Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

“One of these bucking horses will finish me one of these days. Or else, one of our enemies will creep up and shoot me. I only hope that it’s not in the back. I only hope that I can see my death coming straight before me. I don’t think that I’ll flinch.”

  That was not an affectation but the actual state of her mind and of her desires. She had lived like a lady all her life. But she wanted to die with her boots on, like a man.

  “I don’t know that my granddaughters will have much use for me,” she also used to say, “but I want all my grandsons to be able to look up to my memory.”

  Which was the reason why Christopher, hearing her speak in this fashion, could not help wishing that some of the “manhood” which she worshipped, and which she also possessed in such a degree, could be stolen away and placed in his own heart. But he saw that for the first time in his life he would be able to draw no comfort from her. For the way she saw the matter was far closer to the manner in which Harry Main was seeing it than it was to the viewpoint of her own son.

  He went up to his room and sat there in a brooding silence. He could see that there was no cause for changing his earlier decision. If he could manage to slip away from the house that very night, he had better do so, because there were only two days left before the announced date of the arrival of Harry Main, and before that time he must be far, far away, leaving a small track to be followed, as followed he must be.

  VII. FLIGHT

  HE MADE HIMSELF quite jolly through that evening, because he knew that he was making his last impression save one upon his family. And in the course of the evening Peter Royal could not help breaking out: “I wish that I had your fine nerve, Chris! To stand up to the music like this while every minute is bringing that devil closer and closer.”

  Christopher, when he was alone in his room, brooded over this, sitting by the window and looking into the dark, deep face of night that lay outside. He was called down to the telephone, then, and Georgia’s voice came sweetly to him.

  “I had to speak to you again today, Chris. I’ve had a dreadful feeling all the time, as though you were slipping away from me. No, it’s not prophetic. It’s only fear. It’s only fear, Chris! But, oh, l wish the thing were over with!”

  He said good night to her hastily, for the sound of her voice had sent a thrilling weakness through all of his veins, and he felt that he had hardly the strength to get back up the stairs to his room.

  He turned out the lights and lay down to rest a little, if he could, but the blackness swirled above him and stifled him like the beating of wings of enormous moths. Time dragged on miserably until at length the house grew quieter, then silence, and he knew that he alone was awake — or should be awake. He made up his pack for the trip. He made it small, consisting of the barest essentials, so that it could be done into a tight roll inside his slicker. He had in mind the horse he would take. It was the flea-bitten roan which Samson had given him as a birthday present the year before. The gelding would never tire at his work, wherever it led.

  When he had completed the preparations, he remembered that he had forgotten Peter’s rifle. That was just the last thing in the world that he wished to leave behind him, so he reached into the closet to find it. Pulling it out, the old bamboo fishing rod swayed out and tapped its slender stem against his forehead. He stood for a moment in the darkness, gripping it, and remembering with a sudden rush a thousand things out of his boyhood, when he had first learned to use that rod. He saw again the windings of the creeks, and the creaming surfaces of the little rapids, and the broad, brown faces of the pools, where the fish would be lurking beneath the fallen logs along the banks. He saw himself once more trudging home with the rod on his shoulder and the dangling fish snapping their lank tails at the dust, and he heard his voice raised with the voices of his companions, proclaiming lustily what manner of men they should be when they grew up. Ah, there would be no cowardice in them surely!

  He remembered the day that a wave of scorn ran over the boys in the school when they heard how a forgotten outlaw had walked into a bank in broad daylight and had held up the cashier and three or four others, made them open the safe, and shovel the contents into a sack, which he then carried away with him, mounted his horse, and cantered cheerfully and unharmed away from the city. Ah, how the schoolboys had raged when they heard of it! Had only a few of them been in that town of cravens, they would have upheld the law in a more fitting manner! But they had not been there, and little Christopher Royal, lying awake in his excitement at night, had dreamed long and wildly of what things he should accomplish when he grew older.

  He thought of this as his hand closed around the narrow shaft of the fishing rod, and then he turned sadly away and closed the door. For he felt gloomily that he had shut away one part of himself in that closet, and all his hopes of what he might be were confined with the old toys in the dark of the closet.

  Then he hurried from the room, opening the door with care, lest some squeaking of the hinges might betray him. But, as he stepped out, he tripped and stumbled heavily over a form which lay in the hall just outside his door. It was Lurcher, who now came cringing to him and licked his hand by way of apology.

  He cursed the dog in a whisper, for the noise he had made might have caught the attention of his mother, who was a very light sleeper. But, after listening a moment and finding all silent in the house, he went softly down the stairs to the lower floor. The side door creaked badly, so he did not attempt that, but spent a moment sliding the bolts of the front door gently back and then turned the big key slowly, without making the slightest whisper of sound.

  After that, he slung his pack over his shoulder and turned for a last look at the old house. As he did so, he saw a glimmering form on the lowest landing of the stairs. And then he made out his mother’s face as she watched him.

  It was characteristic of her that she had not cried out to him, but there could be no doubt that she understood. The pack at his back, the rifle in his hand, and the hour of the night could mean only one thing. So he stood confounded before her, and she came finally down to him.

  She said: “Then we were all wrong, Christopher. After all, you couldn’t stand it?”

  “No, after all, I couldn’t stand it.”

  She sat down and drew her white dressing gown closer around her, because the night air was chill, and, though she did not speak, her eyes never moved from his face, and he knew that her stern heart was breaking.

  “Will you say something, Mother?” he begged.

  “What can I say, Christopher? I know that your own heart has said all of these things to you before me.”

  He nodded, dumb with shame and remorse.

  “What are your plans?”

  “To go somewhere far off. I don’t know where. And take a new name and try for a new life.”

  She shook her head. “Someone from this part of the country would be sure to find you and tell what you had done.”

  “I suppose that there’s a chance of that.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I’d have to move on again.”

  “Oh, Christopher, a man can die only once!”

  He bowed his head.

  “And if you stayed, and if you fought, heaven wouldn’t let you lose. It couldn’t. And you’ve already won once!”

  He could not lift his head to answer. He began to tremble from head to foot.

  “And Georgia?” she asked suddenly.

  He did raise his head then. “I’ve thought of Georgia every minute!”

  “Why, if that thought doesn’t stop you, then I suppose that I’ve no influence whatever. And still I can’t help talking. I wish... oh, I wish that I could disguise myself and pass for you. How gladly I’d take a gun and face him! Oh, how gladly, Christopher, if that would save you!”

  He felt the lash and winced.

  “Christopher, you’ve already met one of them and beaten him. Do you think of that?”

  “I didn’t know who he was,” said Christopher, “not til
l afterward. And even before a stranger that I didn’t know, I was in a blue funk. And when Samson and the rest hear what I’ve done...” He struck his hand across his face with a groan. And then he looked out at her and found her watching him with a cold eye of agony.

  “It’s the fear of death?” she asked him. “it’s not knowing what will happen after death?”

  “No, it’s not death. I don’t think that’s what tears me in two. But there’s a dread feeling in standing up to a man who actually wants your life, and seeing his eyes turn to fire, and a grin like a beast on his mouth. It’s seeing a man turn into a beast, and then being filled with a horror of the thing that he’s become. And... oh, what’s the use of trying to explain? Because it’s cowardice, and I know it, but you don’t. You’ve never really felt such a thing, and you never will!”

  “When I was a little child,” she said, “I was afraid of the dark.”

  “I don’t believe that, hardly. But at any rate, you beat it.”

  “I went up to the top room in the tank house and locked the door just at dusk and threw the key out the window. And there I stayed till the morning. It was very hard. But before daylight came, I was no longer afraid of the dark.”

  “How old were you when you did that, Mother?”

  “I was seven, I think, or six.”

  He sighed and shook his head at her. “I have to go now,” he said nervously.

  “I won’t try to persuade you, Christopher. I won’t tell you what it means to me, or how big things are made to look small by facing them. I’ll say good bye to you, if I have to.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her forehead.

  “I’ll tell you this... that every day I’ll pray for more strength, and, when I find strength, I’m going to come back to Royal Valley and find Harry Main...” His voice trailed away. For she was nodding and trying pitifully to smile as though she believed the lie. He could not endure the strain for another moment and, whirling away from her, he caught up his pack and rifle and ran through the door.

  Her voice stopped him.

  “What are your plans?”

  He turned, glad that he had the darkness of the night to cover his face.

  “Christopher, only tell me where you’re going, so that I’ll know how to pray for you, and where to turn my face toward you!”

  “I’m going up to the woods beyond Emmett’s. You remember that little cabin where we camped one summer six years ago?”

  “I’ll think of you there, dear!”

  “Aw, Mother, forgive me if you can!”

  And he turned and ran blindly through the night.

  VIII. BITTER THOUGHTS

  THE GREATER EXCITEMENT began very early in the morning when Peter went into Christopher’s room and found matters in disorder there, and Christopher gone. He went hastily down. Everywhere he hunted for Christopher, and everywhere Christopher was not to be seen. And then it was found that the strong, flea-bitten roan was missing also. That explained matters clearly enough.

  Christopher had fled! So Peter went bounding into the house and, as a matter of course, went straight to the head of the family... his eldest brother, Samson. To that dark and somber man he told the terrible news, and Samson listened with a look of agony in his eye.

  “It’s the waiting,” said Samson. “There was never a son of our father that could be a coward. But it was the waiting that killed him! But, Peter... what will happen to Mother when she finds out?”

  “She mustn’t find out. It would be the death of her.”

  “How can we keep it from her? Won’t she miss Chris in five minutes? Doesn’t she really love him more than she loves all the rest of us put together?”

  They stared at each other, unable to find a solution to this dreadful problem. And, in due course, the rest of the brothers were gathered in a solemn conclave, where each had a different opinion.

  Duncan was for rushing off single-handed, meeting with the famous Harry Main, and destroying him in order that the shame of Christopher Royal should not be noised abroad.

  “You’d never have a chance against Main,” said Samson bitterly. “None of us would. And Chris would have simply died if he’d met him, because the fellow is a devil. The only language he understands, really, is the chattering of a fanned Colt. But what’s there in death compared with the shame? No, I won’t let you throw yourself away, Duncan. But what’s to be done with Mother?”

  “Go straight to her, Samson, and tell her the truth. That’s the only way.”

  “Go straight to her? I’d a lot rather go tell her that Chris is dead!”

  “It’s your business to talk to her. You’re the oldest. And, besides, do you think we could pull the wool over her eyes for ten minutes? She sees through me as though I were made of plate glass, and I think that I’m as politic as the rest of you.”

  That advice of Peter’s was considered, though bitter, a wise pill to swallow, and therefore Samson Royal went straight to his mother and found her already down in the garden, working with her own trowel with her usual energy. He helped her to her feet.

  “Mother,” he said, forgetting the speech which he had tried to prepare on the way, “Mother, I’m sorry to say that Christopher seems to have left...”

  She waved the trowel at him. “Of course, he has,” said Mrs. Royal.

  Samson stared. “Of course?” he echoed, completely at sea.

  “Dear Sammie,” said his mother, “can’t you understand that Christopher won’t fight with Harry Main right here in my home? But he’s gone off to meet him!”

  “Gone to meet him!” exclaimed Samson. “Without saying good bye to any of us?”

  “Of course! Of course! Samson, you can see that he wouldn’t want to trouble the rest of you and say good bye in a melancholy way when he goes out to die?”

  “But it doesn’t seem like Christopher’s way of doing things,” said Samson.

  “Do you really believe that you understand him?”

  Samson frowned in thought. “No,” he said slowly at last, “I suppose that I forgot that he’s his mother’s son, after all.”

  He went back to tell the new idea to his brothers. They accepted this interpretation without any hesitation, for they were accustomed to taking the word of Mrs. Royal as the truth. And they went out to their work without further question.

  The morning mail brought further news to Mrs. Royal. It was a brief note from Harry Main, addressed to Christopher, and she opened it without hesitation.

  Dear Royal, ran the note, I’m going to be at Yates’s place this evening. Will that do for you? I’ll expect to hear from you there.

  While she sat in a gloomy quandary over this note, there was a call from Georgia Lassiter on the telephone.

  “Missus Royal, we’ve heard very, very odd news... that Christopher has left the valley just as Harry Main came into it!”

  Ah, how cold was the voice of Georgia! What wonder? For she had been raised in a family which was full of legends of war, and three quarters of her uncles and cousins had died fighting for the lost cause of the Confederacy.

  “He’s simply made a meeting place with Harry Main outside the valley,” said Mrs. Royal. “You couldn’t expect him to want to shed blood on my doorstep, Georgia dear.”

  There was a little silence, and then a voice broken with mingled grief and joy came ringing back: “Ali, why didn’t I think of that? But I’ve been wondering and terribly worried. Because I was afraid... afraid... oh, well, that’s all gone! I’ll never doubt again.”

  Mrs. Royal, left to herself, turned the problem for the thousandth time in her mind. Something led her up the stairs, and into the attic to those old boxes where the worn clothes of the family had been stored for years — not that there was ever much chance that they would be needed, but because Mrs. Royal was a woman of system and thrift. And, moreover, whenever she thought of giving the clothes away, something always held her back.

  She opened the box where Christopher’s things had been deposite
d. It seemed to her, as she lifted them out and looked them over, that it was not a mere collection of clothes, smelling of moth balls, but Christopher himself, resurrected and lying there, preserved in her memory. She could remember with an odd and unhappy distinctness how he looked in this blue sailor suit, that last day that his father saw him on this earth. What were the thoughts of that stern spirit now, as he looked down from the kingdom above and peered into the heart of the craven? Here was the first pair of long trousers that had made Christopher so inordinately proud. She could remember with what care he had always hitched them up at the knees before he sat down.

  None of her other sons had been able to appreciate the graces of society as Christopher had done. Not one of them had ever been so close to her. There had always been a feminine delicacy in the instincts of this lad that enabled him to look into her mind and know what she felt before she could express herself in words. And, when she looked forward to old age, it was always with the thought of Christopher as a son and as a friend to lean upon. The rest of the world was a dim thing in prospect, but Christopher’s gentle and wise heart was a vision of sunshine.

  Now he was gone. He was already worse than dead! She wished with a stern bitterness that she could have closed the book of her thoughts when he was in his second-and-twentieth year, say, the most admired and loved man that had ever ridden a horse down Royal Valley. Then there would have been in her heart, to the end of her days, a fixed worship of this gentle boy, a fixed belief in the great man that he might have become. But now he was gone, and her heart was filled with grief.

  She closed the box and hurried from the dimness of the attic, with the ghosts of her sad thoughts about her. In the brighter sunshine of her own room, new courage and a new idea came to her. Death itself, for Christopher, seemed to her no tragedy now. It was only the desire to let him die bravely, or at least where no third person might see his cowardice.

  She caught up a pen and paper and wrote hurriedly upon it:

  Dear Main: