Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  He stepped back from her, white of face, his forehead beaded.

  “They’ve hired you to try me out this way, too!” said he. “God Almighty, they’d do anything to shame me!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ONCE HE HAD seen a man strike a woman. That was in Bender Creek, and the man was very drunk, and the woman was his wife. But he never had forgotten; there was a sort of sick helplessness about the manner of her fall, such a convincing brutality about the attitude of the man as he leaned above her.

  Now he saw Polly drop into the nearest chair, with one arm fallen over the back of it, and he felt that he had struck her down, and that he was standing like a brute above her.

  Was he wrong, and had grief unnerved her, and horror?

  Was he right, and had fear and shame struck her?

  But he said to himself that the time had come — that he was overdue — that Monument waited for him to make good his boast. And so he snatched up the rifle and went out from the room with long, swift strides, like a hunter on a trail.

  All the way down the hall he was desperately drawn to whirl about and run back to her and take her hands and beg her to tell him the truth. But when he had passed the first turning of the stairs, it was easier to go ahead, and when he stumbled out into the heat of the sun she danced back into the rear of his mind, until he could hold her at arm’s length and remember that her nose was ridiculously short, and that she wore freckles.

  So, with every step up the street, he grew more certain. They would do anything to break his spirit and shame him before Monument’s eyes. And what more natural than for them to use this clever girl, this perfect little actress!

  He gritted his teeth, now, seeing that she never could have been drawn to him so suddenly. True enough that he had been swept half way toward love the first minute he was with her. But that was a miracle. She was hard, quick, sharp, bright; she could not have been involved in the same manner!

  So said he to his heart of hearts, and in striding up the street, the action of walking, the heat of the day, the burning brightness of the sun all acted upon him and enabled him to become his old self.

  There was nothing important except the rifle which he carried over the crook of his left arm, his right hand grasping the trigger guard and the trigger. Revolvers were quicker, it was true, but surety was the grand thing. And he wanted to be sure!

  He shortened his step. He was coming into the center of Monument, he was turning into the main street itself, and now he saw that all the doorways and the windows were jammed with people, and that the street before him was as naked as the palm of his hand. No, yonder a runabout drawn by a trotting horse came in, but someone ran out from the pavement and headed the driver away.

  It was as though the street were being kept open by tacit consent for the passage of a procession. And suddenly he realized that his own approach was that which was so expected!

  Crawlin must have advertised the coming event with a town crier, for everyone understood, and all were present for the show. Constantly new faces were crowding into the doorways beneath the arcade, and into the windows. Somewhere Charlie Bone and his brother would have to be there, waiting.

  And he smiled with a cold and savage content.

  They were not out in plain sight, walking toward him. They were waiting with rapidly beating hearts, wondering how this affair would turn out — no doubt cursing the stage which had been set for them. For in this battle there was no glory for them, whether they won or lost, only the shame of possible defeat, the even greater shame of victory, two against one. But he, whether he won or lost, was glorious. He had faced great danger with equanimity.

  Only one shadow troubled his brain. When the bullets tore through his body would he be able to keep on fighting to the end, or would he weaken, at the last, and would pain bring from his lips some involuntary cry of agony?

  He set his teeth hard. No sound should come from him, except words of scorn and insult!

  Thus he thought, as he walked in the middle of the street, slowly, his eye running to the right, and to the left, under the lines of pillars of the endless arcades on either hand. But still the two armed men did not appear. He had covered two blocks of this long gantlet.

  And then he heard occasional voices which called out to him words of encouragement.

  “You’ll be our next sheriff, John Alias.”

  “That boy has the right stuff.”

  “We’re with you, kid!”

  They were with him — in their doorways and their windows, but who was with him in the flesh, walking with arms in their hands, to face the criminals who waited somewhere for him?

  Cool contempt for the speakers and their words possessed him. And his scorn grew, and he went on with a heart of iron, and an eye of fire.

  Perhaps each of them would appear upon a different side of the street and, in that case, he would put in his first shot to the left — God send it straight home. Afterward, whirling to the right to bring his gun in line, he would drop upon one knee and shoot again.

  So he planned it.

  He slowed his pace yet more. He must give plenty of time for them to appear. Perhaps they were weakening. Perhaps the strain was telling on them, as it had told upon Pete Graham. Perhaps, even, they would not come out to face him at all! And then he saw two men bearing rifles step out from a doorway and pass from the shadow beneath the arcade into the sunlight.

  They were seventy yards away — pointblank range. One was Charlie Bone and the other was Jud, his tall, massive brother. There were more crimes laid to the name of Jud Bone than could have been contained in a column account in a newspaper, giving each crime its mere naming space.

  And now he thought of two things. One was that the two had come out side by side because they needed the reinforcement of their mutual presence. The other was that the first moral victory was upon the side which forced the other to begin the shooting.

  There they stood, side by side, rifles ready — fine-looking men they appeared, Charlie like a brilliant picture, and Jud with his long hair flowing, trapper fashion, over his shoulders. But their fineness was apparently not appreciated by the crowd, and voices called out heavily, loudly:

  “Two to one! Is that Western fighting fashion? Two to one! Where’s the sheriff? Stop this damn butchery! Give the kid a fighting chance!”

  Sweet music to the ears of the boy. Bitterest poison to the ears of the brothers as they stood before him. He paused and allowed those voices to grow in volume. He saw Jud jerk his rifle to his shoulder — then lower it again. Shame must have compelled that change of mind!

  And John Signal smiled again. He began to understand. It was as though a voice were speaking into his ear exactly the thoughts in the minds of the two. To Charlie it was a horrible affair; Charlie was naturally the sort of fellow to want to fight fairly, without odds on his side, but he had been dragged in by Jud, no doubt. And there was Jud, crushed by the scorn and the hatred of the crowd, only to be justified — and thoroughly damned — by dropping the enemy.

  John Signal smiled, and slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, narrowing the space which intervened — with every step bringing death closer to himself, to yonder pair!

  “Keep back, kid! You chuck away your chances by getting closer! Keep back!”

  He heard the voices clearly, but they meant nothing. He knew his business! So he advanced, half a dozen, a dozen strides, all slowly taken. And then the rifle butt again leaped to the hollow of big Jud’s shoulder.

  That instant, Signal dived forward for the ground. He heard the clang of the rifle as he lurched. It must have looked, as he intended it to look, as though the bullet had dropped him upon his face.

  But, in fact, he heard it whistle, harmless, just above his head, and that escape made him feel armored with invincibility.

  The thick white dust cushioned his fall and sent up a puffing cloud; some of it entered his eyes, which stung sharply. And, all in a moment, he had time to think several t
hings — such moments as these allow the brain to work swift as light. He wondered if the dust in his eyes would spoil his shooting — if the mist in the air would spoil the aim of the enemy — and he marveled at the heat which the sun had poured into the street. He lay as in an oven.

  In falling, he had thrown the gun forward, and now he lay with it trained steadily on the shooting pair, peering at them out of his natural entrenchment, as two more bullets hummed wickedly above his body; and again there was the satisfaction of escape, the sense of security unfathomable!

  He was taking Jud Bone into the sights, taking him firmly, without haste, using all of a half second to get the rifle securely trained upon him. The body was sure, but a man shot through the body may be shooting as he falls, and shoot again as he lies full length. He used another half second to change his aim to the head. Then he pulled the trigger.

  Jud Bone stood with a column behind him, and at first he did not seem to have been struck. He merely lowered his rifle, as though to observe what damage his fire had wrought upon the enemy who lay yonder in the street. But, after that, he leaned softly forward. He seemed to be bowing in acquiescence, and so fell dead beneath the arcade.

  Already the aim of Signal had been taken on the second and more dangerous enemy. He fired. He saw the rifle flung up from the hands of Charlie Bone and saw the latter go back a staggering step. Then, instead of falling, leaving his gun behind him, Charlie Bone leaped sidewise into the shelter of the columns and was gone from sight.

  John Signal rose, the dust streaming away from him, and the wind catching it and hanging it behind him like a blowing mantle as he walked calmly forward.

  There were thirteen more bullets in his rifle, and he carried that weapon at the ready, for Charlie Bone was very apt to open fire again, from shelter.

  As Signal arose, the whole street came to life with a shouting and humming of voices, and hundreds poured out to gather around the victor, and the vanquished.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  WITH ALL THAT outward swirl of people, no one got into the path of John Signal as he walked up to the fallen body of Jud Bone. He turned the dead man upon his back and stared down at him with wonder. He had killed once before, but that had been in the heat of a sudden fury. This was a premeditated battle, and the enemy had gone down. He kneeled and closed the eyes of Jud Bone, but he did it without a sense of pity. No gentle remorse disturbed him, but he was keen upon the blood-trail which he had started. So, springing up again, he said quietly to an authoritative man near by: “I suppose that the family of this fellow will take care of his body?”

  “They will,” said the other.

  “Did anyone see what way Charlie Bone went?” went on Signal.

  A panting, eager little man worked through the crowd, fighting his way. It was Crawlin, his face pale with eagerness; his eyes more bloodshot and ferret-like than ever.

  “I seen Charlie Bone! He run down the street. He went into Mortimer’s Saloon. You wouldn’t dare to go there, would you?”

  Signal already was on the way with long strides, and the other trotted beside him, gasping interjections. But Signal, grimly in part, and in part joyously, went forward, dimly aware of the faces about him, men stumbling and crowding to get from his path, shrinking a little as he went by, staring at him as though at a strange being dropped from another world. And he knew that his name had been written into the slender list of Monument’s immortals. As for what else this day’s work meant — why, he was only twenty-two, and that was enough excuse for a little short sightedness.

  Crawlin was still beside him.

  “You ain’t gunna go in?” demanded Crawlin, his voice shaking with joyous anticipation. “They’d — they’d shoot you to bits! Mortimer’s is the Bone hang-out! It’s full of their men!”

  Young Signal went on, unhesitant, turned the corner, struck open the swinging doors, and entered Mortimer’s Saloon. It was almost empty. Everyone had gone out to join the crowd of spectators in the street except half a dozen grim looking fellows and the bartenders; and all of these turned blank, astonished faces toward the deputy sheriff.

  He could tell at once what they were. They were solid adherents, fighting men in the Bone cause. But he feared them not. In his hands was still the weapon, warm with the death of one man, and the routing of another.

  “I want Charlie Bone. He came in here,” said he.

  “He went on through,” said the nearest bartender. “He went on through the house, I suppose.”

  “Which way?”

  “Back that way!”

  He knew that it was a lie; he knew that he could not find Charlie Bone. But what he wanted was the glory of having bearded the lion in his den, of having entered after the wounded beast and challenged him in the darkness of his own den. So he went on into the back rooms, and walked rapidly through them, opening many doors. There was nothing to be found, except a pair of resolute gamblers, weary of eye; perhaps they had been playing since the night before, and certainly now they were blank to the outer world.

  He came back into the barroom, looked up and down the line of threatening, dark faces, and then turned his back upon them and, without undue haste, stepped out into the street.

  It had been simple enough in the execution, but he felt as though that pilgrimage into Mortimer’s place had been far more dangerous than the actual fight against Charlie and Jud. But the second victory was dependent upon the first. Other things still would flow naturally out of this day’s work. And the sun was not yet down!

  So thought John Signal, walking back up the street toward the spot where the dead man had been left lying. And, as he went, he saw Crawlin darting here and there before him, anxious, eager, ever hungered for dangerous news, ever feverishly spreading what he knew, and pausing here and there to discharge a few volleys of the facts which he had learned of the invasion of Mortimer’s. He disappeared in the crowd, far up the street, and Signal came back to Jud Bone in time to find that unhappy man being raised and carried into the nearest hardware store. They laid Jud Bone upon a counter and brushed the dust from him. Signal himself composed the hands of the dead man upon his breast.

  Then he heard a furtive voice beside him:

  “I’m from the Ledger. We’d like a statement, Sheriff Alias.”

  “I’ll make this statement,” said the boy. “Those fellows let the whole town know that they were looking for me. So I came to look for them and warned them of it. I stand for law and order. I’ve taken an oath. And I’m going to live up to that oath. That’s all I have to say!”

  He looked about him as he spoke and noted that all eyes shifted away from his glance. They did not believe him. They could not believe him. He spoke of law and order, but they wrote him down as a mere gun-fighter, who killed for the joy of seeing the other men fall.

  He went back into the street. This pot had begun to boil, and the cookery was not yet finished, he could guess as he saw the congested knots of people, here and there. And then he saw a familiar shuffling figure that squirmed through one knot and came hastily toward him — Crawlin, his face fairly purple with excitement. He looked like a glutton, faced in time of starvation with a table groaning under an Olympian weight of delicacies. He clutched the arm of the boy and hung there a moment, gasping in his wind again.

  “The whole bunch!” he finally managed to ejaculate. “They’re coming for you. About a dozen of the Bone outfit. They’re all coming. They’re gunna get your scalp. They’ve sworn to get it. Old man Bone — and Charlie Bone is back with them with blood on his face — and — God A’mighty, I never thought that I’d see such a day. There’s gunna be hell, hell, hell in Monument!”

  But it was not horror that made his eyes flash. It was hideous, consuming joy.

  Then a dry voice said near by:

  “If you’re standing for law and order, you’d better go and arrest that bunch of murderers, John Alias!” It was an old, withered man who spoke, fixing his keen blue eye upon the boy.

  “A
nd do you think that I’ll run away from them?” asked Signal.

  He never had dreamed of standing against such odds as Crawlin reported, but, now that he was challenged, his heart leaped into his throat and forced the answer.

  “You’ll run your own business,” said the old man. “But don’t be a young fool! The heroes of Monument won’t be remembered many days after they drop!”

  He said this with a sarcastic smile, as though he had read the very heart of Signal, but the boy answered hotly:

  “If they come for me, they’ll find me, not sneaking in the crowd, but out where I can be seen!”

  And he went straight out into the center of the street, and stood there, leaning upon his rifle, and watching the sudden streaking of all the rest to cover; while, far down the street, a dust cloud burst upward and rolled away across the tops of the northern houses.

  Those were the enemy. By the first glance of that cloud of white rising, he knew that he could not stand against any such onrush as that. Fortune, a little nerve, and a clever maneuver in the battle had won for him against Charlie Bone and Jud. But fortune could not favor him twice so overwhelmingly. And yet he could not budge from his place.

  Excited voices called to him. They bade him not be a fool. They told him that he had done enough for one day. They even cursed him for his rashness. And then a pair of miners lumbered out toward him. They caught him by the arms and made as if to carry him away, but he twisted free from them.

  “You fellows mean well,” he told them, “but this is my place, and here I’m going to stay.”

  “We’ll stand by you, then!” said one, with a liberal enriching of Irish brogue. “I wouldn’t be after runnin’ away from a man like you, Alias, when the pinch comes.”