by Max Brand
The latter had won the disapproval of the crowd earlier in the match. In the first place, instead of the usual cowpuncher’s outfit, he was dressed in riding trousers of neat whipcord, and his boots of soft, black leather were polished like two dark mirrors. The very hat upon his head was new, and instead of a wide-brimmed sombrero it was a close-brimmed affair which set jauntily a little upon one side of his head. He was set off with a red bow tie. But, above all, instead of sitting in a true range saddle, he was mounted upon a smooth English affair, with short stirrups. But his manners had given even more offense than his clothes. He had joked and laughed through half of the contests. He was still smiling as he reined his horse toward the beginning of the double row of posts. And the crowd, with a scowl of cordial dislike, held its breath. Not that it actually thought that such a hero as the efficient Sam Calkins could be bested by this stranger who was so obviously not of the range, but because they dreaded even the hundredth chance. Moreover, everyone had to admit that Duds Kobbe, as they had nicknamed the stranger, had shot amazingly well hitherto.
He went to the starting point amidst loud yells of advice.
“Mind your necktie, Duds.”
“The girls are all lookin’ at you, kid!”
“Your mama’d be proud to see you, Duds!”
To this he responded with another of his laughs, and then started his horse down the gantlet, and with such careless speed that his rate of going was half again as great as that of any of the previous riders. And, seeing his nonchalance, the crowd waited with held breath, dreading, hoping.
Crash went his guns, and the first two cans were blown from the tops of the posts. He fired again and the second pair went down. And the pace of his galloping horse had actually increased. Again he fired, and the third pair went down. Still he was not turning his head from side to side, but he rode with his face straight forward and seemed to be sighting his guns either from the corners of his eyes or by instinct. It was like wizardry!
There was a heavy groan of relief when he missed with his right hand gun on the fourth pair. There was an actual shout when he failed with his left hand gun on the fifth. There remained the final pair. Men noticed in the interim that stanch Sam Calkins had not ceased rolling his cigarette, and that at the very instant of the crisis he was actually reaching for a match. He was upholding the good stoical Western tradition in the time-honored way.
But in the meantime young Kobbe was at the final pair of posts. He shot the left hand can cleanly from its post. He had tied Sam at the worst! And at the best he might yet... The crowd refused to consider the possibility. The groan took an audible sound of a word: “miss!”
And it seemed as if there were a magic in that wish. For when he fired his twelfth shot the can was not flicked from the post top. A loud yell of exultation rose from the crowd. However, that cry stopped in mid-breath, for the can had been grazed by the bullet and was rocking and tottering in its place. It reeled to one side. It staggered to the other and would have settled down in its place in quiet, as many of the bystanders afterward declared, had not a gust of wind of uncanny violence at this instant cuffed the can away and tumbled it to the ground!
III. DUDS KOBBE
THERE COULD NOT have been a stronger proof of the unpopularity of the stranger than the groan with which the crowd witnessed this piece of good fortune. But they were stunned by what followed. For Duds Kobbe, riding back from the conclusion of the trial, approached the judges, who were three old ranchers, now sour-faced with disappointment, and assured them that he would not accept a win which had been given him by the wind and chance rather than his own skill.
The judges could hardly believe their ears and, though in strict justice they should have awarded the prize to him and insisted that there should be no further contest, they were only human, and all three of them, if the truth must be admitted, had placed their money upon the celebrated Sam.
In the meantime, Sam had half-heartedly protested that he could not accept another chance since he had been fairly beaten, but in the middle of his protest he glanced across to the place where El Capitán was being held, and the sun at that instant flashed along the silken flanks of the great stallion. It was too much for Sam, and his protest died, half uttered. But the news of what had happened swept in stride through the crowd. It was one of those things that make men shake their heads and then see with new eyes. When they looked across to the shining form of the stallion as he turned and danced in the sunshine and, when they realized that a man had voluntarily given up that king of horses for the sake of some delicate scruple of conscience, they prepared to revise their opinions of the stranger. They looked at him through different eyes, and what they saw was something more than the oddness of his appearance. It had been impossible, up to this time, for the spectators to see anything in Duds Kobbe except his extraordinary clothes. Now they discovered that he was a fine-looking fellow, a shade under twenty-five years, straight, wide-shouldered, big-necked, spare of waist, and with long and sinewy arms. He was the very ideal of the athlete, as a matter of fact, and the closer they looked at him the better they liked him.
If his skill with guns had not proclaimed him a man, his fine rich tan, his clear voice, and the manner in which he sat his saddle would have convinced the discerning that there was real metal in him. And when the two sat their horses at the beginning of the double row of posts, when the cans had been replaced, and when Sam had loaded his guns with infinite care, it would have been hard for the crowd to pick its favorite. Sam was a fine fellow, but he had showed himself a little too eager to accept the proffered generosity of the stranger. Kobbe had shown himself above and beyond all meanness.
Sam rode first, as before. He duplicated his original feat, knocking off nine of the cans, but Kobbe, riding down the line, actually blew eleven of the twelve from their places and was rewarded with a roar of applause from the bystanders. The evening was growing heavy in the west when they brought Duds Kobbe to the chestnut horse. Instantly they were aware of an anachronism. For El Capitán carried a heavy Western range saddle, and the winner of the prize was dismounting from an English pad. But they were left in doubt for only an instant. Duds Kobbe bounded down from the one horse and onto the back of the other without pause. He swept off his hat and slapped El Capitán across the neck with it and at the same time pricked him with the spurs.
Never before had the great stallion been treated in such fashion. He had been surrounded by tenderness all of his days. Now he was used like a common range pony. He tried first to jump into the center of the sky. Then he strove to knock a hole in the earth with his hoofs and stiffened legs. After that he passed through a frantic maze of bucking, only to come out on the farther side, so to speak, with his rider as gay in the saddle as ever, still slapping him with the annoying hat, still tickling his sides with the spurs. El Capitán stopped, shook his head, and looked back to consider this curious puzzle in the saddle upon his back.
So the contest ended and passed into legend. The legend grew until it reached amazing proportions, and on this day they will tell the inquisitive stranger how Duds Kobbe tossed his revolvers into the air and caught them again between every shot. But when Duds was riding off the field, surrounded by laughing, shouting, good-natured men, a dark-faced fellow approached him from the side and rode close.
“Señor Alvarez,” he said, “is eager to see Señor Kobbe,” and with that he turned and rode away. Kobbe, as soon as he could be rid of his well-wishers and had shaken hands with Sam, who buried his disappointment behind a smile, turned the head of the chestnut toward the house of Alvarez.
He did not stay for the feast at which all the other participants gathered that night, where the long tables were spread with food enough for all the villagers and all the spectators. They were served with the meat of steers roasted whole, to say nothing of scores of kids, fresh from the pits where they had been faithfully turned by the sons and daughters of the ranch hands on the wide lands of Alvarez. There were chickens and
geese stewed in immense pots over open fires. In fact, people were staggered when they thought of the amount of money which the rancher must have expended upon this banquet. But it helped them to understand how he could have offered as the prize for the shooting contest the glorious El Capitán.
Duds Kobbe had adapted himself with the most perfect ease to the big range saddle which was on the back of El Capitán, and which the generosity of Alvarez made a part of the prize. He passed deeper into the domains of Alvarez. He crossed, in the first place, a long drift of rolling hills, covered with rich grass, and now dotted with fat cattle. Then he went on to a valley which was under close cultivation with the plough. It was soil rich enough for truck farming. Vegetables, berries, fruits were produced in vast bulk from that valley. And this was only a simple unit in the estate. He rode on into an upland district which was a sort of plateau whose level top afforded thousands of acres for the raising of wheat, barley, oats, and hay. From the plateau rose a range of high hills, covered with sturdy pine forests. And these were regularly planted and cut, as he could see in passing through. Beyond this was another huge domain of cow country, all good range. And past the extremity of this district he arrived at the lofty trees, the sweeping lawns where a thousand sprinklers were whirring, and the white walls and the red roofs of the house of Alvarez itself.
But what Duds had seen in his approach had been merely an outer segment, a mere wedge of the whole estate. It swept away on all hands in a great circle. No doubt there were far richer things than he had seen. In the upper hills — or mountains they might be called — he understood that there were rich copper mines. These, too, were part of the property of Alvarez, and with the lumber, the fruits, the cattle, the horses, the minerals, he could understand how a single horse and a single saddle might not seem too rich a prize for a shooting contest. For the wealth of Alvarez was a thing which he himself no doubt did not understand and perhaps he could not have guessed half its extent.
There was something inspiring in the thought of such money, for it made of Alvarez a king among men in wealth and power. Every man who passed through a corner of the estate of the rich Spanish-American could not help but feel his spirit expand at the thought of possibly rivaling Don Ramon.
Kobbe came to the patio and there reined the stallion, for the gates in front of the garden were secured. He looked through the bars at the wide façade and the ponderous overhanging eaves and the great, nobly proportioned windows of the house. It had the simplicity of a true Spanish house of the Southwest, but it had the dignity of an Athenian temple. Duds Kobbe, though he was not easily impressed, gaped like a child at the big building. Presently he found that a dark-skinned servant was grinning at him, nearby. And Kobbe grinned back at him. “Very big,” said Kobbe frankly. “Very old?” He asked this in good faith.
The servant shrugged his shoulders. “Five years,” he said at last.
“Then Señor Alvarez built it?” asked Kobbe with manifest surprise.
“No. It was built by another man.”
“Who?”
“I forget. He died afterward. He owed the señor money, and so the señor took the house.”
“Ah,” said Duds softly. “I thought it would be something like that. Will you tell him that I am here? He has sent for me.”
“What name?” asked the servant.
“Kobbe,” said Duds. And the servant went to execute the order.
IV. THE GIRL
THE MOZO RETURNED almost at once and opened the gate, bringing a companion with him who took charge of El Capitán. Then he led Duds Kobbe into the house to Alvarez. The latter was seated in a little study whose walls were lined with books — books which were decorative rather than for use. They were all in extensive sets of green and red and yellow leather, decorated with expensive tooling in gold. And Kobbe could tell at a glance that their set and ordered ranks were not broken by the hands of casual readers. As for the volume which lay on the table near the hand of Alvarez, it was placed there for effect to complete the picture. Kobbe knew all this the instant he stepped through the door. And he knew, furthermore, that he was seated facing the window, while the master of the house had his back to it so that the latter could study him more carefully while his own face remained in the shadow.
“You are kind,” said Alvarez, “in coming to me so quickly.”
“I hoped to see you at the barbecue,” said Kobbe.
“I am not well,” said Alvarez. “The doctors have me on a short rein, and I cannot follow my own wishes. Otherwise I should be down there now. But I was long enough at the ground to see you shoot, señor, and to admire you for your skill.”
“My horse gave me an easy seat, that’s the answer,” answered Kobbe smilingly. “But what is it you need of me, Señor Alvarez?”
“My need?”
“You have not organized such a festival for nothing.”
“Of course not. I have told everyone that my purpose is to begin a long series of such contests. Cool heads and steady hands and straight eyes are worth a great deal, señor, and I hope that my little festival will make men value them every year more and more.”
“Of course that is one purpose, and a very generous one,” replied Kobbe. “But there is another reason. There is a reason which has to do with you, Señor Alvarez.”
The latter shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot understand,” he said.
“If you had given cash prizes, I should not doubt you, but when you give El Capitán...”
“After all, a fine horse is only money in another form.”
“You made a long trip to England to buy him. He is of great value to you.”
“But here he is hardly used for work. He needs to be on a plain and through the mountains with a good rider like yourself, señor. I made him one of the prizes for that reason!”
“I shall believe that if you wish.”
“You speak strangely, señor.”
“And you, Señor Alvarez, act very strangely.”
The rancher flushed. “In what way?”
“You have placed men to watch me even while I am talking to you.”
“Certainly not!”
“A touch of wind moved a branch of that tree outside the window. It showed me a fellow crouched in the forking of the limbs. He can peer through the leaves and watch everything that passes in the room. And he has a short rifle in his hands so that if he sees a game worth bringing down... you understand me, señor?”
Alvarez bit his lip and grew even a brighter red. He seemed to hesitate for an instant whether to deny or admit that his guest had seen the truth.
“You are very frank,” he said at last.
“I must be,” answered Duds Kobbe. “If I am to be of use to you and you to me, we must be frank. Must we not?”
“Then tell me your opinion. What do you see that is a mystery? What do you understand my motives to be?”
“In holding the rodeo?”
“Yes.”
“The rodeo is a mask. What you wanted was the shooting contest only. But it would seem too strange if you sent out invitations for that alone. So you arranged a whole rodeo of which the shooting was only a single part.”
“You are very sure!”
“I am.”
“And what could my purpose have been?”
“To find a fast and accurate shot.”
“Señor, you grow omnipotent!”
“I am sorry if I am wrong.”
“Why should I need a fast and accurate shot?”
“To take care of you, Señor Alvarez, in place of the doctors.”
“What manner of foolish talk is this?”
“Only the truth.”
“Do you mean that I wish a gunfighter to cure me of sickness?”
“Of the sort of sickness that troubles you a gunfighter could take much better care than a doctor.”
“And what is my ailment, señor?”
Duds Kobbe glanced hastily around the room to assure himself they were alone. Then he
leaned a little toward his companion so that he could bridge the distance between them with the softest of voices.
“You sickness is called acute fear of sudden death, Señor Alvarez!”
The rich man half started from his chair. For a moment he remained with his eyes staring, his lips parted, his face the picture of amazement, and his right hand raised in a singular gesture.
“Do not give the signal,” said Kobbe, “for, if you do, that fellow in the tree will start shooting at me. And if he does, I shall have to try my hand at you!”
Alvarez recovered himself with a gasp and sank back. “What under the blue heaven has put this idea into your head?”
“A number of things.”
“Name a few, then.”