by Max Brand
I was in the high country before the next dawn, and there I spent four long weeks, never going out farther than to find game. Roanoke grew fat and lazy. My wounds healed. Only a scar was left, red and angry, beside my right eye, and another over the left cheek, where I had felt the full force of one of Andrew’s terrible blows, splitting the flesh away to the bone.
It was the lowest ebb of my entire life. Sharp summer storms were combing those heights, and with the howling of the wind around me I used to sit hour by hour and ponder my life as it had been and as it was apt to be.
I could see no joy before me. There seemed no purpose in an existence like mine, with my hand against all men and the hands of all other men against me.
So, at the end of those two dreary fortnights, I saddled tough Roanoke again and rode him north toward the house of Sheriff Lawton. It was such a storm as on that first night, two years and more before, when I had first reached his place and had entered it blindly to seek shelter. The cold of the wind made the newly closed scars on my face ache. Pain of the body was nothing to me then, however.
What made me cache Roanoke among the trees near the house I don’t know, when I fully expected that I should never have a use for him again. But there, at any rate, I left him.
I went up to the front door of the sheriff’s house. There was a sharp burst of laughter just as I came, and I felt, somehow, that society was having its mirth at my expense. Well, I was worth laughter, in my own eyes, as well as those of any other man.
I knocked heavily at the door and waited. It was opened by the sheriff himself. I heard him draw his breath through his teeth with a hissing sound, as he reached for his gun.
“There’s no need of that, Lawton,” said I. “I’ve come to give myself up. I’m tired of the game!”
He hung over me for a moment, studying me and saying never a word. Then he stepped outside into the night with me and closed the door behind him.
“You foller me,” said Lawton, and led the way around the house to a side door, and through that door into his own room.
“Wait here,” said he, and went out to speak to the others.
I could hear their voices raised in good-natured protest. These neighbors of his had ridden too far to relish a sudden end to the evening’s entertainment. However, presently they were cleared out. Lawton appeared at the door of his room and beckoned me out into the living room, where I found the wreaths of tobacco smoke still hanging in the air.
The sheriff pointed to a chair by the stove. But I preferred to walk up and down the room, talking as I went.
“I’m through, Lawton,” said I. “I’m finished. I’ve come in to”
“Wait a minute,” said the sheriff. “Take your time. There ain’t anything gained by r’arin’ around like this! Take your time. Lemme know what doctor sewed you all up? They said that Chase cut you up like he’d used a knife!”
In place of answering I asked, with a faint flare of interest: “Where is Chase?”
“In bed at the O’Rourke house,” said the sheriff. He grinned in spite of himself.
“In bed!” cried I. “Still? What was wrong with him?”
“What was wrong with him?” murmured Lawton. “Aw, nothin’ in particular. Any full-growed, man-sized man ought to of throwed off what was botherin’ him. Except that the broken jawbone, it didn’t knit any too quick. I guess because he was tryin’ to talk too much.”
“Broken jawbone?”
“I aim to guess that you’re sort of surprised,” said the sheriff with a deep sarcasm. “You figgered that you was just playin’ around and sort of shadow boxin’, I suppose — not really hittin’ in earnest. But maybe Andrew’s bones is sort of brittle. Because he’s been troubled a mite with a pair of busted ribs, too.”
“I don’t believe it!” cried I.
“Most likely you don’t,” said he, “seein’ as all you was doin’ was sort of huggin’ him a little by way of brotherly love. What? But that’s what happened, just the same. Besides, his innards was shook pretty general, and the doctor figgers that another month in bed ain’t gonna be any too much for him. That’s the latest report that come up this way. His fever is gone, though.”
It would have stretched any credulity to have felt that the results of the few solid blows I landed upon Andrew could have been so terrible. But I think that grief and rage worked together in me that night and turned me into more of a devil than a man.
The sheriff went on, as I mused:
“He was shook up so bad, as a matter of fact, that he talked a pile while he was delirious. Seems that he talked too much, in fact. When he gets onto his feet I dunno but that he may have to do a little talkin’ in front of a judge and a jury!”
I gaped in earnest this time. “A jury? Andrew Chase? What the devil has he done?”
“Him?” murmured Lawton. “Why, hardly anything. He just played a quiet little sort of a joke one day. It didn’t amount to nothin’. He just opened up and told about how he bought up the services of a gent named Niginski to go gunning for a thick-headed kid down in Mendez by the name of — lemme see — Porfilo was the name — maybe a greaser, by the sound of that name!”
His glance twinkled at me. I was too happy to take fire at the “greaser” implication.
“Lawton,” I said, “then I’m clear! They’ve taken the whole thing off my head, and I’m a free man! Now I thank the Lord that”
“Free?” said he.
“Why not?”
“There’s the killing of Crane and Rudy Brown.”
“Professional gun fighters, as every one in the mountains knows — with more murders on their records”
“What does that matter? They weren’t in jail — they weren’t accused of nothing! They were hunting an outlaw by the name of Leon Porfilo, who resisted arrest and shot ’em down!”
I merely groaned. Then: “No jury would ever convict me for such things!” said I.
“D’you think so? Don’t bank on it, though. Some juries are hard-boiled, I tell you! Particularly they’re sort of set against burglary and the busting into of honest folks’ houses.”
“You mean the Ricks brothers? They were sheltering a bank robber, sheriff. You know that!”
“Were they? Did that give you — a dog-gone outlaw — the right to smash in on ’em? Did you have a warrant for an arrest, maybe? Did you have a warrant for assaultin’ and batterin’ three kindhearted gents sittin’ peaceful around their fire?”
“Lawton, you’re joking.”
“I hope I am,” said Lawton with a wonderful kindness. “I hope I am, son. There’s nothing I’d rather have than to see you clear. But you’ve raised a pretty high smoke in your day. You’ve made a name that’s been hot as hell in these parts. You’ve made enough trouble to get the governor worried and made him burn up the wires talkin’ to his sheriffs and tellin’ them what he thinks of the way they get crooks in the mountains. For two years you’ve lived and lived high off of stolen money!”
“Money that other crooks stole and, that I took out of their pockets. I’ve never taken a penny from an honest man. I can prove that, too!”
“No matter who took it first, you did the spending of money that didn’t belong to you.”
“Will they look at it like that?” said I faintly. “Well, I’ll go down and face the music.”
“I don’t know how they’ll look at it,” said the sheriff as kindly as ever. “You’d be surprised at what a lot of fool talk there is goin’ around about you since it was found out that that yaller cur, Chase, double-crossed you and put the blame of the murder of Niginski on your head. There’s some that don’t do nothin’ but hike around the country makin’ speeches to the boys about you.
“There’s old Cam Tucker. He’s makin’ himself plum ridiculous the way he carries on. Accordin’ to him, he never knowed but one real honest man in his life, and that man goes by the name of the outlaw, Leon Porfilo. There’s others near as bad, includin’ a sheriff that I could name,” he concl
uded, “that’s spent a lot of hossflesh and cussin’, in his day, tryin’ to nab you.”
“God bless you, Lawton,” said I.
“But now,” said the sheriff, “what you’re gonna do is to lie low and wait for advice. We’re gonna see what the governor might do in the way of a pardon. Yes, sir, we’re gonna try to clear you up pretty fine. In the meantime I refuse to make this here arrest, partly because you ain’t of age, and partly because you ain’t showed good sense in comin’ down to tempt an old, broken-down man like Sheriff Lawton. Now get the devil out of here and wait till I send for you!”
I went, dizzy, but happy.
THE END
The Mustang Herder (1927)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE DECISION
CHAPTER II. IN MUNSON
CHAPTER III. SAMMY’S BIG IDEA
CHAPTER IV. THE HERD
CHAPTER V. STOLEN HORSES
CHAPTER VI. NO LAW
CHAPTER VII. RENDELL’S ADVICE
CHAPTER VIII. THE SECOND HERD
CHAPTER IX. MORE HARD LUCK
CHAPTER X. FOR HELP
CHAPTER XI. A TRAMP’S JUNGLE
CHAPTER XII. CLANCY
CHAPTER XIII. SAMMY RETURNS
CHAPTER XIV. ANOTHER IDEA
CHAPTER XV. A THREAT
CHAPTER XVI. THE STAGE LINE
CHAPTER XVII. THE FIRST TRIP
CHAPTER XVIII. THE HOLDUP
CHAPTER XIX. DOWN ON HIS LUCK
CHAPTER XX. A TALK WITH JEREMY
CHAPTER XXI. THE FIGHT
CHAPTER XXII. MAJOR’S PLAN
CHAPTER XXIII. ANNE GOES EAST
CHAPTER XXIV. TORTURE BY FIRE
CHAPTER XXV. ANNE TAKES CHARGE
CHAPTER XXVI. SAMMY’S SOLUTION
CHAPTER XXVII. ON THE TRAIL
CHAPTER XXVIII. FACING FURNESS
CHAPTER XXIX. SAMMY A HERO
CHAPTER I. THE DECISION
SOMEONE WHO KNEW what he was talking about said that no man should go into the West, the real frontier West, that is, unless he was capable of inspiring some measure of awe. Perhaps by his personal dignity, which is, after all, the best way of keeping a man out of trouble. Or through physical strength or mere size, or by dauntless power of eye, or through fighting skill — any or all of these attributes would be most serviceable. But Sammy Gregg did not have any of them.
He wasn’t a whit more than eight inches above five feet, and he did not even stand straight enough to take advantage of all of those meager inches. He walked with a slight stoop, as a rule, leaning over like a man about to start from a walk to a run. He looked as though he were always in a hurry, and as a matter of fact, he usually was. His weight was about a hundred and thirty pounds, or a trifle more in winter, and a little less when the hot weather of the summer began to set in. It was not tough, well-seasoned muscle, either. It was quite flabby. And he had small bones, and little, narrow, nervous hands.
His eyes were pale, and rather near-sighted, so that he had a half- frightened look, when it wasn’t simply wistfully inquiring. His pale forehead was constantly contorted with a frown, which was not a frown of bad temper, but of eagerness.
The only truly remarkable thing about Sammy, indeed, was that same eagerness. Like the eagerness of a hunting ferret, if you can imagine a ferret without teeth! But one felt about Sammy a vast earnestness, rooted as deep as the roots of his soul, a singular intentness in which he was absorbed.
That was the secret of the bigness that was in Sammy; for some bigness there was. The trouble was, the West and the people of the West were not fitted for understanding this small man.
I suppose, for that matter, that he was a rarity in almost any climate. He had the simplicity of a child mixed oddly with some of the guile of a serpent, I am afraid. It was always very hard to understand Sammy. I, for one, never could pretend to hold the key to his complex nature. I can only describe him as he was.
In the first place, he did not come West to raise cattle nor horses, nor to ride herd on the cow range, nor to dig gold for himself nor any other, nor to start up as a storekeeper in one of the new towns.
He came West with five thousand dollars in his pockets and a desire to invest it! Choice he had none. He was ready for anything out of which he might make money.
You will think that he would have been wiser to sink that sum of money in a bank rather than expose it naked to the air of that climate where gold turned so quickly to bloody rust! But I must add one more thing to my characterization of Sammy Gregg. He was not afraid. There was no fear in him. Fear did not interest Sammy, but dollars did!
Not from a blind love of coin, either. The impelling motive was love for a girl who kept house for an uncle in a Brooklyn flat and waited for word from Sammy from the wilderness. Sammy had found the lady of his heart long before he ever got on the train which brought him to Munson.
Oh, unromantic Sammy! He had fallen in love with her not suddenly, and not from any exciting meeting, but simply because this fair-haired girl had been known to him during his entire life. She had grown up in the backyard next to his. He had made faces at her when he was five years old, peering at her through a hole in the board fence; and that day she ran crying into her house for fear of him. Afterward, he walked to school with her at his side, regardless of the other boys who pointed their fingers at him.
Sammy had no time for the opinions of outsiders. If you consider it from the most logical point of view, you will see that we indulge ourselves in a luxury when we spend energy to conciliate the good will of our neighbors. And Sammy never had any extra strength to spend. He was not, in short, interested in public opinion; and that was why he was such an oddity as I, for one, have never seen the like of.
I should not say that Sammy loved Susie with a devouring passion as he grew up. But she was a part of his life. He cared for her as he cared for himself, I might say. He had admitted her into his life, and she had grown into it like a graft into the trunk of a tree. He thought of her as often as he thought of himself. And if he were not passionately unhappy when he was away from her, he was certainly worried and irritated and confused and ill at ease. When he was at her side, he did not want to kiss her or fondle her or say foolish things to her, or even hold her hand. But he was satisfied, as a cow is satisfied when it is in its own pasture, near its own red barn.
So he saved and scraped and lived cheaply and labored earnestly at his jobs. He was out of school at fifteen, and he was constantly contributing to the savings bank on the first of every month until one day in his twenty-fifth year when he had a little talk with Susie Mitchell.
“When are we to be married?” asked Susie.
“Oh, some day,” said Sammy. “When I get enough money to live on right.”
“I’m twenty-five, the same as you,” said Susie. “That’s not so young!”
He looked askance at her in wonder. But her pretty face was very grave and her blue eyes — as pale and gentle as his own — were fixed firmly upon his face.
“Besides, said Susie, “I don’t go in for style. You know that. I don’t mind working. I don’t mind a small house to live in. I don’t aim much higher than what my mother got when she married. But I think that it’s time we married, and had some children, and things like that. Jiminy, Sammy, you’ve got a lot more than most young fellows have! And look what a swell salary you get, fifteen a week. A regular position, I call it, down there at the paper mill, where you’ll be raised, too, after four or five years more. The manager certainly told you about that himself.”
Mind you, this was long before the day when carpenters got as much a day as Sammy worked for in a week. In the time of which I write, sixty dollars a month was enough for an “office” man, with many other men under him, assistants, and all that. Those were the days when the boys pointed out the man who lived in the big corner house, because it was said that he got a hundred and a quarter a month!
So sixty dollars was quite a bit, but it was not enough for S
ammy. He said, “Let me have a chance to think this over.” Then he went away and reviewed his position.
In the first place, he had to marry Susie, there was no doubt about that. And he had to marry her quick. He would as soon dream of going on through life without her as he would dream of going on through life without a leg or without two legs! Susie was simply a part of his spirit and of his flesh, too. But he was afraid of marriage. He had seen other youths attempt marriage, and he had seen children and accompanying doctor bills and ill health break down their savings, ruin their nerves, keep them awake with worry, and fill their lives with gloom.
Sammy would not stand the chance of such a disaster, because he knew his own strength, and he knew that it could not endure through sleepless nights. He felt that he could never marry unless he could marry comfortably. And he had established as a goal a sum of fifteen thousand dollars. With that amount working for him at interest, he would be safe. Even if he lost his health, he could support his family on that same interest until he was well again. Fifteen thousand dollars, a goal still ten thousand dollars away, and Susie wanted to get married.
He came back to Susie. He said, “I am going away for six months. Will you wait that long?”
“Going away!” cried Susie.
“To make ten thousand dollars!”
Susie laughed, at first. But when she saw that he was in earnest, she was filled with a sort of religious awe. It seemed hardly moral and decent for a young fellow to speak of hoping to make ten thousand dollars in a mere half year! It had never been done in her family. It made her almost think of enchantment, certainly it made her think very strongly of crime!
She could almost see her little Sammy Gregg with a black mask tied across the bridge of his nose and a stub-nosed revolver clutched in his hand stealing up behind the back of some florid banker! She could almost see it, and the thing gave her a shock of horror.
“Don’t go, Sammy!” she breathed to him. “Don’t go, Sammy!”