Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “Yes!”

  “By heaven, when he knowed that you was as good as engaged... yes, you was engaged to Charlie. The skunk!”

  “I won’t stay in this room to hear you speak like this.”

  “You got to stay. A fine, clean, hard-working, industrious gent like Charles, that nobody has anything against.”

  “Has he ever been tested? Has Charles ever been through the fire?”

  “Mind you, nobody can speak a word ag’in’ Charlie. Except a mite of a word about him gambling high over in Lawson Creek”

  “I tell you,” cried the girl, “that’s the only really good thing that I’ve ever heard about him!”

  “Ruth, what’re you sayin’ to me?”

  “I mean it! I mean it! I despise a man that wouldn’t risk his life... or his money... just for nothing, sometimes. It shows that he has a heart. And that’s the first flash that I’ve ever heard of from Charlie!”

  “Ruth, you’re talkin’ about one of the most respected young gents in this here county. Nobody got a word...”

  She stamped with fury. “I don’t want to hear about the good things that they say of him. Nobody with any fire and flesh and blood in him was ever able to get along, really, without making enemies. Look at you yourself! Haven’t you got three enemies for every friend, and haven’t you always gloried in it? Haven’t I heard you say that you have friends that would follow you to... to...”

  “To the devil and back, yes, and they would. And so would I for them.”

  His whole manner changed. He settled back in his chair, smiling faintly at her. “Now, you set down, Ruthie. You and me is gonna have a talk.”

  She sat down on the edge of her chair, staring in a rather frightened manner. “What... what do you mean, Father?”

  “That I been stringin’ you along, honey, and now I know pretty much what I want to know. This here Peter, he told you that he let on to be fond of you.”

  “He did more,” said the girl. “He told me I wish that the whole world knew it... that he loved me... that he loved me... that he loved me dearly. And that’s the most beautiful thing that ever happened in the world.”

  “I think,” said Mr. McNair, “that maybe I would agree with you, Ruthie.”

  “Dad, do you mean that?”

  He said steadily: “I think that maybe that I could agree with you about that, because, from one way of looking at things, you might say that this here boy, Peter, he come back from college with his head full of book knowledge, and nothing else. And he found the old ranch busted and done for, loaded with mortgages. And he found his father just a wreck of a man... run all down like his ranch... and what did he do? Why, it looked like he got together and lifted that ranch right up. First we smiled, and then we started in wondering. And pretty soon, we seen that this here boy had brains. And we seen that a man didn’t live in his legs, but in his wits, eh? And more than that... in his heart!”

  “Yes,” said the girl faintly, but smiling through tears. “Dear old Peter. How he did work. And how cheerfully. Do you remember... ?”

  “The fool way that he looked at you that day out in the shed where he was pretending to be fixing up furniture? Yes, I remember all of that. But what I was working toward saying is that, by the looks of the thing, this here Peter was a fine, honest, brainy gent... and with the sort of a heart that made him friends and kept them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And by the look of things, you would say that he couldn’t go up there into the mountains and throw himself away on a crook like old man Jarvin without having a pretty good reason that was stronger than Peter.”

  “No, no, no! You couldn’t! You couldn’t!”

  “Then, after he got with Jarvin, he showed that he would fight like a hero... not for himself or for a good friend, but just for the sake of a sneaking gambler and a yaller man.”

  “He did. Oh, he showed it,” Ruth said, and the tears of excitement and happiness began to stream down her cheeks.

  “Very well,” said the voice of her father, raised from its gentleness and from its calm, “then why in the devil ain’t you engaged to marry that man?”

  “God help me,” whispered Ruth. “Do you mean that?” “Ain’t you my daughter?” thundered McNair. “Ain’t you mine? Ain’t it my honest, mean blood that’s inside of you? Why, no, it ain’t. It can’t be. Because here you sit, whining like a sick cat. Why? Because this here Peter... this heart of oak, this clean-eyed, two- handed fighting man, this modest, kind, gentle, straight-shooting gent... this here Peter that tumbled you all in a heap of excitement when you seen him first, in spite of his crippled legs... why, you turn your back on him just because he ain’t been writing to you!”

  “Dad... he left and gave me no word.”

  “Girl, if there was something so terrible strong in his life that it sent him to old man Jarvin, how could he come and explain himself to you?”

  “But... do you mean that I could write to him?”

  “Ruth, didn’t you learn how to do that when you was in that fool school?”

  “But if I wrote... what could I say?”

  “That you love him, you ninny!”

  “Dad!”

  “Sure, tell him that. Tell him that you love him. That you cry when you see his handwriting. That you lie awake at nights thinking of him. That you worship the ground that he walks on... that he don’t have to explain nothing about his devil-raising actions to you.”

  “Dad, Dad. I’m engaged this day to Charlie.”

  “Charlie? Who’s he? I dunno who you mean, unless it’s that stiff-backed son of that miserly Andy Hale.”

  “Oh, and you let me become engaged to him.”

  “You rattlehead! How was I to know that you was capable of loving a real man and not an imitation one?”

  “Oh. I shall write. I think...”

  “To who... ?”

  “To Charles, first.”

  “Curse Charles! Let him read of it in the papers. That’s the best way for him. But don’t you start to fooling and wasting time. Because you got hold of the finest thing in the world. Love, honey. You got hold of that. And you take it quick and put your mark on it and make it yours for keeps. No, letters won’t do. You got to go straight to Peter yourself.”

  “To Peter? Dad, I’d die”

  “The devil you would. And if you won’t go, I’ll go myself.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t you fool yourself about what I mean. I say that I’m dead in earnest. Now, you mind that if you don’t go, I’ll go in your place, and when I get there...”

  “What would you do?”

  “Get down on my knees and beg Peter to come marry my fool girl that’s crying for him at home.”

  CHAPTER XLI

  ALTHOUGH WILL NAST had an eye for men, he had an eye for agriculture, also. As he passed through the lane, he looked on either side of him and admired the acres of greenery. He could remember, and so could every other man who traveled that road, a time when these had been dusty fields. He could remember, also, when these fine fences had been tumble-down, patched affairs, hardly strong enough to contain the few starving cattle in the fields. Now there was a veritable breath of wealth and contentment coming up from the soil. As he came closer to the house, he noticed the newly planted trees that surrounded it.

  They had been brought in by Peter, at much cost of money, time, and toil because he could not wait until the front of the old ranch house was properly dignified with a veil of fine trees, as it had been when he first went away to college. The stumps of the others had been removed, all saving the butt of the largest of them all. This remained in the midst of that flourishing little plantation of trees, and the reason for it was plain to the mind of Sheriff Nast, because, in the first place, it was men that he knew; agriculture was second.

  He understood that the single stump was left there as an undying sign of the heroic self-denial of a father, who had starved himself and ruined his land for the sake of
a single son. Peter, when he looked at that stump, would remember, and never forget. Those in the world who were gifted with something more than half an eye could guess, also.

  Mr. Nast gazed for some moments on that stump, and, after he had tied his horse at the hitching rack, he opened the gate. It was new and cleanly painted, like all the red fence that went around the Ross Hale place. He walked slowly up the path toward the house. Thinking of the ways and the methods of other men in his recollection, he was deeply amazed by all that had been done on this place, and in so short a time. There had been others who had raised themselves and their fortunes, and, notably, there had been the case of Andy Hale. Andy had gone on putting one to one until he had two, three, then, 100, 1,000 — and finally he had arrived at a notable state of wealth. He would keep on growing, also.

  But, after all, Andy had used natural means. A little wit, much patience, a sharp eye, and a ruthless hand in a trade, a careful watching of the market — these had caused the growth of Andy’s fortune. Besides, he had had the steady industry of his son to help him. With Peter Hale, it was different. There had been no long and painful training in the ways of the range. He had stepped in from the outside, and by the force of a natural genius he had done this thing. Not so great as the achievement of Andy Hale, if bulk were considered — but greater by far, if the time and the circumstances were considered.

  What would Peter go on toward? Or rather, what would he have gone on toward, if he had had a chance to develop in a natural manner toward all of his potentialities? This thought being on the tip of his tongue, the sheriff was on the verge of murmuring something aloud, when he saw the tall form of Ross Hale issuing from the house. Nast paused and waved his hand. The rancher started. And the sheriff hastened to say: “I haven’t come for you, Ross.”

  “Nor for Peter?”

  “Would I be looking for him here?”

  “No. And that’s true.” The head of Ross Hale fell.

  “I see that the beans are coming on big and fine and strong, Ross.”

  “Yes, getting pretty thick.”

  “Who would ever have thought of raising beans in this here county, Ross?”

  “Aye, who would of thought of it? Never me.”

  “But is there money in the fool things?”

  “More than you could shake a stick at.”

  “Old Sargent is putting in a hundred and sixty acres in them, I hear.”

  “Yep. Peter rode over and looked at his work and tried to tell him how his system was all wrong. But Sargent is pig-headed. He said that he knew, and that was all that there was to it. Peter says that the first hot summer will burn Sargent’s crop right out.”

  “Well, experience is the only thing that’ll teach Sargent. But there’s a few of us that don’t need so much experience for learning, Ross.”

  “Like who, now?”

  “Like Peter, for an example.”

  “Aye,” said the father, “there was brains for you. They worked out the reasons for things without no help. Was you... have you... ?” He paused.

  “No,” said the sheriff. “Peter ain’t been pulling up any more bridges by the roots.”

  “Then what’s happening over Lawson way?”

  “About Peter?”

  “Yes. I heard that a lot of them was getting together to raid him.”

  “They won’t do it,” said the sheriff. “Folks will talk a lot about what they’ll do when they get together and take the law into their hands, but they don’t usually do it. Not unless they have a handy chance, like finding a crook right in the middle of their town, or some such thing. A mob is lazy. It don’t like to ride a hundred miles for its honey. It likes to have the fun easy and quick. And take it by and large, a mob is a pretty cowardly thing, Ross. It does fine when it sees a helpless man with no guns on him. But it ain’t half so bold when it has to consider that same man with a pair of gats ready to kick in his hands. The same thing goes with those boys over to Lawson Creek. They talk a lot about how their town is disgraced and made a laughingstock. But it’ll be a long time before they turn in and hunt down three men that can tear up a bridge and chuck it in the river.”

  Ross Hale listened with large eyes of wonder. “Then they ain’t going to shoot up Peter?”

  “No danger in the world. I tell you, old son, that son of yours has made himself so feared over yonder that he could swing down the street of Lawson Creek on his crutches, and there wouldn’t be nobody that would dare to raise a hand against him.”

  “But the law, Sheriff, ain’t it got something against Peter and the rest?”

  “What’ll the law do?” The sheriff grinned. “Accuse him of shooting? He didn’t kill anybody. And he really didn’t fire a shot. Disturbing the peace? He can say that he was being mobbed and that he had to fight back in self-defense. No, sir, Lawson Creek ain’t going to ask into a law court the three men that made such a fool of the town. They know that this thing has gone far enough. They don’t want any more air given to the story of what happened over there the evening of the fight.” He broke off with a chuckle.

  “That’s tolerable good news.” Ross Hale sighed. “I just been sort of waiting. The other day, Will, I had an idea of something that might bring him back. But it didn’t pan out, you know.”

  “An idea for bringing Peter back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now,” the sheriff said seriously, “that’s what I stopped in here to talk to you about. I wanted you to know, Ross, that the thing for you to do is to settle yourself down and get ready for a lot of time to pass before Peter comes back.”

  The rancher sighed and looked at the ground.

  “It’s bleak, living alone,” said the sheriff. “But it’s what you got to do. Because, between you and me, Peter ain’t going to be here in any hurry.”

  “Will you tell me what you mean by that, Will? And how could you know?”

  “By the fact that I been up there talking to him.”

  “Ah, you been there?”

  “Yes. And the last thing that he said was for me to drop around and to cheer you up. But what I wanted to say first was that Peter ain’t changed. You might think that he’s gone sort of wild.”

  “But he ain’t?”

  “No. He’s just the same. Even a mite more sober and silent, maybe. But just the same, steady as a clock and as strong as iron. You would laugh, Ross, if you could see the way that that big Negro waits on him.”

  “I wouldn’t laugh,” said Ross Hale with a trembling voice. “Only... in the name of heaven, tell me what I done that drove him away.”

  “You? Why, man, you didn’t do a thing! Not a thing. The whole point was that there is some sort of a pull that old man Jarvin has over him. That’s the fact, and Peter as good as told me so. He has to stay there with Jarvin for a while. I don’t know how long. Of course, he’s useful to Jarvin. But Jarvin is sure to let him go, sooner or later. What the hold is, I dunno.”

  “Will, if Jarvin has a grip on him, Jarvin will be the death of him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Jarvin is poison, as you know.”

  “He hasn’t poisoned Peter, and he won’t. The only thing is patience.”

  “Patience? Patience?” The rancher groaned. “Ain’t I had plenty of patience all of these years? But there comes a time when the patience is all burned out of a man, Sheriff. You understand that?”

  “Yes,” said the sheriff, “I understand.”

  So well did he understand that he cut his visit shorter than he had intended, and, when he went away, he paused beside the bean fields and wondered again at the glistening acres of beans. A great work had been accomplished here.

  He looked, back and could see the distant form of Ross Hale striding up and down in front of the house. Some great resolution was forming in the mind of the father, for the sake of his son. When the sheriff remembered what great things this same man had done in the past for that identical cause, he wondered now what strange deed would come from the h
and of the rancher. But even his fondest imaginings were far short of the resolution that had formed in the brain of Hale.

  CHAPTER XLII

  THE RESOLUTION THAT had formed in the mind of Ross Hale was simply that he must reclaim Peter from the hands of Mike Jarvin. Sheriff Nast was not apt to be wrong. If the sheriff said that Peter was with Jarvin — not from any wish of his own, but because of some power that Jarvin had over him — then, of course, Peter would return to the ranch and to his old way of living as soon as the influence of Jarvin was cut off.

  How, then, could that influence be removed? There was one simple and effective means, of which Ross Hale thought at once. There was no sweetness in his life, he had discovered, except through Peter. He had spent so many years laboring for the sake of his son that he seemed to have lost all taste of enjoyment, except through Peter and Peter’s accomplishments.

  Even the richness and the beauty of the farm was nothing to him, except that it exemplified the cleverness and the industry of Peter. To live in comfort again and in a growing wealth was nothing, but to hear strangers praise Peter was the delight of Hale’s life.

  He had done all that he could, except one thing. And he determined on that one thing now. He would ride straight to the mine, ask to see Mike Jarvin, and then, no matter how the latter was surrounded by his hired braves, he would send a bullet through the head of that fat gentleman and bring his wretched life to a close.

  That would free Peter. As for Ross Hale, of course, he would be blown to bits by Jarvin’s men. But what difference did that make? None at all. At least he had the grim satisfaction of knowing that Peter would never forget him and would never let others forget him. Perhaps it would be better, too, to close his life with one great effort such as this — better than to drag out long days to no real purpose. So thought Ross Hale.

  The sheriff, riding slowly off down the road, heard the familiar sound of a revolver exploding. He turned and looked back to the house of Hale, but he could see nothing except the blurred outline of house and trees, at that distance. The gun sounded again.