by Max Brand
The lip of the young man curled. There was no one who did not hate Alden Turner, and only the fact that his money made him a necessity to that ranching community, kept him from being a social outcast. However, this was the man who would receive back this five hundred dollars and all the rest of the money.
Young Phil Slader bowed his head in profound thought before he went on with the counting of the money. There was only the one handful of it, as has been said before, but how closely the sheets were wadded together had to be seen before it could be believed. For here was a veritable brick of money. Yet no gold brick was ever so precious. No brick made of indubitable yellow gold was ever a tithe as valuable as this one!
The very next bill beneath the top one was for a thousand dollars and fifty sheets came off in swift succession, each printed for the value of a thousand dollars, calling upon the government of the United States to pay to the bearer that sum in the gold coin of the realm. A thousand dollars in gold — three pounds of the solid, precious metal represented by each thin film of printed paper.
There had never been reading half so delightful to any human eye as was this to the eye of Phil Slader. He read on and on and the story swelled in vast interest as he proceeded. Twenty thousand, fifty, eighty thousand dollars — a hundred thousand dollars, and still more and much more to come! But this was more than even the bank of Alden Turner claimed had been stolen from it. Part of the money could go back to satisfy Mr. Turner and his needs which were all just and legal. But what of the rest?
The sum swelled beneath the hands of young Phil Slader to one hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars before he came to the end of this delightful story told in words which even a fool could have understood with the most complete ease! A hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars.
It was far and far beyond the wildest dreams of young Phil. Perhaps there were few men able to sit down and understand the meaning of such a sum. But Magruder had helped to interpret the meaning of a hundred thousand to him. And here was practically double that grand sum.
His mind began to stretch swiftly away. New vistas opened with suddenness before him. And he saw with a dazzled eye the possibilities of buying, let us say, the “Chuck” Oswald place, now used for cattle only, but with all the possibilities of the rich bottom lands whose blackness Phil had yearned so often to furrow with a plow! Much, much was to be done. He felt that the possibilities slipped beyond the grip even of his mental finger tips. But oh, was it not a grand thing to contemplate all of this?
And contemplate it he did, for burning, drunken minutes, sitting like a statue in the sands, until his mind turned back to the other side of the picture, which was certainly there, begging for his eye. Upon that other side he read indubitable facts — that no man can receive something for nothing, unless it be by legal gift and legal procedure; no man has a right to appropriate that which belongs to another.
He tried to dodge that point; he tried to evade it by simply refusing to think of it. But he could not turn it from his attention. It ate in upon him like the rays which a sun-glass focus on a point of burning heat. This money was not his, and nothing connected with it belonged to him. He had not the slightest claim to anything except the reward which might be offered for the return of the loot. Up to that time, the rewards which Alden Turner was offering so profusely had spoken of the apprehension of the criminal, but never of the return of the money — as if Alden Turner was not fool enough to hope for the return of his cash, once it was lost to him.
Phil Slader wondered, as he turned the question bitterly in his heart of hearts, how much money would ever be returned by the same Alden Turner, in case he were to come across it, buried in a hole in the ground? How far would he go to make a return of it to the rightful owner possible? Not a single step, and Phil was as sure of it, as human mind can be sure of anything on this mortal earth.
However, he could not help realizing that the standard of what was good and right was not established by Alden Turner. And he knew, presently, that he dared not take that money upon this day. He dared not!
So he decided that he would leave it there in the hole beneath the rock where he had found it. When twenty-four hours had passed over his head, then he would be far better qualified to decide on this all-important question. Such was the decision to which he had come. And so he got up and, having replaced the wad of money in its place, he strode to the big rock and heaved it up again with an easy might of hand. At that moment, as he turned around bearing his load, the shrubs parted and admitted first the long barrel of a rifle, and behind the rifle the squinted eye and the long, pale face of Lon Kirby! He had circled back to make certain that he had not been trailed.
CHAPTER XX
IT MAKES A great deal of difference on which end of a gun a face appears. Looking at Lon Kirby from the security of the brush, with a Colt in his hand, Phil Slader had not considered him an extraordinary person by any means. Looking at him, however, with that same face cuddled down beside the stock of a rifle and the long, gleaming barrel pointed in Phil’s direction, it seemed to Phil that he had never seen greater possibilities for cold-blooded mischief in any human being.
“Just stick up your mitts,” said Lon Kirby. “Just drop that rock and stick your mitts up into the air, kid, and remember that I’m watching how you get them hands above your belt and the gun that you got there!”
It did not occur to Phil Slader to disobey. He might have dropped the rock, he considered, and whipped out his Colt as he raised his hands, but before he could do that he knew that he would have been a dead man.
So the stone fell and chugged heavily into the loose sand of that little beach. And Phil’s hands rose to the level of his head.
“Good!” said Lon Kirby, forthwith dropping his rifle over the hook of his left arm. “Now we can talk. I was afraid, for a minute, that maybe I would have to snuff you out, partner, before I had a chance to chat with you for a while. And that would of been a shame, because I’ve met a lot of gents, big and small, that laid some sort of claim to being called strong men, and I’ve never found one of the whole lot that could lift pound for pound with me — until I run into you. And you’re a stronger man than I am, youngster. Did you see how I had to wrestle around with that rock?”
“I seen it all,” said Phil Slader.
“You did, eh?”
“I did.”
“Quiet and sassy about it, you seem to me to be. Wait a minute!”
He secured the rifle, with his right hand and arm only, still with his finger upon the trigger; then, pressing the muzzle against Phil’s heart, he stretched forth his left hand and plucked out Phil’s gun.
“Old-fashioned one, ain’t it?” said Lon Kirby. “Pretty old-fashioned it looks to me. But now there is your gun on the ground. And I ask you, kid, if I was to lay aside my own guns, would you fight me here, hand to hand and man to man, and the best man win a rough and tumble?”
A flame burned in the heart of Phil Slader and a flame burned in his eyes. The hands beside his head crooked a little as though already they were closing on the flesh of Lon Kirby.
“Do that,” said Phil, “and I’ll try my luck with you . . . .”
“And the winner will die, kid. You understand that that would be the way out?”
“Oh, yes,” said Phil, moistening his lips, for his very heart was dry with the thirst for this battle. “Oh, yes, I understand well enough! Throw your gats away, Kirby, and I’m ready for you, man. Will you do it?”
Lon Kirby merely smiled. “I thought that it might be in you,” he said, “but I wasn’t half sure. I’m glad to see that sort of stuff. Very glad. But you ain’t going to have your chance on me, youngster. I’ve seen what you can do to the rock. And that’s enough.”
He laughed openly and then rubbed a stubby-fingered hand — the true hand of the strong man — over his long, pale chin. He pointed toward the little open pit.
“If it wasn’t for that thing yonder,” he said, “there ain’t any good reason
why you and me might not be the best of friends. But the way that it stands, I’ll have to tie you to a stump here while I go on down the river. Otherwise you might wade out through the marshes, yonder, and give word to the boys that I’m drifting down the river. And they would work up a little reception committee to wait on me when I come out of the brush, eh?”
Said Phil, very thoughtful: “If you tie me up here, nobody would ever hear me holler. You know that?”
“I know that,” said the outlaw with a perfect blandness.
“And since nobody ever comes down this here river except once in about every ten years, there wouldn’t be much hope of me ever getting loose.”
“That’s reasonable,” said the outlaw, as unmoved as ever.
“And the chances are about ten to one,” said Phil Slader, “that I’d sit there against a stump until I starved to death.”
“Son,” said the criminal, “you speak it out like a piece learned right out of a book. There ain’t a thing that you’ve overlooked except the fact that the mosquitoes, that are getting pretty hot just now and which might eat part of you alive before any help came. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do, kid. I’ll give you a choice between being tied up and, on the other hand, taking a lead pill between the eyes. The bullet won’t cost you no pain, and it won’t be a much surer way of dying than being tied here to a stump, as you’ve just pointed out so dog-gone exact.”
“You’d do it, I think,” said Phil Slader, moved with wonder.
“Sure I would,” said the outlaw. “They’ll hang me when they get me, of course. And they might as well hang me for one more as for one less!”
He added, in the silence that followed: “What else is there for me to do?”
“A pretty good thing,” said Phil Slader. “The thing for you to do is just take my word that I won’t squeal on you when you go on down the river.”
The other smiled broadly and waved his hand.
“That’s a fine idea,” said he. “Dog-gone me if that ain’t a fine bit of thinking on your part. Why didn’t the idea come to me before?”
“You didn’t think that you could trust me,” said Phil.
“No, but now I got the proof that I can trust you, eh? Kid, are you simpleminded?”
“You mean that you can’t do it?”
“Why, son, I like you fine, and I would like to do you a good turn instead of a bad one, but, boy, you can’t ask me to fit the rope around my own neck, can you?”
“I see,” said Phil Slader.
“Well?” said the outlaw.
“There’s no use in arguing when you’ve made up your mind so complete.”
“Curse me if you ain’t cool!” said Lon Kirby. “Set down and rest yourself and roll yourself a smoke. I dunno when I’ve got into a mess that I liked less than I like this! Now, why couldn’t you be some sneaking, whining yap of a gent, instead of what you are? Why couldn’t you fall on your knees and scream for help, when you seen me and my gun? Or why couldn’t you of pretended that you didn’t know who I was? Or why couldn’t you of begged for your life, and, most of all, why couldn’t you of throwed up to me how you lay there yonder in the bush and watched me bury that coin — and didn’t put a bullet through me when you had a chance? Why couldn’t you of been something like that, instead of a white man, so far as I can see? If you was a low sneak, it would be a plumb pleasure to me to drill you and leave you there to rot beside the water till the spring floods come along and washed you down. But the way it stands, you would ride on my conscience for a long time. Darned if you wouldn’t bother me in my sleep. And here I am, like a windy old fool, talking a lot too much. And maybe,” he added, his eye and his voice turning to iron, “giving you a wrong idea that I’m getting mush-hearted and soft, eh? Maybe doing that for you, son?”
Phil Slader shrugged his shoulders.
“You ain’t in the mood for talking, eh?” said the outlaw.
“I know I’m about to die,” said Phil Slader, “and that doesn’t make your ugly mug any better looking to me.”
“Keep your lip to yourself, kid,” said the outlaw darkly. “I’m no uglier than some that are a lot better men than you’ll ever be, my lad. And I want you to cotton onto that idea and never to forget it. You understand me what I say?”
“Take your rifle,” said Phil Slader, “and stand off a mite and do the job. I’ve got no mind to stay here and be chewed to bits by the mosquitoes before I kick off.”
The outlaw calmly stood up and raised his rifle to his shoulder.
“Wait a minute,” said Phil Slader. “Just stand back there another yard, will you? And then let me stand up. I got an idea that I’d like to stand to take this.”
“All right,” said the bandit, nodding. “Are you ready?” he added, as Phil stood up.
“I’m ready, right enough,” said Phil Slader.
“Close your eyes, then.”
“No, I’ll take this with them open.”
The finger of the bandit curled around the trigger — but though the soul of Phil Slader seemed to lurch forward as though eager to take wing, there was no explosion.
“You didn’t blink!” said the outlaw, and he dropped the rifle into the hook of his left arm. “Curse my soul, but you didn’t even blink!”
“What’s up?” asked Phil angrily. “Is this a joke, maybe?”
“Joke? Powder and lead don’t make good joking, son!”
“Then get the mess over with, will you? I’m tired of it.”
“You sort of hunger after ‘going West,’ do you? Well, kid, I’d like to tell you this: I want to be decent with you. I want to do what’s fair and right, as near as I can. And if you was to give me any messages for anybody, I’d be pretty sure that they got what you said, word for word.”
“Thanks. I got nothing that I want to say to nobody.”
“No? You don’t mean it! Not a word to nobody? I see that you’re a cold-blooded young devil, then. But you sure are in the mooney period, and you must have a best girl stuck away somewhere in your head, eh?”
“No,” said Phil Slader. “No — she doesn’t waste any time thinking about me.”
“Aye,” said the other almost joyfully, “then there is a girl, eh?”
“Look here,” said Phil Slader, “you might let John Newell’s daughter know that I — er — that I didn’t have to wink when I seen it coming. You might do that. She would be sort of interested maybe.”
“John Newell?”
“He’s a farmer near Crusoe. Y’understand, this girl only has seen me twice. There don’t have to be anything weepy in what you write to her about me; but just tell her the straight facts, will you?”
“Good,” said the outlaw. “I’ll do that. And that winds up the list?”
“That’s all.”
“Your mother is dead, then?”
“Yes, she’s dead.”
“And you and your father don’t get on well together?”
Phil Slader smiled.
“If I had my father living,” said he, “you’d never send him a message from me.”
“No?”
“No, you wouldn’t. You would only be praying humble and hard that he would never know that there was such a gent as you in the world — let alone that you had a hand in bumping me off!”
Lon Kirby raised his brows. “You talk like your dad was a high stepper in his own day, kid,” said he sternly. “You talk like maybe I would turn my back on him?”
“No,” said Phil. “I’m not enough fool for that. I only tell you the facts — that you might stand to him, but you’d know that you’d be beat before you went for your gun.”
“Let’s hear his name,” said Lon Kirby angrily. “I’d like to know that man’s name, kid.”
“His name was Jack Slader,” said the boy.
And he saw the outlaw shrink and gasp as though he had been struck.
“Jack Slader — the Jack Slader? Bless me, but you ain’t his son?”
“I am, though.”
“It’s a lie,” said Kirby. “You ain’t the sneak that’s living ever since with the gent that murdered your old man?”
“Murdered him?” said Phil Slader hoarsely. “Murdered him? No, I’m living with a man that beat him in a fair-and-square fight and took me in afterward, I suppose. I’m not living with a man that murdered Jack Slader.”
“Wait a minute,” said Lon Kirby. “Lemme stand back and have a look at you. Jack Slader’s boy? Darned if you ain’t! Darned if you ain’t! You got his face, too. Rougher, maybe, and not so gay, but you got his face — only you’re a bigger man. Jack Slader’s son! Where have my eyes been today? Cursed if you ain’t almost able to stand duty for his ghost on the day that I first met him. Well — I was a kid then, and he give me advice that should have put some sense into my head, but it didn’t! But lemme tell you this — if you’re Jack Slader’s boy, you know that the kind of a carrion that Magruder is never had the nerve to stand to Jack Slader in a fight — let alone beat him and kill him.”
CHAPTER XXI
THE THING WHICH we half know beforehand is ever more impressive when the truth is fully revealed than the information which is totally new and unexpected.
Phil Slader began to tremble.
“Partner,” said he, “you sure are making me want to live. And if you’ll prove to me that Magruder didn’t kill dad fair and square — I’ll get down on my knees and beg you to let me live long enough to find Magruder and kill him. Then I’ll come back here to you. You understand what I say?”
“I know — I know,” said the outlaw, “but I can’t give you the proof, and even if I could, I wouldn’t.”