by Max Brand
But suppose that he had known that the name of the man was Main? Suppose that he had known that this was none other than a brother to the famous fighting man, Harry Main? What then?
It made convulsive shudders run through Christopher’s body, and in the blackness of the night with the rush of the storm about him he told himself again the secret that no one other than the Almighty and his own soul had ever been cognizant of before: he was a coward!
How, then, could he have come to the age of twenty-five years without having that weakness publicly exposed by the rough men of Royal Valley, where he had spent his life? The answer was simply that his family were all above the shadow of reproach. They had filled the mountains with their deeds for many a year, and this present brood seemed to have improved upon the old stock rather than fallen away from the good tradition. If there were a riding or a hunting or a shooting contest, one could be sure that one of the Royals would be the winner. And when it came to fighting — why, who was apt to forget that the scars on the face of Samson Royal had been received in hand-to-hand battle with a grizzly? And who could fail to know that Edgerton Royal had ridden single-handed into Pinkneyville, when he was deputy sheriff, and come out again herding two prisoners before him — prisoners he had taken away from beneath the eyes of a hundred of their friends? As for Peter Royal, he had proved that he was worthy of spurs on that dire night when the three Mexicans cornered him, and only a year before Duncan Royal had shot out an argument with two men on the Chimney Trail.
So they were all proven, and there had remained only the youngest of the brood, Christopher, to make his name. Yet it had hardly needed making. Men took it for granted that one Royal was about as good as another. There might be little differences, but the world generally agreed that all were lions — pick which you would!
For one thing they all looked alike. That is to say, the smallest of them all, Samson, was a full two inches above six feet, and the tallest of them, Duncan, towered a palm’s breadth above his older brother. They had all the same sort of shoulders, filling a door as they went through it. And concerning their might of hand, wonderful and beautiful fables filled the land. How Samson had twisted the iron bar in the blacksmith shop in Royal Town — behold, it still hangs against the wall as proof. And how Edgerton could take two packs of playing cards and tear them across. And how Christopher himself had lifted the entire bulk of a horse!
Such stories filled the mountains with echoes. Since not one of the band had ever been found weak in any manner of physical or nervous test, it was taken for granted that all were of the same true, pure steel. But one person in all the world knew the facts. He knew that Duncan and Edgerton and Samson and Peter were all undoubted heroes with hearts even stronger than their hands. But he knew also that there was one fatally weak link in the chain of brotherhood. That was himself. For Christopher during years and years had felt a weakness in his spirit, and he had waited for the dreaded moment when he should be tested. Or could it be that the family name and fame would shield him effectually all his life?
In his school days he had not so much as guessed it. No matter how mighty had been the tradition that his brothers had left behind them in the little white schoolhouse by the river, he had not been overawed. The height of Duncan’s jump, and the width of Peter’s leap, and the speed of Samson on foot, and the weight of Edgerton’s fist had all become proverbial in the school. But young Christopher bided his time and surpassed them, one by one. He was just as strong as they, and in addition he was a little more supple, a little more graceful, a little more brilliantly swift and sure of hand. And other graces had been lavished upon him, as though Nature, who had framed his brothers on so magnificent a scale, had been merely practicing for the moment when she was to create Christopher. So she had made the others big and glorious, but she gave to Christopher the gift of beauty, also. The others were dark. She made him fair. There was a touch of gloom about the others, as there is apt to be with big men, but Christopher she made joyous from the beginning. Altogether, if the citizens of Royal Valley had been asked to select one of the family as the representative of all that was best and finest in them, they would have picked Christopher with almost one voice. There were a few, of course, who were not impressed by his gentleness.
But in this lavishness of hers, Nature had forgotten the prime and essential gift. She had left out the vital spark of courage. And though no man knew it except Christopher himself, he had passed through many a dreadful moment when he stood face to face with his secret.
Now the very secrecy that enveloped the fault was threatened. For, as certainly as lightning strikes, Harry Main was sure to come to avenge the death of his brother. And when Harry Main came, what would Christopher do?
In his desperation he vowed that he would go out to meet the destroyer and in some hidden place, with no man to see, he would fight and die. Yet, in his heart of hearts he constantly knew that he would not be able to meet the great test. When Harry Main approached the valley, Christopher would slink away — and never again dare to show his face among his kin. Somewhere far off he would have to find a new place in the world, a new name, and there live out his wretched destiny.
And when he thought of these things, it was typical of Christopher that he did not think of the faces of his four strong brothers, hard with scorn and contempt, but the picture that rose before him was of two women. One was his mother, and the other was the lovely Georgia Lassiter whose head was always carried so jauntily high. He was sure that the reason she loved him so passionately was not so much for himself, his mind and his spirit, as because of an ideal of manhood which she had conceived and which she had grafted upon Christopher. She loved, not him, but her idea of him. If once she guessed at such a dreadful taint as cowardice, all her love would be replaced by a fiery disgust.
And his mother? When Christopher thought of her, his heart bowed almost to the mud of the road. What she would think and do and say was beyond him, for he knew the sternness which underlay her motherhood, and he knew the iron of her pride in her family.
He reached the turning from the main road and saw before him the avenue of poplars, their heads shaken and bent beneath the fierce hand of the wind. Down the gravel drive he galloped the tired mare and so wound into view of the Royal House itself, with its lofty front and its romantic wooden battlements. From the top of the neighboring hills the naked eye could see Royal House like a great natural landmark of the valley, and from directly beneath it looked rather like a great palace than the residence of a rich rancher.
Behind its wide-flung arms were the sheds, the barns, and the maze of the corrals where the weaker cattle were sheltered and fed through the severer winters. There were the quarters for the hired men, also. Day and night, for all these years, there had never been a moment when smoke did not rise from some chimney in that group of buildings.
Christopher, looking at it all, and thinking of what it meant, felt again what he had often felt in his childhood — that big and strong as all his brothers were, his father who had built these things must have been even to them as a giant to pygmies. And his mother had been the proper wife of such a man. Still she ruled the establishment with a power as firm as it was mild, and even her eldest son dreaded her quiet voice more than the booming of a cannon.
Christopher had been a little different. He had been the baby of the family. He had been the petted one. For having raised so many sons so well, even such a woman as Marcia Royal could afford to relax a little and favor her youngest child.
He thought of this bitterly now. For, if he had passed through the same stern school as the others, might he not have developed, like them, the same iron core to his spirit? Might he not have grown, like them, into a hero of heart and hand also?
He gave the mare to a stable boy. Then he turned to the house, and, as he walked, he wondered how he should tell the story. And what would the others say? He decided that he would say nothing for the time being. So he went into the living room and found t
hem all, except Samson, gathered in easy chairs near the fire on the open hearth.
He changed his clothes, and, when he came down again, he found that his mother had a cup of hot coffee waiting for him. She stood behind his chair, with her hands on his shoulders, while he drank it.
She spoke quietly: “Christopher, dear, you shouldn’t have come out on such a night. You know that.”
“I tried to telephone from Wooley’s, but the line was down in the wind, I think. I was afraid you’d worry if you didn’t hear from me. So I came on out.”
“And why not telephone from Yates’s place? And stay there the rest of the night?”
He did not have a chance to answer, for just then Samson came in and fixed his dark eyes instantly and firmly upon the face of his youngest brother, so that Christopher understood that Samson knew all that had happened.
IV. NO ASSISTANCE
THERE WAS SOMETHING so unusual about Samson’s air that the others noticed it instantly. For that matter, the oldest brother of the Royal family was always so direct, so fiercely sincere, that it was not usually difficult to understand what was going on in his mind.
He came across the room after a moment and stared down at Christopher, who stirred uneasily beneath that glance. Afterward, Samson went before the fire and stood with his back to it, until steam began to rise from his wet clothes.
“Now what is it, Sammie?” asked his mother.
Samson was the only member of the family that dared disregard for an instant a direct remark from his mother. In place of answering he suddenly put back his head and shook with silent laughter.
“Samson!” cried Mrs. Royal.
At this, he came to himself with a start.
“What on earth is the matter with you?”
“Nothing, Mother.”
“My dear, you must tell me at once. You make me nervous.”
Samson allowed a broad smile to spread over his face, while he stared straight across the room directly at Christopher. “Look there!” he commanded.
“There is Christopher, of course,” said the mother. “You are really rude, Samson. Now, what about Christopher?”
“I don’t know what you mean. What should there be about him?”
“Don’t beat about the bush, Samson!”
He sobered down at that, but still there was a suppressed exultation in his eyes and in his voice. “You haven’t heard. He wouldn’t say anything about it. He doesn’t want to shock you!” And the laughter broke out again, not mirthful, but savage. “I’ll tell you what,” said Samson, “this old Christopher of ours, whom we’ve always thought so gentle and all that, he’s a lion under the fleece! I’ve always guessed it. And tonight he’s proven it!”
Mrs. Royal turned on her youngest son. “Christopher, what have you done?”
Christopher stirred in his chair and tried to answer, but he could only shake his head and murmur, “I can’t talk about it!”
“It was too much,” said Samson with a grim satisfaction. “Nasty business. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to at all! Well, I’ll tell you what happened. I came up the road to Yates’s Saloon and got there just after Chris left. I heard what had happened, and I saw!”
“What was it, Sammie, in the name of heaven!”
“Why, I’ll tell you what it was! I found there the proof that Chris is your real son, Mother!”
“Have you doubted that? Did you think he was a foundling?” asked Mrs. Royal, looking fondly at her youngest son.
Samson went over to her and dropped his big hands on her shoulders. “You understand, Mother, that it was always easy to see that Chris was like you in one way... like the gentler side of you... but we didn’t think that he had your iron.”
“Am I iron, Sammie dear?”
“You may smile at me, Mother, but you can’t fool me. Yes, you are iron, in the time when iron is needed. And if you hadn’t been a woman, you would have made as hard a man as ever stepped!”
“That needs some explaining, foolish boy.”
“Well, we all remember the time that the Crogan dog went mad, and tried to get at us, and how you stood it off with your walking stick!”
“That was a horrible day,” she said.
“No, you liked it! I’ll never forget how your eyes shone as you stood up to that wild, foaming beast!”
“Tush, Sammie. But I want to hear about Christopher.”
“Well, about darling Christopher,” murmured Samson, and he turned his powerful, homely face toward him. “I’ll tell you. But watch him squirm. Watch him wriggle while I talk.”
“Don’t be too ridiculous, Samson. Just tell me the facts.”
“There were several facts. To begin with, Chris was at the Yates place this evening. And so were several others. And one of them was young Main.”
There was a sudden stiffening in the attitudes of all of the family.
“You mean Harry Main’s younger brother?” asked Duncan, the giant.
“Yes.”
“A ruffian, like his brother Harry!” exclaimed Mrs. Royal.
“Look at Mother’s eyes shine,” nodded Samson. “She’s gentle... no iron about her.” He stopped to laugh with a savage satisfaction again.
“Samson!” cried Christopher hoarsely. “I don’t want to hear any more of this!”
“You can’t help it, Chris. You simply can’t help hearing it.”
“I can, though, and I shall!”
And Christopher strode hurriedly from the room.
“Now will you tell us before we all go mad?” said Mrs. Royal.
“It was like this... Cliff Main had come to Yates’s place, poured down some stiff whiskies, and then gone into the next room to write a letter. Then Chris came in. He wouldn’t drink, not when he was riding home to his mother.”
He paused and grinned.
“My darling Christopher,” smiled Mrs. Royal.
“He’s a darling,” nodded Samson. “A perfect lamb. Wait until you hear the end of this yarn, though.”
“I want to hear it, if you’ll only get on.”
“Main come out of the other room and found Christopher...”
Here the door opened suddenly and caused everyone to start. It was Christopher coming back — a pale and shaken Christopher.
“Samson,” he said, “I want you to stop making such nonsense over what happened.”
“Well?”
“I’ll tell them myself exactly what happened, since they have to know the truth about the miserable affair.”
“Go on, old man. Of course, we have to know.”
“Cliff Main made me leave the barroom with him. We went into that other little room. The moment we were alone, he grew insulting. And after a time, when he saw that I wanted to be friendly and keep out of trouble, he grew overbearing... horribly so! And finally he said that he happened to be interested in Georgia Lassiter, and that that was reason enough for me to stop paying attention to her.”
There was a stifled exclamation from Mrs. Royal. Christopher, his eyes closed, rested a hand against the wall. He said slowly: “I couldn’t quite stand for that, you know. And I had to tell him that the thing would not do.”
“And then?”
Christopher did not speak for a moment. He was recalling that moment over again — the sinking of his heart and the sickness of his spirit, and the manner in which he had felt that he was slipping into a sea of darkness. Another instant and he would have begged for mercy. Another instant and he would have tried to flee from the room. But that instant was not given him by the brutal Main. There had been a flash of a hand toward a gun. And he instinctively had moved to make his own draw — and made it first!
“And then,” said Christopher faintly, “he started for his gun. And I had to start for mine...” He paused, breathing hard. “The bullet passed through his brain.” Christopher sank down in a chair. He was overcome by horror.
His mother was suddenly beside him, her arm around him. “Chris, my dear boy. I
know. No matter what a brute he was, he was a human being. But now that you’ve done this thing, there’ll never be any need for you to do another. You detest bloodshed, and having proved that you’re a man who cannot be tampered with safely, the others will be sure to leave you alone! Dear boy, how my heart aches.”
He did not answer. He could not look at her. She thought his horror was because he had had to take a life. But it was not. It was horror at the knowledge of how close he had been to a nervous collapse, to a complete hysteria of cowardice.
“But you’re wrong, Mother,” said Edgerton Royal, the logician of the family. “You’re quite wrong. Before the week’s out there’ll be another gun fight on Chris’s hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think for yourself. Will Harry Main allow the man who killed his brother to get on without another fight?”
“Harry Main! That murderer! That gunfighter! No, you will all band together and prevent him. You’ll all meet him and crush him!” cried Mrs. Royal.
“Wait!” said Peter Royal, for he was the judge of the family. “Wait, Mother, and tell me if you yourself would allow other people to fight your battles if you were a man?”
She hesitated. Christopher, his face buried in his hands, waited breathlessly. Then he heard her saying slowly: “No, I couldn’t. And not a one of you will be different. Not a one of you will want to help poor Chris, though every one of you would die to avenge him! But oh... what a dreadful trial for my poor Chris. Such a man as Harry Main.”
Samson was speaking, Samson the mighty, the ugly of face, the steely hearted. “Chris’ll beat him! Let these gentle fellows get the taste of blood and they’re worse than the worst of the gunfighters that are born hard and mean. I’m a prophet. You wait and see what happens. For a million I wouldn’t be in the boots of that fellow Harry Main!”
Harry Main? To Christopher, it was as though he had been thinking about a great tiger rather than a man. Harry Main? He would as soon stand up to a thunderbolt as to that destroyer. What was Cliff Main compared to such a devil of a man?