by Max Brand
“By God, he don’t know even Fitz Eagan!” said the whisper of the crowd.
“I’m Fitzgerald Eagan. I seen this rat of a Doc Mentor about to clean you. That’s all! I don’t like to see a good man go with a crooked shuffle of the cards!”
“I want to shake your hand,” said the boy.
He found the hand of Fitzgerald Eagan and gripped it hard, and as he did so, as by magic his brain cleared from the hard fall he had received, and his eyes saw before him the most real picture of manhood that ever he had encountered, that ever he had dreamed. Fitz Eagan was not a giant, but it was easy to see that he possessed a giant’s strength, and he had the lordly manner of one who is master of himself and all of his passions. A perfect sword in the hand of a perfect swordsman — so appeared Fitz Eagan to the astonished and delighted eyes of young John Signal.
Ordinarily, he was not a particularly demonstrative boy, but now, unsettled by his fall, filled with bursting gratitude for what this stranger had done for him, he broke out with a great cry:
“Are you Fitz Eagan? By God, you are a man!”
The crowd laughed, joyously, sympathetically.
“Aw, he’s a man, all right!”
“This is where Eagan picks up a right good man with guns!”
But Fitzgerald Eagan himself smiled on Signal, and nodded his acknowledgments, not in the least upset or crimsoned by this flattery.
“What happened to your hoss?” he asked, and approached the roan.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“HE USED TO be a bad actor,” said the boy. “He’s got a brain filled by the devil with all sorts of tricks. He was just trotting out a few of them this morning!”
“Does he trot ’em out every day?”
“No. Not for months, in fact.”
“Been working him hard?”
“Most of the time, he’s loafed around. Lately he’s been worked down a little. You can see for yourself.”
He was rather surprised by these questions, but it did not occur to him to doubt the wisdom of anything that this lordly man might say. He took note that the other was admiring the legs of Grundy.
“He stands pretty well,” said Fitzgerald Eagan.
“He’d never fall down under you,” declared the boy with warmth.
“But what made him bust loose? What’s happened to him? A hoss don’t go mad in two minutes after being straight for months!”
He felt under the blanket. Grundy snorted and winced — and then Eagan drew forth a great burr, deeply stained with blood. His face was dark as he handed it to Signal.
“That’s your first token from the Bone tribe,” said he. “The damned murderers! They fix your horse. Then they put gunmen along the street to get you when you’re helpless. They’re organizers, are the Bones. Organizers of murders, the yeller, yappin’ coyotes!”
He, delivering these words with a separate dignity of emphasis, impressed John Signal that the Bone family and all of their adherents were the lowest of the low.
“You were going to the Mortimer Saloon?” asked Eagan.
“Yes.”
“Of course they heard that. They decided that it would be better to get you in the open air. It would have made a bit too much talk if they’d murdered you within doors. But let me tell you something, John Alias—”
Very strange that name sounded upon the lips of Fitzgerald Eagan; from that moment, as though he had received a word from a king, John Signal felt that his new name was real, and that a new personality, almost, went with its bestowal.
“ — you’re not going to the Mortimer Saloon. You’re coming along with me.”
“You know a lot more about this town than I do,” consented Signal gladly.
Someone among the ever-present bystanders was chuckling.
“He knows a lot more about it than anybody. God-A’mighty would have to ask the opinion of Fitz about this here town, I’m thinking!”
But Signal went off down the street, walking at the side of Fitz Eagan, and leading Grundy. He went proudly. He did not have to be told that he was at the side of the lion of Monument. Something the sheriff had told him; something he had gathered from the awe and the admiration of the crowd; but a thousand times more than this he had seen and felt for himself.
They twisted out of the business section down some side alleys and came to a house which fronted on the river. It was a pleasant little cottage, drenched with vines. A shower of honeysuckle poured its spray of white blossoms above the porch, and the bees were laboring patiently among the blossoms. Upon the front steps a cat slept, curled into a pool of black. And before the door, there was a mat into which the letters had been woven: W E L C O M E.
Suddenly it seemed impossible that this little house could be no more than seven years old. It had about it the atmosphere which usually comes only from generations of habitation; and young Signal wondered at the house no less than he had wondered at the master of the place.
He was invited to take a chair on the porch. Fitz Eagan sat in another beside him and the cat leaped into his lap and then stretched out along his thigh. They lighted two of Fitz Eagan’s cigars, and smoked in silence.
Signal fell into greater and greater suspense. He felt that a revelation was about to be made to him. Then the other said:
“Honeysuckle is fast growing, ain’t it? Look how it’s been working there, and putting on a head!”
Signal nodded. He was keeping himself well in hand. He did not want to say anything boyish and enthusiastic. He wanted to be a grave and serious man, and so accepted by this hero.
“It was a naked little shack when we got it,” said the other. “But some things do pretty well in Monument. Some things will put down root and blossom a lot, like this here honeysuckle. Some men are that way, too. They flourish a lot in Monument. But others just dry up quick. A baby pretty soon could take them and pull them up by the roots!”
Still John Signal was silent.
“Of course,” went on Eagan, “it depends mostly on the sort of soil that you plant a bush in — or a man. You can see that! You can’t make oak trees grow in the desert, and cactus doesn’t do well in heavy rains.”
Gradually, Signal was beginning to see some point in this conversation, but he did not put himself forward.
“I’ve seen,” continued Eagan, “a good deal of Monument. I’ve been here for six years, about. That’s about six generations. I mean to say, the way that I live. Other men have come here and six years to them mean no more — well, not a pile more’n six years, plain and simple. But other folks get speeded up. They live fast. I’ve growed pretty old in Monument!”
He turned his head toward the boy and the black cat turned its head, also, and looked at John Signal with yellow, glowing eyes. Yellow were the eyes of Fitzgerald Eagan, also; or hazel, flecked thickly with yellow spots. Those eyes never could be dull; but at the least effort of the will, they began to glow and gleam. Very hard eyes to face, Signal thought them.
“And,” continued the big man, “I’ve seen a good many of the boys come into this town and dry up fast. I’ve seen big fellers with plenty of the juice of life in ’em dried up and blown away inside of a few days. You never can tell. Sometimes iron cracks at the first whack of the hammer, and sometimes it’s the hundredth blow that crystallizes it and breaks it; and sometimes all the hammering of a long life ain’t going to more’n temper that metal and make it closer and closer to steel, and tougher, and more true. Men are like that. Like iron, all kinds!
“Here’s young John Alias,” went on the speaker. “Alias what? John Alias — alias a clean kid, a straight liver, a straight shooter, that rides straight up, and that wants a straight chance. Is that right?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy. “I don’t suppose that I know very much about myself. But I’ll tell you that I’ve—”
The other raised a hasty hand.
“I don’t want to know about your past,” said he. “I don’t want to know a word about it. The minute that a m
an comes over those mountains and drops down below timberline again, he’s walked out of one section of his life, and he’s walked into another one. One part of him is dead; and the new part is all that Monument cares about. And I’m part of Monument!”
Having said this, he paused again, thoughtfully. He looked back at the river, and the cat looked back, also, and, unsheathing her claws — ten narrow sickles of silver brightness — she buried them in the cloth which covered the leg of her master.
“You’ve taken on with the sheriff?” said Eagan.
“I’m a deputy, now.”
The other nodded.
“You’re a deputy sheriff. That usually means a pretty short life. You’ve heard that.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“But you think that you can beat the game?”
“I don’t know,” said Signal. “Look here, Eagan — I don’t think that I’m better than anybody else. But I think that I gotta have a chance to work at something. I want action. I want heaps of action. I’m tired of sitting still. I’ve sat still almost all of my life!”
“I understand,” nodded the older man. “You’re how old?”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-eight, myself.”
Signal could have gasped; he controlled himself with an effort. The stern, lined face of the other had seemed to him at least ten years older than this announcement. And then he understood in a flash; the extra ten years — the extra hundred years, perhaps — all had been crowded into the life of this man of twenty-eight. He looked as if he had conquered worlds; or, at least, as though he had beheld the contest for them!
“There are two sides in Monument.”
“I know that.”
“Well, then, I’ve brought you here to ask you what soil you’d grow best in. Bone or Eagan?” Then he explained: “Don’t think that I put this question to every man who comes to Monument. I wouldn’t look at most of them, and there are four hangers-on of the Bone tribe to one who stands by me and my friends. Very well. I don’t want the thugs and the cheap gunmen. I want the real article. You’re the real article, John Alias. I’ve brought you here to tell you that I’d mighty well like to have you with us!”
It sent the blood in a crimson surge into the face of the boy.
“That’s the greatest compliment that I ever had — I’ll never have a finer!” he exclaimed.
“Well, then? It’s settled?”
“You were talking about soils and — bushes, a while ago.”
“Yes. I was.”
“I’ve done one bad thing,” said Signal. “I never want to do another. I want to go straight. I want to be a good man.”
The black cat turned its yellow eyes upon him, but Fitzgerald Eagan continued to look out toward the river. He did not smile at this simple confession from his companion, but a slight frown gathered on his brows.
“If I side with you — what about it? Would I have to do any crooked work? Would I even have to know about any crooked work?”
Fitz Eagan began to hum softly to himself. And, still looking out upon the river, he nodded in his thought.
“Yes,” said he, “you would!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT HAD BEEN far from the mind of the boy that his question would receive any answer of this nature. He had been on the verge of softening the question, explaining it, so that it should not appear in the light of an insult. Now, the perspiration sprang out on his forehead. He tried to find words; there were no words to find. Miserably he sat and suffered.
Then the other turned a calm face toward him.
“It makes you sweat a little, John!” he commented. “Well, of course. It would have made me sweat even as little as two or three years ago. But you see I’m iron, now!”
He smiled at John Signal, and the boy said in a shaken voice:
“It’s a blow to me. But no matter what — what—”
“No matter what dirt I’ve dipped my hands into? Well?”
“Dirt? I don’t mean that! You’ve done — I don’t know what. Whatever you please! I know that it’s never been really low! I want to say that I liked you the first time ever I laid my eyes on you. I’ll like you to the finish. I only want to say that.”
“Why, that’s fine an’ liberal,” said Fitz Eagan. “Thank you a lot, John. But I could laugh when I think of the fine, large hopes that I had when I invited you here!”
And laugh he did, cheerfully, his bass voice booming into the quiet air beside the river. The cat shuddered, and the hair along its back bristled.
“No, I didn’t think that it would turn out like this — Hello! What’s that?”
Far off, wind-borne, uncertain, they heard the high-pitched voices of men yelling in angry dispute. Those voices were cut short by the sudden chatter of revolvers. This ended; and then, wonderfully near it seemed, a shriek of mortal agony.
Every nerve in the body of John Signal leaped. He turned pale, but the big man beside him said:
“Monument is going to have a man for breakfast, as usual.”
“Great God!” cried the boy. “Is it as bad as that? Is there a murder here every day?”
“A murder every day? More than that! More than that! It used to be a great deal worse. Three times as bad before our sheriff got the job. He cut things down. Only the privileged classes can murder, today!” And Eagan laughed again.
“There’ll be even fewer, when you get on the job, John Alias!”
“It makes me a little dizzy — and sick!” admitted the boy frankly.
“Of course it does. Blood is hell. Enough has run out in this front yard to paint the whole house crimson. Sometimes I dream about that. I come back in my dream and the little shack is all red, and even the honeysuckle is dripping—”
He stopped, frowning. And then the boy asked:
“Is the sheriff a — a right sort of a man, Mr. Eagan?”
“I’d rather that you call me Fitz,” said the big fellow.
“Thank you.”
“The sheriff? He’s an enemy of mine,” preluded Eagan.
“Then forget that I asked that question, of course.”
“No, I can do him justice, I think. The sheriff is a fellow that likes to hold down a big job. That likes to hold down a dangerous job. He likes to have guns and men wearing guns around him. But — he ain’t a real fighting man, John!”
He shook his head decisively.
“That’s why I don’t like him. I like to see real gamblers play cards. I like to see bull terriers at work, if it’s a scrap between dogs. But the sheriff ain’t that kind. He likes his job and he tries to work it by politics, pretty largely.”
He laughed again.
“What’ll his paper have to say when it speaks about you? You that have become deputy sheriff — by taking back your horse from Langley — because Langley’s a Bone man, and therefore he’s behind the sheriff!”
“If the sheriff is straight,” asked the boy, “why should he deal with people like the Bone tribe?”
“Can he work with nothing? He has to have tools. He would have worked with me, when he first came in. He offered to, but I didn’t like his style. And there you are! He did the next best thing and threw in with the Bone outfit. I don’t hate the sheriff, mind you. Only, I’m not a pal of his. But we both work off and on at the same job of cleaning up Monument.”
Young Signal threw up his hands.
“I don’t understand!” he exclaimed. “It beats me!”
“That I should make an income out of crookedness and still try to clean up Monument?”
“Yes. Exactly that!”
“Mind you, Alias. You’re the first man I’ve made a confession to. Other people suspect. Nobody knows!”
“It’s dead and buried with me. It’s as if I hadn’t heard a word!” Signal assured him.
“Of course I trust you perfectly,” answered Fitz Eagan. “I had to tell you the straight of things before I got you in with me. But let me tell you what both the s
heriff and I are trying to do. We’re trying to keep the straight men from trouble. Colter and the Bone outfit who make their money mostly out of Mexican raids — they hardly matter. And as for the gun-fights, mostly they take place between crooks, and either way the fights turn out, the law is the gainer, and Monument that much better off. But when I first came here, there were a lot of sneaking murderers and bullies who would stick up people at night and blow their brains out if they didn’t like the sum of coin that they got out of the other fellow’s wallet. Well, we changed all that. We’ve strung ’em up thick!”
He stood up. The black cat scrambled up his coat and stood on his wide shoulder.
“It’ll do you no good to spend much more time with me,” said he. “You’d better get back into town. The Bone outfit will be wanting to make a proposal to you!”
Signal rose and held out his hand.
“You’ll find me a friend to the finish!” he declared.
And the quiet answer was: “Don’t make promises. Get the taste of Monument under your tongue before you order up a full meal of friends and enemies!”
Signal went back to his horse and mounted. The sun was sloping westward, the full brilliance of it striking against his eyes. And it seemed to him that he had passed through an equal confusion of mental light, in his talk with Fitz Eagan.
He never in his life had met a man he was more drawn toward. And for the frank confession he had heard, he admired the big man all the more. And yet it had established a gulf between them. What was the illegal work of which Fitz Eagan was guilty? To what did it lead? Was it the robbing of trains? The smashing of the vaults in well-guarded banks? Something on that scale was all that he could conceive of as worthy of the attention of such a man as Fitz Eagan.
And again he shook his head in wonder. To him, a deputy sheriff, that confession had been made!
The road wound down by the river, following a gentle incline until it was only a few feet above the level of the water, and at this point a brilliant figure rode out from the trees and fell in beside him. He was dressed like the beau ideal of the Mexican dandy, in a short and closely fitted jacket, blazing with metal lace, with a decorated sombrero, and huge silver conchos down the outer seams of his trousers. He bestrode a beautiful black horse which jingled with twenty little silver bells, attached to the saddle and the bridle, and tied to the woven mane.