Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  There could be nothing to fear in this, he told himself, and straightway he gave Sunset the rein. Down the slope they went in a wild gallop. They started across the fields with Sunset jumping the fences like a bird on the wing dipping over them. And so they came suddenly to a long avenue of black walnut trees, immense and wide-spreading, trees that interlaced their branches above the head of Macdonald.

  He stopped Sunset. It was more than familiar, this long double file of trees. He had seen it before. He closed his eyes. He told himself that if he turned his head he would see a section behind him, where three trees had died, and where three smaller and younger trees had been planted. He turned his head; he looked; and, behold, it was exactly as he had guessed.

  It was very mysterious. He had never seen that plain before, he told himself, and yet here he was remembering an exact detail. Macdonald swallowed with difficulty. He looked hastily around him. But there was nothing to justify that warning voice which he had seemed to hear from the river among the hills. There was only the whisper of the wind among the big branches above him, and the continual shifting and interplay of the shadows on the white road and lazy cows, swelling with grass, had lain down in the neighboring field to chew their cuds. No, nothing could be less alarming than this, unless the rattle of approaching hoofbeats bore some unsuspected danger toward him.

  In a moment the rider was in view, swinging around a bend in the road. But fear? It was only a girl of eighteen or twenty on a speedy bay mare, borne backward in the saddle a little by the rate of the gallop and laughing her delight at the boughs of the walnut trees and the glimpses of the deep blue sky beyond them.

  And as her face grew out upon him, Macdonald turned cold indeed! For on the one hand he knew that he had never seen her or, at least, he had certainly never heard her voice, never heard her name; but as for her face, it was more familiar to him than his own. He had come into a ghostly land, with voices speaking from rivers and with roads on which familiar strangers journeyed.

  She came straight on, and he searched her face with his stare. She was by no means like the girls he was familiar with. They rode astride like men in loosely flowing garments of khaki, but this one was clad in a tightly fitted jacket, with long tight sleeves, bunched up at the shoulders, and she was perched gracefully in a side-saddle, with the skirt of her riding habit sweeping well down past the stirrup.

  When she saw him, she threw up a hand in greeting, and he heard her cry out in a high, sweet, tingling voice that went through and through him. The bay mare flung back and came to a halt with half a dozen stiff-legged jumps, then she busied herself touching noses with Sunset. But the girl in the side-saddle? She had thrown her hands to Macdonald, and she was laughing, but her eyes were filled with tears.

  “Oh,” she cried to him, “I have been waiting so long... so long! I have ridden here every day for you to come, and here you are at last. I thought my heart would break with the long waiting, Gordon, but now it’s breaking with happiness!”

  Was it from this that that voice from the river had bidden him turn back? His heart was thundering.

  “Do I know you then?” he was asking her. “Have I really met you before?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “I try to remember, but there’s a door shut in my mind, and I can’t open it.”

  “We have met in our dreams, Gordon. Don’t you remember now?”

  “I almost remember. But your name is just around the corner and away from me.”

  “I’ve never had a name... for you.” she said. And then her face clouded. “But if I should tell you my name, it would spoil everything. You aren’t going to ask me for that, dear?”

  “How can a name spoil anything?”

  “If I showed you my father’s house, you would understand.”

  “If I should lose you, how could I trail you and find you again, if I did not know your name?”

  “You could find the river, and the river will always bring you to me, you know. But we never can leave one another now! If we turn together and ride fast, they’ll never overtake us... if we once get to the hills and ride down the valley road beside the river, just the way you came.”

  “I have never run away from any man or men!” he answered sternly. “How can I run away now? Who will follow?”

  “My father and all his men. Have you forgotten that?”

  Fear grew up in Macdonald, but at the same time there was a wild desire to ride on to the end of that road. And as for “father and all his men,” he was consumed with a perverse eagerness to see them. It was from this, then, that the river had bidden him turn back. But on he went, with the girl riding close beside him, beseeching him to stop.

  When they came to the great avenue of walnut trees, they entered a village and passed through it until they came into a deep garden and straight under the facade of a lofty house, one of the largest he had ever seen, he thought, with great wooden turrets and gables. To Macdonald it looked like a castle.

  “Is this your father’s house, where he lives with all his men?” he asked of the girl.

  But no voice answered him and, when he turned, the girl was gone. He looked on all sides, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  “They have stolen her away from me,” he thought to himself. “They have taken her into the house and, if I follow her there, they will kill me; but if I do not follow her I shall never see her again.” And it seemed to Macdonald that, if he never saw her again, it would be worse, far worse than death. For the sound of her voice he would have crossed a sea. And there was a soft slenderness to her hand, like the hand of a child, that took hold on his heart.

  “If I follow her into the house,” said Macdonald again to himself, “I am no better than a dead man; but if I do not follow her, I am worse than dead!”

  So he marched resolutely up the winding path. He strode up the wide steps, but when he came before the door of the house, though he had not heard a sound of a footfall following him, a strong hand clutched him by the shoulder.

  Swiftly he turned around, but there was nothing behind him save the empty air, and the grip of the hand held him by the shoulder, ground into the strength of his big muscles, and seemed biting him to the bone like a hand of fire.

  Here Macdonald awoke. There was a hand indeed upon his shoulder, and over his bed a dim figure was leaning. Instantly he grappled with the other, found his throat, dashed him to the floor.

  “For Lord’s sake,” groaned the voice of the other, “don’t kill me... it’s only Jenkins!”

  CHAPTER V. IN QUEST OF TROUBLE

  SO REAL HAD been the dream, so vivid had been the sunshine which he had seen in it, so clear the flowers and the trees and the shrubs in that great garden and the looming house above him, that for a moment the black darkness in the room seemed to stifle the big man.

  Macdonald recalled himself and raised the grovelling form of Jenkins to his feet.

  “A fool thing to wake a man up like that... in the middle of the night,” he growled at Jenkins. “Wait till I light a lamp.”

  “Not a lamp, in the name of reason!” panted the gambler. “Somebody might be watching... somebody might guess...”

  “Guess what?”

  “That you put me up to the work.”

  “What work?”

  “Playing with Rory Moore and breaking him.”

  The whole story rolled back upon the mind of Macdonald, and for a moment the face of the girl in his dream was dim. “Ah, yes,” he said. “And tell me what happened?”

  “You seen just what would happen, Macdonald. Moore played like a crazy man. I won so fast it had me dizzy. Finally he was broke. He put up his watch; he put up everything he had.”

  “Even the ranch?”

  “Nope, it seems that he made that over to his sister. It’s in her name!”

  “But he lost everything else?”

  “Everything! And finally he put up Sunset. You’d have thought that he was staking his soul on them cards. And when he l
ost, he put his head between his hands and groaned like a sick kid.”

  “But you got the horse, Jenkins?”

  “It’s in the stable behind the hotel. I’m leaving the first thing in the morning. I’m going to tell them at the stable that I sold the hoss to you. Then I light out for Canada.”

  “Why that?”

  “Rory Moore may find out what I am, that some folks think I don’t always play square with the cards. And if he thinks that he’s been cheated out of that hoss, he’ll kill me, Macdonald! Why, he’d follow me around the world to sink a bullet into me.”

  “Shut up! You’re talking like a woman, not a man. Be quiet, Jenkins. Go wherever you please, but let me have the horse. Good-bye.”

  “Will you shake hands and wish me luck, Macdonald?”

  “You rat! You card-juggling rat! I’ve used you, and I’m done with you. You have the money, and I have the horse. Now get out and never come back!”

  He could feel Jenkins shrinking away from him through the darkness, and from the door he heard the stealthy whisper of the gambler.

  “I dunno that I’m any worse than you. You put me up to this game. I dunno that I’m any worse than you.”

  “Bah!” sneered the big man. “Get out!” Then the door shut quickly behind the other.

  After he had gone, the strangeness of the dream returned upon Macdonald. He lighted a lamp and sat down with his face between his hands, but he found that his heart was still beating wildly, and the face and the form of the girl still stayed in his thoughts more vividly, so it seemed, than when he had first seen her in the vision. There was none of the usual mistiness of dreams about her. He could remember the very texture of the sleeve of her riding habit. He could remember the way a wisp of hair, blown loose from beneath her stiff black hat, fluttered and swayed across her cheek. He could remember how her bay mare had danced and sidled, coming back down the avenue of the walnut trees. And, above all, he still held the quality of her voice in his ear. How she had pleaded with him not to approach that house behind the garden! And how mysteriously she had disappeared, when at last he had called to her. What might have happened had he not persisted in going on? And, above all, what was it that made him persist? What was the pull and the lure which drove him so irresistibly ahead?

  At this he started up out of his chair with a stifled exclamation of disgust with himself. Of course anything was possible in a dream. There was no real existence except in his thoughts alone.

  He stared around the room. It seemed to Macdonald that, if he could rest his eyes on some familiar daylight object, his nerves would quiet. But what his glance first encountered was the dark and faded portrait of an old gentleman with a white muffler — turned gray with age — around his throat, and one hand thrust pompously into the bosom of his coat. He smiled, and the smile was a grotesque caricature done in cracked paint. And the blue of his eyes was dim with time.

  Daylight reality? There was more in one second of the dream than in an age of such pictures. And the whole room exuded a musty aroma of the past. Yonder dust, which lay in the corner, seemed to have lain there for a generation, and the footprint within it had been made by the foot of one long dead.

  In vain Macdonald strove to rally from this obsession. In vain he told himself that this was no more than an old family mansion long used as a hotel — every room occupied many times in the course of each year. But the more he used his reason, the more it failed him.

  The panic was growing momently in him, and it was a strange sensation. Not on that day, when the five men had cornered him in an Australian desert and held him, more dead than living, in a group of rocks for forty-eight hours, without water — not even in the worst of those hours had he felt this clammy thing called fear. There was a weakness in his stomach and in his throat. He felt that if a knock were to come at his door, there would hardly be in his knees sufficient strength to answer it. Suppose that in this condition some enemy were to find him and reach for a gun?

  He shuddered strongly at that thought. Then, driven by a peculiar curiosity, he forced himself to go to the mirror and to hold above his head with shaking hands the lamp. What he saw was like the face of another man. The pupils of his eyes were dilated. His lips were drawn. His bronzed cheeks had turned a sickly yellow, and his forehead was glistening with perspiration. He put down the lamp with a muffled oath, then glanced sharply over his shoulder to the window, for it seemed to him as though his eyes, a moment before, had been watching him from its black rectangle, with the high light from the lamp thrown across it, blurring the outer dark.

  After this he consulted his watch. It was half past two, and at this hour he certainly could not start his day’s journey. But the very thought of remaining in that room was unspeakably horrible to him.

  He dressed at once. There was Sunset, at least, waiting for him in the stable. At that thought half of the nightmare fears left him. He hurried through the packing of his bed roll, then left the room and went down the stairs. On the desk in the deserted little lobby he left more than enough to pay his bill. Then he started out for the stable.

  It was deserted like the lower floor of the big house. Even the stable, which the Moores had built behind their home, was lofty and mansion-like, finished at the top with sky-reaching gables and adorned at the upper rim of the roof with an elaborate cornice of carved wood, half of whose figures had cracked away with the passage of the years and the lack of paint.

  As he stepped through the great arch of the central door, he found a single lamp burning behind a chimney black with smoke. This he took as a lantern and examined the horses in the stalls. There were only five kept there for the night. The rest were in the corrals behind the building, and in the first of these corrals he found Sunset.

  The stallion had been placed by himself and, the moment the lamp from the light struck on him, he came straight for the bearer, his big eyes as bright as two burning disks, and the lamplight was quivering and running along the silk of his red flanks.

  Macdonald uttered a faint exclamation of delight. It was the first time in his wild life that he had secured anything through fraud. Treachery had never been one of his mental qualities. But, as the horse nosed at his shoulder and whinnied softly, as though they had been friends for many a year, his heart leaped. Every man, he had always felt, will commit one crime before his life was over, and this must be the crime of Macdonald. How much bloodshed, how many deaths could be laid to his score did not matter. He had risked his own life in taking the life of another. But here he had gone behind another man and cheated him with hired trickery!

  It was very base. The whole soul of Macdonald revolted at the thought of Jenkins and the part he had played. But he would use Sunset as tenderly as any master could use him. That, at least, was certain.

  In five minutes his saddle was on the back of the stallion, his roll was strapped to it, and he had vaulted into the stirrups and jogged out onto the main street of the town. There were no noises. The town slept the sleep of the mountains, black and stirless. The great stars were bright above him. And under him the stallion was dancing with eagerness to be off at full speed, dancing and playing lightly against the bit, but as smooth of action as running water.

  He spoke gently, and Sunset was off into a breath-taking gallop, no pitch and pound, as of the range mustang, but a long and sweeping stride, as though the beat of invisible wings bore him up and floated him over the ground. They flashed out of town. Now the blackness of the plain lay before them, and Sunset was settling to his work. A horse? No, it was like sitting on the back of an eagle. The cold of the nightmare left him, and it seemed to Macdonald that, if he turned, he would see the girl of his vision cantering beside him, laughing up to him!

  Now he touched Sunset with the spurs. It was half a mile before he could pull the startled horse out of a mad run and bring him into a canter again, with hand and voice soothing the stallion. By that time all thoughts of the dream were behind him. But for how long? When would she come agai
n to make his heart ache with loneliness and to fill him again with the sad certainty of disaster toward which he was traveling?

  One thing at least was necessary. He must find action — action which would employ him to the full. He must have battle such as he had never had before. He must fight against odds. He must plunge into danger as into cleansing waters, and these would wash the memory from his mind.

  So at least it seemed to Macdonald, as he gnawed his lip and rode on into the night. And he cast around in his thoughts for an objective. It was no longer easy to find the danger which was the breath of his nostrils. Time had been when the shrug of a shoulder or a careless word would plunge him into battle. But that time had passed. His reputation had spread wide before him and men took far more from him than they would take from their ordinary fellows. Moreover, how many sheriffs had warned him solemnly that the next time there was a killing by him in their county, self-defense would be no defense, but he would be left to the mercy of the crowd?

  He must find some ready-made trouble, and with that the inspiration came to him. Five years before in the town of Sudeth he had killed young Bill Gregory, and the Gregorys one and all had sworn that he would never live to spend another day in that town. What could be more perfect? He had only to ride into the town of Sudeth and take a room in the hotel. The next move would be up to the Gregorys.

  There were scores of them about the place, and they were not the type of men to forget past oaths.

  CHAPTER VI. THE GREGORYS

  THE TIDINGS OF his coming went out on wings, and that night the Gregorys assembled. In the course of two generations a large family had multiplied greatly and become almost a clan, of which the head was old Charles Gregory; and it was at his ranchhouse, a scant mile from the town of Sudeth, that the assembly gathered. Old or young, gray or dark, they packed into the big dining room. The elders sat. The younger men, the fighting van of the Gregory family, were ranged around the wall, smoking cigarettes until their faces were lost behind a haze, but speaking rarely or never. For it was felt in the Gregory family that age had its rights and its wisdom, and that young men may listen to them with profit.