Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

“Maybe you’ll be—”

  “Lew, drop that gun!”

  “Why, darn your heart!”

  “Hello!” called the sleepy voice from beneath the tree. “Bring him back here. You can’t whack up square. You have to snarl like a lot of starved dogs over one bone. Bring him back here!”

  Sullenly, but submitting to an authority too great for them to resist, Lew and Steve led Sammy Gregg back before the chief, and Sammy saw stepping forth from the shadows of the tree a person no other than his quondam beggar and minstrel of Munson; his gambler par excellence, Jeremy Major.

  Jeremy Major recognized him! Aye, at the moment, that was the thing of importance. He did not hesitate an instant, but stepping forward he caught the hand of Sammy and shook it heartily.

  “Were you hunting for me?” he asked. “And so you ran into this crowd?”

  “The devil!” muttered Steve. “He’s a pal of the chief!”

  The chief had not waited for any explanation. His voice had an edge like a rasp as he turned to the two captors.

  “Everything!” he commanded sharply. “Tumble it all out and lay it in that coat of mine. And if he misses anything, I’ll come after you and let you know about it!”

  So, to the utter amazement of Sammy, nearly three hundred dollars in coin was scrupulously counted out before this odd leader, and on top of the other pile of loot, finally the two long Colts were laid, one across the other.

  “Is that all?” asked the chief.

  “That’s everything,” said Sammy.

  “Nothing else that you want?”

  “A chance to go on my way for help, that’s all,” said Sammy.

  “Sit down, then,” pleaded Jeremy Major. “Sit down and let me hear about it. Because, old-timer, I owe you money, and just now I’m broke.”

  Broke!

  Sammy remembered the heaps and heaps of chips which had been stacked before the place of Jeremy Major not so many weeks before, and every chip had meant gold in that million-dollar game! Where had it gone? Suddenly it seemed to Sammy that his own affairs and his own losses were too small for even a pygmy to consider with interest.

  CHAPTER XII. CLANCY

  “COME,” SAID JEREMY Major. “Sit down here with me, if you please, and let me hear the story. You were throwing away ten-dollar gold pieces when I last saw you, and now you seem rather down on your luck. What’s happened?”

  He had waved away the others. And the knaves retired grumbling and mumbling to sit in corners of the glade and glower savagely at their chief and his friend. Only the horse of Sammy was left standing near them, and the tall mare, glad of the good forage here, began to crop the shade-nourished grasses.

  There Sammy told his story. He put in everything, because his companion seemed bent upon hearing every scruple of the tale. He told of the first adventure, and the loss of the horses at Munson, and the encounter with Mr. Cumnor, and what the tall and handsome Mr. Furness had had to say.

  He went on with the tale of the second disastrous expedition, the storm, and the regathering of the scattered herd, and the new stampede which had broken the spirit of himself and his two staunch allies.

  Jeremy Major listened to this tale with a wandering eye which often roved above the head of his friend and rested on the branches of the great pine above them, as though he were more interested, by far, in the squirrel which scampered there than in the words of Sammy Gregg.

  “So,” said Sammy, “I have told you the whole story, because you asked for it. And now I’ll ride on into the town to get another pair of punchers to help us out, if I can.”

  He stood up, and Jeremy shook his head.

  “But look here,” said Jeremy, “I don’t see that five men will have a better chance to head that wild herd than three would have. It seems to me that what you need is a fast horse that can carry a rider around the herd faster than they can run away from him.”

  Sammy Gregg smiled a wan smile. “That mare,” said he, “is about as fast as any horse you could get. But she can’t head the mustangs unless she’s within a few yards of the head of them at the start of their run. And even when she does get in front of them, they simply try to run her down.”

  “Well,” murmured Jeremy sympathetically, “I’ll show you a horse that they won’t run down. Hello, Clancy! Come here, you fat, worthless loafer, and let the gentleman see you. Hey, Clancy!”

  In answer to this somewhat peevish call a glimmering black form slid out from the shadows and stood before Sammy Gregg with an inquisitive eye upon his master. And the sunlight scattering through the branches of the tree tossed a random pattern of brightest, deepest gold over the black satin of the stallion’s coat.

  Sammy Gregg, who was only beginning to know enough about horses to form a picture in his mind of an ideal — Sammy Gregg, staring at this black monster with a new vision, understood why the stallion as he stood could be worth more than the value of all the four hundred wild mustangs which had been driven to him across the Rio Grande, worth more than the four hundred could ever fetch if they were delivered even in far-off Crumbock, where the labor of the mines used up horseflesh hungrily every day.

  “I’m going to ride back with you,” said Jeremy Major, “and try to help you to drive those mustangs north. Not that I’m much of a fellow when it comes to handling mustangs. But Clancy, here, is. He has a way of handling them that would surprise you.”

  “Partner,” said Sammy, filled with awe, “I can’t afford to pay you what you’re worth!”

  “Thirty a month,” said Jeremy Major, “will do for me. You start on out of the ravine, and I’ll catch up with you. I have to say a few words to the boys before I leave them!”

  Sammy obeyed gladly enough, and with every step that the tall mare struggled up the side of the ravine, it seemed to Sammy that his heart was raised that much higher in hope. So he came to the level going above and let the mare canter briskly away. Back there toward the south, Gonzalez and Pedro were doing their best to come on traces of the herd. How long would it be before the rider of the black horse arrived?

  A scant half hour, and here he was, swinging across the plain beside him. And how lazily the big black went! Now there is a peculiar vanity in every man which makes him think that the horse he is riding can run a little faster than any other horse in the world, at least for a little distance. And Sammy, who had felt the tall mare take wings under him more than once, could not help slackening the reins a little. She stretched away at close to full speed instantly.

  “We might as well travel while we have a good surface without prairie-dog holes, you know!” said Sammy by way of explanation, and he turned to look back at the rider of the stallion. No, here was the black horse at his side. Galloping how easily — no, simply floating along, windblown, above the ground. For each of those tremendous bounds advanced the big animal the length of a long room, and yet he seemed merely to flick the ground with his toes in passing.

  There was no lurch of straining shoulders. There was no pounding of hooves. But like a racing shadow the monster flew across the plain. Not freely, either, but with the hand of the master fixed on the reins, and keeping a stiff grip upon the stallion’s head, lest he might rocket away toward the horizon and leave the poor mare hopelessly and foolishly behind him.

  Sammy was in deep chagrin. But joy took the place of shame at once. How would this black giant round up the herd of the flying mustangs when they attempted to scatter away across the plains? Aye, there was not long to wait for that!

  They reached Pedro and Gonzalez in another hour or so, the mare foaming with her effort, the black untouched by his gallop. And Sammy saw the cunning eyes of the Mexicans flash wide in a stare of wonder as they surveyed Clancy.

  They had a hot trail by this time, and by mid-afternoon, they sighted the herd, or at least a wing of it. Clancy was off at once. No fencing about to slip past them. He ran straight up on them, and while the three other riders pounded along far, far to the rear, vainly striving to keep up, they saw Jer
emy Major go crashing through the herd.

  “But now that he is in front of them, what will he do, one man!” suggested Gonzalez darkly. For Gonzalez knew horses, and particularly Gonzalez knew that herd.

  He was answered quickly enough. They saw the mustangs bunch rapidly together, while the shining stallion glimmered back and forth before them like a waved sword.

  That whole section of the herd abruptly turned and headed north again, and it had been managed in a trice, all in a trice! And only one sound had come to the ears of the rearward three as, in wonder, they spurred to the side to clear the path for the truant ponies, and that sound was the high-pitched neigh of an angry stallion!

  “Do you hear?” gasped Gonzalez. “He makes his horse talk to them! Who is this man?”

  That was not all. Through the rest of the afternoon the black horse and his rider ranged freely toward the south and east, and while Sammy and Pedro strove to steady the redeemed portion of the herd toward the north, Gonzalez dropped to the rear to pick up the sections of tired ponies as Jeremy Major sent them flying in with the stormy neighing of the black horse ringing in their rear. The whole assembly was completed by the dusk. They counted heads, then, and found that the last stampede had cost them forty mustangs. Still there were two hundred and fifty ponies to take north, and at a good price all might still be well with Sammy Gregg.

  Except that the time was pressing, and the end of six months drew daily closer and closer!

  But the daily drive became a different thing, after this. A thunderstorm caught them on the very next morning, but when the herd strove to race westward away from the flying rain, away from the ripping lightning, the black stallion was before them, ranging swiftly back and forth. And much as the herd might dread the wrath of the elements, they seemed to dread the wrath of Clancy even more. For presently their flight was checked, and they turned cringingly back to face the wind-driven rain.

  “This thing,” said Gonzalez somberly, “was never seen before! And I think that we shall never see it again. See how the black devil goes for them — hello! He had taken the head off that one!”

  This as a fine, cream-colored horse showed a nasty pair of heels at the head of Clancy. But only to have the black bound up with him, and take him by the arched crest of the neck in his teeth, and shake him as a cat shakes a rat. The frightened pony screamed with pain and terror, and his cry made the last of the rebels turn shuddering into the rain. They knew their master and his handiwork now!

  “And yet,” said Gonzalez, “I have seen the same thing. Now that I remember, I have seen a stallion turn his herd straight back into a sandstorm to get them away from the danger of men that lay in front. But those were wild horses. And this, it is very strange!”

  “But beautiful!” said Pedro. “He has saved us two hundred miles of riding, this morning with his work!”

  Aye, and the next day they saw the black stallion drive two hundred and fifty terrified mustangs straight at the railroad track, even while a train of cars was thundering across the desert.

  What time they made across the rest of the desert, and then over the foothills, while the mountains turned from blue to brown before them!

  “If we pass Munson with no trouble,” suggested Sammy. “But I think that that is the chief place of the horse thieves.”

  “We’ll do our best,” said Jeremy Major. “But they’re not human if they herd away. A quarter of a thousand mustangs, and prime good ones, too!”

  They did attempt it. But Sammy and the two Mexicans saw little of the effort. They only knew that it was made in full daylight by half a dozen masked men. They saw, from the rear, how the riders came storming down a ravine which they filled with their shouting. Only the black stallion was near enough to check them, and to the bewilderment of Sammy and his two Mexicans, Jeremy Major charged straight at the enemy, gun in hand, a bullet for every stride of the black horse. Then one of the strangers ducked sharply over his saddle horn. They saw another slide sidewise to the ground. And then the rest whirled and rushed away for safety toward the head of the mountains.

  CHAPTER XIII. SAMMY RETURNS

  THE FALLEN MAN was not dead. But he had a broken shoulder from the fall and a bullet through the base of his neck, breaking the collar bone. Altogether, it was a nasty mess. They could not take him forty-five miles to Munson. They could not remain with him until the wounds were healed.

  “We’ll give you your choice,” said Sammy Gregg to him sternly. “Tell me who was leading that gang and you go free, old son. And we leave you enough chuck, besides, to keep you going here until your pals come back for you. But if you won’t tell, you can stay here and starve!”

  The fellow had the assurance to laugh in their faces, as though he knew well enough that they could not be as good as their promises.

  “I’ll tell you what, though,” said he. “The gent that leads the gang is man enough to make the lot of you sweat for what you’ve done today.”

  And Sammy Gregg snapped at him: “Is his name Chester O. Furness?”

  The eyes of the wounded man widened. “Are you crazy?” he gasped. “But I’ve talked enough, and you get no more out of me!”

  They left him enough provisions to see him through, of course, but they did it grudgingly, and then they started on for the last and most arduous part of the trail, the final hundred miles to the Crumbock Mines.

  They had two hundred and forty-five mustangs when they began that climb. They reached the mines with two hundred and twenty-eight.

  But though they were gaunt of belly now, oh how they were needed at the mines!

  The very news of the coming of the herd was enough to cause a welcome to pour out in advance.

  Half a dozen eager buyers found Sammy on the way down the hillside, and when they heard that the price was seventy-five dollars a head, he found his sales so swift that by the time he got to the bottom of the gulch, he was minus a hundred head of live stock and seventy-five hundred dollars in pocket.

  “Buck up that price to eight-five dollars a throw,” advised Jeremy Major. And the thing was done.

  But it made no difference. Teamsters were clearing enough in a single round trip to pay for horses and wagons and all, and leave a neat little wad of money over and above. What difference did ten dollars a head make to them?

  There was counted into the hungry hand of Sammy, eighteen thousand two hundred and eighty dollars. It was a golden dream to Sammy, a golden dream edged with a crimson joy. He took sixteen thousand dollars. One thousand for “expenses” and fifteen thousand to redeem his promise to Susie Mitchell. He gave the remaining two thousand and the odd hundreds to Jeremy Major, to be divided as he saw fit, to himself and the two Mexicans. And he did not remain long enough to see Jeremy Major split the pot in two equal parts and present it to wonder-stricken Gonzalez and the awed Pedro. He did not wait to see these things, for south, south, south was the railroad which would carry him to the house of his bride!

  He crossed the terrible mountains to Munson in three short days, but in doing so he well-nigh ruined the tall mare. She was a staggering wreck when he rode her to the station. And when the station agent barked on the leanness of the poor creature, he was astonished to receive the mare and saddle and bridle and two good Colts which occupied the holsters, as a present from Sammy. For, with a ticket in his pocket, what more could Sammy wish? There were twelve days to the end of his contract time. And in only ten days the train was due in New York. Only ten days!

  There was one letter at the post office from Susie — a very brief and unhappy letter that said: “I haven’t had a letter from you in a month. What has happened? Write at once!”

  If she could only know what had happened to him! He was no artist to tell her how the gun in the hand of big Cumnor had looked him in the eye. In fact, the best that he could do would be to hint at a few things and let Susie guess the rest, and, after all, she was usually a pretty good hand at guessing close to the truth.

  Trains of those days were
not the trains of the twentieth century. But when Sammy walked the streets of New York again, there was still thirty-six hours between him and his time limit. He had not wired nor written from the West, because he felt that he might as well give himself the small extra reward of surprising Susie.

  Horse and cab could not rattle him over the streets fast enough. And so he saw the cab turn down the familiar street. He dismissed it two blocks away. He wanted to walk to steady his nerves a little. He wanted to drink in the familiar sights. Who but a returned wanderer could have guessed with what joy he would notice that the Murphy house on the corner had been recently painted. With what a sense of pain he observed that the tall elm trees in front of Mr. Holden’s place had been cut down. They had long been ailing!

  There, poised on the top of the back fence of Mr. Jones, was the same brindled cat which, two years before, had made itself famous by biting and scratching a fat bulldog until the poor dog ran for help! It looked as lean and as formidable as ever as it turned its big yellow eyes upon Sammy.

  All of these little details were mysteriously comforting, because each of them added a touch which helped to assure him that he was indeed home at last! How far, far away the West was, and how barren, and how bold, and how filled with wicked, brazen men!

  He turned up the steps of the Mitchell house. He was almost loath to arrive there so soon, for there had been such happiness in the stroll down the old street that he would willingly have extended it another mile in length.

  However, here he was. The meal, prosaically speaking, was finished, and only the dessert remained to be eaten. Only Susie to take in his arms! And it filled him with wonder, now, when he recalled that he had never taken Susie in his arms before this day! Not in both arms, strongly, as he meant to do today.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Mitchell loomed broad and low in the doorway, like an overloaded barge in a narrow canal.

  “Heaven save us!” cried Mrs. Mitchell. “You ain’t little Sammy Gregg!”