Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  Hank Jeffries had the only possible explanation. He declared that when the Indian came into camp the preceding night, he had managed to make friends with the entire pack. That explained the silence in which they had permitted him to come and go. That explained their negligence on the trail.

  “Because,” said Hank, “a dog is like any other critter. It works a pile better when it figures that it’s after something it would like to chew or tree. But these dogs, they ain’t got no interest in the Indian. They’ve seen him, they’ve nosed him, and they’ve been patted by him, most like. Maybe he brought in something for them to eat. I dunno how he done it. The Lord only knows! I’d of figured that Simpkins dog to chew up any man that tried to come near him. Look at me. I been with him most a week, now, but I can’t put a hand on him. He’s a regular killer. We ain’t handling ordinary things with this Indian. He’s got a sort of bad medicine. But I’ll do the best I can to get the hounds worked up to the trail.”

  He lived up to his word. He was indefatigable in his efforts. But he could not make them run a hundred feet ahead of him on the trail before their heads would come up and they would start idling and playing with one another, and looking back to their master as though they wondered what on earth was the purpose in continuing on that course.

  Such trailing meant slow work. By noon they had traveled hardly ten miles from their starting point. Si Bartlett summed up the result of their combined efforts: “We ain’t done enough to keep that Peter hoss warm!”

  In the afternoon they tried to rush the trail, relying simply upon their ability as trailers by the eye, but after an hour they gave up the effort. Before that time was ended they struck a neat problem in the midst of some granite and shrubs, a tangle of which they could not make a head until the dogs had been persuaded to unravel it.

  And, just as they were heading along at a brisk gait for the first time in the day, they struck another murderous slope. This time they managed to go up it, but it was slow, slow work, and they had to take a horse at a time, which meant two trips for the entire party. They found themselves in a sort of badlands at the top of the rise. And, worst of all, night was coming on, horse and man were weary, and there was no water.

  Bartlett and Jeffries made a short excursion on two sides, ranging ahead, and reported that they had come on no sign of water in any direction. So there was nothing for it but to accept the discomfort of a dry camp.

  They had water enough in their canteens for themselves and their cookery, but there was nothing for the horses, and the poor creatures, bone dry from their labors of the afternoon, soon lost interest in the few blades of grass which they could find among the rocks. They stood around with their heads down and their eyes dull.

  What talk there was that night around the camp fire consisted of monosyllables and grunts. Every man was so thoroughly disgusted with himself that he wanted to take out his grievance on his neighbors. And Themis was momently in fear that a fight would be started. But a natural reserve, and the fact that every man present was known to be an expert with a gun, deterred them.

  So, finally, that wretched evening was closed by sleep. Only Si Bartlett was left awake to stand guard over them and prevent a visitation such as that which they had received the preceding night. He was to keep the watch until midnight, and then Red Norton would relieve him.

  Silence dropped over the camp; even the dogs did not so much as whimper, so great was their weariness. But it was not an unbroken night of sleep. A wild shout wakened them, and then there was a rush of hoofs, snorting, and shrill neighing.

  The campers jumped to their feet in time to see their entire herd of horses, with one exception, disappearing around the shoulder of a hill, and behind them was a wild figure of a man with long hair blown out behind his head and riding a beautiful stallion. Before a single shot could be fired, he had disappeared in the moonshine behind the hills, and the roar of hoofs tore away into distance, striking up loud echoes which slowly died away.

  No man stirred to follow. To pursue such a flight on foot would be like attempting to climb a rainbow to the heart of heaven or putting a saddle on a snowslide. The horses were gone with the single exception of Mary Anne, and even she was working to follow as fast as her hobble would permit her.

  Gloria caught her and brought the good mare back. On her return she found that the rest of the men were gathered around Red Norton.

  He had been found thrown behind a rock, tied hand and foot, with his own lariat so that he could not stir a muscle, and so thoroughly gagged that he had almost choked before he was delivered. He was still gasping and choking and clearing his throat. When he stood up, his face was purple with rage, his voice husky, and his wild eyes roved around in search of a victim.

  But not a word of explanation would he offer. Only, when Hank Jeffries rashly asked him if he had fallen asleep, a torrent of abuse broke forth.

  “D’you think I’m a fool?” thundered Red Norton. “Fall asleep? I was as wide awake as I am now, wider awake than you could ever get. But when he - I’ll trail him if it takes the rest of my life. But I’ll trail him alone. I don’t want no squareheads and halfwits along with me. I work better alone!”

  It was too much for Hank Jeffries. His answer was like a flash of fire. But Themis stepped between them and struck down Norton’s drawn gun. He stepped between them at a vital risk of his own life. It was something Gloria would never forget, that picture of her father, perfectly calm, his voice low and controlled.

  “There’s no use quarreling because we’re beaten,” he said. “There’s no point in you being ashamed for what’s happened, Norton. Any man in the world may be surprised by a fellow who seems to be able to turn himself into a shadow. If anyone has cause to regret this night, I am he, I think. I’m going to pay every one of you his own price for the horse he has lost. You understand? And I’ll do it without regret. I’m not dissatisfied with the men who have made this trip with me. The trouble has been that we’ve tried to follow a most extraordinary man as though he were a common mountaineer, whereas he’s a genius in his own way. The next time we take the trail, we’ll start out with just the same company. I wouldn’t replace a single man who has made the trip. And I intend to start again, I assure you. If we are beaten a second time, I’ll start a third. My patience is endless. I’m going to see this mysterious fellow face to face - unless the rest of you want to give up?”

  The answer was a veritable roar of dissent. They would stay with him. They would stay with such a generous and open-minded employer to the end of time. And they would sooner keep on the trail at their own expense than give it up, for their honor was pledged to find the Indian and hang him to a tree in proof that they had found him.

  So much for the enthusiasm of the moment; but, as the day began, the rising of the sun showed them the full extent of the catastrophe. Scores of weary miles lay between them and the village of Turnbull. And they certainly could not carry with them a tithe of the equipment. It was agreed that Mary Anne, since Gloria resolutely refused to ride while the rest of the party walked, should be packed with enough provisions to last them for a quick, two-day march. Then the party should strike off, leaving one man behind to guard the saddles, the ammunition, and all the rest of the stores. But first he must be moved to water. They spent the day until noon sweating under heavy loads and carting their equipment five mites away to a small spring. There they left Dick Walker, who volunteered for the duty, and then started back for Turnbull village.

  But there was one face in the party from which the eyes of Gloria never turned so long as she could watch him covertly, and that was big Red Norton. All the left side of his face was purple and swollen. Had he been struck with a club, or had that blow been delivered with the fist by a man of incredible strength? Surely, strength so great could scarcely be coupled with -

  She tried to combine the picture which was raised in her mind with the picture of the flowers which had been scattered around her two nights before. But here her imagination f
ailed Gloria for the first time in her life.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  BAD NEWS HAS wings. But never did bad news travel more swiftly than on this occasion. Halfway to Turnbull, Themis and his following were met by a mounted party of a score of eager horsemen headed by the sheriff. And from them they learned that the entire herd of their horses had been found, in the evening of the day before, driven from the hills into the canyon near Hank Jeffries’ house. At once there had sprung into the minds of the good men of Turnbull a picture of the entire Themis party murdered by the Indian, and they had struck swiftly into the mountains to bring vengeance, or to rescue if there were any survivors.

  And on the way back to Turnbull they heard the strange story of the pursuit of the man of mystery, and its conclusion. But should Dick Walker be permitted to stay alone in the hills, guarding what supplies remained, in the face of so terrible an enemy? The sheriff was assured that Dick Walker had made only one request - that he be permitted to stay where he was, alone. All that he wanted was an opportunity to meet the Indian face to face!

  So they went on. If it had been another party, there would have been gibes in plenty and choruses of laughter at the expense of Themis and his men. But the stem faces of the six silenced all mirth.

  Into Turnbull they descended, and there scattered, for they dreaded worse than death encountering the children of the village. What men dared not put a tongue to, children can turn into fluid laughter.

  In fact, what they had dared not say in the presence of the Themis party, was freely talked of by the entire valley the next day. Six famous men had started out mounted on fine horses and equipped to the teeth to catch a single man, and that single man had sent the six back on foot! It was a story with a Homeric ring. And the Turnbull valley sent up a thunderous peal of laughter.

  There was only one calm man in the valley, perhaps, and that was John Hampton Themis. He could have pointed into his past to describe two months which had been entirely devoted to the trail of a man-killing lion in South Africa. He finally got that lion, and he would finally get the Indian. Of that he was quietly certain. In the meantime, he could do with less talk and more action.

  First of all, he took Si Bartlett and Red Norton with saddle horses and several pack mules. They headed through the mountains to locate Dick Walker and their cache of equipment and provisions which must be brought back to Turnbull. Heading in a straight line, with no trail problems to untangle, they made the journey in less than two days, and by the bank of the runlet they found Dick Walker lying on his back with his arms thrown out crosswise, smiling up to the heavens with placid, open eyes, and with a purple hole in the center of his forehead. A revolver lay where it had fallen as he had released it, only a few inches from his fingertips.

  But the pile of equipment was intact, and beyond it they found the tracks of the Indian’s bear - the unmistakable, huge tracks which not another creature in the mountains could have made. With the most casual scouting, they saw where the trail of Peter, the stallion and Jerry, the bear, had approached the camp, apparently heading straight up to it, without an effort to conceal their coming. But perhaps they had come by night. Perhaps the fight had been by night. Perhaps it was the light of his own camp fire which exposed poor Dick Walker to the fatal bullet.

  They dug his grave deep and buried him with his eyes still open. Over the grave they rolled big boulders to make sure that the body could not be dug by wild beasts. Themis had a hammer and chisel. He carved into the face of the largest of the stones:

  Here lies Richard Walker, murdered on this spot by treachery.

  When he had reached that point in his inscription, he turned to Si Bartlett and Red Norton.

  “Boys,” he said, “I think I ought to find some kind thing to say about Dick and put on this stone. Something that’s true about him and fine about him.”

  The two were silent.

  “Something like generosity would do,” said Themis. “Was Dick generous? He gave the appearance of a liberal, free-swinging youngster.”

  Si Bartlett smiled.

  “Speaking of generosity,” he said, “Dick was wasted up here in the mountains. He ought to have been down in some city. If one of the boys got broke, Dick would lend ’em money and charge half what he loaned as interest at the end of a month. He always had coin, but that was the way he handed it around. No, I wouldn’t say that Dick was generous.”

  “He was faithful to his friends, though?” queried Themis.

  “Hal Suffolk,” said Red Norton, “got interested in Dick when Dick was being tried for killing old Petersby. Hal sent out and brought in a fine lawyer and somehow got Dick loose from hanging - nobody ever knew just how. Then him and Dick went out on a prospecting trip. They got into some sort of an argument, and Dick shot him dead.”

  Themis rubbed his forehead thoughtfully.

  “Miserly, ungrateful, vicious,” he said. “It seems there isn’t very much that’s good that we can say about him. But was he brave?”

  “Brave? He didn’t know what fear was,” said Norton.

  So it came about that the last of the inscription which Themis chiseled into the stone read:

  He never turned his back on his enemy and died as he lived, facing danger.

  So they left Dick Walker, packed the mules with the goods, and started back toward the town of Turnbull. One thing remained self-evident. The Indian must die. His daring thefts, his cunning depredations, might be forgiven in a court of law because he had always attempted to make restitution of property, as in the case of the horses of the Themis party, or else he more than paid with furs for the articles he took. But how could he pay the price of a human life?

  But they reached Turnbull, to find that the news they brought of the killing of Dick Walker was quite eclipsed by a recent happening in that village. Into the town, swarming as it was with armed men all keen to apprehend him, the Indian had come the night before, entered the house of Themis, found the room of the girl, and left upon her bed two priceless treasures - two perfect pelts of black foxes! An old trapper in a lifetime of work, if he is lucky, catches one such fox. But here were two beautiful skins whose value was simply what the fancy of a rich man chose to pay for them. They could not be represented by a market price. Furthermore, there was no doubt that the Indian had brought them. The prints of his moccasins were trailed back to a place in the hills where he had left Peter and the grizzly to come to the town. Then a serious effort had been made to trail him again on the return journey out of the town and into the hills. But here they had no luck. With consummate skill the wild man had made his return trail vanish into thin air, it seemed. They could not find a trace of him leaving the town.

  But Turnbull, in the meantime, boiled with rage and excitement. There was not a youth old enough to bear arms who did not feel that his honor had been outraged because this daring fellow had ventured into the town to pay court to beautiful Gloria Themis. Again posses were organized, but this time there was no sudden pursuit and scouring through the hills, for they had learned the lesson, and they knew that a haphazard rush through the hills brought no result. The expedition of Themis might have failed, but at least all men admitted that his method of patience had been the only possible one.

  Not a man would ride out to find the trail until the next day, and, in the meantime, to prevent a second visit of the Indian, a cordon was thrown around Turnbull. Literally scores of men and armed youths encircled the town. There was a perfect circle of camp fires, so that the light of one stretched across and mingled with the light of another. And the men sat in watches, relieving one another during the night and straining their eyes into the darkness. There was to be no hesitation, since the murder of Dick Walker was known. The instant they laid eyes upon a long-haired man, they were to challenge him, and if he did not stop they were to pour in their fire.

  And so all of Turnbull remained wakeful. But, to show the gambling spirit of the townsmen and their faith in the power of the Indian to make himself invisible,
odds were freely offered and found many takers at one to three that the wild man would walk through the line of fires safely and reach the home of his lady love before the morning.

  In fact, there was an inner cordon, as it might be called, stretched around the house of Themis itself. The place which he had rented to serve as headquarters was guarded by a dozen trusted men organized by Dude Wesson and Si Bartlett themselves.

  And in the house, like a small kernel inside so much guarding shell, sat Gloria, striving to read, but feeling a mist of excitement rising before her eyes again and again. In her lap lay one of those precious fox skins. It was like a mass of silk. It was dark as night. She could not help thinking of her face and white throat framed in the fur. But as she stroked it she said to her father, who sat in the room with her for the sake of giving her more assurance: “Of course, if he’s taken alive, I’ll sell the skins for the best price I can get. In fact, I’ll buy them myself at double the market value, and with that money he can retain the best lawyer in the country.”

  “H’m,” said her father. “I never before knew that you had such uneasy nerves, Glory. You’ve not turned a page for half an hour.”

  “Oh, Dad,” murmured Gloria, throwing the book aside, “I can’t help pitying him. I can’t help remembering the flowers he put around me. Wasn’t that a beautiful thing to do?”

  “H’m,” grunted Themis again, “there is a poetic strain in many savages. They sacrifice to the Almighty one moment and eat the burnt flesh of the sacrifice the next. Don’t think that this wild Indian is particularly remarkable in that respect. He shows his best talents on a trail.”

  “Dad,” she cried with a show of anger, “when you’ve committed yourself to a theory, you’re blind to everything else!”

  “I simply keep my mind open to the facts,” he said coldly, yet eying his daughter with a sharp anxiety. “This fellow doubtless has a fat squaw in the mountains -”