Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “All right, kid,” he said. “I guess you know,” and he winked, but immediately scowled and added: “Not that they got anything on me, but I’m tired of having them watch me. I’m tired of being bothered. Can’t show my face inside of a town without having the sheriff come around and get clubby. Why, blast their hearts, they ain’t got a thing that they can prove on me. All they got is the hope of proving something. But I ain’t anybody’s fool!”

  He laughed again, more heartily than before.

  “Come on inside,” he said..

  Tom nodded and noted that the other waited for him to pass first and then followed half a step to the rear, keeping his guest always under his eye.

  “And what about the bear,” he said. “I’d sure like to see that bear. Or is that just a lie they been telling about you having a bear that you had tamed.”

  “It’s true,” said Tom.

  “Well, I’ll be hanged,” said Bill. “We’ll go take a look at that bear after a while. How about eating now?”

  “Good,” said Tom, but the walls of his stomach were cleaving together with anxiety. “You eat while I talk, I ate this noon.”

  “You - well, son, ain’t it time to eat again?”

  Tom eyed him in wonder, and then he remembered. Other men sat down to eat three times a day. One meal in twenty-four hours was privation to them, whereas two was a luxury to him.

  “Not till tomorrow,” he said. “I can’t eat till then.”

  Bill shook his head.

  “You’re queer, right enough,” he decided. “But I can eat for two any day. Are you taking off your gat? It’s a pile more comfortable sitting around.”

  Tom took the hint and stripped off his gun belt and hung it on a peg in the wall. But Bill, while he busied himself taking his food from the frying pan, where it had been simmering, kept his revolver on the edge of the table nearest to him. It was a wretched imitation of a table - two planks joined together over two sawhorses. But, at that, it was almost the only piece of sawed timber in the cabin. The rest was entirely logs. In a corner was a grimy heap of blankets on the floor. There were a few rusted traps; some shirts and boots thrown in another corner; two rifles, a shotgun, and two revolvers hanging on the wall, apparently all well cared for; some sacks of flour and other provisions, a bit mildewed around the bottoms; and two stumps leveled on bottom and top had been rolled into the house as chairs. Altogether, it was the dirtiest and most uncomfortable living quarters that Tom had ever seen. The fire, gleaming through the cracks of the stove, was the one cheerful center of interest.

  The great hound came stalking in, snarled with twitching lips at Tom’s moccasins, and then lay down near the stove and glared at Tom out of fierce, red eyes. And whenever the eyes of Tom fell upon him, his lips twitched again, and a growl formed vaguely in the deeps of his throat.

  “The dog don’t like you,” said Bill, as he arranged his coffee and ham and fried bread on the table in tin dishes and sat down in front of it, with the revolver still near his plate. “He don’t like you, and, come to think of it, you can’t noways blame him. He figures that you tried to cheat him out of that squirrel when he had a good chance to catch the little devil. You can’t blame him for that, eh?”

  “No,” said Tom.

  At the sound of his voice, the dog growled heavily.

  “Shut up!” thundered Bill, and kicked savagely at the head of the dog. But that brute had apparently learned to dodge with expert adroitness. He moved an inch out of range, shifted his eyes to the face of his master with a whine of abject submission, and again resumed his occupation of glaring at Tom.

  His presence greatly complicated matters. Bill alone was a handful and more. He was larger than any man Tom had ever seen. Towering six feet and five inches from the ground, with some two hundred and fifty pounds of mighty muscle, trained hard by the mountain climbing and the mountain work, he was the very picture of Hercules. The meal which was before him was enough in quantity to have fed Tom heartily for two days. But the giant devoured it in great sections. The cords of his huge wrist were as bulky and broad and hard as the tendon of Achilles in lesser men, well-nigh. When he chewed his food, the muscles swelled out along his jaw and made his beard bristle. In addition, Tom had seen enough to know that he was lightning quick with hand and eye. And, if it came to a hand-to-hand fight, he would be at a more decided disadvantage in having to confront this terrible foeman in such cramped quarters. Altogether, though he had amply proved the superiority of his own strength over the power of ordinary men, and though he would have been confident even now had there been a chance for him to exercise his agility and his endurance over a broader battlefield, he seriously doubted and almost despaired as he looked upon those enormous hands and those blunt-tipped fingers. But, in addition to all these disadvantages, there was the dog.

  That huge brute, as large among his kind, almost, as his master was among men, had formed a confirmed hatred for the visitor. At the first sign of a quarrel with the master, he would fling himself at Tom with teeth large enough and strong enough to tear the throat out of a man at a single bite. Altogether, it seemed that Tom was confronted with insuperable odds.

  And yet action he must have, now or never. Somewhere back in the forest, where the yellow light of the late afternoon was sifting through the trees, the posse was coming apace to overtake him. And once they were there, they would not wait to listen to his accusations. Nine chances out often, they would simply shoot him on the spot, or else string him up to a nearby tree. Before they arrived, he must have proof to show to the world that Bill was the murderer - or, indeed, was he?

  If he were not, it was a lost trail, and with that lost trail was lost all hope of seeing Gloria again. Poor Tom passed the back of his hand across his furrowed forehead.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  “I’VE HEARD TELL something about the way you made a fool out of the gang that that tenderfoot took up into the hills,” Bill was saying. “I’ve heard tell about it! But you ain’t the only one that they’ve tried to hunt down and ain’t been able to. No, kid, you ain’t the only one. I had a brother once. They started after him, a good hundred of ’em, but they never got him.”

  “How long did your brother keep them away?” asked Tom with sudden interest.

  “How long?” said Bill. “Why, they didn’t never catch him! Eight, nine years ago, along in the spring, he come up into the hills with about a million of ’em after him. But they never put a hand on him. He got clean of ’em all!”

  He laughed and beat his hand on the table until the tins jumped and rattled.

  “I sure wish that I’d been around to see how the old boy managed it! He was a hard one, he was. And he just stepped out and walked away from the whole crew of ’em!”

  “Eight, nine years,” said Tom, his idea growing more certain, though he still wanted the proof more complete. “And he’s been away all this time?”

  “He faded out so complete,” said Bill, “that nobody ever seen him again, not even me. But I figure that I know where he went. He had some pals in Australia. That’s a good country for a gent that wants freedom. That’s where he must of gone!”

  Tom drew a deep breath. For all the years which lay between, he felt again the heavy hand of the giant in his cave, and heard the deep, growling voice. And Bill was like a larger reincarnation.

  “When I got tired having them fool with me,” said Bill, “I remembered what he done. I came the same direction, and I done the same thing!”

  But here Tom shook his head.

  “Not quite the same,” he said.

  The joy was stricken from the face of Bill.

  “Eh?” he grunted, and, staring at Tom, his brute face worked with astonishment and the beginnings of fear.

  “I went down to Turnbull,” said Tom, “and while I was there I heard men talking about you.”

  “The devil you did!” thundered Bill, and instinctively his huge hand gripped the butt of the revolver, and his glance roved through th
e door and across the clearing. “Nobody’s ever seen me,” he continued fiercely. “Nobody but you!” And he centered a malignant gaze upon Tom.

  “I heard them talking about the killing of Dick Walker,” said Tom. “Someone must have seen you in the hills, because they talked about a man of your size. And I don’t suppose that there is another like you in the mountains around here.”

  “Nor around no place,” said Bill proudly. “Gents of my size don’t come along in pairs. But what did they say?”

  “They said that not many men were capable of beating Dick Walker. That was why they thought it must have been you.”

  “It must of been somebody that knew me back in Elkhorn,” said Bill thoughtfully. “I had a falling out with Walker there just before I had to leave town. But I left word for Dick that I’d get the skunk sooner or later. I seen ’em make that camp and pile up the stuff after you’d made a fool of ’em and snaked their hosses away. So I went down and called on Walker. They said that nobody could stand up to Walker in a square and fair fight. But I done just that! It wasn’t no murder. It was a fair killing. I beat him to the draw. That was all there was to it!”

  He spread out his great arms and grinned with a ghastly triumph.

  “It was close, at that,” said Bill meditatively. “I heard his slug whisper by my ear while he was a-falling. He was dead when he pulled his trigger, but he shot straight enough, at that. Yep, Dick was a hard kid!”

  He nodded and chuckled. It was a horrible thing to Tom to see his exultation.

  “But they’re coming hunting me?” said Bill suddenly. “D’you hear ’em say that?”

  “No,” said Tom.

  “But what started you on my trail?”

  “I thought I’d find you. I found the shell you snapped out of the gun about a mile from the place. That gave me the line you’d traveled. I hit your fire on top of the mountain -”

  “You lie!” cried the giant. “It must of been washed away by the rains!”

  “One side of a stone was black with the soot of your fire,” said Tom.

  The other grunted, and his little eyes opened with wonder.

  “You sure read a trail close,” he said.

  “Then I came on,” said Tom. “After a while, I came on your sign. You were taking your time, you know.”

  “I can hurry when I want to,” said Bill. “I can break their hearts easy enough if they press me. But I didn’t figure that I had any call to hurry right then. Otherwise, you wouldn’t never have found me, son!”

  “I suppose not,” said Tom.

  “But where one gent can follow, another can follow. And by you coming over the same way, it’ll be like a paved road for the rest of ’em!” groaned Bill. “I wish you’d minded your own business and kept away! Why’d you want to horn in and spoil my game? Did I ask you to come down here and call on me like a fool?”

  Wild with anger, he fingered the butt of his revolver, and the sweat came cold on the forehead of Tom; yet be managed to meet the glare of Bill squarely.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Shall I put some wood in the stove?”

  “Go do it,” snapped Bill.

  Tom rose leisurely, stretched, looked out of the doorway into the sunlit clearing, and listened again. Far, far away, like a ghost on the steady wind, he had heard the baying of a pack of dogs. Why did not Bill hear it? But when he turned, he saw that the face of the larger man was not intent in listening. Perhaps his ears were less keenly attuned. At any rate, it meant that the time of Tom was short.

  He turned to the stove, took off the lids, and then leaned to pick up a chunk of wood. He reached for the largest and heaviest stick, and as his fingers closed on it, something like, the passing of a shadow, a chill sweeping over his spine, made him wince away just as the hand and the heavy, clubbed revolver of Bill shot down past his head.

  Full of suspicion of this unbidden guest, Bill had not been able to get rid of him with a bullet so long as he was unarmed, but the moment his back was turned the conscience of Bill was at ease. Only that lightning dodge to the side had saved Tom from a crushed skull.

  He whirled like a cat and struck at the flash of the gun. The billet of wood hit the hand - the gun was knocked spinning toward the door and through it. The roar of Bill, as he jerked back his wounded hand, was loud as the roar of Jerry in a moment of fury. Tom sprang back, appalled - and received the teeth of Tiger as the big brute fastened his grip on Tom’s leg.

  Yet he dared venture hardly a glance at the dog. One look, and he struck with all his force. The heavy stick landed squarely across the eyes of Tiger and dropped him with a groan, but the blow snapped the stick across and left Tom unarmed to meet the rush of the giant.

  All the advantage of his agility was gone. In an instant the giant had closed on him. He could only duck his head under a blow that would have knocked him senseless, never to reawaken. Then the huge arms were wrapped around him. But, in ducking with lowered head, he had thrown his left elbow before him. The enveloping pressure of the big man drove that elbow like a spear into the bones of his chest.

  The pain made Bill shout, and in that instant Tom whirled out of the grip of the giant. But so tremendous was the strength of Bill that the tattered remnants of Tom’s buckskin shirt remained in his hands, and Tom was naked to the waist. Bill snatched a rifle from the wall - no time to level and aim it - but he flung it at Tom’s head. It flew past him as he swerved. And instead of running, as the giant had expected, Tom darted in and flashed both hands into the giant’s face.

  Trained by many a bruising combat with Jerry to strike speedily beyond conception and with pile-driver force, Tom raised a red welt on the cheek of Bill with one of those blows, and the other slashed the flesh over a cheekbone and let the blood flow in a stream down his face.

  And Bill struck in turn with all his might. But he had been stung, and hurt men strike short. Just past the face of Tom his blow swept, and the long, darting arms of the smaller man rammed home again into the face of Bill. In either hand there was force enough to have dropped a common man, stunned and helpless, but the solid jaw of Bill took the blows and telegraphed only a faint shock and a small pain to that small, brute brain.

  But he was blind with utter rage. He came in, head down, to crush Tom against the wall. It was like trying to corner a wild cat. He struck thin air and battered himself against the logs. Before he could turn, he received a blow like that of a four-pound sledge swung by a strong hand, landing just beneath his ear.

  And this time he was staggering. He reeled around and met a volley of cutting blows that brought a fresh trickle from his nose and cut his mouth. But here again, strokes that would have stunned a prize fighter were merely like the sting of a spur to Bill. His slow brain quickened into life again. He saw clearly, and knew that he could never stand at a distance and exchange blows with this shadowy enemy who seemed to carry a hammerhead in either fist. He lowered his head and came in again, but more slowly, his arms outstretched to grip his enemy.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  FOR EVERY FOOT the giant advanced, a pair of driving blows crashed against his head, and just as he thought he was sure to close and set his crushing hands on Tom, the latter flung himself to the side. One hand gripped his shoulder. He tore himself out of the hold, though those terrible fingers flayed off his skin as though they were iron pincers. A crimson trickle ran down his body as he whirled and struck again.

  Bill swept a roundabout swing at the head of Tom. It was like striking at a bobbing cork. The blow went wild, and his ribs sagged, an instant later, as both fists whipped home into his body.

  This was far other than blows to the head. His fat abdomen was not meant to withstand such shocks. A mist of sickness clouded his eyes. With a groan he rushed once more, and once more his arms closed on empty air.

  He was despairing when he turned. His face had been cut to ribbons. One eye was almost closed. Blood trickled over the other, and still that terrible phantom swayed and dodged before him, and w
hen he struck his arm lunged through nothingness.

  If only he could get to close quarters! He plunged in again. And again he saw the smaller man waver in a feint to one side, then plunge to the other, but as he leaped his foot landed on the barrel of the fallen rifle, which slipped and rolled under his weight. Down went Tom and sprang up again like a bounding rubber ball. But it was too late. That instant had given Bill time to close, and now with a savage shout of joy he flung himself on Tom. One arm passed around the body of Tom.

  The other hand fastened on his throat, and he whined and sobbed with hysterical joy.

  It seemed to Tom that the tendons of his throat were being sprung asunder from the bone. The blood rushed into his face. His eyes swelled out. In vain he clubbed his fists and beat them into that bleeding face. The giant laughed through his teeth and increased his pressure.

  A sound of roaring, tumbling water poured into the ears of Tom. Yet he fought swiftly, even though a veil was falling over his senses. He pressed one arm up between himself and the chest of Bill. He passed that arm over the wrist which was beneath his chin. And on that leverage he cast a resistless pressure by leaping off the floor and spinning his whole weight into the air. The grip was torn from his throat.

  He pitched to the floor, but the giant had toppled, also, and they regained their feet at the same time and stood swaying and exhausted. In three brief minutes of battle they had poured out all their strength.

  Then it was that condition began to tell in favor of Tom. To be sure, Bill was well conditioned himself, but he had never known the life of exposure and hardship which was Tom’s average lot. His muscles had not been turned into so much seasoned whipcord. The exertions had sapped his wind. But two deep breaths dragged into Tom’s straining lungs revived him once more.