Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  It was Sam Champion, little, lithe, black eyed, black haired, with the glance and the pointed face of a ferret, and the incredible tenacity and ferocity of that little destroyer. A ferret will run across the very boots of a man when it is on a blood trail. It was known that Sam Champion had actually thrown himself into the hands of the law in order that he might destroy an enemy of his. He had neither scruples nor fear. There was no good in him, and there was no pretense of good. He existed in the world for the sake of the fights which he might be able to find in it.

  To this small and terrible figure Lew Borgen turned with a faint shudder.

  “Well, Sam?” he said.

  “I’m the gent that spread the word around,” said Sam.

  He paused, with his wicked little eyes burning and snapping. “The reason why I didn’t ask you here, Lew—”

  “Ah,” said Borgen, “that’s what I want to hear.”

  “Well, it ain’t going to please you none when you know it. The reason why I didn’t ask you in on this here party was because I figured that you wouldn’t be none too pleased to find out that we’re meeting here tonight to find out who in the devil The Whisperer is!”

  Indeed, it caused Borgen’s head to shake in violent disapproval. “Sam, old son,” he said, “I can’t let you go no further. For your own sakes I can’t let you go no further. It’s the one thing that The Whisperer has always told me — the boys was never to meet up together except for business, and then only when they was called on by him to meet. When they did get together, I was never to let ’em talk about him.”

  “Here’s the best part of a dozen of us,” said Sam Champion with a touch of scorn. “Are we all going to be afraid of saying what we please about any one man?”

  “I’ve heard gents talk like that before. What happened to ’em?”

  “Who did you hear?”

  “You know. I recollect telling you myself. That was when I seen that you was first getting restive. I come to you and told you my idea of what had happened to Tirrit. I told you my idea was that Tirrit got his because he started trying to get onto the trail of The Whisperer. Tirrit had been buzzing around asking me a lot of questions. I warned him that he was walking around on mighty dangerous ground. But the fool wouldn’t be convinced. He wanted to find out for himself. And my idea is that the gent that shot down Tirrit was The Whisperer himself!”

  It caused a stir of wonder in the little company.

  “I’m talking about things I hadn’t ought to talk about,” said Borgen, in a very apparent anxiety. “God knows which one of you gents is acting as The Whisperer’s spy on the rest of us.”

  “Maybe,” cut in Sam Champion, “one of ’em is The Whisperer himself!”

  X. BORGEN ACCUSED

  THIS SUGGESTION CAUSED another general start, together with a play, and then a counterplay, of glances, but nothing could be arrived at in the way of a suspicion.

  “No!” said Lew Borgen with the calm of perfect conviction. “I’ll tell you open and free that there ain’t a man here that’s The Whisperer.”

  “You know that?” asked Sam Champion.

  “Yep. I know that well enough.”

  “How come you to be so sure?”

  “There’s something about The Whisperer — if you was to see him, you’d know what I mean. I’ve never seen him by daylight. I’ve never seen him without a mask. But for one thing he’s got a queer build — like a wedge; for another thing, there’s a sort of hell-fire strength about him that paralyzes a man.”

  “Hold on, Lew. Don’t talk foolish!”

  Lew Borgen turned upon Champion. “Look here, Champion,” he said, “if you’ve come here aiming to make trouble for me and work up a gun play so’s you can have the fun of another fight on your hands, you’ve hunted up the wrong tree. I know you, Champion. I know you’re fast with a gun and sure with a gun. Well, I know that I’m not so fast and not so sure as you are, and I don’t aim to get murdered. Sooner than fight you, I’ll tell the boys to take your guns away and throw you outside. And if you make any trouble after that, I’ll have ’em kill you like a dog and leave you where you lie. There’s more than one that maybe wouldn’t lose no sleep about shoving a few chunks of lead inside of your ribs!”

  This direct and terrible threat brought a sort of a groan of rage from the smaller man. He shook from head to foot with his passion, and his right hand clasped and unclasped the handle of his Colt. But he did not jerk the weapon out at once. Instead, he first looked around him upon the faces of his companions, and he saw there enough to make him pause for further thought.

  They were looking upon him coldly, steadily, and they were one and all watching his gun hand.

  He knew what that meant, and he was touched with awe, for though he might have taken a chance with lesser men, with such fellows as these it would have been madness to court a fight. He was superior to any one of them, but only by a small margin, and any two of them would completely overmatch him. He brought his hand away from the weapon.

  Lew Borgen was continuing the oration which he had begun with such a happy effect.

  “You been always a trouble maker,” he told “The Ferret.” “Nothing is good enough for you so long as there’s the chance for a fight somewhere near. Oh, I know you, Sam. I know where you were a few months back when I first met up with The Whisperer and started on this game. You was down and out. You’d done so much shooting and knifing that nobody would throw in to go partners with you. Then I come along and talked plain to you: ‘Sam,’ says I, ‘you’re down and out. You know why, and I know why. There ain’t no mystery about it. You’re too hard even for your friends. Well, Sam, I’ve got a chance to give you, because I know that you’re as good a gun fighter as ever lived, and because you don’t know what fear is!’ I told you that, and then I told you what I told all the other boys, and you sure were happy to come in.

  “You was down and out then, the same as some of the rest. Nick Oliver was flat. So was Pete Nooney and Joe Montague, and I was flat busted myself except for the little pocket money that The Whisperer had give to me. Then what happened? You boys done what The Whisperer wanted you to do. There was a plan laid. Who pulled off the first job? Who cracked the first safe? The Whisperer did it all himself to show you boys that he knew his work and that he could make his living all by himself if he had to. What did he do then? He split up with you all. Gave you all your right share. More’n that, when Silver, there, and Pete and Mug Doran blew in all they’d made gambling, he staked them all over again, bought them hosses, and left them flush and prime.

  “Ain’t he gone right on? There ain’t one of you has gone hungry. There ain’t one of you that hasn’t got money in his pocket right now. There ain’t one of you that couldn’t save up a mighty pretty piece of coin and put it away if he had as much as a mind to do it. These here things are all the straight stuff. Then you come along and try to corner The Whisperer and call him for a crook. Is it square, Sam? Is it square, boys?”

  Whatever the glowering Sam might think, it was plain that the rest of the boys had no sympathy with him at that moment. With a hearty and even a ringing chorus they announced they were well pleased with what they had secured out of their silent partnership with the unknown criminal, and they would be only too delighted to see the concern of Mr. Whisperer and Co. continued ad infinitum. So Sam Champion looked gloomily around him, not knowing exactly what he should do next. However, he had not by any means discharged the last arrow in his quiver, and he now put another upon the string.

  “Lew,” he said to the lieutenant of The Whisperer, “who has seen The Whisperer outside of you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Who has heard him talk?”

  “Nobody but me.”

  “Who knows whether he’s young or old?”

  “I ain’t so sure of that myself.”

  “Who’s got any idea of what he looks like?”

  “I’ve told you boys what little I’ve seen — that he’s uncommon broad i
n the shoulders and that he’s got red hair and that he’s just average height. That’s all I can tell you. I’ve told it a pile of times.”

  “Boys,” said Sam Champion to the others, and he deliberately turned his back upon Lew Borgen, “ain’t it a queer thing that The Whisperer should keep himself in hiding like this?”

  “I’ve told you why he says that he does it,” muttered Borgen.

  Sam held up his hand to indicate that he must not be interrupted before he had spoken his mind.

  “Because he don’t trust partners, is what Borgen tells us. But he has trusted Borgen, and it looks like the rest of us are worth trusting as much as Borgen. We’ve proved ourselves, I should say! Ain’t it sort of strange that The Whisperer ain’t showed himself to us to even hear how much we think of him? Ain’t it queer that he don’t come down, after all these months, just to say hello?”

  The others admitted by their silence that they considered it rather odd.

  “But,” said Sam Champion, “it looks to me like it was a sort of fortunate thing for someone. That one is Borgen, there. Every time we turn a trick, Borgen gets two shares delivered to him for himself. That’s sort of fat, but we don’t grudge it. And then he gets three more shares for The Whisperer — delivered to himself!”

  He paused to let this sink in. Then he added hastily: “And supposing — just supposing — that Borgen was The Whisperer himself — wouldn’t it be sort of handy to get them five shares?”

  It was a blow the more stunning because it was something which had, of course, occurred to every one of them. A sudden gust of wind took hold of the door of the shack like a hand and slammed it shut. It made every man jump and look about him with great eyes.

  Then they turned to Borgen to see what he was to say. But Borgen, for the instant, was tongue-tied. This suggestion struck the nearer home to him because he had actually contemplated just such a practice. To be accused of a crime which he had attempted, paralyzed his tongue, and his face grew white as he confronted those prying eyes. When he realized that this pallor was betraying him, he grew yet more pale. He tried to smile. But his lips were numbed, and when he moistened them with the tip of his tongue, they trembled. Perspiration began to pour out upon his forehead.

  “Gents,” he said feebly, “this is a queer lay for me. D’you stand with Sam on this?”

  A deadly silence greeted his appeal. Then he saw that they were scowling, and each man was leaning forward to read his face.

  “Look here,” broke in The Mug suddenly, as a thought struck him, “ain’t it sort of queer that Borgen ain’t never had a hand in any of the hard work of pulling off deals since them first two that he says was done by The Whisperer’s lone hand? Whoever has to work, it ain’t Borgen. He lies low and collects the double share he bargained for — and the three other shares, as Sam has just been saying. Sam, I’m mighty glad that you called this here meeting, and come to think about it, I’m mighty glad that Borgen is right here to hear us talk!”

  There was another pause while this suggestion was digested.

  Then another speaker cleared his throat. It was Anson, big, lumbering, rawboned, and a practical worker in the field of crime with few rivals. He had spent, altogether, some ten years in penitentiaries, but his nerve had not been broken. It had turned a great, impulsive giant into a fox, and that was all.

  “Speaking of queer lays,” he said, “I aim to say that the one I got last night was a rare beauty! I was told to take the best hoss I could lay my hands on and stand him under the trees near the house of the new sheriff, that swine of a Kenworthy. That was all I was told. I was told by Borgen that when the time come for me to do something, I’d know it without asking any questions. Well, the time comes! There’s a noise in the house, and then about fifty of ’em boils out like hornets. They see me, and they pretty near ride me to death down the valley when I run for it. Borgen, I know you’ve had a grudge agin’ me these three years. Was you trying to work it out on me that way? Was you trying to turn me over to ’em?”

  “Borgen,” put in Champion, “we got a case agin’ you. You show us The Whisperer — or else”

  There was no need of filling in the threat. Borgen groaned, so great was his agony of mind.

  “Boys,” he said, “I leave it to you; I been pretty lucky in my way, but do you figure, any of you, that I got the brains to map out what The Whisperer has done? Another thing: Champion, you’re hunting a bad trail when you try to locate The Whisperer. That was how Tirrit come to his end!”

  “By heavens,” cried Champion, “did you have a hand in the killing of Tirrit? Was it you that finished my pal?”

  He gripped his gun and glared at the big man.

  XI. CHAMPION’S FATE

  THERE WAS NO question of appealing to allies against Sam Champion now. It was only a matter of how the lieutenant to The Whisperer could avoid an open conflict, for such a battle, he knew, could end in only one way — his own death. He himself was no stupid marksman, but he lacked that explosive nerve force which is typical of the expert gun fighter; he might be only a twentieth part of a second slower than Sam Champion in getting out his Colt, but that small fraction was as good as all eternity, for Sam would not have to pull his trigger more than once.

  The others in the band sat or stood about like lean-sided wolves, waiting, and eager only to see the fight, regardless of its outcome, favoring Sam Champion if they favored any one.

  “Come out with it!” snarlingly exclaimed Champion. “It was you that bumped off poor Tirrit. You plugged him from behind!”

  Sometimes a very great peril will actually shock all fear out of the breast of an endangered man. So it was now with Lew Borgen. His mind became perfectly clear as he prepared to fight for his life, with words, before he fell back upon his gun.

  “Tirrit was shot from the front. You must remember that,” he said dryly.

  “He’s boasting of it, boys! He’s boasting that he shot down Tirrit!”

  “Look here, Sam,” said Borgen, more coolly than ever. “If you’re crowding me for a fight, you’ll get what you’re after. Even if I ain’t got one chance in ten to throw a gun as fast as you, I’ll take no water, Sam. But about Tirrit — good heavens, boys, you all know what Tirrit was — he was faster than anybody among us with a gun, excepting Sam Champion, and maybe Joe Montague, yonder.

  “Tirrit was a flash with a gun. I knowed it as well as the rest of you. He didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him. I admit that quick and easy, and there ain’t no argument. But that’s only one part of the proof that I killed Tirrit. I might have stood Tirrit off with a rifle at long distance, but I would of been a fool to go hunting him with a Colt. No, sir, you all know, if you steady down and take a think about it, that it was a better shot than me that killed Tirrit!”

  He spoke this with such a quiet assurance that even the malignity of Sam Champion was shaken for an instant, and his hand dropped from his gun.

  “But maybe some of you don’t know,” went on Borgen, “that Tirrit was hot on the trail of The Whisperer. Once, just before he finished, he come to me and says: ‘Borgen, I used to think that you was The Whisperer. But now I’ve changed my mind. I’ve tracked you along through the mountains and seen you meet up with another hossman. Then I’ve tried to ride down the back trail of that other gent, but doggone me if I have any luck.’

  “I says to him: ‘Tirrit, leave off that trail of The Whisperer. He sure hates to be followed. Follow me as much as you want to, but don’t follow me to try to get at who and what The Whisperer is!’”

  “The devil!” broke in Champion in sardonic disgust.

  “That’s what Tirrit said,” remarked Borgen. “Three days later, Tirrit lay dead.”

  “If I’d been there” began Champion.

  “You’d of gone the same way,” said Borgen.

  “You lie!”

  “Champion, you can’t talk like that to me.”

  “I ain’t started to talk to you, Borgen. I ain’t started to tell
you all the kinds of a skunk that I know you to be!”

  There was no avoiding a fight now. They were tense with it; and the savages who encircled them, looked on with lips grinning in wolfish satisfaction at the combat which was to follow. They did not shrink back from the probable line of fire. For a gun even in the dying hand of such an expert as either of these, could not fail to shoot straight. They stood close, and they waited, shifting their eyes greedily from one face to the other to read, if they might, the fierceness or the dread which was showing in either of the combatants.

  They saw Champion shivering like a ferret with eagerness for the battle. They saw Borgen white, hopeless, but determined. Though he was no better than a dead man, they felt, they could not but admire him as they observed his bearing and his manner. Death, then, hung not a second away from someone in that little shack, and now Champion delivered his final blow.

  “Now that you’ve robbed the sheriff’s house and gutted his safe, how’ll we know how much money there was in it? How’ll we know whether or not you’re cheating us on the split, eh?”

  It was the final insult. But before Borgen could act upon it and draw, a draught of air passed through the shack like a human sigh. The two combatants dared not take their eyes from each other, though they knew that the door of the house had swung open. But presently they heard someone murmur an exclamation, and they swung about of one accord, and they saw in the open doorway a man of middle height with extraordinarily broad shoulders, so that his build was wedge-like to the extreme. He wore a sombrero with a great limp brim that slid down half across his eyes, yet beneath this brim they caught sight of one or two rusty red curls of hair. His face and even the back of his head was obscured by a black mask. For the rest, his appearance was that of any cow-puncher in overalls and leather chaps. Altogether, in fact, his costume was most simple and workmanlike.