by Max Brand
It was a long, strong face. There was a high, aquiline nose, a prominent and square-tipped chin, a bull throat. He was a very big fellow. No doubt he could have crushed Givain to bits in close encounter, if it had not been that the latter had struck that first, blinding blow. But, after all, that was Givain’s speed. He struck with hand or knife or gun as the whiplash strikes after its length has once started through the air.
“So you,” said Givain, sitting back in the chair once more, “so you are the girl?”
She blushed, and looked fondly down to the locket. “I suppose that I am,” she said.
“And you’ve come out here to drop in on Lucky Jim?”
“Of course. But do you know that I’ve been waiting here all day, and not a sign of him yet?”
“Really?”
“I don’t know what to make of it. I nearly died in the sun — it was so hot!”
Tears of self-commiseration gathered in her eyes.
“Why didn’t you come into the house and wait?”
“I did come in, but it was so deadly quiet that — that it really frightened me, and I had to run out again.”
Givain laughed, and she smiled back, cheerfully enough.
“Men never know what’s going on in the minds of girls.”
“I suppose not,” said Givain. “I’ve said that myself a good many times.”
At this she laughed in turn.
“It’s something important that’s brought you here,” said Givain.
“Of course. One wouldn’t plow this horrible stretch of sand—”
“Just to see Jim?”
She flushed quickly. “Did Jim ever tell you my name?” she asked.
“He’s described you over and over again,” said Givain blandly.
“Ah, did he do that?”
“By the hour. He used to drive me out of the house with his talk.”
“Hmm,” said the girl. “And yet he never told you my name?”
“And didn’t he ever mention mine when he wrote?” asked Givain.
“Not a syllable.”
“You see, he’s mighty secretive. My name is Larry Givain.”
He looked at her squarely in the eyes — that name was widely known, but let heaven be thanked that it was a new name to her.
“I am Rose Mundy.”
They nodded their pleasure to one another.
“But where is Jim?” she asked.
“Gone into the hills.”
“The hills!”
“For a vacation. He had me here to take care of things.”
There was a groan of despair from her.
“What’s wrong? You need him?” asked Larry Givain, with a foolish hope rising in him.
“More than I can ever need him again.”
“He’ll be back in a couple of days, then.”
“A couple of centuries.”
“Suppose,” said Larry, “that I were to take his place?”
III. BACK TO MONKVILLE
AT THIS SHE pricked up her ears and looked at him with her head canted a little to one side. She frowned with the intensity of her interest.
“Of course,” she said, “you could do it just as well as Jim or any other man who ever lived.”
“Lady,” said Givain, “after that I’m ready for anything.”
And they laughed together.
“Suppose you tell me what’s wrong?” he suggested.
The wind drove a rattle of sand against the side of the house, and, for the moment, to Givain it seemed like the approaching clatter of hoofs. But then his heart subsided as he recognized the truth.
“I have a brother,” the girl was saying.
Givain nodded. “He’s in trouble?”
“What makes you think he’s in trouble?”
“Your brother might be, you know.”
“Hmm,” said the girl. “I wish I knew how I might take that.”
She did not pursue the inquiry but continued: “At any rate, Bob always is in trouble. It runs in the blood, to tell you the truth. If there is a fight within a hundred miles of us, a Mundy is sure to be in the middle of it. And Bob is the worst of the lot. If someone would only thrash him soundly, it would be all right. It might bring him to his senses. But thrashings haven’t come his way. He’s fought a hundred times and always won.”
“With guns?” said Givain.
“Not with guns. Two or three times he’s been in scrapes with guns. But usually it’s been with his fists. Or sometimes a man has drawn a knife, and Bob has followed the bad example.”
“Hmm,” said Givain. “He seems to be a handy fellow.”
“Are you making fun of him?”
“I’d be afraid to.”
“He has thousands of friends.”
“Why don’t they help him out of his pinch, then?”
“Oh, but you don’t understand what the pinch is.”
“What is it, then?”
“Al Richards!”
At this Givain jumped up, walked halfway across the room, and then whirled and faced her sternly. All the mockery had faded from his face.
“What has Richards to do with this story?” he asked.
“You know him, then?”
“Of course. Everyone knows Richards. You don’t mean to say that Bob mixed up with Richards—”
“There was a man came through town last spring. He met Bob, had words with him over something — it’s horribly easy to have words with Bob about anything — and finally they fought.
“When they were pried apart, Bob had a nasty knife cut in his cheek, but his own knife was between the other man’s ribs. And when the man left the hospital, he disappeared. But after a time a letter came to Bob from Al Richards. He said that it was a friend of his that Bob had stabbed. And he said that Bob had used dirty work, and that he, Al Richards, was coming down to town from the mine where he was working, on the fourteenth of October. And the fourteenth of October is tomorrow.”
She clasped her hands together and stared at him.
“Tomorrow,” murmured Givain. “Then why doesn’t Bob leave town?”
“There’s all the trouble, you see. He won’t leave town a single step. He says that he’d as soon die now as when he’s sixty. There’s no difference. Not to poor Bob. And he says that, if there were a regiment of Al Richardses, he wouldn’t go away on account of them. So, there he stays, and tomorrow is his very last day.”
It was a final touch to the picture of Bob, and the
gambler felt his heart going out to the younger man.
“You can’t persuade him?” he said gravely.
“I’ve gone down on my knees and wept. It makes no difference. Bob says that a man’s honor is worth more than anything else he may have or be. He won’t be budged by anything that we say to him. Oh, I wish that you could hear him fly into a fury, when we so much as suggest that he run away. God bless him and pity him, poor boy.”
At this she clasped her hands, and the tears ran into her eyes, and Larry Givain worshipped her mutely.
“You want someone to meet Al Richards before Al gets to your brother. Is that it?” he asked curiously.
She started and flushed. “No, no! I’d feel that I’d helped Richards to another of his murders, if I did that. That isn’t the idea. But if someone who’s a good fighting man were to ride into town and let it be known that he intended to stay with Bob every minute, day and night, and prevent Richards from bullying him — then I’m sure that even Richards wouldn’t dare to go ahead. He’d know that he couldn’t beat two men.”
“He’s beaten three and four at a time,” suggested Larry Givain.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Such men are trash,” she said scornfully. “I’m a better man than such fellows. But when Al Richards has one look at you and at Bob, he’ll know that the time has come to speak softly and watch his actions. No man living could beat you two.”
“D’you think it’s manly to band together against one?”
“Richard
s isn’t a man. He’s a monster. Everyone knows that. How many men has he made away with — some openly and some in secret? He’s a tiger, not a man. Oh, he’s a killer for the love of killing.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“When I tried to get one man to stand beside Bob, there wasn’t a single one in town who’d do it. They said that the only thing for Bob to do was to turn around and run for it.”
“Will Bob stand for a partner?” asked Givain.
“As long as he’s not attacking Richards, why not? He’s not aiming to offend Richards. He’s simply asking leave to go about his own business in his own way. If Richards won’t let him, Bob has a right to have help to keep the tiger off.”
There was unquestionably something in what she said.
“Well,” said Givain, “if I can be of any help, I’ve already said that I’d go.”
“God bless you! But that was before you knew that the man was Richards. You can draw back now, if you want. I’d understand.”
“Perhaps you would. But I’m not drawing back. I’ll see this thing through. What’s the name of the town? I’ll be there.”
“Monkville.”
It was a straining blow to Givain. Monkville! He had rather that she had named any other town on the map than this one. For Monkville was no other than that situation in which he had played the celebrated game with marked cards and trimmed two rich ranchers for five thousand dollars. He could have laughed, when he remembered it, saving that this was not an occasion for laughter.
That game had made the ranchers suspicious; they had asked him for another game and revenge the following night. He had complied, and run into a gang of half a dozen armed men waiting for him. They searched him, and found on him the crayons and acids with which he had so deftly done his markings the night before. They took his winnings from him. They threatened him with a thousand shameful punishments. And finally they locked him into a third-story room and continued their deliberations on how they should punish him and discourage crime in the rising generation.
He had broken open the window, jumped into a big water trough, staggered half dead to Sally, and escaped, reeling and half fainting in the saddle as she galloped.
That had been his exploit in the town of Monkville, and now she asked him to go back to it, promenade through the streets of it in company with a man who was already stared at and who drew all eyes. She was asking him to do these thing, and he could not refuse her. He had pledged to her his promise, and a promise to a girl was held foolishly sacred by Larry Givain. He was that sort.
“Monkville,” he repeated vaguely, hunting for his wits after the shock.
She thought it was an absent-minded search for the location of the place, and she drew a hasty map on the floor and indicated the location of the town. By the time she was finished, he was master of himself again.
“As a matter of fact, I’ll ride there with you this very night,” she said.
He shook his head. “There’s no purpose in that,” he told her. “The thing for you to do is to go home and to go to bed. I’ll handle the rest of this deal by myself.”
Givain got up from the chair into which he had sunk, and they went out together under the stars. The wind had fallen again. It was only a vagrant and wandering breath now, that trailed across the hills and dipped lazily, now and again, into the hollow where the house had been built.
“When do you start?” she asked.
“In two minutes.”
“Have you a horse?”
“I have the best horse that ever stepped. Here she comes.”
“Why, she’s as gentle as a dog.”
“She came when she heard us talking,” said Givain.
“How in the world did you train her?”
“By spending about four hours with her every day for five years,” he said. “Put in eight thousand hours on almost any horse, and you get results, you know.”
At this the girl gasped. “I’m riding fast back to the house to give them the good news,” she said, “and we’ll all be in town to watch—”
“Good night,” said Givain.
“When I see you again—”
He hardly heard. There was something about his bravery, and things she would tell him more of when they next met. But what Givain was saying to himself was that he would never see her again. For he intended to have Bob Mundy out of Monkville before noon of the next day, provided the posse played no interference to his little game. As a matter of fact, had he only known, the posse had already become discouraged, and some time since the riders had turned their mounts about in acknowledgment of the hopelessness of the chase.
IV. AT THE BLACKSMITH SHOP
WHEN THE MORNING came, he felt that he could never have entered upon that foolish business, if he had had the daylight from the beginning. But daylight he had not had. There had been stars and the night air and the voice of the girl to seduce him from the ways of common sense. But the rooming sun burned all the nonsense out of him. He could see the facts of the case, as they were, and the insane plan that he had formed on the spur of the moment the night before seemed all very well enough. Now it appeared to Givain that the wiser thing would be simply to waylay Al Richards and attack him, gun in hand. But this, in turn, he discarded with a shudder. To attack Al Richards was like attacking and tempting the very god of death. He would go down at the first shot, and no good would be done for poor young Mundy.
So he pushed ahead to the town, or rather to a hilltop from which he could sit in the saddle, hitched far to one side, and contemplate the view. He had not been near the place for two whole years, but he could remember everything with a wretched distinctness. He could easily pick out the broad and comfortable back of the hotel in which he had played that thrilling game. There was the twisting and winding main street down which he had fled at the full and matchless speed of Sally. He could even see the sun glitter on the face of the watering trough into which he had fallen from the windows on that other day.
If he were not recognized, the beautiful mare was sure to be. And the instant they were known, there would be a riot. In any case, it meant a fast and far flight. He dismounted and looked over Sally. She was not gaunt. Her ribs showed just a trifle, but so do the ribs of a racer in the very pink of condition. For the rest, she looked well, as she nearly always looked. He could campaign her for a month uphill and down dale, and at the end of that time she would be almost as full of running as at the beginning. Perhaps practice had made her so, for her days under the gambler had been far from easy. And now, as he sleeked her neck and patted her flanks, she tossed her head and began to paw, as though she already sensed hard work ahead of her.
Then Givain mounted and went down toward the town, very slowly. For it was necessary to locate young Bob Mundy before he entered the limits of the town itself. He must not have to loiter through the streets to be recognized, but go swiftly and directly to the other man and do the thing that was forming in his mind — and of all the wild things that Givain had ever done, this was the wildest.
He met an old cowpuncher at the next bend of the trail, and they saluted one another with careless gestures and with keen eyes. He saw a wrinkle form in the middle of the other’s brow, and knew that he was trying to hitch Givain to something that was in his past and almost forgotten. Givain knew that on such occasions the only thing to do is to brazen matters out. So he began to roll a cigarette as he made his inquiry. He was looking for young Bob Mundy.
“You ain’t the only one that’s looking,” said the cowpuncher. “The whole town is looking for him, and pretty soon he’ll be putting on the show. I guess that Richards can’t be very far off by now.”
“He must be close, if he means to keep his promise,” said the gambler.
“How far might you have rode in to see the party?”
“From Morganton.”
“As far as that! Well, they been dropping in from all over for this here fight. I’d like mighty well to see it myself, but the o
ld woman got took bad during the night and the message just came in for me to trot out home to see her. Besides, it won’t do no man no good to see a boy like young Mundy cut up by a professional, as you might call him, like Richards.”
“Mundy is quite a fighter himself,” said the gambler.
“Oh, he’s so-so. He can fight — and he has fought a mighty lot of times. But between you and me, stranger, he likes the tune of a fight better than he knows the words of it. He’s too good-natured to be a fine fighter. Takes the cool-headed, poison-minded critter like this here Richards to beat men often and beat ’em bad. I’ve seen our Bob perform. He don’t do half bad. But in a real, stand-up fight he ain’t got a chance with a man half as good as Richards.”
“You may be right. But I wish him luck.”
“Luck? The devil, man, so do we all of us. And he’s a game kid to stand his ground and get killed.”
“Why don’t folks interfere, then?”
“He won’t stand for interfering. He talks like a young fool. Says he’s going to make himself famous today, and put Richards away in our churchyard. But everybody knows that down in his heart he figures out he ain’t got a chance.”
“Well, where’s he to be found?”
“Don’t you know that? Right over next to the post office, he’s running that big new blacksmith shop. Darned little smithing that our Bobbie does, though. He don’t know one end of a hammer from another. But he keeps on running the business and talking to the girls that goes by and losing money, hand over fist, for his pa.”
The cowpuncher went on, shaking his head, and Givain started toward the village once more. Everything that he had heard was less and less to his taste. There was apt to be a crowd near young Bob even this early in the day, and it would be hard to face any crowd in that town without being instantly recognized. He could see that his course of action was greatly restricted. The more he heard of young Bob, the more plainly he saw that it would be plainly impossible to keep him quiet. Once the great Richards was in town, there was sure to be a meeting between them, no matter how well guarded Bob might be. One keen taunt and he would break away and go hunting for trouble which would be fatal for him.