by Max Brand
He slipped aside from the next rush of the giant, whirled, and met him with a blow behind which was his entire power. His fist landed just beside the point of the big man’s chin. The shock of it sent a numb tingle to Tom’s shoulder, but it stopped Bill in his tracks.
The left fist followed the right, made doubly strong by an electric spark of hope. And he cried out softly with joy as the giant gave back, with a groan of despair and bewilderment.
He lunged again and suddenly, with the terror and the joy of a gambler taking a last chance. Tom stood his ground, his back to the wall, and struck again with all his might. And again the blow landed on the point of the giant’s jaw.
Constant hammering will make the stanchest stone crumble. And while the first strokes had hardly fazed Bill, the continual dinting of those iron-hard fists had had an effect. A numb area had been growing in his brain. And now it seemed to Tom that the knees of the big man sagged a little under the weight of the punch. At least, it stopped him short again.
He swung his thick arm, and, taking another chance, Tom allowed it to land. But there was still weight enough in that tired arm to lift him off his feet, as the fist struck his chest and sent him crashing into the wall.
With a gasp he rebounded, braced himself, and drove both fists again into the face of Bill. And again he stopped the big man!
He discovered that there was a world of difference between hitting while on the run and striking while both his feet were planted. He saw the head of the giant roll, and crimson spattered out of the clogged wet beard as he struck. He came in a little, and again, with feet spread and planted, he struck. The jaw of Bill drooped. His eyes grew blank. Vaguely he swung at the head of Tom, and the latter stepped in and shot his own fist inside the arc of that swaying arm. The blow landed fair and true on the jaw. That jaw was loose now. Tom felt it give horribly, as though the bones were broken, and Bill slumped to his knees, his back against the wall. It was a grim thing to do, but there could be no chances taken with this brute of a man. Tom crouched and struck again, mercilessly. The blow drove the loose head back against the logs. And Bill toppled forward on his face and lay immense and sprawling on the floor.
As Tom stood above him, weak-kneed all at once, and gasping for breath, hardly able to realize that of his own power he had been able to beat the giant to insensibility, something which had been forming in his brain as a vague worry now grew clear and defined. It was the baying of a dog pack growing momentarily closer! The posse was near at hand.
He ran to the door and closed and bolted it. He went back to the fallen body, which was not groaning. With a cord he secured the wrists and then the feet of the big man. Last, he turned the giant upon his back, then tugged the inert figure to a sitting posture, the back against the wall.
Bill opened his eyes and looked wildly about him. And he glared at Tom with a slow comprehension of what had happened. His jaw sagged as though another blow had landed in the clotted beard at the point of his chin.
“Well,” he said finally, “that was a pretty good bout.”
He tried to laugh. The result was a horrible mimicry of mirth. It ended as he saw the grim face of Tom and the naked torso striped with crimson which had flowed from Tom’s torn throat.
“Stand up,” said Tom.
The giant rose obediently, swaying on his bound feet.
First Tom reerected the fallen table.
“Now sit down there,” he said, pointing to a stool which he had placed near the table.
Bill hopped clumsily on his bound feet to the stool and sat down. And Tiger, beginning to waken from his swoon, groaned feebly. That sound was echoed by an ear-filling burst of music from the approaching pack, and Bill gasped with terror.
“What’s that?” he cried.
“The posse,” said Tom. “They’re coming to get me for the killing of Dick Walker. But they’ll get you instead. Bill, you’re going to write on the top of that table: ‘I killed Dick Walker.’ And after that you’ll put your name under it. Do you hear?”
The tongue of Bill lolled out across his lips. He stared, fascinated, at Tom.
“D’you want me to put the rope around my neck?” he gasped.
“If I hadn’t dodged you a little while ago,” said Tom quietly, “they would have run you down for my murder. It’s all one, Bill. Write on that table. Here’s some charcoal that will do.”
As he spoke, he passed a rope around Bill’s waist, fastened his left hand to it, and loosened the right. He picked his own revolver out of the holster hanging on the wall. He leveled it at the big man.
“Write!” he commanded.
But Bill, shuddering, shook his head. The baying of the pack came crashing through the forest. There was hardly a minute left to Tom. Another thought came to him. The poker when he opened the stove had been allowed to tip into the fire. He lifted it out. The end was red-hot. He knew that Jerry dreaded fire with a consummate fear. Might not this huge beast of a man have the same fear?
He leveled the white, gleaming end of the poker close to the forehead of Bill.
“Write,” he commanded, “or I’ll write with this in your face.”
“No, no!” groaned Bill. “Lord! Get that thing away. I’ll write!”
And, with sagging jaw, whining like a beaten dog, he scratched the words across the surface of the table: I killed Dick Walker, Bill McKenzie.
CHAPTER XXXIV
LEST HE SHOULD erase those precious words with a sweep of the hand, Tom fastened both hands behind Bill again. Then he stepped to the door of the cabin, threw it open, and stood outside, near the wall of the little house, just as the tumult of dogs poured out from among the trees and streamed across the clearing toward him. And, behind him, he heard the voices of men and the crashing of their horses among the trees.
As for the dog pack, it recoiled from this human quarry and stood about him in a loose semicircle, snarling and howling to show that the enemy was at bay. A moment more, and the hunters themselves came.
They came in a straggling body, a full score of them, and others, distanced by the hard going, were still busily working through the more distant woods. What Tom saw first was the face of Hank Jeffries, with Si Bartlett riding at his side. At sight of Tom at bay, Jeffries jerked out a gun. But Bartlett knocked down his hand.
“Steady up, Hank!” cried Bartlett. “He’s surrendered. He’d rather get his neck stretched than be salted away with lead. Sheriff, this is your lucky day!”
This to the sheriff, as the latter burst out of the forest on a sweating horse. And when he saw what prize had been reserved for him, he threw up his hat with a wild shout. After that, he flung himself out of the saddle and came forward, gun in hand - came slowly, as one who approaches a dangerous and treacherous quarry. But Tom stood without moving, leaning his naked shoulders against the wall of the cabin. The wind was blowing his long hair aside. The blood was drying on his chest, over which his long, brown arms were folded. It was no wonder that the sheriff came slowly.
Sheriff Cassell halted and kicked a dog out of his way. The pack stopped its yelling. In the background, the swarm of horsemen stopped their shouting in wonder at what they saw.
“Are you the man called Tom Parks?” asked the sheriff, conscious of the many eyes which rested on him; conscious, too, that this day he had made a name for himself among the most famous of man hunters, and that the job of sheriff was his for life if he wanted it.
“I am Tom Parks,” said a deep, quiet voice.
The little sheriff took a step nearer.
“I arrest you,” he said, “in the name of the law. From this moment whatever you say may be used against you in court. Hold out your hands.”
They were obediently offered. Over the strong wrists the steel of the handcuffs was snapped. And every man in the posse breathed more freely now mat those sinewy hands were helpless.
“Why am I arrested?” said Tom.
“For horse stealing,” said the sheriff slowly, “for burglary, for gran
d larceny and petty larceny, and for the murder of Dick Walker.”
“But for horse stealing first!” cried Hank Jeffries, who had thrown himself from the horse and stepped to the front, his lean face contorted with rage and satisfaction. “And that’s enough to hang you!”
And he struck Tom heavily in the face with his fist. The big man did not stir; only a small trickle of crimson went down his face from his mouth. But the sheriff turned raging upon Hank Jeffries.
“Jeffries,” he said, “get back in the crowd if you want to keep a whole skin. If Tom Parks had had his hands free, you’d rather of hit a mountain lion than hit him. If you or any other gent lays a hand on him again, I’ll start talking with my gun. Get back and keep out of my sight!”
There was a deep-throated murmur of approbation from the posse. They had pressed closer, those thin-faced cowpunchers, staring hungrily at the man who had baffled them so long on the trail, hardly able to understand how they could finally have run him down.
“Who’s inside that cabin?” asked the sheriff of Tom. “And what hell fire have you been raising now?”
“See for yourself,” said Tom.
The sheriff stepped cautiously into the open door of the cabin and stood there rooted to the floor with a shout of astonishment.
“Bill McKenzie!” he cried. “Boys, we’ve landed the two prize birds at one throw of the stone. Bill McKenzie!”
There was a rush for the door of the cabin. Then came another shout as the sheriff read off the confession:
“He killed Dick Walker!”
Another voice was lifted, a huge voice of half-whining protest.
“He forced me to write that, Sheriff. I swear I didn’t have nothing to do with Walker’s death. He got out a red-hot poker and said he’d jab it into my face unless I wrote that lie on the table and put my name to it.”
“Walker isn’t the only one you’ll answer for,” said the sheriff sternly. “There’s the killing of old man Wetherby you’ll have to answer for, Bill. They’ve got the proofs of that. Come out here and face Parks, and we’ll hear your story, both of you. Two in one day! And two like these! My luck has sure come in a lump! Sam, you’ve got a pair of bracelets. Clamp ’em on him. That’s right. Now cut those ropes away from his feet. Walk out, McKenzie! There’s been a man-sized fight in here.”
The crowd poured into the open. Huge McKenzie confronted his conqueror with the crimson clots still in his beard.
“Tell your story, Bill,” said the sheriff.
“I was sitting in there peaceful -” began McKenzie.
“You lie,” snarled a voice in the crowd. “There never was a minute in your rotten life when you were peaceful.”
“Shut up, Harry,” said the sheriff mildly. “Shut up and let him talk. Go on, Bill.”
“There ain’t no use talking here,” said Bill. “They ain’t aiming to believe me.”
“I’ll keep ’em quiet till you’re through,” said the sheriff, “no matter what they believe. Go on, Bill. Tell it to the face of Parks.”
“I was sitting in there all peaceful and quiet,” said Bill again, “when this skunk come and threw a rope over me. I didn’t have no chance. Then he told me he was going to make me write on the table that I’d killed Walker. He told me that he’d done that killing himself, and that you was after him and was sure to get him. I told him that I’d see him hanged before I wrote that lie down. He started in to beat me up. You see what he done to me? Finally, he got tired swinging his fists and started with a stick of wood. But I wouldn’t give up till he knocked me out. When I come to, he tried a different gag. He got the poker red hot and said he’d jab it into my eyes unless I done what he wanted me to do. And that’s what happened. I had to write. Sheriff, that’s the truth and no mistake. I never done nothing about the killing of Dick Walker.”
There was a deep growl of anger from the crowd. They turned savage faces of hatred upon Tom. Fair play is the first thing that a Westerner demands.
“Well, Parks,” said the sheriff, “it’s your turn to talk up and talk up loud, or I can’t be holding these boys. Something tells me that they’re getting a hankering for hanging you up to a branch. Turn loose and let’s hear what you got to say for yourself.”
Tom looked quietly round on the circle of malignant faces. But in his heart there was a strange riot of emotions. If these men were infuriated, it was simply because they felt he had unjustly treated another man. And if there were such justice in them, it was something surely worth knowing about human nature.
So he began his recital slowly with what Gloria Themis had told him - that there was nothing between him and freedom except the killing of Dick Walker.
“All the rest,” said Tom, “she thought could be paid for. I took a man’s horse, but I took that horse because he was going to kill Peter. I paid him for that horse afterward. And I’ve paid for everything else I took. If I haven’t paid enough, I’ll pay more. I want every one of you to see that I’m honest. But when she told me that I could be free if I found the real murderer of Dick Walker, I started out to find him. It was a hard thing to do. Rains had fallen since the killing. But I worked around the place until I found a shell for a revolver a mile away in the brush -”
“A mile away! In brush!” exclaimed someone.
“Shut up!” said the intent sheriff, whose honest eyes were fixed on the face of Tom.
“I came on the line from that shell to Walker’s grave. I found soot on a stone on top of the next mountain and thought that the killer must have made his camp fire there. Then I went on. Jerry - that’s the bear, you see - helped me find the trail. He’s very good at that sort of thing.”
There was a murmur of interest and wonder from the others.
“Finally, I came to this house. I found Bill McKenzie and started talking to him. While we were talking, he admitted that he had killed Walker. He told me that, I think, because he understood that I was trying to escape from your posse. But afterward he became suspicious again. When my back was turned, he tried to break my head with the butt of his revolver. I dodged that. His dog caught me by the leg.”
He turned with a limp and pointed to the crimson-stained rent in the back of his buckskin trousers.
“I knocked down the dog with a stick of wood, and then I fought McKenzie. He nearly choked me to death. You see?” He pointed to the torn throat. “But I broke away. Finally, I knocked him down. He could not get up. Then I tied him and heated the poker and made him write that confession. All of this is the truth!”
He paused, and a silence of deep wonder fell on the crowd until Hank Jeffries snarled.
“Sheriff,” he said, “does it sound reasonable and nacheral that a gent the size of Parks could beat Bill McKenzie? Look at the two of ’em side by side!”
And truly it was a comparison which dwarfed Tom.
“There is a way of proving what has happened,” said Tom. “Free our hands and let Bill McKenzie fight me again - here where the walls of the room don’t hem us in - where I have room enough to move around. Will you do that, Sheriff?”
He was on fire at the thought. The old joy of battle which had thrilled him in the conflict with Bill McKenzie returned.
“I’ll do that,” said the sheriff slowly. “I’ll do that, and if you can beat him fair and square, it sure will look like you been telling the truth. And if you been telling the truth in one part, the whole yarn will sound pretty much like the real thing. We know that Walker and McKenzie used to be enemies. We know he ain’t the first gent that McKenzie has finished.”
Here he turned point-blank upon Bill.
“McKenzie,” he said, “talk out. Here you got a chance to prove that he’s a liar. What do you say? Shall we turn the two of you loose and the rest of us stand off and give you room and let you fight it out - unless you try to bolt for it?”
Bill McKenzie stared fixedly at Tom, and he saw the whole body of the smaller man quivering with eagerness. A smaller man, to be sure, but one strong enough
to have broken a common man to bits. His eye dwelt on the perfect proportions, the thick shoulders, the long and sinewy arms. And the conviction came to him that, fighting in the free open, he would be simply cut to pieces as a wolf cuts a dog.
His head drooped.
“I’ll see you dead first,” he said. “I ain’t going to fight to give you the fun of watching. Damn the whole lot of you!”
CHAPTER XXXV
A PREMONITION OF disaster came to John Hampton Themis when he heard the uproar pouring through the street of Turnbull. Why his heart should have fallen so suddenly, he could not tell. But his first thought was one of relief that Gloria was out of town visiting the daughter of a rancher who had taken her to the ranch that morning.
He put on his hat and ran out to the front of the house in time to see the procession pass through the light of the late evening. A murmur had run before it, apparently, and informed the town of Turnbull that something worth seeing was about to enter the street, for the entire population had assembled on front porches and in the street itself.
And what they saw, and what Themis saw, was, first of all, a stream of lean- ribbed dogs running in tumult. Behind them came half a dozen of the cowpunchers who had ridden out with the sheriff days before on the trail of Tom Parks. Behind them came the sheriff himself, and at the side of the sheriff was a big man with long hair, dressed in buckskin trousers and a tattered buckskin shirt. He sat the saddle on a magnificent stallion which danced along to the noise of the shouts of the men of Turnbull.
It was Tom Parks. Themis could not fail to recognize at any distance the face of the man who had surprised and attacked him on the bank of the river. It was Tom Parks. But how did it happen that he was returning in the guise, almost, of a conqueror? His hands were free, and he was sitting the saddle on the famous horse he had stolen from Hank Jeffries. There was even a rifle in its case slung under one of his knees, and a revolver was at his hip. Certainly this was not the manner in which a man-killer was brought back to town!