Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  He turned in the saddle, to see the front ranks of the Comanches rush their horses at the water.

  There was no use wasting time firing. For every man he might kill, there were a hundred braves maddened by religious fury and bloodlust ready to take his place, and Thunder Moon leaned forward in the saddle and devoted all his efforts to bettering the pace of the little horse.

  It was a staunch pony, and yet the weight of its rider was great in the saddle, and as soon as the Comanches had crossed the stream, they began to gain rapidly on him. Looking back, he could see the pursuit drawing into a head, like the point of a lance, as the fastest horses gained the lead, and the rest of the Comanches followed as fast as they could. And as he looked ahead, marking the distance to the trees under which he had left his friends, he knew that he could never gain them in time. Moreover, was it to be expected that they would even wait for him when they saw this great horde of enemies thundering toward them?

  His despair turned to acute agony. For around a bend of the river before him came several charging horsemen. And now all retreat was cut off!

  However, his revolvers were ready and perhaps, even in the dimness of the starlight, he could blast his way through the riders just before him.

  He poised a gun in either hand. With a thrust of his heel, he sent the pony forward with racing speed. And then a familiar shout before him struck him to the heart with wonder and with joy.

  It was the voice of Yellow Wolf, calling. Aye, and the horses had legs too long to be Indian ponies. Those were his men. They had not shrunk from the danger. For his sake, they had rushed forward to meet it, and out of the soul of Thunder Moon there arose a great silent hymn of thanksgiving that Tarawa could have placed such warriors upon earth and given them to him for companions and for brothers!

  He shouted his answer with a ringing voice, and like so many birds wheeling in the wind, the troop of Cheyennes turned and fled up the river again. He was among them, already loose in the saddle.

  Young Hawk, leaned from the back of his own horse, threw the lead rope of Sunset to their chief. And Thunder Moon leaped tigerlike to the back of his great horse, while the Comanche pony, lightened of its burdensome load sprang lightly ahead of the other riders.

  One backward glance showed Thunder Moon the nearness of the flying Comanche peril. He saw it, and he set his teeth. For now, if they had magic horses, let their speed be shown for the sake of their dead medicine man, their captured arrows, and their lost god. Let them match strides against the long-legged chestnuts and the gods of Thunder Moon!

  Aye, the medicine of the Comanches was weak indeed. Not a minute passed before a despairing wail arose from the following host as they saw their quarry disappearing in the night before them. And every stride carried Thunder Moon and his men closer to safety, while he shouted to them:

  “There is nothing to fear. Their god is choked in the mud of the river-bottom! Their medicine arrows rattle on my shoulders. Their medicine man himself lies dead in their city. They are now like blind dogs, and their throats are offered to Cheyenne knives!”

  And a screech of exultation rose from the throats of his companions. Such things were to be dreamed of, hardly to be believed!

  There was nothing, after that, that really mattered, though there is much that could be told, and when the lodges of the Cheyennes were reached, at last, the companions of Thunder Moon did not dwell least upon the flight from the land of their enemies. For they were glad to tell how the first pursuit failed, and how, in the morning, they saw the white signals smoking in the sky behind them, and how a second band of Comanches rode across their way and were eluded in a stirring chase. And then, when the chestnuts were tired and gaunt, still a third great war party came full upon them. But the care which Thunder Moon had taken of his horses proved its worth, and even the third challenge was beaten off.

  Weary — very weary — but yet light-hearted with joy, the Cheyennes saw the peaked tops of their lodges rising before them, at last, and the great war trail was ended.

  And who could shake his head at Thunder Moon from that time forth because no scalps dried in his lodge? Not even Big Hard Face, hard as he was to please. For when he had such thoughts, he raised his head, and he looked at the medicine arrows of the Comanches hanging in his tepee, blackening in the smoke, growing brittle with misuse, as the fortunes of the Comanche nation would surely grow brittle also!

  The Mountain Fugitive (1927)

  CONTENTS

  I. LEON, MISCHIEF-MAKER

  II. THE FIRST LESSON

  III. ONE FORTNIGHT

  IV. A CHANCE MEETING

  V. FATHER M’GUIRE QUESTIONS

  VI. LEON’S APOLOGY

  VII. A BIT OF STRATEGY

  VIII. A PROPOSITION

  IX. STIGMA

  X. JAILED

  XI. “MIKE” O’ROURKE

  XII. A STOCKHOLDER

  XIII. SEEKING SHELTER

  XIV. A RUNNING START

  XV. IN HIDING

  XVI. THE SIGNAL

  XVII. STEVE LUCAS

  XVIII. CORNERING THE RAT

  XIX. TWO ENEMIES

  XX. ANDREW STARTS OUT

  XXI. APPEALING TO MIKE

  XXII. HOT WORDS

  XXIII. THE BIG SCRAP

  XXIV. IN CROTHERS CANYON

  XXV. TO KILL

  XXVI. THE FIGHT ENDS

  XXVII. GIVING HIMSELF UP

  I. LEON, MISCHIEF-MAKER

  I WAS NOT born upon Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, nor upon Thursday, or Saturday, I presume, because the blessings of those days are mixed; but I came into this world upon a Sunday. I was the only child of a butcher in the town of Mendez, in Arizona. His name was Leon Porfilo, and I was given the same appellation. My mother was Irish, of County Clare. I got my red hair from her and my olive skin from my father. He was not a Mexican. There had not been a cross into a Latin race for generations.

  My father was a cunning businessman. He had begun life as a common cowpuncher, and he had saved enough out of his monthly wages to finally buy out a butcher’s business in the town of Mendez. You have never heard of Mendez; for my part, I hope that I shall never lay eyes upon it again. It lies on a great flat of burned desert with a cool puff of mountains on the northern horizon, to which I turned my heart from my infancy.

  Whether in rare summer or bitter winter, heat or ice, sun or shade, give me mountains. I would not have any pleasantly rolling hills. I would have mountains that shoot the eye up to heaven one instant and drop it to hell the next. I would take my rides where the wild goats pasture, and roll down my blankets at night, where the sun will find me first in the whole world the next morning.

  But as for the desert, I cannot write the word without seeing the sun-scalded town of Mendez once more, and breathing the acrid clouds of alkali dust which were forever whirling through its streets. I cannot hear the word without an ache behind my eyes as I think of stretching a glance toward that million-mile horizon.

  It was a dull huddle of houses in which there lived a handful or two of men and women with sallow, withered faces — old at thirty and bowed at fifty. Even the dogs looked unhappy.

  I said that I was an only child, which implies that, although I was born on Sunday, I was cursed. An only child is either too good to be true, or a spoiled, pampered devil. I may admit that I was never too good to be true.

  My father had just sufficient means to make me wish that he had more. When I asked for a horse, he could give me a pony — and there you are! The more favors he showered on me, the more I hated him, because he did not give me what I craved. He, in the meantime, toiled like a slave.

  I rather despised him because he was such a slave.

  My mother was true Irish. She loved her religion, and she loved her son with an equally devout enthusiasm. She would have died for the one as readily as for the other. I soon learned her character as well as that of my father. I learned that I could coax anything from her and whine until I got what I wanted from him.


  They continued to consider me a blessing sent to them directly from heaven, until I grew big enough to convince the world that I was something else; and I convinced the world long before I convinced my parents.

  I was big-boned, square-jawed, and blunt-nosed; the very type to take punishment without feeling it and deal it out heavily in return. School meant to me nothing but a chance to battle, and the school yard was my tournament field. When the teachers complained about me, my lies at home more than offset their bad reports of me. I posed as a statue of injured virtue in my house.

  I went on in this way for a good many years, learning nothing but idle habits and loving nothing but my own way. I was fifteen when a turn came in my life.

  Young Wilkins, the son of a well-to-do rancher, came into town riding a fine young horse which his father had given him. Half an hour later I had picked a fight with him, thrashed him soundly, and taken the horse as a natural prize of victory. I did not intend to steal the brute, of course. But I intended to give it the ride of its life — and I did. I brought it back to Mendez a couple of hours later, staggering, foaming, and nearly dead. I found it a fine young colt; I left it a wrecked and heart-broken beast which was not worthy of its keep.

  Mr. Wilkins looked at the battered face of his son when he came home and said nothing; he felt in common with most Westerners that if their children could not take care of themselves they must accept the penalty. But when he saw the condition of the colt, he had another thought.

  He rode to the home of the sheriff and spoke his mind; and the sheriff rode to the home of my father and found him, in the late evening, just returned from his rounds and wearily unharnessing his fagged team.

  The upshot of it was that I did not go to jail, but my father had to buy the colt at a handsome price. That outlay of money was a severe tax, and the sight of the useless new horse in the corral every day was a continual goad to both of my parents. They began to inquire among their neighbors, and the moment these good people found that the doors were opened at last, and that Leon Porfilo, the elder, was willing to hear the truth about his offspring, they unburdened themselves of a thousand truths about me. I was described as a lazy ne’er-do-well, a consummate idler, a stupid bully, a foolish student, and a professional mischief-maker in the town.

  “The hangman usually gets youngsters that start out like this!” said the most outspoken of all.

  My father came home to my mother and told her everything. There was a storm of tears and of protests; and then my mother sent for the priest. He listened to her patiently. He did not offer to advise her; he did not corroborate the reports of the loose-tongued neighbors; but he said, when she asked him what she could do with me:

  “Give young Leon to me for six months. I shall guarantee to teach him his lessons, reform his manners in part, and give him a certain measure of industry.”

  My mother was enraptured.

  “But,” continued Father McGuire, “I shall expect a return for these services.”

  My mother told him that he could ask whatever he wanted, and that Leon Porfilo would be glad to pay.

  “I do not want a penny,” said Father McGuire. “If I cannot make that young man pay for his lessons and his keep and the trouble I am forced to expend on him, my name is not McGuire! Only, I insist that I shall have absolute and unquestioned charge of him from the first day to the end of six months. During that time you are not to lay eyes upon him.

  “At the end of that time, you may see him, and if you like his progress and what he will have to tell you about me and my methods of teaching, you may leave him in my hands for a longer time. If you do not like my way with him, you may have him back, and I shall wash my hands of the matter.”

  This was a great thing to ask of my mother. I am certain that she could not have consented had it not been that she could not understand the priest’s reasons for wishing to take me on such unusual terms. Because what he demanded was a mystery, it overcame any possible objections on the part of either of my parents. Finally, they asked me if I were willing to go to the priest’s house and to live with him.

  I considered my picture of the priest’s life, his comfortable little house, his neat garden filled with well-watered, well-tended flowers, his sheds, always freshly painted, his larder always well-filled with good cookery, and above all the thin, patient, weary face of little Father McGuire himself. A sense of my own bulk overwhelmed me. Any change would have been delightful to me.

  I consented at once, and the next day my clothes and books, my whole list of possessions down to my latest fishing rod, were bundled together, and I was sent away to the house of Father McGuire.

  I was let into the house by the old servant, a half blind woman who had worked for so many years in that house that she found her way about more by the sense of touch than anything else, I am sure. The sight of her was satisfactory to me. I decided that it would be a simple matter for me to hoodwink her at every turn. She told me that Father McGuire half expected me and that, since he was away making the rounds of his parish — for he was an indefatigable worker for his church — I was to make myself at home and spend the day becoming accustomed to the place and all that was in it.

  In the meantime she showed me my room.

  I was delighted with it. It was not half so large as my chamber at home. It was in the second story of the little building, and it had a tiny dormer window which looked to the north, but all was as neat as a pin, the floor was freshly painted, the bed was newly made and covered with a crisp white spread, and past the window ran the delicate tendrils of the only successfully raised climbing vine that had ever graced the town of Mendez.

  There was a small cupboard where I could put away my gear and my books — the books which I intended to keep as much strangers to me as they had ever been in the past. There was a closet where I hung out my clothes, and then I made a survey of the house and the grounds.

  The house itself lay on the edge of the town, near the church. Its grounds were as small, comparatively, as the house in which the good priest lived. In a land where acres could be had almost for the asking, the priest had contented himself with a tiny plot which included room for a flower garden around the house and a vegetable patch behind it, then a wood and cattle shed, and finally a pasture just large enough to maintain the one musty-looking old pony and the cow, which was a comfortable brindle.

  My first amusement was to whistle to a passing dog and set it on the cow, and I laughed until my sides ached at the manner in which she went hurtling around the lot, tossing her horns, helpless, with her great udder swinging from side to side.

  Then, when I was satisfied with this amusement, I strolled back to the house and, passing the open kitchen window, purloined a delicate blackberry tart which was cooling on the sill.

  II. THE FIRST LESSON

  ALL THE REST of that day went as pleasantly as the commencement of it, and in the evening, almost at as late an hour as my father returned from his rounds, the priest came wearily home to the house. He greeted me with a smile and a firm handshake with such strength in it that I wondered at him. For he seemed to have a most athletic hand!

  We sat down to supper together, and while we ate he talked with me and asked me little questions about myself and what I intended to do with my life.

  “I believe,” said the good priest, “that after a boy has reached a certain age, he should be allowed to do as he pleases with his life. In the meantime, I should like to find out what you now please to do with yourself.”

  I told him, glad to talk of myself, that I intended to grow larger and stronger, and that I then intended to look about me and find a place where one did not have to work too much in the hot sun. Indoor work would suit me.

  “You wish to become a student, then?” suggested Father McGuire.

  I admitted that books were extremely distasteful to me, and that I did not desire to have any intimate knowledge of them, whatsoever.

  There was no more talk on these subjects. F
ather McGuire turned his attention to other things. He declared that he had heard a great deal about my fights with other boys, and he particularly mentioned a few recent instances. I admitted sullenly that I had fought occasionally, and that I hoped that I would soon get over that bad habit.

  “By no means,” said Father McGuire, who seemed to have recovered from his languor of weariness. “By no means! Those men whom I most admire in this world are the saints who bless it with their gentleness. But they are very few.” Here he sighed.

  “I have seen only two or three in all my life. But next to the saints, I love the warriors, of which there are always a fair number — I mean the true hearts of oak who will fight until the ship sinks! Perhaps you are to be one of those, Leon!”

  It was a thrilling possibility — when I heard him speak of it in this manner. I began to regard myself as a great man, and when that pleasant evening ended, I went to bed and to sleep without the slightest regret that I was not in the house of my parents. I decided that Father McGuire would never thwart a single one of my wishes.

  In the morning, a full three hours before my ordinary time of waking — which was eight — I heard a brisk rap at the door, and the cheerful voice of Father McGuire in the hall, telling me that it was time to get up.

  “Get up?” said I, sitting up in the bed and blinking at the dull gray of the sky outside my window, “why, it’s the middle of night.”

  He told me that he had some good news for me; and that brought me out of bed in a twinkling. In an instant I had leaped into my clothes, and I was standing before him in the hall.