Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “Then came this practice game. The alumni had a queer team in the field. Some old veterans, with their heads beginning to grow shiny, and pretty slow on their feet. And some big fellows just out of college, strong and fast and hard as nails. But the whole lot of them worked like tigers, and they knew their game. The end who played opposite to me was named Christian. Did you ever hear of him?”

  “No,” said Ross Hale. “But go on.”

  Peter was lost in a dream for a second, and he descended from it to say: “Christian was an All-American end the year before that, and he was as big as I, with five years added age to harden him. All that extra experience and college coaching were behind him. Our coach said to me, before the game, that he knew the alumni would be too much for our team. But that he wanted to see what I could do individually against Christian. That would be the test in the eyes of the alumni... how many plays they could shoot around my end.”

  “Go on!” gasped Ross Hale. “I hope that you slaughtered him. I hope that you made a fool of him. I hope that you laid him out in the first quarter, boy!”

  Peter looked with a mild eye of forgiveness upon his father’s passion. “Well, when the game started,” he said, “I was keyed up to do my best and I did it. But you remember how I was helpless in the water floating toward the waterfall? It was nearly the same against Christian. He knew everything. And, heavens, but he was hard. They began to send the plays at my end. And when I tried to break through, Christian seemed to be six men, not one. I couldn’t manage him, and they began to slash around my end for terribly big gains. I was ashamed. I fought like a wild man, but nothing was any good. In the first three quarters they made three touchdowns; and they made them all around my end. The coach was simply white when he looked at me between halves, and at the end of the third quarter he sent a substitute in, and the substitute... a halfback, I think he was... said to me... ‘The coach wants to know if you’re quitting, big boy?’

  “Of course, that made me wild. We had a tied score for the beginning of the fourth quarter. Very lucky tie. We had picked up one of their fumbles, we had blocked a kick and recovered it, and we had intercepted a forward pass. Everyone of those breaks had meant a touchdown for us. And that was why we were in a tie. So we went into the fourth period, feeling that we would do or die, but that we had to keep that alumni team from squeezing over another score. A tie was all the glory that we wanted.

  “I noticed that the whole alumni crew was pretty thoroughly done up. Even Christian was pretty thoroughly tired out. He was everything that a good football player ought to be, but he was not in the best of condition, and I was. He had exhausted himself pounding at me and he had made a pretty thorough fool out of me. However, I told the quarterback to try my end, the first time that we got the ball. That was five minutes before the game was to finish. He took the chance. I went in to box the great Christian, and, for the first time in the game, I succeeded. By this time I was stronger than he was. Besides, he had shown me his whole bag of tricks, he’d been so bent on making a monkey of me.

  “We got three yards on that play. And, of course, everybody took particular notice that we had made that yardage through the great Christian. There was a good deal of yelling from the crowd, and, when we hammered at Christian again, we got a little more. We made a first down over Christian or around him, and by that time he was groaning with helplessness. But he was too far spent to stop us. I had an idea that if the backs would charge straight at Christian, instead of trying to cut around him, we could run him into the mud and gain twice as fast. I told the quarterback what I thought and he told me to come back. We put a substitute in at end in my place, and I went back to carry the ball, which was a shift that they often used with me.

  “I called the signals, and my plan was to feint at the other side of the line, but continually to take the ball myself and whang away at Christian. It worked wonderfully well, too. Not big yardage, because I was simply line plunging. I went through the great Christian again and again, until he was reeling and staggering. We hammered him back toward the far end of the field. It was very pleasant for me. I was getting a fine revenge for the way Christian had handled me in the first part of the game. He began to look like a high-school substitute.

  “Well, we got down on the three-yard line, and I began to call the signals for the last play. I knew that I could take that ball and smash right through big Christian for the touchdown. And while I began to call the signals, I looked across at the stands and saw all the people on their feet. I looked to our side lines, and there was my coach, who had asked me if I was a quitter. He was doing a war dance, now the happiest man in the world. Of course, a good deal of the credit for the manner in which Christian was being used up would go to him and his coaching. Then I looked back at Christian and nodded to him, to let him know this was for him, also. He was white and shaking and resting one knee in the mud. But though he knew that this was the finish, he didn’t flinch. He was ready to fight to the last gasp. I remembered, then, that in his four years at college no one had ever made a touchdown through him. But after that, I thought of something else. I saw the ball snapped back to me by the center. I caught it and started for Christian... and then let it dribble away out of my hands... “ Peter made a dreamy pause.

  His father groaned. “What made you do that?”

  “Christian came around to me after the game and asked me the same thing. They had recovered the ball, of course. And that game ended in a tie. Well, I told Christian that, when I stood there with the ball tucked under my arm and the touchdown in front of me, I suddenly remembered that this was only a game, after all, and not an infernal gladiatorial combat.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re driving at!” cried Ross Hale. “There was a chance for you to make yourself famous, and you threw it away.”

  “Christian didn’t understand, either,” Peter admitted. “I believe he thought that I was nervous when I had the chance to do the big thing. When I said that I had remembered it was only a game, he looked a bit stunned and a bit disgusted. And then he walked away. However, that was my biggest day, though the team thought that it was my very worst one. People said that I was off form. Well, let it go at that.”

  “Your biggest day? Your biggest day?” cried Ross Hale. “And what about the time when you scored three touchdowns in... ?”

  But Peter had forgot to listen, for he was looking back too far into the old days, and it seemed to his father that, for just an instant, a hint of despair showed in the eyes of his son. He was not sure of it. The darkness was gone in an instant. Then they were interrupted by the arrival of Andy Hale.

  He came in briskly, with a sort of determined good humor and high cheer, as though he feared lest the condition in which he found Peter might throw a damper on him in spite of himself. He came to welcome Peter home, to invite them both to dinner whenever they would come. He came above all to excuse the absence of Charlie from this family call.

  “But Charlie is sort of celebrating this day himself,” said Andy. “Because Ruth McNair has promised to marry him.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  SO RUTH MCNAIR was to marry Charlie Hale.

  When Andy Hale had gone, Ross Hale sat in a brown study for some time. “Well,” he said at last, “Charlie was well off before, but he’s a made man now. He’s a made man now... lucky young devil!”

  “A made man?” queried Peter in the same calm voice.

  “Oh, his father has him pretty well fixed. His dad ain’t blowed in all of his money the way that I have. Charlie’s father has made his ranch the finest place that you ever laid eyes on, nearly. Maybe I ain’t told you about the way that Andy had fixed up his ranch?”

  “You haven’t written to me about it,” said Peter, “but I could guess a good deal from the appearance of Uncle Andy. I could see that he thinks better of himself than he used to.”

  “He does, and he has a reason for it, I can tell you. He has a good reason for it. He’s made that place of his bloom, b
ut what does it all matter... all that work of his... compared with what Ruth McNair will bring him?”

  “Is she rich?” asked Peter.

  “Oh, her dad has got more money than you could shake a stick at. A lot more money.”

  “A million, eh?”

  “What’s a million?” asked Ross Hale, shrugging his shoulders. “No, I don’t suppose that he could sell out for a million. He ain’t got that much improved land or such a lot of cows as all of that, but he’s got enough range to really be worth more than that, and he could run three times as many cows as he’s got now. Besides, will you look at all of the trimmings that old McNair has got? There’s a company back in Denver that wants to buy the water rights to that big creek that goes busting through the McNair place. They don’t mean the rights of watering their cows from that stream. That would be different. All that they mean is the right to dam up some of that water and turn it into electricity.

  “McNair looked into the thing and liked it so mighty well that he said he would let them build the dam, not for any cash price, but for a share in the company. They put up the dam and do all of the work, and he gets fifty percent of the holdings. They say that the company will accept the business even at that figure. That alone might make McNair a millionaire. But it goes to show you what sort of a position the man will be in that marries McNair’s heir.” He threw back his head and uttered a faint groan. “Once there was a time, Peter...”

  “Well?” Peter urged.

  “Never mind. Never mind,” replied Ross Hale. He broke out suddenly: “Why, Peter, your cousin is gonna be, by all odds, the biggest and the most important man in the whole county. You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” said Peter.

  “Curse it!” cried his father. “It don’t seem to bother you none!”

  “Bother me? Of course not. I’m glad for the sake of cousin Charlie... that’s all.”

  “Curse cousin Charlie! Don’t the money end of things mean nothing to you?”

  “Why should it?” asked Peter. “I could be very happy with a most moderate income.”

  His father wiped his perspiring forehead and finally muttered: “Well, there’s ways and ways that an educated man can do things, and I’d be the last man in the world to deny it. You said that you had got a leaning for the law, Peter. I suppose that maybe you’ll start right in being a lawyer in Sumnertown?”

  “Start in being a lawyer?” Peter cried. “Why, Father, the law course takes three whole years after the regular course is finished.”

  Mr. Hale reached for the back of a chair and steadied himself. “Three years... more?” he gasped.

  “Yes, at least three years.”

  “Three years more... ,” Mr. Hale repeated, and began to laugh in a very odd fashion. “But maybe you’re ready for something else. You never told me much about yourself, son. You never said much about your work, and so how can I know what you’re ready for?”

  “It’s true,” said Peter. “I’m afraid that I haven’t kept you in touch with my work.”

  “When I busted my legs, nine years ago,” said Ross Hale, “it cost me close onto a hundred and fifty dollars, first and last. Well, Peter, maybe you’ve fitted yourself for being a doctor, if you can’t be a lawyer. Maybe you’re ready to start out and make yourself a good living doctoring.”

  Peter shook his head. “The medical course is twice as long as the law course,” he said. “A man has to spend four years on top of his collegiate work, and after that he has to work in a hospital as an intern for two years. Six years altogether, on top of his college diploma.”

  The rancher was almost speechless, but, when he had recovered some of his presence of mind, he muttered: “Law and medicine takes pretty near forever, then. Peter, tell me if there ain’t no profession that this university does fit a man for?”

  “There are technical branches of it,” said Peter, “where a man can learn to be an engineer and such things.”

  “Mining and bridge building and such things. All fine work. I hope that you went in for such things, Peter!” cried his father.

  “Never gave them a thought,” Peter answered. “Most of the boys I knew were taking a general course, and I took one, too.”

  “What does a general course mean?” asked the father. “A little bit of everything and something of nothing?”

  “You might call it that,” Peter said, apparently unable to notice the agony and the biting disappointment in the tones of his father. “I don’t know what I’m ready to work at, unless it were to be a teacher. I could teach in a high school... Greek or history... or Latin.”

  “A teacher!” shouted Ross Hale. “A teacher! Teach in a school? My son?” He broke into a wild laughter and lunged blindly from the room.

  His son made no effort to follow him. He waited for a time, with his keen eyes fixed upon the uncurtained, shadeless window, through which the sun streamed. Peter finally gathered himself and set about examining the state of the larder and the provisions of meat in his father’s house. He found an empty sugar sack, the last fragment of a side of bacon, mostly fat, a quarter of a sack of moldy potatoes, five or six pounds of cornmeal, a little salt, and half a pound of a very cheap brand of coffee.

  Peter examined all of these possessions in detail. When he had examined everything, he swung himself dexterously down the hall toward his room. He did not need his crutches for this, for he had a most extraordinary skill in supporting himself with his hands when there was anything for him to press against — as, for instance, the walls of a hall. Then he would swing the ironbraced leg beneath him and so progress with great, awkward, and unhuman strides.

  In his own room, he went over everything with an equal care — not a detail was missing. All was as it had been when he left. All was in good order, too. There was no sense of sticky mold and damp about the chamber, as there usually is in a room which has not been lived in for a long time. Instead, there was a sweetness in the atmosphere that proved this room had been cleaned and aired with some regularity. It told Peter everything that he could have asked.

  Still he made a slow round of the rest of the old ranch house. It was like moving through the bare ribs of a building that has been wrecked by fire. He could remember this house in the old days as a veritable bower of coolness in summer and of warmth in winter, but this was now all changed, for the trees that had once shaded and beautified the old house were all gone, and he did not need to be told where the bodies of them had gone.

  They had been transmuted into textbooks and tuition fees and all the other items that he had piled up so freely. Other men sent their sons to college. He had almost forgotten that he was being supported from so small a ranch and by so untalented a money-maker as Ross Hale.

  The first suspicion had entered his mind when he saw the tumble-down span of horses that waited for him at the station and the faded old coat that his father wore. The sight of the house and the falling barn had been eloquent additional touches. However, all that he saw in the house itself was needed to sink the thought to his heart of hearts.

  An axe began to ring behind the house. He went out and found his father busily engaged in cutting up some wood. But it was tough and time-seasoned oak, and the axe was dull, and the arms of Ross Hale seemed strangely weak on this day. Peter took the axe from him without a word.

  CHAPTER IX

  “CAN YOU SWING an axe, too?” asked Ross Hale.

  “Watch me!”

  It was a novel sight to see Peter support himself, driving the iron end of his brace into the ground to anchor him, and then wielding the axe in both hands. From that tough wood the tool had been rebounding impotently while Ross Hale swung it. But now that Peter stood to the work, all was changed. The very first blow fleshed the axe by half the depth of its blade; the second brought out a chip as big as the joined hands of a man. And the ringing of every stroke echoed far off, like the rhythmic explosions of a long rifle.

  Ross Hale, watching with wonder, looked up and down, following
the flash of the axe, thinking: If this giant had not been maimed...

  “Is that enough?” asked Peter.

  The butt of the big log had been chopped into stove-wood sizes, and here was Peter, resting lightly on the haft of the axe and smiling. He looked at his father, but there was too much pride and pain combined in the features of Ross Hale. His son was compelled to stare past him.

  Through the soft light of the dusk, a twelve-mule team plodded up the road, their heads nodding in a beautifully regular rhythm. Behind them a great wagon lumbered and creaked.

  “The quarry wagon!” Peter cried. Suddenly he began to laugh with pleasure. “Don’t tell me that that’s the quarry wagon, Dad?”

  “It’s the same,” said Ross Hale. “What about it?”

  “Why, it’s eleven years since I saw the last one. I’d almost forgotten that there was such a thing in the world as the quarries.”

  “Don’t you forget it no more,” said his father. “They’re busier than they’ve ever been before. Only the difference now is that they’re getting something better than rock out of them. A lot better. They’ve struck silver down there. And it’s paying them pretty good.”

  “Silver!” cried Peter. “Up at the old quarries?”

  “Aye, silver there. And that scoundrel Jarvin...”

  “Old Mike Jarvin?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Mike and his whiskey bottle...”

  “Listen a minute!” called Ross Hale.

  Through the evening, above the rumble of big wheels and the creaking of axle- trees, he heard the floating voice of a husky-throated singer who bellowed forth an ancient ditty to the effect that a blue-eyed girl was waiting for him in Mayo, and the oceans and the mountains could not keep him from her.

  “It’s Jarvin,” murmured Peter, still smiling and shaking his head with delight. “I thought that the old villain had drunk himself to death long ago, for sure. But there he is, and he sounds as strong as ever.”