by Max Brand
Lon Kirby had fortified one image and torn down the other. This was a reasonable, sane, gentle fellow of whom he spoke. No doubt there were wild moments of passion in such a nature as that of Jack Slader’s. There were times of explosion and rage and terrible blindness of battle fury, but there was also this other person, thoughtful, smiling, considerate of others, as he had been so pre-ëminently in his dealings with that terrible young firebrand, Lon Kirby. With what a soothing influence these thoughts came home to the heart of the boy!
He had registered, long ago, a resolution born of a sense of duty, that when he grew older and chances came to him he would avenge the death of his father, if he could ever discover that Magruder had not downed him in fair fight. Now the testimony of Lon Kirby rang in the mind of the boy like a great bell pealing. Magruder, swore the outlaw, could never have handled Jack Slader. Magruder was as formidable a fighter as Lon Kirby himself, according to that gentleman, but even Lon Kirby would never have dreamed of standing for an instant to Jack Slader, hand to hand!
That was a freight of heavy testimony. This was a poundage of evidence which would be hard to balance; yet something more was needed before the scales inclined absolutely against Magruder. The opinion of no man could be enough to force on Phil the necessity of killing Magruder. There must be some more direct proof. And where could that proof be found?
When he got back to the hotel he hurried on to the field and harnessed his horses for the harrow. And as he took them out and prepared for work, the gray stallion neighed so loudly from the inclosure that the work horses fell into a confusion. They crowded against one another. They trembled and tossed their heads and grew wild-eyed. It was as though they had been mere paper images of horses, and the neigh of the stallion was a breath of wind that set them all at odds with themselves.
The work of harrowing suddenly became a silly thing to Phil Slader. He took the horses back to the barn and returned to the corral. There he bridled and saddled the big gray — and he slipped into the saddle.
It was always easy enough to do that. For it was only when the weight of a rider was settled firmly upon his back that the stallion began to fight. Some said that in his colthood he had been ridden with a burr beneath the saddle blanket, put there by the malice of some fool. And ever since he dreaded lest the torment should begin again!
When he felt the weight of Phil against him, now, he transformed himself at once into a raging fiend. A few age-long minutes followed before a whirling, snapping pitch jerked Phil Slader from the saddle and hurled him beneath the lowest bar of the fence — hurled him into safety just as the plunging forehoofs of the great horse struck for the spot where he had slid and missed him by inches.
He sat up, when his brain had cleared enough to permit this, and watched through a haze while Rooster raced up and down the inclosure, foaming, snapping with his teeth, shaking an imaginary victim to bits, rearing to strike a foe down with forefeet, or brandishing his mighty heels to let light through another enemy.
Phil Slader looked upon the monster with awe and with wonder. He could never conquer that spirit, he knew. Something had been lacking in him on the first day, when he fought the great fight with Rooster. Some vital and flaring wildness had been missing from his nature to match the irresistible furies of the big horse. The girl, with a trenchant eye, had looked straight to the real inner weakness which none of the men had been able to observe. “What a cunning one she is!” thought Phil Slader, picking himself up out of the dust and leaning against the fence.
There never had been such a horse for size and beauty and strength combined. There never had been such an animal before, he told himself, and, just as surely, instinct told him that he was the born master for the gray. Aye, for into the chamber of the mind where he kept the picture of all that a horse should be, this image of Rooster fitted perfectly. That ideal horse of his, no down-headed weakling of a slavish disposition. It was a wild-hearted tyrant, like Rooster in very deed! But it seemed that the thing which he yearned toward was the thing which he could not master. It was a nightmare feeling of impotence, and he groaned as he thought of it.
If only something might be added to his nature — some extra spark — some breath of fire — then he knew that he would sit upon the back of the gray horse as perfectly at ease as an eagle in the wind. He would know the mind of Rooster, and big Rooster would know the mind of his master. And all would be well between them!
So thought Philip Slader and felt, an instant later, a little chill penetrating the small of his back. He turned about, and it seemed to him that a shadow moved from behind the window in the hotel which overlooked the corrals. Some one had been standing there, watching, and he did not need to ask who it was.
To make assurance doubly sure, he went strollling to the hotel. Half a dozen idlers were on the veranda. They made their usual foolish efforts to sting him into conversation.
“This Kirby has more nerve than even Jack Slader used to have!” a voice said.
Phil passed hastily on into the building. He had no wish to remain there and exchange words with these fellows. He went on and met Bob, the negro servant, in the hall. And Bob grinned. He was just looking for Phil.
“Where’s Magruder?” asked Phil. “Never mind what you want out of me. Is Magruder here now?”
“Here and sending me after you,” said Bob. “He wants you to come right in.”
Phil walked into the room which served, by turns, as hotel office and gambling room for Magruder — according to whether he was broke or flush. He had hoped to find Magruder alone at this moment, but, instead, he found three men sitting in the room with him, reading over a document which consisted of several typewritten pages.
“Here he is now,” said Magruder. “Speak of the devil and — you know the rest, boys. Now, Phil, I want you to sit down here and sign your name on something. Want you to sit down here and write out your name, because I’ve got it all drawed up legal and fine. This here paper is a deed, Phil. It’s a deed to a one-half interest in this farm. You hear? One-half interest in this farm and the buildings that’s on it — including the hotel. How much did you say that these forty acres are worth, Harry?”
“The way the ground is improved, with alfalfa and fruit and what not, and everything trimmed up so fine by the work of Phil,” said Harry, “this farm ought to bring a smart price.”
“Aye,” said Magruder, “it’s Phil’s work. I want that the credit should go where it belongs. He’s slaved day and night, that boy has, and I want you to understand that he never done it because he expected that this would be coming to him. He done it because he loved the work — and what has his work made this worth?”
“It ought to bring three hundred an acre at any man’s auction,” said Harry gravely. “And maybe more — maybe more!”
“Twelve thousand dollars in land — another ten thousand for the hotel. Phil, I’m going to give you eleven thousand dollars’ worth of stuff, if you’ll sign this! And I’ve got the boys here to witness!”
CHAPTER XXIV
HE POINTED, AS he said this, to the three and, above all, to Harry Mansell. For Harry was a universal authority upon all delicate points; he had been to a university, and there he had acquired the training of a lawyer. Or, at least, he had nearly acquired it. At any rate, Harry Mansell had never practiced, but his opinion was more valued among the cowpunchers up and down the range than was the word of any real lawyer with his name in black letters upon the clouded glass of an office door.
“I got these boys to witness,” said Magruder, “and specially I got Harry, here, to write out the paper so that it would be good and legal and binding, y’understand?”
“I understand,” said Phil Slader.
“A darned handsome thing it is, too,” said Harry Mansell. “Eleven thousand — I’d put a half of the property at a higher valuation than that, Phil. There’s twelve thousand for the land alone. Burn down all the buildings and throw away all the tools and wagons and horses and what not, b
ut keep the land and what’s rooted in that land, and you have a property that’s worth a good twelve thousand. You ought to write the hotel down for another twelve thousand. I know that old Magruder, here, must clear a good two thousand a year out of it. Or maybe he clears three thousand. So at that rate it’s worth twelve thousand of any man’s money. Besides that, you have to consider the cost of the barns and the sheds and the fencing, which is all extra-fine quality and built to last. And there are all the other improvements, such as that blacksmith shop — which make a sure sale, they’re so convenient, besides adding, I should say, several thousand dollars to the price. Now, for my part, considering all of the improvements and the horses and equipment all the way through, I’d write this place down for a thirty thousand dollars’ value, Phil. And your half of it would be fifteen thousand, of course, which is what Magruder, here, is offering to you in this paper.”
He tapped the sheets with a semi-legal frown.
What came to the mind of Phil Slader, then, was perhaps purest foolishness of fancy, but, at any rate, it took a strong hold upon him. The whir of a bullet was still as loud as a trumpet in his ear, past which it had sung that same day from the rifle of Magruder.
He merely said: “Doc, it won’t do. I can’t take so much money from you! Can’t possibly!”
The face of Magruder wrinkled with something very closely akin to suspicion, but he forced himself to smile at once. Leaning back in his chair he said:
“Talk to him, Harry. The kid thinks that it’s too much. You convince him.”
Harry Mansell grinned and remarked: “If you want me to convince him, really, I think that it would be an easy thing to do. For one thing, he’s been doing a man’s work around this place for the last ten years or more, and I don’t know that he’s been troubled with a man’s wages during that time.”
At this unexpected turn in the conversation, Magruder cleared his throat painfully, but Harry Mansell pretended not to hear, and he continued:
“Besides, you have to consider what you’ve done to the place, youngster. It was just a thistle patch and hardly more when you took hold of it. Land not worth a thousand dollars at the most. The way it stands today, it’s your work. And you’ve built the new barn and the sheds and you’ve made the tools or most of ’em and repaired the old running stock until it’s as good as new; you’ve bred and raised the horses that are pulling the plow for you today. So that, take it all in all, it looks to me as though you’re responsible for a lot more than half of the property as it stands. However, any way that you look at it, I would say that you’re entitled to what’s in these papers. What do you think yourself?”
“I don’t know,” said Phil Slader. “What you say may be true, but I have other plans. And I may not be here very long. I’d rather finish up here and call it quits. Doc has taken care of me for fourteen years. Fed and clothed me.”
He looked down at his ragged clothes with a smile and then he added: “I don’t want your money, Doc. That’s all, I guess. And — so long, gents!”
So he walked out of the room, and as he closed the door behind him he could hear the voice of Magruder muttering:
“There you are! He’s queer, you see. Something always on his mind. Growed up, now, and he wants to spread his wings. Old nest not good enough for him. Turns down a fortune. Think of it! Fifteen thousand at twenty-two! What one of us had that much at his age? But you heard how he talks?”
Phil Slader had heard enough, and he walked softly on down the hall. He could tell, from what he had heard and seen, that another shadow had fallen upon his reputation, and he had been written down, again, as a “queer” one.
What interested him most was the attitude of Magruder. He could not attribute that offer to mere generosity. There must be something else behind it. Knowing Magruder as he did, he knew that it must cost the big man the blood from his very heart to even consider parting with half of his property. Therefore, what was the ulterior motive which spurred on Magruder to this act of generosity or justice? And before such witnesses, who would spread the report of it over all the country in a very few days?
He paused on the veranda and let the heat of the sun fall strongly upon his face and throat. It seemed to him that he needed that healthy fire to burn away the shadowy thoughts which were rising in him.
A flash of red and gold beside him made him turn, and there stood a slender, dark-faced man in Mexican jacket and high, peaked sombrero that must have weighed many pounds. The red was his silk shirt, none too clean, and the gold was the braid around the crown of his hat.
“You have a match, señor?” he asked.
“Here,” said Phil Slader, passing a package to the foreigner.
The other lighted his cornucopia-shaped cigarette. As he smoked, he took out a little watch charm from his pocket, a little, golden Agnus Dei, and began to spin it back and forth upon his delicate forefinger. There were other little decorative aglets about him, from the fringes of his sash to the bells that tinkled behind his heels.
“You live here, señor?”
“I live here,” admitted Phil.
“I, also,” said the other, “have come to work for Señor Magruder. I am Diego Pasqual.”
“Pasqual, I am Philip Slader. I’m pleased to know you. But what sort of work are you going to do for Magruder?”
“I? I cannot tell. I do things with cattle. I can ride herd, and other things. I do not milk cows — I do not saw wood — I do not plow. No, those are not things for a man. But otherwise I am ready to do a man’s work. We shall see!”
He said this with a faint smile in his eyes, and there was no doubt that he meant the insult to sting. However, though the whole line of loungers leaned forward to see in what manner he might act, it was not in the mind of Phil to allow himself to become entangled in a brawl. He merely shrugged his shoulders, and then he walked on down the steps. As he turned the corner of the building — indeed, even before he was out of sight — he could hear the voice of the Mexican raised unnecessarily loud:
“This plowboy, he does not defend himself, no?”
Trouble — trouble — trouble! And more mystery, too? For what on earth could Magruder want with a hired man of this type and on such a place as this?
He had his explanation a little later in the day, when Magruder came out to him as he worked to repair the broken windlass on the windmill. He was very sorry, was Magruder, that his protégé had chosen to refuse the proffered grant, but Phil cut him short.
“You can’t understand me, Doc,” said he. “And I can’t understand you. Let’s not try any longer, but tell me what the fellow out yonder — Diego Pasqual, or whatever his name is — tell me what he’s going to do for you, or have you bought a ranch for him to ride herd on?”
“Pasqual? Ranch? Ride herd?” asked Magruder, chuckling. “No, I’ll tell you about Pasqual. He’s no good. There’s good Mexicans and there’s bad ones, the same as Yankees, Phil. But there’s difference: When they’re good, they’re pretty near saints. A good Mexican, who is your friend, will do anything for you. But if a Mexican is bad, he’s pretty bad. That’s the way with Pasqual. My friend, you understand? I happened to do a good turn for him a long time ago, and so he’s square with me and he’s honest with me. But he’s a bad actor, that Diego is. You steer clear of him, kid. Got a nasty tongue and he doesn’t care how he uses it, not him. You steer clear of him. He’ll only be here for a few days. I want him to do a little dealing for me in the poker games that start up here now and then because he’s got a rare talent for that sort of thing. ‘Diego the Silk Hand’ — that’s what they call him in his own country. And he’s silky with the cards, right enough. Diego the Silk Hand!”
And he laughed heartily.
One part of his speech proved true enough. For this Diego Pasqual proved to have a most virulent tongue. But as for remaining only a few days, he seemed to make himself so welcome to Magruder at the poker table that he remained on and on. And he proved a thorn in the side of Phil.
>
However, there was another bit of news that occupied all the mind of Phil Slader at that time. It came over the telephone, in the first place — just the hint of the news and no details — that Lon Kirby had been taken.
The next day it was in the newspaper in all its grisly details. Lon Kirby had been taken, indeed, and in a fight which would go down in history among the great efforts of the desperadoes. He had been shot at and dropped as he was leaving a house in the mountains. He had dragged himself into a grain field, and there a posse had worked in to get at him. One of that posse was killed. Three others were badly wounded and two more were incapacitated for further action before the ammunition of Lon Kirby gave out. Then, they had reason to believe, he tried to kill himself with his last bullet, but his bullet lodged in the weapon, and so Lon Kirby was captured.
They had carried him into the house, tied up his wounds, and carted him at once to the nearest jail, eight miles away. It was a marvel that the jolting trip had not shaken the little remaining life out of him, but he had managed to survive and now he was fast regaining strength.
But what remained before Lon Kirby? Death, of course. No jury in the world would refuse to convict him for some one of the murders which were listed on his slate. In the meantime, a treble guard was being maintained over him, day and night, to rob him of the least possible chance of escape. No, it seemed definite that Lon Kirby was to hang.
And when he was dead, what of the money which he had left buried on the bank of the Crusoe?
Phil had forced himself to keep from thought of it up to this time. Now and again, as Lon Kirby had prophesied, the thought of the buried treasure rushed suddenly upon him and wakened him in the middle of the night with a beating heart. But, on the whole, he had kept the money pushed firmly out of his mind. Now, however, he could not resist the thought of it, and of something that went with it, linked together with a mysterious closeness: Nell Newell. For he knew that she had meant what she said. Money was more than a word to her. And if she had noticed him before, what would she do if he came with a big fortune in his hands?