoulders.

  He was lost, he told himself. He could hear the panting of their horses. Or was it the breathing of Peter, coming with such maddening ease behind him? Then suddenly his eyes cleared. The woods were only a step before him!

  He leaped behind the first trunk. Peter swung into the shadow near by. Tom jerked the revolver from the holster and fired blindly at the rushing forms. A yell of alarm answered him. The riders split to the right and the left, wheeled, and scurried away. He grew weak with relief and fired again - into the air. But it brought another volley of curses from the four riders.

  They would circle back and steal into the woods to try to head him off. But that was a game at which they would find him hard to beat, unless he had lost his cunning in woodcraft. He started on again up the slope, with Peter dancing anxiously at his heels, sniffing and snorting at the strange shadows, then stealing along noiselessly as the spirit of the wilderness came heavily upon his heart with fear. The open hills, the wide plains were the domain of Peter. And in this forest darkness, he was glad of company, even if that company had to be detested man!

  In the meantime, the lungs of Tom had grown cool. His trembling knees regained their strength. Presently, he was swinging along at a brisk gait, more himself every moment. He thought of Jerry. The ideal way would be to head straight for the upper mountains where horsemen could least easily follow. He should ride Jerry and lead the stallion. But he knew that the horse would be paralyzed with fear near the grizzly, for all things that lived and ran wild dreaded Jerry.

  How could he handle the two together?

  Near the place where he had camped by the brook, he tethered Peter to a tree, and the horse cowered close to it, eying in terror the moving shades of the woods. Tom went on to the grizzly and found him rooting in the bank of the stream. He brought him back within view of the horse.

  The effect on both was exactly what Tom had foreseen. Jerry heaved instantly on his hind legs and stood immense, growling. And poor Peter went back to the limit of his rope and there crouched like a great cat, overcome with nameless terror. If they were to become better acquainted, the night was not the time for it. Tom thought of another expedient.

  He loosed Peter from the tree and started on up the hillside briskly - for who could say when the pursuers would come upon his trail? He could not realize that the night which was such an open book to him was closed to ordinary men. Peter followed, knocking his forefeet against Tom’s heels in his eagerness to get away from Jerry, and Jerry came grumbling and rumbling in the distance, a very bewildered and angered bear. Yonder went his human friend - master, he could hardly be called. And with Tom wandered what was to Jerry simply an ample store of food going on foot. Yet when Jerry pressed close, there came from Tom the whistle which to the big bear meant danger ahead.

  Half a dozen times he heard that whistle as he drew near. Each time he lifted to his hind legs as a wise bear should and sniffed the air for the scent of an enemy, but found no trace. Finally he understood that, while Tom accompanied the horse, he wished Jerry to stay in the background.

  A bear will sulk exactly as a human being sulks. And when Jerry perceived the desire of his friend, he promptly turned around and melted into the forest.

  Tom paused and looked back after him in great anxiety. But after a moment he went on. He was wise enough to know that it was foolish to attempt to read the mind of the grizzly. That cunning fellow might have disappeared in order to trail them close at hand, but secretly. Or perhaps Jerry would get ahead of them in order that he might watch from cover as they passed. And that was exactly what happened, for, when he paused at daybreak upon the top of a mountain, he found Jerry on the upper side, though the big fellow instantly dropped his head and began to dig in the ground as if he had gone there for the sole purpose of finding delectable roots.

  But now, since daylight was come, Tom tethered the horse to a sapling around which the grass grew thick and long, and, while the stallion ate, he stood back and looked at his prize for the first time.

  What he saw was more than he could have hoped! To be sure, the horse was thin. Every rib along his side could be marked, and on his flanks were still the crimson signs of whip and spur. He had been most cruelly handled! No wonder that he shrank from the lifted hand of Tom! No wonder that his great eyes blazed with terror when Tom came near.

  Wild rage boiled up in the heart of the youth. For here was a creature intended by nature, surely, to be handled with affection alone, and they had tried to beat it into submission. He gloried with a sudden joy in the knowledge that at least men had failed to have their will of the horse! For his own part, how utterly contented he would be to have this king of the plains to watch, to talk to so that the sharp little ears would prick at the sound of his voice, to feed until he was sleek and round of barrel. Here was companionship. To be sure, if ever he could persuade the stallion to permit him to sit on its back - the heart of Tom jumped.

  Then he sat down cross-legged on the grass and drew out from a pouch at his side the quantity of crushed, dry corn which he always carried when he traveled. He held out a quantity of it in both cupped hands. No matter that the stallion, not grown accustomed to the man-food given to horses, sniffed it and then backed away, his ears flattened against his neck. The patience of Tom was not that of the ordinary man. He had been taught in the school of the wilderness. He had learned the endless patience of Jerry, who would dig two hours for the sake of a single woodchuck. And, if quiet and gentleness and unending endurance would win, Peter should be his horse in the end, body and soul.

  CHAPTER XIX

  “OF COURSE,” SAID Gloria, “if you have made up your mind to believe, no one can dissuade you.”

  “Don’t be disagreeable, Glory,” said her father with a frown.

  “I’m trying my level best not to be,” said Gloria, “but ever since you hunted in Africa you’ve been entranced by fables,” and she smiled as her father bit his lip in vexation.

  She was probably the only person in the world who refused to take her distinguished father altogether seriously. Others were mightily imp
ressed by the reputation of this man who could shoot lions one day and write learnedly about them from a biological viewpoint on the next; and who, above all, had taken more folklore out of Africa than almost any other human being. But to Gloria, John Hampton Themis was first and foremost the father of Gloria. Besides, she had not wanted to take this trip into the mountains. At eighteen, Paris was infinitely more attractive. And though she had forced herself to be amiable when her father insisted that she learn something about her own country before she pried into “the truth about Europe,” she could not help taking out some of her disappointment in such petty badgering as this.

  As a matter of fact, she had found the valley of the Turnbull far more interesting than she had expected. And in her blood ran some of her father’s fiery love of saddle and rifle and the arduous hunting trails. Besides, at eighteen Gloria could walk down an average man when it came to mountain climbing, and she was a little proud of that fact. Yet Paris now and then swam back upon her ken, and when it did, as at the present moment, she could not avoid being a little disagreeable.

  Her father had always attempted to convince her by reason and not to overwhelm her by the force of parental authority. He sat down to reason now.

  “I simply wish to submit the facts to you, my dear,” he said. “After you have examined them, you can make up your mind for yourself, Glory.”

  “Fire away,” said Gloria.

  John Hampton Themis glared, then shrugged his shoulders and sat back.

  “I told you yesterday,” he said, “the story of the Indian and the man whose dogs were killed.”

  “I remember it all,” she said. “The man heard his dogs raise a clamor as though they had scented a bear. But when he went out he found two of the dogs stabbed to death and a third with a crushed skull as though a bear had struck it. And when they examined the trail the next morning they found that a man’s moccasined footprints were mixed with those of a huge grizzly. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the deduction is that a man had helped the bear to fight the dogs.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Well, isn’t it absurd on the face of it? Besides, all this happened six years ago. You know how a story can grow in six years - yes, or in six days.”

  “Please be reasonable, Glory. There are three honest men who swear to the truth of that story.”

  “You think that this Indian had actually tamed a grizzly?”

  “Why not? It has been done before. There’s the story of Ben Adams. He trained one after another. They actually fought for him against their own kind.”

  “When did Ben Adams live?”

  “Because a thing happened seventy years ago,” cried her father, “does that turn it into a fable?”

  “Usually,” she answered calmly.

  “H’m,” he said. “You’re in a bad humor today. But I’ll convince you in spite of yourself that this is a trail worth running down. Let me tell you what I’ve learned in addition.”

  She shrugged her graceful shoulders.

  “A day after the exploit of the dogs, a man named Hank Jeffries, a rough fellow whom I’ve seen and talked with, went out to shoot an outlaw mustang, a stallion he had captured by creasing. It was a famous horse called Peter. But Peter, once captured, proved untamable. No one could sit the saddle on him for five consecutive minutes. Hank received several broken ribs and minor injuries from various attempts to ride the horse. Finally, he invited three famous riders to his ranch. One by one they all tried the horse, and Peter won. So in the night Hank went out to shoot the creature -”

  “How terrible! Is that the sort of thing your precious Westerners, your romantic cowpunchers, will do? I’d rather shoot a man than a horse.”

  “So would a good many cowpunchers. But Hank is not exactly a citizen of the finest character. He had a black record. The killing of a horse wouldn’t be the worst stain on his reputation, I understand. At any rate, he didn’t kill Peter.”

  “Good!” cried Glory.

  Her father smiled at her enthusiasm.

  “No, when he raised the gun, a giant leaped on him from behind, took him with a terrific grip that crushed the wind out of him, threw him down to the ground, tore the gun out of his hand, and threatened to kill him if he stirred. Then the stranger took the lead rope of the horse and made off into the night - a huge man with long hair which flowed down almost to his shoulders. And he ran like the wind. He ran so fast, in fact, that when Hank called his friends and they started in pursuit on their horses after only an instant - for the horses were saddled and waiting - they could not catch the stranger, though he had several miles to run!”

  “That,” commented Gloria, “is plainly a fable. You must admit that it is!”

  “I went over the ground today,” said the great hunter. “Even if they had had to capture their horses before they started, even if they had had to saddle them in the corrals, it would have required a great runner to get away from running horses into the shelter of the woods at the head of the canyon. Still, it’s possible that a man of iron nerve and iron muscles, a natural runner of a race of runners, might have done that very thing. And it has to be admitted that this Indian did it. Four men wouldn’t lie about such a point.”

  “They’re sure he’s an Indian?”

  “Everything points to it - the moccasins in part, because, though a good many mountaineers use them, the average white man prefers boots. But, most of all, his quiet ways and that long, flowing hair point to an Indian. No white man, accustomed to other men, could have gotten along for these six years without coming down to mix with society now and then. But this fellow has lived inside himself. It is really most remarkable!”

  “But has he been seen at all during these six years?” asked the girl.

  “Not actually seen, I believe,” said the other thoughtfully. “But they know that he’s around.”

  “And haven’t they been able to run him down?”

  “No. Several times he’s come down from the mountains, however. The spring after the stealing of the mustang, a great bundle of beautiful beaver skins was brought down in the night and left at the house of Hank without word of who had brought them. And it is generally taken for granted that the Indian brought them in payment for the horse which he had stolen. He has done the same thing at other times. Once the store was broken open in the town of Turnbull, yonder, and the next morning one rifle and a great stock of ammunition were found missing, but in return there was left a bundle of furs worth ten times the value of the stolen goods. On another occasion - you see that it must be the same man - a rancher’s house was invaded, and a hundred pounds of ham and bacon were taken, along with other food and more ammunition. But again furs were left in payment.”

  “Oh,” cried Gloria, “Dad, what a wonderful fellow that hermit must be!”

  “That Indian you mean!” said Themis.

  “Oh, well, call him that if you choose. But how does he manage to steal so many things without being caught?”

  “He has the courage of a fiend,” said Themis. “He seems to laugh at the possibility of discovery. There are some uneducated people in the valley who are beginning to have a superstition that the Indian can actually go invisible. Of course, such rumors are bound to spring into the back of people’s heads. You see, this cunning devil comes always at night. He seems to be able almost to see in the dark. And he will enter a house from the rear while the inhabitants are in the front of it. He moves as silently as a shadow in his moccasins. He takes what he wants, and then he goes. From what I can gather, he has committed his robberies about twenty times during the past six years, and not once has a soul beside Hank had a glimpse of him!”

  “Not a single person?” said Gloria.

  “Oh, there is a poor, halfwitted fellow, a prospector, or one who calls himself a prospector,” said Themis. “He has a wild tale, but if I were to repeat it you’d be convinced that the whole thing is simply a legend.”

  “On my hono
r,” said Gloria, “I’m already a convert. I’d give my eyeteeth to see this Indian, or whatever he is.”

  “I’ll tell you the yarn, then, though unquestionably there is more whiskey than truth in it. He declares that one moonlight night, in the mountains, he had made his camp in a hollow, and his blankets were put down behind a big boulder. He wakened at midnight with a great moon in the center of a clear sky, and when he sat up he saw - don’t laugh, Gloria - he saw, he says, an immense grizzly bear, twice the size of any he had ever seen, coming down the mountainside with a tall long-haired Indian sitting on its back, and behind them came a magnificent bay stallion, the most glorious horse he had ever laid eyes on, walking along of his free will, without a lead rope attached, but saddled, and with a pack behind the saddle.

  The idea was, you see, that the mountain was so steep that the Indian had gotten on the back of the bear to make it easier for his horse. A stiff wind was blowing from them to the prospector, so that the bear did not scent him.

  “And that strange caravan went by in silence. In utter silence, this poor halfwit declares. The very hoofs of the horse did not make a sound on the rocks. But of course I don’t advance this yarn seriously. The idea of a man riding a bear is too preposterous. And the idea that a high-strung horse would come so near to a grizzly is even more absurd. But I don’t need to say that some of these simple mountaineers declare that the story must be the truth.”

  “And I,” said Gloria hotly, “am sure that it is the truth! Oh, how I should love to see him!”

  “Now,” said Themis, “I see that I’ve touched the romantic vein.”

  “You may laugh if you please,” said the girl, “but, when you go on the trail after him, I’m certainly going to ride with you.”

  “You?” cried her father. “Absurd!”

  “Not at all!”

  “But, my dear, this fellow is dangerous!”